#crash racket

[kindheart525]

Do you think any of your next gens would be different if they were gender bent? Because of their parents, how/where they were raised, their struggle,etc.

I guess a better way to put it is which of those would be most interesting to you

Yes I do! While many of my next gens would have the same personalities and struggles regardless of gender, there are a number whose lives are very much influenced by their gender and the roles they grew up with. Here are a few doodles to get a glimpse:

Red Cedar’s whole story is about her inner conflicts as a mare. She puts the stallions in her life as a pedestal, puts down other mares who don’t follow what she believes are the correct roles for their gender, and feels overwhelming shame when she feels she’s not living up to those roles herself. As a stallion, Cedar would not have that same sense of shame because he is the one to be put on a pedestal. He has fewer expectations to live up to as a traditional stallion. What he does feel shame over is “stumbling” away from his good and pure-hearted love towards a wild bad girl who goes against everything he believes mares should be. Rainier is as optimistic and fun-loving as ever as a mare, and Brackish is still breaking stallions’ hearts and behaving crassly.

Crash Racket can be best described as a “femcel.” Like her male counterpart, she refuses to take responsibility for her self-inflicted loneliness and instead behaves very unpleasantly towards others. She’s super pretentious and praises other mares’ toxic behavior towards those who she believes had it coming. Obsidian, a stallion’s accessory designer, once loved Crash even though she spent their entire relationship telling him to “stallion up” and making fun of him for being sensitive and open-hearted. She left him with their daughter, the female counterpart to Volcanic Jasper, who she felt was “holding her back.” Now, Obsidian is left to try to soothe his daughter’s angst as she deals with the challenges of puberty.

While the original Minted Glacier learned to stand up for mares in a sexist workplace, his female counterpart worked in a majority-female establishment and had to learn to stand up both for fellow mares and against fellow mares as she fought back against a domineering boss. She’s really no less anxious than the original Minted Glacier, but she’s doing her best to raise her son (the male counterpart to Cherry Berry Sherbet) along with her twin brother. She gets good child support money from her foal’s father, who also provided a lot of emotional support while she was pregnant. He’s happily childfree and nobody ever questions him for it. Blueberry Sticks is about the same as a stallion, if not even more abrasive than his female counterpart.

Blue Velvet’s male counterpart is a dapper gentlecolt with a vintage aesthetic but very progressive values. Like his original self, he’s been around the block—that is to say he has a very long dating history. But while the original Blue Velvet received harsh criticism for her “body count,” being labeled a slut and a bad influence, ponies hardly bat an eye when it’s a stallion. Both Blues approach their relationships with the utmost love and respect, but the male version can expect praise for being a “go getter” much more than any negative reactions. He’s living his life all around stress-free, but would be the first to stand up for any mare facing backlash for a similar lifestyle.

The male Saltwater Taffy is basically David Rose from Schitt’s Creek. Just as gossipy, with more sass and less of a desire to cover up his disapproval with fake sweetness. He’ll say what’s on his mind and doesn’t care if you don’t like it.

Boot Polish and Stockholm are not all that different in their genderswapped forms but I still wanted to draw them! Stockholm is still a whimsical historian (now with a beard that he’s very proud of) and Boot is a refined high society lady with a whole lot of muscle. Their dynamic is “smoking hot woman x silly goofy guy” which is always a winner!

[protectingstucky]

aaron minyard no one loves you like i do… he's a 5 feet tall athlete who HATES sports. he's an ex coke addict studying to become a doctor. he goes clubbing every weekend. he has an identical twin who he simultaneously hates and loves with every fibre of his being. made a pussy blocker pact with said (gay) twin. same person who also killed his abusive mother in a car accident. he's secretly dating a cheerleader. he was charged with first degree murder of his brother’s rapist after crashing his skull with an exy racket. he won that trial. he goes to therapy every week but just sits in silence for 45 minutes like a fucking sociopath. he's lowkey kevin day's best friend. he speaks german.

[anasanthology]

I love tags! 🩷💘

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Tesla's Dieselgate

Elon Musk lies a lot. He lies about being a “utopian socialist.” He lies about being a “free speech absolutist.” He lies about which companies he founded:

https://www.businessinsider.com/tesla-cofounder-martin-eberhard-interview-history-elon-musk-ev-market-2023-2 He lies about being the “chief engineer” of those companies:

https://www.quora.com/Was-Elon-Musk-the-actual-engineer-behind-SpaceX-and-Tesla

He lies about really stupid stuff, like claiming that comsats that share the same spectrum will deliver steady broadband speeds as they add more users who each get a narrower slice of that spectrum:

https://www.eff.org/wp/case-fiber-home-today-why-fiber-superior-medium-21st-century-broadband

The fundamental laws of physics don’t care about this bullshit, but people do. The comsat lie convinced a bunch of people that pulling fiber to all our homes is literally impossible — as though the electrical and phone lines that come to our homes now were installed by an ancient, lost civilization. Pulling new cabling isn’t a mysterious art, like embalming pharaohs. We do it all the time. One of the poorest places in America installed universal fiber with a mule named “Ole Bub”:

https://www.newyorker.com/tech/annals-of-technology/the-one-traffic-light-town-with-some-of-the-fastest-internet-in-the-us

Previous tech barons had “reality distortion fields,” but Musk just blithely contradicts himself and pretends he isn’t doing so, like a budget Steve Jobs. There’s an entire site devoted to cataloging Musk’s public lies:

https://elonmusk.today/

But while Musk lacks the charm of earlier Silicon Valley grifters, he’s much better than they ever were at running a long con. For years, he’s been promising “full self driving…next year.”

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/09/herbies-revenge/#100-billion-here-100-billion-there-pretty-soon-youre-talking-real-money

He’s hasn’t delivered, but he keeps claiming he has, making Teslas some of the deadliest cars on the road:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2023/06/10/tesla-autopilot-crashes-elon-musk/

Tesla is a giant shell-game masquerading as a car company. The important thing about Tesla isn’t its cars, it’s Tesla’s business arrangement, the Tesla-Financial Complex:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/24/no-puedo-pagar-no-pagara/#Rat

Once you start unpacking Tesla’s balance sheets, you start to realize how much the company depends on government subsidies and tax-breaks, combined with selling carbon credits that make huge, planet-destroying SUVs possible, under the pretense that this is somehow good for the environment:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/14/for-sale-green-indulgences/#killer-analogy

But even with all those financial shenanigans, Tesla’s got an absurdly high valuation, soaring at times to 1600x its profitability:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/15/hoover-calling/#intangibles

That valuation represents a bet on Tesla’s ability to extract ever-higher rents from its customers. Take Tesla’s batteries: you pay for the battery when you buy your car, but you don’t own that battery. You have to rent the right to use its full capacity, with Tesla reserving the right to reduce how far you go on a charge based on your willingness to pay:

https://memex.craphound.com/2017/09/10/teslas-demon-haunted-cars-in-irmas-path-get-a-temporary-battery-life-boost/

That’s just one of the many rent-a-features that Tesla drivers have to shell out for. You don’t own your car at all: when you sell it as a used vehicle, Tesla strips out these features you paid for and makes the next driver pay again, reducing the value of your used car and transfering it to Tesla’s shareholders:

https://www.theverge.com/2020/2/6/21127243/tesla-model-s-autopilot-disabled-remotely-used-car-update

To maintain this rent-extraction racket, Tesla uses DRM that makes it a felony to alter your own car’s software without Tesla’s permission. This is the root of all autoenshittification:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

This is technofeudalism. Whereas capitalists seek profits (income from selling things), feudalists seek rents (income from owning the things other people use). If Telsa were a capitalist enterprise, then entrepreneurs could enter the market and sell mods that let you unlock the functionality in your own car:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/11/1-in-3/#boost-50

But because Tesla is a feudal enterprise, capitalists must first secure permission from the fief, Elon Musk, who decides which companies are allowed to compete with him, and how.

Once a company owns the right to decide which software you can run, there’s no limit to the ways it can extract rent from you. Blocking you from changing your device’s software lets a company run overt scams on you. For example, they can block you from getting your car independently repaired with third-party parts.

But they can also screw you in sneaky ways. Once a device has DRM on it, Section 1201 of the DMCA makes it a felony to bypass that DRM, even for legitimate purposes. That means that your DRM-locked device can spy on you, and because no one is allowed to explore how that surveillance works, the manufacturer can be incredibly sloppy with all the personal info they gather:

https://www.cnbc.com/2019/03/29/tesla-model-3-keeps-data-like-crash-videos-location-phone-contacts.html

All kinds of hidden anti-features can lurk in your DRM-locked car, protected from discovery, analysis and criticism by the illegality of bypassing the DRM. For example, Teslas have a hidden feature that lets them lock out their owners and summon a repo man to drive them away if you have a dispute about a late payment:

https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/

DRM is a gun on the mantlepiece in Act I, and by Act III, it goes off, revealing some kind of ugly and often dangerous scam. Remember Dieselgate? Volkswagen created a line of demon-haunted cars: if they thought they were being scrutinized (by regulators measuring their emissions), they switched into a mode that traded performance for low emissions. But when they believed themselves to be unobserved, they reversed this, emitting deadly levels of NOX but delivering superior mileage.

The conversion of the VW diesel fleet into mobile gas-chambers wouldn’t have been possible without DRM. DRM adds a layer of serious criminal jeopardy to anyone attempting to reverse-engineer and study any device, from a phone to a car. DRM let Apple claim to be a champion of its users’ privacy even as it spied on them from asshole to appetite:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Now, Tesla is having its own Dieselgate scandal. A stunning investigation by Steve Stecklow and Norihiko Shirouzu for Reuters reveals how Tesla was able to create its own demon-haunted car, which systematically deceived drivers about its driving range, and the increasingly desperate measures the company turned to as customers discovered the ruse:

https://www.reuters.com/investigates/special-report/tesla-batteries-range/

The root of the deception is very simple: Tesla mis-sells its cars by falsely claiming ranges that those cars can’t attain. Every person who ever bought a Tesla was defrauded.

But this fraud would be easy to detect. If you bought a Tesla rated for 353 miles on a charge, but the dashboard range predictor told you that your fully charged car could only go 150 miles, you’d immediately figure something was up. So your Telsa tells another lie: the range predictor tells you that you can go 353 miles.

But again, if the car continued to tell you it has 203 miles of range when it was about to run out of charge, you’d figure something was up pretty quick — like, the first time your car ran out of battery while the dashboard cheerily informed you that you had 203 miles of range left.

So Teslas tell a third lie: when the battery charge reached about 50%, the fake range is replaced with the real one. That way, drivers aren’t getting mass-stranded by the roadside, and the scam can continue.

But there’s a new problem: drivers whose cars are rated for 353 miles but can’t go anything like that far on a full charge naturally assume that something is wrong with their cars, so they start calling Tesla service and asking to have the car checked over.

This creates a problem for Tesla: those service calls can cost the company $1,000, and of course, there’s nothing wrong with the car. It’s performing exactly as designed. So Tesla created its boldest fraud yet: a boiler-room full of anti-salespeople charged with convincing people that their cars weren’t broken.

This new unit — the “diversion team” — was headquartered in a Nevada satellite office, which was equipped with a metal xylophone that would be rung in triumph every time a Tesla owner was successfully conned into thinking that their car wasn’t defrauding them.

When a Tesla owner called this boiler room, the diverter would run remote diagnostics on their car, then pronounce it fine, and chide the driver for having energy-hungry driving habits (shades of Steve Jobs’s “You’re holding it wrong”):

https://www.wired.com/2010/06/iphone-4-holding-it-wrong/

The drivers who called the Diversion Team weren’t just lied to, they were also punished. The Tesla app was silently altered so that anyone who filed a complaint about their car’s range was no longer able to book a service appointment for any reason. If their car malfunctioned, they’d have to request a callback, which could take several days.

Meanwhile, the diverters on the diversion team were instructed not to inform drivers if the remote diagnostics they performed detected any other defects in the cars.

The diversion team had a 750 complaint/week quota: to juke this stat, diverters would close the case for any driver who failed to answer the phone when they were eventually called back. The center received 2,000+ calls every week. Diverters were ordered to keep calls to five minutes or less.

Eventually, diverters were ordered to cease performing any remote diagnostics on drivers’ cars: a source told Reuters that “Thousands of customers were told there is nothing wrong with their car” without any diagnostics being performed.

Predicting EV range is an inexact science as many factors can affect battery life, notably whether a journey is uphill or downhill. Every EV automaker has to come up with a figure that represents some kind of best guess under a mix of conditions. But while other manufacturers err on the side of caution, Tesla has the most inaccurate mileage estimates in the industry, double the industry average.

Other countries’ regulators have taken note. In Korea, Tesla was fined millions and Elon Musk was personally required to state that he had deceived Tesla buyers. The Korean regulator found that the true range of Teslas under normal winter conditions was less than half of the claimed range.

Now, many companies have been run by malignant narcissists who lied compulsively — think of Thomas Edison, archnemesis of Nikola Tesla himself. The difference here isn’t merely that Musk is a deeply unfit monster of a human being — but rather, that DRM allows him to defraud his customers behind a state-enforced opaque veil. The digital computers at the heart of a Tesla aren’t just demons haunting the car, changing its performance based on whether it believes it is being observed — they also allow Musk to invoke the power of the US government to felonize anyone who tries to peer into the black box where he commits his frauds.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

This Sunday (July 30) at 1530h, I’m appearing on a panel at Midsummer Scream in Long Beach, CA, to discuss the wonderful, award-winning “Ghost Post” Haunted Mansion project I worked on for Disney Imagineering.

Image ID [A scene out of an 11th century tome on demon-summoning called 'Compendium rarissimum totius Artis Magicae sistematisatae per celeberrimos Artis hujus Magistros. Anno 1057. Noli me tangere.' It depicts a demon tormenting two unlucky would-be demon-summoners who have dug up a grave in a graveyard. One summoner is held aloft by his hair, screaming; the other screams from inside the grave he is digging up. The scene has been altered to remove the demon's prominent, urinating penis, to add in a Tesla supercharger, and a red Tesla Model S nosing into the scene.]

Image: Steve Jurvetson (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Tesla_Model_S_Indoors.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[moonstruckme]

It is I, person who asked about the bad car crash one. I have read the one you said! And while yes I think the car crash you described is bad I was wondering if you could do one that's... Worse-? Idk 😅 if not I totally understand lmao.

No I think I get you, thanks for requesting and hope you like it!

cw: car accident, concussion, mention of blood, I already know this is not very accurate, but I did not have it in me to do all the research when I wrote this. Sorry and hope it doesn’t hinder your reading experience </3

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

Your own breaths are the loudest sound, which can’t be right. Surely there should be alarms, or screaming, or something. Up until a second ago, the screeching of tires and metal was loud enough to deafen you. 

Your car door squeaks brokenly, a sad echo of the racket from before. The air around you shifts as it comes open, and a moment later there are cold fingers pressing into your jaw. 

You make a low whining sound. “Hey,” you complain. Your lips move oddly, murmuring where you mean to speak. 

“Hi,” a voice behind you replies smoothly. “I’m Sirius, I’m with NHS. Is your neck or back hurting at all, gorgeous?” 

“No. You’re cold.” 

“Lovely. This is my friend Remus, he’s going to push on your hands.” 

A head appears in front of you, upside down and shooting an exasperated look towards the disembodied voice. You don’t understand how these people are moving around so quickly, without you noticing them coming. 

“Hello.” The other man’s—Remus’—gaze softens as he meets your eyes. “Can you tell me if you feel this?” He prods at your hand. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. Your heart is starting to move in your chest, thudding against your ribs like it wants to hurt you. 

“Alright. Can you try pushing up on my hands, please?”

You do. He nods approvingly, giving you a little smile. 

“Good girl. We’re good, Sirius.” 

The cold hands release your face, and you breathe a sigh of relief. It makes your chest ache dully. 

“Beautiful. We ready to move?” 

“Yup.” That’s a third voice, distinct from the others and somewhere you can’t see it. “We’re all set.” 

“Let me just—” Remus’ hands come up around your waist and back, his grip firm, near to bruising. “Okay, I’ve got her. We’re going to unbuckle you and lift you out, okay? Just stay nice and still for us.” 

You’re confused as to what he means, but apparently your silence is consent enough. You feel the buckle of your seatbelt click, and then you’re falling up, Remus’ hold tightening further as he stops your ascent to lift you sideways. 

It’s not until you’re out of the car that you realize you were upside down. Your head feels better, though not by much, and the sun glares at you like it’s punishing you for a wrong you don’t remember having committed. Your arm, suddenly and to your horrified surprise, is in agony. 

A pitchy scraping sound tears from your throat, what would have been a scream if you had the air for one. 

“Here we go, just—yeah—” the third voice speaks as something comes up under your back. “There we are. It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re alright.”

“We’ll get you on pain meds in just a second, doll,” Sirius promises. Someone adjusts your legs so they’re both on the cot, careful of your searing arm, and then you’re moving, the sky shifting above you until you’re looking up at a gray ceiling instead. Time is an odd, fluid thing, marked only by actions and various pains. 

“When did you get here?” you mutter, to no one in particular. 

The third voice is the one to answer you. It’s accompanied by a thick pair of glasses and a sweet face, eyes flickering between you and some equipment he’s messing with. “Just a few minutes ago.” 

“I don’t…I didn’t hear the sirens.” 

He smiles like you’re funny. “Yeah, I think you might’ve been unconscious for that part.” 

You wrack your brain. You don’t remember falling asleep. Only the screeching on the road and then being in your car. Then again, you feel half as though you could be dreaming right now. 

Something sharp bites into your hand. You whimper, the pain small but only adding to every other hurt that’s already far over your threshold. 

“I know,” Sirius shushes you, sticking something to your hand. “I know, babe, but this is going to help soon. You’ll see.” 

“So far I’ve got a concussion, open fracture of the wrist, several lacerations to the face and chest, and bruising around the knees.” Remus’ voice is an odd combination of soft and businesslike. You have a creeping sensation he’s talking about you. “Am I missing anything?” 

“Possible bruising around the chest,” Sirius says. “She was breathing funny earlier.” 

“Right. Hey, love,” Remus voice gentles as he addresses you, “I’m going to move your shirt down to see if your chest is hurt, alright? I’ll be careful, it won’t take long.” 

“Okay,” you manage weakly. 

“Thank you.” He uses both hands to stretch the collar of your shirt, tutting quietly to himself at whatever he sees. He lifts a stethoscope from around his neck, rubbing the metal on his hand for a moment before setting it to your chest. 

You don’t know what he’s listening for, but you’re distracted when the third paramedic—the one with the glasses—starts running what feels like a wet wipe over your forehead. 

“Just cleaning you up a bit,” he says brightly. “Figure we ought to have you looking your best for whoever ends up stitching you up, yeah?” 

“James.” Sirius’ tone is somewhere between chiding and joking and fond, an entanglement of meanings you quite can’t wrap your pounding head around. “Don’t talk like she’s not already stunning. You can hardly improve upon perfection.” 

“Too true,” the other boy agrees readily. 

“Take a breath in for me, please,” says Remus, seemingly ignoring the other two and seemingly also used to doing so. “Just as deep as you can.” 

You try. You do your best, and as your lungs expand the dull ache worsens and worsens until a sharp pain pierces your middle. The air whooshes out of you in a dry sob. 

The stethoscope leaves your skin, and Remus fixes your shirt collar, putting it back in place. Your chest radiates a terrible, throbbing hurt. 

“It’s okay,” James says. His finger brushes your cheek, swiping at wetness you didn’t realize was there. “Oh, honey, it’s okay.” 

“At least a couple of broken ribs,” you hear Remus mutter to the others. Somehow, impossibly, it makes the pain worsen. 

“What’s happening?” you choke out. 

“You’re in an ambulance,” James tells you kindly. “You were in a car accident, and I know you’re in a lot of pain right now, but we’re here to take care of you. We’re going to make sure you’re okay, and then get you to the hospital so they can finish fixing you up. You’ll be alright.” 

The explanation takes you a while to process, but even then your tears don’t seem to want to slow. Your chest pangs with each hitch in your breathing. Eventually Sirius starts talking you through taking slower breaths, trying to calm you down. 

Someone wipes at your face with a small square. It stings, and it comes away light red with your blood and tears. 

“I know it’s scary,” Remus murmurs, “but you’ve already done so, so well. We only have to splint your arm so it doesn’t move and clean some of your bigger cuts, and then we can go to the hospital. Can you let us do that, please? Will you be okay?” 

You take in a ragged breath. “Yeah,” you reply. 

“There we are.” James takes your head between his hands. Something about his grip reassures you. He touches his lips to your forehead, like it’s natural, like it’s nothing. “You’ve got this, sweetheart. Just need you to be brave for us a little while longer.”

[musingsofheaven]

Everyone talks about homeless Patrick Zweig this. Hobosexual Patrick that. We get it. We all love seeing him messy. He sleeps in his car, and fucks girls to crash in their hotels. But what about you?

What if you’re the one without a place to sleep? What if you’re the one sleeping in your car?

Yeah. You.

What if you’re the one with a toothbrush in your old and nasty bag and a phone charger that only works if you bend it sideways? You’re the one in the parking lot of a 24-hour gym, while your phone is balancing on your thigh, your legs curled tight under you. The car smells like fast food and laundry. You’ve opened your socials especially, you have been refreshing Tinder all night… for no particular reason, no plan. Just bored. Just wet. Just trying to find a bed.

Then it buzzes.

“You’ve got a Match. Start chatting now!”

Then…

Match.

Patrick, 32.

Bio: Tennis & tits. Not always in that order. (My serve isn’t the only thing that’s hard to return.) Above average serve. Above average dick. Forehands, backhands, and you on your hands.

You blink. Then your eyebrow raised. Then laugh out loud.

His pics are… something else. Shirtless. Holding a racket, flexing his arm. That one mirror selfie with a towel slung so low it should be illegal. Looks like a typical fuck boy who looks for hookups often.

You type:

Is your bio real or just bait?

He replies fast.

Come find out. 9 pm.

And he sent his pin location to the conversation as if he’s not even scared or has any survival instinct in his body if you’re a killer or not. But you’re already changing your top in the front seat like it’s instinct.

Because honestly?

You’d use the last drop of your gas for air-conditioning, a mattress, and maybe…maybe… a cock if it comes free with room service.

Why not? You want somewhere to lie down where your legs don’t touch the steering wheel. And if Patrick Zweig going to rail you just to get it?

Fine.

He totally can. While you fall asleep face-down in his hotel pillows.

By 8:55, you’re walking through the doors of the hotel like you can afford the rooms. Patrick’s in the corner of the bar, sprawled on the stool like it’s own his place. He’s got a drink in hand, half a smirk, and legs spread just wide enough to make your thighs twitch.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says as you slide into the seat beside him.

“Didn’t think you’d be hot and real,” you tease him, chuckling.

He orders for you. Something expensive. Not that you care because he looks like he’s someone who will pay just to fuck someone. He doesn’t ask what you like, just says, “She’ll take whatever will get her tongue loose and sloppy.”

Your pussy clenches like it’s trained when he said that.

You just smirked at him before you sipped slowly at the drink that slid in front of you. He watches the whole time… mouth, throat, legs. He doesn’t even pretend that he’s not looking. He just leans in and murmurs, “You keep looking at my mouth like you want it somewhere.”

You shrug, tipsy already because he ordered something strong for you. “Maybe I’m just bored.”

Patrick laughs like that’s the right answer like it’s his favorite thing you’ve said all night. He knocks back the rest of his drink, throws a few bills on the bar without even looking at the total, and then lowers his face close to your ear.

“Come upstairs,” he says, low like he only wants you to hear it. It doesn’t feel pushy. Not needy and not begging for it. It’s just a simple, filthy suggestion, like you’ve already said yes with your body (the way you already squirming and shivering by just his hot breath touching your skin) and he’s letting your mouth part.

You don’t answer. Just stand, grab your things (basically just a small purse with 10 dollars in it, your phone, and lipstick), and follow him through the lobby like you’re supposed to.

The elevator ride is quiet, and loaded. You feel his eyes on your legs, your ass, your reflection in the walls of the elevator. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even move. Just watches you from the corner of the mirrored wall with too charming smirk that translates to something he knows exactly how this going to end. He looks like the kind of guy who jerks off to cheap porn. But you kind of respect it. Because you’re… well… you’re here to fuck him just to feel a soft mattress again, right?

Room 804.

He swipes the key card, nudges the door open with one foot, and steps back to let you in first. What a gentleman.

You walk into a king bed, with blackout curtains, and floor-to-ceiling windows and it’s clean in an expensive way. Air-conditioned hums, all white linen, and slick carpet, too perfect to fuck in. Which means he’s going to.

Patrick drops the key card on the desk, then turns and looks at you like he’s deciding where to start. Or maybe trying to break the ice.

“You want another drink?” he asks. His voice is deep now, raspier than it was at the bar. You don’t know if it’s the whiskey or you.

You nod. He pours. You take it. Neither of you sit.

He watches you drink. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, not really he just leans back against the dresser with one hip, one brow lifted like he’s sizing you up, or deciding what position he’s going to do to you.

“You always come back to hotel rooms with strangers?” he asks, voice low, dragging with that lazy accent. Dry. But feels like a tease, not an insult.

You swallow. “Only the hot ones.”

That gets a smirk out of him. Oh, that cocky smile. He tips his glass back, watching you over the rim. You’re close now. Too close. One step between his knees and your back would hit the wall.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmurs, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. “I don’t actually care what your answer was.”

Then he reaches for your waist.

It’s not gentle. He drags you in like you just did something bad and he's angry about it and he spins you fast, presses your front body against the edge of the dresser before you can make a sound. Your glass nearly topples, your palms slap the wood, and you exhale so hard it’s almost a gasp.

“You don’t seem like the type to waste time,” he says, breath skating your ear.

And you don’t answer, you don't need to because your brain’s already gone mushy.

His fingers are at your waistband a second later, moving fast now, impatient, like he’s had enough of the games and already knows you’ll take whatever he gives. Well, he's not wrong in that field. Not really. He drags your jeans down so roughly the button nearly pops, muttering something like fuck under his breath while he strips them past your thighs, past your knees, like he’s got a plane to catch and all he wants is to be inside you first.

“You wore this for me?” he scoffs, looking down at your underwear, that’s barely there, probably slightly damp already. “Or you always like this?”

It shouldn’t turn you on. It shouldn’t. But your whole body pulses with heat at the way he says it. Mocking. Mean. Like he knows something about you that you won’t admit out loud. Like he’s reading the part of you that gets off on being disposable. Or being just a hook-up. No feelings. Just casual things.

He grabs your chin in one hand, rough and possessive, tilting your face up until you’re looking at him. His pupils are blown, jaw flexing like he’s trying to hold something in. But he’s not gentle. You are not a glass. You are not special. Not when you just meet on Tinder and you don’t even have a proper conversation besides him telling you to find out if he has a big dick.

Never pretended to be nice just to get something.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you in my room,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s daring you to object. “You walk in here soaked through your jeans, looking like you’ll beg for it.”

You gasp. His hand is between your legs now. Just pressing, not even moving. Holding you there like he wants to feel the twitch of every heartbeat through your cunt. Just cupping it whole in his big hand.

“…and you think I’m gonna play nice?”

You can’t speak. You can even barely breathe.

And when he finally moves behind you, grabbing your hips, walking you, and pushing you more inside like he owns you already? Your legs go weak on instinct. All wobbly. Knees not working.

And that’s the moment it hits you: you’re not here because he’s hot. You’re here because he doesn’t care why you are here. He doesn’t even have to dine or wine you.

You raise an eyebrow but don’t move right away. Just stand there with your drink already in half and your lip curled like you’re weighing whether this man is worth using your gas for.

Then, slowly, you start walking… left the glass on a flat surface and walk past him, into the dim room, tossing your purse to the floor and crawling onto the mattress like you own it. You stretch out on your back instead of your knees, legs crossed at the ankle, one arm behind your head like you’re posing for a photo shoot he wasn’t invited to.

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you murmur, glancing toward him with a smile. Taunting him. “You always bark orders before your dick’s even out?”

He hums. “You always talk this much before opening your legs?”

“I just like to check if the bait you put in the app is legit.” Your fingers drag slowly down your front, teasing the waistband of your panties. “Tennis pro and… ‘Above average dick’ was it?” You even use your hands to quote the above-average dick from his bio just to piss his shit off.

That makes him pause.

Then he starts walking.

“No pressure,” you add lightly, nails scraping the lace. “I’m sure it’s hard to live up to all that… size.”

He’s at the edge of the bed now, shirtless, belt undone, looking at you like you just took his trophy away from a tennis match. His cock is already thick behind the zipper, straining. He palms himself once. Not for pleasure… just to show you. Proving a point, maybe. But it ends up being shown to you when he pulls his pants down.

“Tell you what,” he stated, grabbing your ankles and yanking you flat to the bed, dragging your body toward him, your calves getting out of the bed frame. “Why don’t you keep talking shit… while I stuff you so deep you forget how words work.”

You laugh, head tipped back, knees falling apart as he shoves your panties down. “Wow,” you say breathlessly, “that’s… motivational”

And then he leans in, hand fisted around the base of his cock, and smacks it against your cunt. Once, twice, wet and heavy. And he’s lining it up.

Your hips twitch with every hit, cunt slick and practically clapping back at him. The squelch is obscene. You’re hot from the chest up, grinning like a girl with nothing to lose. Honestly? You don’t have anything to lose at this point. Gain, maybe. A bed, that’s it.

“You always find pussy this easy between matches?” you ask, eyes half-lidded, baiting him. “Or just desperate ones who’ll take you raw off an app?”

He snorts but doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head, lazily, like he’s deciding whether to answer or fuck you for that. You see the way his grip tightens around himself, cock jumping against your folds.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you whisper, just enough to mock him.

He leans in suddenly, bracing one hand beside your head. The other fists your hair back until your neck arches sharp.

“You talk a lot for someone this wet,” he mutters, and slides in without warning, deep and thick, and you are thanking yourself because you got so wet easily and it doesn’t hurt much anymore. Your body… or cunt, rather, is not used to his size.

You choke. Actually choke. Hands scrabble against his stomach, nails dragging down as your back bows off the mattress. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease in. He just bottoms out like he owns the goddamn part he’s sliding between your legs.

“F-fuck,” you whimper.

He’s not even fully inside before he starts rocking slowly, maybe he’s nice enough to see that you want him to let you settle with his size first. It is just enough motion to feel every inch split you, drag you wide, make you clench and seize around him like a fist.

“Should’ve led with your pussy instead of your mouth,” he growls in your ear. “Would’ve skipped the drink.”

Then he flips you.

He grabs you by the hips and turns you over like you weigh nothing, like you’re just another girl (technically you are) in his bed who talked too much before taking cock. Your cheek hits the mattress, breath punched from your lungs as his palm splays across your back, holding you down. But he started caressing your back while his other hand remained on your hips as if he didn’t want you to move at all.

“Ass up,” he mutters. “Don’t make me say it again.”

So bossy. So annoying. But you’re already moving, legs shaky as you scramble to your knees, arching without thinking, without pride. On all fours. He drags the length of his cock through your slick again at a mocking, slow pace like he’s checking to see if you’re still wet after the way he talked to you. Spoiler? You are. Worse. Sloppier.

“Jesus,” he huffs. “You’re soaking. What, the drink made you this needy?”

You want to snap something back. You really do. But the second you open your mouth, he’s pushing in so deep it feels like it hits the back of your throat. Your fingers claw at the sheets, a choked gasp catching in your throat as he bottoms out.

And then he just stays there. Settling inside you.

Deep. Full. Letting you feel it. Letting your pussy flutter and grip around him while he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, just leans over, like he’s waiting for you to admit how desperate you already are.

He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, cock twitching like he’s enjoying the way your cunt tightens in waves around him. You’re breathing through your mouth, face crushed against the sheets, knees barely holding like your whole body’s trying to compute what the hell just happened.

His fingers drag up your spine, light and lazy before he fists your hair and pulls you back enough to whisper it.

“Say it.”

Say what? You think. Your jaw clenches. You won’t. You won’t. You are not that desperate, right?

But the weight of him has you trembling. He has your thighs quaking like you’re trying to hold back something dangerous. And when he finally rolls his hips, just once, slow, like he’s testing you, it knocks the wind out of your lungs.

“Say it,” he breathes again, mouth in your ear now. “Say you needed this.”

You whimper. Hips jolted back against him without permission. You hate him. You hate him.

You love how it feels.

He laughs under his breath like he already knows. Like you’ve already told him without a word. His other hand slides to your throat, not tight, just enough pressure to make your whole body hum. To feel something.

Then he pulls out halfway. What an asshole. He lets you feel the drag, the loss before slamming back in with one deep, punishing thrust that makes your mouth fall open in a helpless, broken moan.

“Jesus,” he groans, voice ragged now. “You’re fucking made for it, aren’t you?”

You’re not… you’re not. It just happens you are using your body to your benefit to get something you want. Bed. Soft pillows. Nice room. Nice sleep.

His hands grip your hips like he owns them. Like you’re not just some girl he picked up after two drinks and suggestive ‘come with me upstairs’ bullshit. He holds you there, steady like he’s making sure you feel every inch of him, the weight, the stretch, the pain of being filled without warning. No rocking, no thrusting, just the full, filled, unrelenting pressure of his cock deep inside you while your body tries to adjust around it.

You breathe hard against the mattress, hips twitching under his grip. He doesn’t let you move. Not really.

“You’re not saying anything,” he mutters, low and cocky, hovering over your back. Chest almost touching your back. “What, cat got your tongue? Thought you had a lot to say about my profile.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m just… getting used to being split in half, thanks.”

He laughs. Like there’s something funny. Fuck there isn’t. He probably thinks you’re pathetic. “Yeah?” Then he pulls out slowly, dragging against everything inside you, and slams back in with a snap that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Let me help you get used to it.”

Now he moves. Rough and fast, no rhythm at first, sloppy like a virgin, and the sound of skin and breath and the slick, filthy wet of it all. He rocks you forward on each thrust, forcing your knees wider, his hands digging in harder, using your hips like handlebars. Like a grip for leverage, not care. You swear he gets deeper every time or he hits the spot with each thrust.

Your fingers claw the sheets. Your thighs shake.

“Fucking made for it,” he growls again, more to himself this time, like he can’t believe how tight you are, how wet, how much you’re already falling apart for him.

You feel it in your teeth when he slams in again. Feel it in the base of your skull, where your forehead’s mashed to the sheets, in the pathetic little gasps you keep swallowing against the mattress. He’s panting harder now, muttering filth under his breath, swearing, low and ragged, things like “fuckin’ tight,” and “so wet for a stranger,” like it’s a compliment and a threat rolled into one.

He doesn’t stop moving. Don’t pause to let you catch your breath. Just tightens his grip around your hips, bruising, and pulls you back to meet every thrust like he wants to hollow you out.

“Should see yourself,” he grits. “Fucking dripping. Like your cunt knew I was coming.”

You let out a cracked little moan. The kind you can’t swallow. The kind that sounds like yes even if you don’t say it. One hand fists the sheets. The other’s somewhere under you, numb, forgotten. Your whole body’s gone slack, pliant, just flesh he can fuck into whatever shape he wants.

Then he slows.

Not soft. He stays deep, grinding it in like he wants you to feel every inch, every twitch, every fucking vein. You choke. Your thighs shake.

“Bet you say this to all the girls,” you manage to whisper, voice hoarse, cheek smeared with drool and heat. Just to get back to his words earlier. “Any city. Any hotel.”

He huffs a breath right over your ear, dragging his cock out just enough to make you clench down, desperate.

“Nah,” he murmurs, hips pulling back.

Then he drives it back in, all at once, deep, and just how you like it. “Just the ones who take cock like you do.”

You cry out, unfiltered. And he laughs, he’s even pleased, and breathless, still buried in the base like he’s never pulling out again.

You’re half-gone already, mouth slack, eyes wet, fingers curled into the sheets like you’re trying to claw your way out of your own body. He’s still there, deep, solid, anchored, driving into you like he knows your pussy better than you do like he’s trying to teach it something it won’t forget.

And it listens. It flutters. It chokes on him.

“Jesus,” he pants.

You want to talk back. You want to laugh, or moan, or say something smart and cruel, but your brain is slowing down or maybe you are just cockdrunk, all heat and pressure and stretch. The slap of skin fills the room, louder now, rougher, wetter. Clap, clap, clap. He’s close. You can feel it, his rhythm faltering, hips stuttering, breath catching like his body’s trying to warn you.

And then you hear it.

That groan.

That deep, helpless, fucked-out sound that says he’s about to come and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

Your forehead pressed to the mattress, thighs trembling like you’re about to snap in half.

“You gonna pull out?” you pant, blinking tears off your lashes as he rails into you.

He doesn’t answer.

Don’t slow down.

Just grunts under his breath and grabs your hips tighter, dragging you back into each thrust like your body belongs to him now, like the question was rhetorical. Like the answer’s already happening.

You know it. Feel it.

The stutter in his rhythm. The tense, desperate twitch of his cock inside you. The soft, breathless noise he makes when he presses all the way in and stays there.

Then…

Spilling. Flooding. His cum forces its way deeper as your body clenches around him.

You freeze. Your mouth opens. “Patrick,”

“F-fuck sorry,” he breathes, forehead resting against your spine, totally unbothered. Too calm. You can hear the smug in it. Hear the fucking smirk. You can tell he’s not really sorry.

“Patrick.”

He shifts his weight, presses deeper, somehow still half-hard, and exhales like he just did something inconvenient, like dropping a towel on the floor.

“Felt too good. Couldn’t help it.”

Bullshit. He didn’t even try.

You start to push back against him, thrusting your ass to him, but he pins you there and drags a palm down your spine like it’s no big deal. This is just what happens now.

“You’ll be fine,” he adds, quieter. Still inside you. Still leaking.

“Don’t act like you didn’t like it,” he adds, cock heavy and wet against your ass, half-hard and twitching like he could go again if you even looked at him the right way.

You hum, cheek pressed to his pillow, lashes sticky and stuck together. “It was… good,” you murmur, voice a little shy, a little too quiet. You fiddle with the comforter between your fingers, then, almost too fast to clock, you add, “You’ll, um. Cover Plan B, right?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets out a breath through his nose, like he’s smiling but trying not to give you the satisfaction.

He snorts, rolls onto his back, and throws one arm behind his head like he’s getting comfortable. Not leaving. Not tossing your clothes. Not panicking about what you’re gonna do next.

You roll over too, slower, adjusting your leg like it’s not leaking from the cum he just spilled inside of you, like gravity isn’t already doing its humiliating thing. “It’s late,” you murmur. Yawn a little, all fake innocence. “Didn’t even realize it was almost three.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares up at the ceiling like he’s waiting for you to say what you actually mean. But you won’t. Not out loud. You just stretch, and mumble, “Kinda dangerous out. You know. Sketchy.”

Still, he doesn’t bite. Just blinks at the ceiling. So you sigh, dramatic and helpless, like the thought hadn’t occurred to you until now.

“Would it be so dumb to drive somewhere now, huh? Like… might as well just crash and go in the morning or whatever…”

Patrick turns his head. Raises a brow, he’s just holding himself not laughing. “Are you asking if you can stay?”

You blink back at him. Too shy to ask if you can crash. “What? No. I’m just saying it’s late.”

He huffs. Then throws the comforter over both of you and mutters, “Jesus. Just go to sleep.”

This isn’t what he does. He doesn’t do this. In normal times like this? It’s clothes back on before the sweat dries, some fake ass words like “You get home safe, okay?” while he’s already unlocking the front door, not looking back. Or he leaves, whatever’s easier. He doesn’t let them stay. Doesn’t let them sink into his sheets like they belong there.

But he hasn’t moved. And you’re still here. All warm skin and soft whining and sticky thighs and little sighs like you won something. Like you planned this.

He clears his throat. Stares at the ceiling. “And, no cuddling or whatever,” he says, like it’s an important reminder that he needs to say it before it happens.

You don’t answer. Just shift a little closer, calf brushing his under the comforter. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away.

No cuddling. No promises. No ride home.

Guess the app works.

[evilminji]

I woke up to this thought? And it made me smile~

Wrong way Au?

It's EASY to fly from point A to point B. Linear. Just on long, no traffic, straight line. And if you get lost? Go higher! There you are! But "normal" reporter families with Totally Human genetics can't exactly DO that.

Plus? It's part of the whole Americana thing!

Childhood.

Gotta do a road trip, see weird road side attractions, camp and hike a bit. Go somewhere other then the farm for once. Soooo~ everyone into the car! Yes, you too, Kon.

And don't look at Lois, kids. She hates this idea as much as you do. But it's for Dad. So we're doing it. Get in the car. Some times loving people means "suuuure, honey! I TOTALLY want to sit in an uncomfortable car for hours for your nostalgic dream trip!", so get comfy.

Problem is? He either can't navigate for SHIT (unlikely) or this patch of nowhere? Possibly haunted? Cursed? Fuckey. Very, very Reality Fuckey. Far more likely, honestly. They THINK that was the a same barn the passed four times now... but it looks... wrong? Off. Worse each time, in ways that are hard to place.

Where the FUCK are they Clark?

According to the GPS?

Here.

(You are Here. You are Here. You are He-)

Oh, THAT'S not cursed! She fucking KNEW they shouldn't have left the city. FUCK the countryside. She likes ONE(1) small town and it's where her in-laws live, THANK YOU VERY MUCH! If they die, she swear to GOD-!!!

Then Jon points to colorful tents up the road. A mix of the kind you buy at big box stores and Ren fairs. Balloons. What the fuuuuuck? "Fenton Family Reunion"?

Was... was that THERE a second ago?

Clark's very deliberate Not Too Tight Grip Of Panic ™ on the steering wheel? Confirms that No Honey, it was not. Kon points out? That eventually they ARE going to run out of gas. They should stop.

Words can not express how little the Kents want to do that. They have KIDS to protect. This feels "magical fuckery" to them. AKA? One of the few things Kryptonians very much CAN NOT handle.

And luck getting ahold of anybody back there kids? No? Emergency lines too?

Fuck ™.

Okay! Guess we're stopping! Stay behind us.

They park.

There are campers and trucks, modified tanks and trackers. A few horses grazing side by side with an honest to God moose and two mules. A Llama. Someone's anchored a dirigible. A boat with spindly chicken footed legs, like it's the house of baba yaga's sea faring love child. The name Fenton is slapped on everything. Peoples faces.

Grinning.

Everything grinning.

As they get closer, the racket gets louder. Crashes and smashes. Roaring laughter. Explosions. The screech of metal failing and the whine of energy overclocked. Fatty meats cooking. Spices from around the globe. Radios and instruments, at least one of which violently cuts off in a smash.

They pass an almost violently balloon choked arch, into chaos.

Grinning giants, everywhere. Every color, every shade, every race imaginable. The spectrum of humanity laid bare. Made large. Grinning, Grinning, Grinning. Crashing into each other, against, through. Smashing and laughing, as everything breaks around them. Titans.

Darting underfoot, children. Fast with wild eyes. Mad grins and fae laughs. Wives and husband's, partners and friends, dancing in and out of the chaos. Just as destructive. Perhaps MORE so. Grabbing meals from grills, laughing and joking, tossing children into the fray, all as they effortless hold conversations of their own.

Like a Dionysian revelry, all madness and joy.

Then they are noticed.

"Cousin!"

One of them booms. Locking eyes on Clark. He doesn't even have time to move, doesn't realize until too late, in all the chaos, that the man meant HIM. A running start is followed by a brutal, full body, flying tackle. Clark is taken skidding to the ground and into a headlock.

"LETS WRASTLE~!!"

He watches in helpless confusion as, with high-pitched war cries, a pair of twins jump Jon. They are wearing war paint. Krypto already taken out by a glowing green dog, now confused and wrestling off to the side. Lois has whipped out her tazer. Kon between her and who ever comes next.

By the time he wrestle his "cousin" off of him, he's lost sight of them both.

Dives into the fray.

Magic be damned, that's his FAMILY!

It... It's the most fun he's had in years. That any of them have. He finds Lois in a breathless, screaming, debate/fistfight with her new best friend. Samantha "call me Sam Or ELSE" Manson-Fouley-Fenton. Kon is in the mud pit, wrestling other teenagers in some sort of battle Royale. Jon? Has become king of the ferals. The other parents are impressed.

His years of Damian wrangling finally paying dividends, apparently.

By the time Clark FINALLY tracks down Krypto, there is already crowd and it apparently six heel turns deep into the WWE Grand Saga of the Fenton Pet's League. Krypto, what the hell. No. No you may NOT "form one last alliance against my sworn wrestling enemy, to prove the true meaning of Christmas!" It's the middle of SUMMER!

Clark... Clark is so tired.

He's also a Fenton now. Yes, he KNOWS that's not how anything works. YOU try explaining that! He's on the call list and card list. It's like the Addams family out here! They just... just DECIDED him and his family were related! They've apparently DONE THAT BEFORE!

They leave with directions, fudge, more leftovers then anyone could possibly eat, and a massive new extended family. One that honestly? The Justice League SHOULD have known about. The sheer destructive chaos they get up too? EVERYONE should be aware of them. It seems impossible NOT to be! But? According to THEM, it's a "family thing". Reality tries to ignore them for "it's own sanity"? What???

So yeah.... no more road trips.

How was YOUR weekend?

@hdgnj @legitimatesatanspawn @nerdpoe @the-witchhunter @lolottes @babbling-babull @dcxdpdabbles @hypewinter @mutable-manifestation

[dreamersworldduh]

HI, NEIGHBOR - PART ONE

SUMMARY — you’re new to the neighborhood and find yourself becoming friends with the residential bad boy, Jason Todd. From his perspective, you seems like a outgoing guy yet there’s a mystery to you he couldn’t quite figure out.

WARNING! Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 7.8k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! Okay, here’s a short three part series that I’ve been working on. Part 2– will be posted tomorrow. Hope you enjoy! 😚

NEXT PART! TWO

The streets of Gotham were unusually quiet that night, a stark contrast to the usual chaos that defined the city after dark. The absence of sirens, distant gunfire, and the ever-present hum of danger created an eerie calm that felt almost unnatural. For once, the city seemed to be holding its breath.

After finishing his nightly patrol, Jason Todd trudged wearily through the dimly lit hallways of his apartment complex. His steps were slow and heavy, the weight of the night's events still clinging to him like a second skin. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, and his boots scuffed against the worn floorboards as he approached the familiar, weathered door to his apartment. He unlocked it with a practiced flick of his wrist, stepping inside and letting the door shut behind him with a soft click.

The apartment was silent, just as he had left it — or so he thought. As Jason tossed his keys onto the small, scratched-up table near the entrance, his sharp ears caught the faintest sound of shuffling coming from the apartment above. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but distinct enough to register in his keen, combat-honed senses. He paused, frowning slightly, but exhaustion quickly overtook suspicion. Late-night disturbances were nothing new in Gotham, and after the night he'd had, investigating a bit of noise was the last thing on his mind. With a tired shrug, he dismissed it as some insomniac neighbor moving around and made his way toward the worn couch, collapsing onto it without bothering to change out of his gear.

The night passed uneventfully, and for a while, Jason managed to find some much-needed rest.

By morning, however, peace was once again a fleeting concept. Jason was jolted awake by a series of sharp, repetitive banging sounds coming from the apartment above. His eyes snapped open, a scowl already forming as the noise continued, louder this time, echoing through the thin walls and ceiling. He groaned in frustration, pressing the heels of his hands against his tired eyes.

For a moment, he considered ignoring it, hoping the racket would eventually stop on its own. But the pounding persisted, relentless and grating. His patience — already in short supply — frayed further with each crash. Annoyance quickly turned into something more pointed, an edge of suspicion creeping into his mind.

Pushing himself up from the couch with a low growl of irritation, Jason stomped toward the front door. Whoever was responsible for the early-morning commotion was about to get a piece of his mind — or worse, depending on how this encounter played out. With narrowed eyes and clenched fists, he yanked the door open and marched toward the stairs, determined to find out exactly who — or what — was behind the infernal noise.

Jason marched up the creaky wooden staircase of his apartment building, his boots thudding heavily against each step. The persistent noise from the unit above had frayed the last of his patience. He wasn't in the mood for pleasantries or explanations — he just wanted the relentless banging to stop. His sharp, determined strides carried him to the door directly above his apartment, and without hesitation, he raised a gloved hand and knocked firmly — three sharp, demanding raps that echoed down the dimly lit hallway.

It only took a few seconds before the sound of footsteps shuffled behind the door. The lock clicked, and the door swung open to reveal you, standing there, slightly out of breath, clearly in the middle of something.

Jason's eyes immediately met yours, locking onto your gaze. There was something about the way your eyes widened in slight surprise, shimmering with an openness that caught him off guard. For a fleeting moment, his usually guarded mind wondered who you were — how someone like you ended up living in a place like this. His gaze quickly shifted, taking in the rest of your appearance.

You were covered in paint — splatters of vibrant colors streaked across your hands, arms, and even a smudge across your cheek. The strong, sharp scent of fresh paint wafted from your apartment, filling the narrow hallway with its unmistakable chemical tang. It was clear you had been working on something creative, perhaps even in the middle of a project when he interrupted.

Despite your somewhat disheveled appearance, you held yourself with quiet confidence, though there was an undeniable flicker of apprehension in your eyes as you took in the tall, broad-shouldered man standing at your door. His intense expression, furrowed brows, and clenched jaw gave off an air of quiet menace — someone not to be messed with. You couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of intimidation under his piercing gaze.

But just as quickly as his eyes narrowed, something in his expression softened when he noticed the paint stains and the slightly sheepish look on your face. He exhaled slowly, reigning in his frustration. He didn't sense any immediate threat — just someone caught off guard.

Jason cleared his throat, shifting his weight slightly. "Were you the one making all that noise downstairs?" His tone was still firm but lacked the edge it carried earlier.

Realizing the reason for his visit, your eyes widened in sudden understanding. "Oh! Yes, that was me— I'm so sorry!" you exclaimed, sincerity shining through your voice. "I was moving some furniture around to make space, and... well, I kind of stubbed my toe pretty hard." You gave an embarrassed laugh, lifting your foot slightly as if to emphasize your clumsy misfortune.

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown off by your straightforward honesty. He hadn't expected such an earnest response. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a faint, reluctant smirk before he caught himself. His shoulders relaxed just a bit.

"Try to keep it down next time," he muttered, though his tone was far less harsh now. "Some people are trying to sleep."

You nodded quickly, still flustered. "Absolutely. I really am sorry... uh, I'll be more careful."

Jason gave a small nod of acknowledgment before turning to head back downstairs, leaving you standing there, still processing the strange encounter. As he descended the stairs, he couldn't help but glance back briefly, something about you still lingering in his mind longer than he expected.

The soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you wandered through the slightly crowded aisles of Gotham's only halfway decent grocery store. The worn linoleum floor creaked faintly underfoot, and the faint scent of freshly baked bread wafted from the bakery section near the front. You pushed your slightly wobbly shopping cart down the produce aisle, scanning a list scribbled in messy handwriting on a crumpled piece of paper.

Reaching for a bundle of fresh cilantro, you felt someone else's hand brush against yours. Startled, you snapped your head up, your eyes locking onto familiar, intense blue ones — Jason.

His expression mirrored your surprise, his brow furrowing slightly before recognition softened his features. He was dressed casually — a worn leather jacket over a dark hoodie, jeans, and scuffed boots that looked like they'd seen their share of rough nights. His dark hair was slightly tousled, like he'd just rolled out of bed or finished something much more dangerous than grocery shopping.

"Hey," he said, his voice a low, familiar rasp that sent a small jolt through your chest.

"Jason?" you blinked, still processing that he of all people was standing there in the produce aisle, holding a bunch of cilantro like it might explode. "Wow... this is unexpected."

His lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk. "Didn't think I shopped for groceries, huh?"

You chuckled, trying to ignore how warm his presence felt in the cool, air-conditioned store. "Honestly? No. You seem more like the 'survive on takeout and black coffee' type."

Jason huffed out a short laugh. "I am that type. But the takeout place near my apartment burned down... so here I am." He shrugged, tossing the cilantro into a small basket slung over his arm. "Figured I should try something that doesn't come in a greasy paper bag."

You smiled, still slightly amazed that this was happening. Jason. Grocery shopping. In the produce section, no less.

"What about you?" he asked, nodding toward your cart. "Stocking up for the apocalypse?"

You glanced at your half-full cart, piled with random essentials — pasta, canned tomatoes, bread, and a few vegetables that were probably going to end up wilting in your fridge. "Something like that," you admitted sheepishly. "I'm trying to learn how to cook... emphasis on trying."

Jason raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Cooking, huh? Bold move." His smirk widened just a fraction. "Set off any smoke alarms yet?"

You rolled your eyes, unable to help the small laugh that bubbled up. "Only twice. But to be fair, I blame the stove... and maybe a little user error."

He chuckled, and for a moment, the conversation felt... easy. Comfortable. Like running into an old friend instead of someone as complicated and dangerous as Jason Todd.

A brief silence settled between you, but it wasn't awkward — just the quiet hum of the store and the occasional crackle of the overhead speaker announcing a sale in the bakery. You found yourself lingering, not quite ready to end the encounter.

Jason cleared his throat, shifting the basket in his hand. "Look... since you're apparently fighting for your life in the kitchen... if you need any tips, I'm... decent at cooking." His voice dropped a bit, almost shyly, as if admitting that was some deep secret. "Spent some time learning... helps clear my head."

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, warmth blooming in your chest. "You? Cooking? Okay, now I have to see this."

His smirk returned, this time softer. "Maybe you will."

Before you could respond, someone with a loud cart rattled past, breaking the moment. Jason shifted his weight and glanced down the aisle. "I should... finish this," he said, lifting the basket slightly.

You nodded, still smiling. "Yeah. Me too."

As he turned to leave, he hesitated for just a second. "Hey," he added over his shoulder, his voice almost casual, but there was something more behind it. "Don't burn down your kitchen."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," you shot back, grinning.

He chuckled under his breath and walked away, disappearing around the corner. You stood there for a moment longer, still feeling the lingering warmth of his presence, cilantro forgotten in your hand.

Maybe grocery shopping wasn't so bad after all.

The familiar creak of the apartment building's old wooden floor echoed faintly through the narrow hallway as you fumbled with your keys, juggling a paper grocery bag filled with supplies for your upcoming housewarming party. You were balancing it awkwardly on your hip, your keys stubbornly refusing to fit into the lock.

Suddenly, you heard heavy boots approaching, the steady, confident stride unmistakable. Before you could turn around, a familiar low voice cut through the quiet hum of the building.

"Need a hand?"

You twisted your head, already smiling. Jason Todd stood just a few feet away, his hands stuffed casually into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. His dark hair was slightly damp, like he'd just come back from a run or... something far more dangerous, knowing him. His piercing blue eyes glinted with quiet amusement as he took in your struggling form.

"Oh, hey!" you greeted, feeling a spark of warmth at the sight of him. "Yeah, actually. This door hates me."

Jason wordlessly stepped forward, his broad frame making the narrow hallway feel smaller. With an effortless flick of his wrist, he turned the key you'd been wrestling with, unlocking the door like it was nothing.

"Show-off," you teased, opening the door with your foot.

He smirked. "It's all in the wrist."

As you stepped inside, you paused, glancing back over your shoulder. Jason lingered just outside your door, as if unsure whether to leave or stay. For some reason, you felt a sudden burst of boldness, fueled by the lingering memory of your last encounter at the grocery store.

"Hey, wait," you called, setting the grocery bag on the small table by the door. "So... I'm throwing a housewarming party this Friday. Just a small thing. Nothing fancy." You shrugged, trying to sound casual. "I figured... you know, since we're neighbors... maybe you'd want to come?"

Jason blinked, clearly caught off guard. His expression shifted from mild surprise to something softer, though he masked it quickly with his usual guarded demeanor.

"A party?" he repeated slowly, as if testing the word out in his mind.

"Yeah," you said quickly, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious. "Just... food, drinks, maybe some music. Nothing wild. You could stop by if you want... no pressure."

He tilted his head, studying you in that intense, thoughtful way he always seemed to have, like he was trying to figure out if you were serious — or maybe why you'd bother inviting someone like him at all.

"You sure about that?" His voice was quiet, almost uncertain. "I'm... not exactly great at the whole 'social' thing."

You smiled warmly, stepping closer. "I'm sure. I wouldn't have invited you if I didn't mean it."

Jason's eyes softened, his usual guarded mask slipping just a little. He hesitated for a beat, then gave a small nod.

"Alright," he said, his voice rough but sincere. "I'll... think about it."

You grinned, feeling lighter than you had all week. "Cool. It starts around seven. Just... come by whenever."

Jason held your gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then he gave you a faint, almost bashful half-smile — something you were pretty sure he didn't do often — before stepping back toward the hallway.

"See you around," he murmured before turning and walking away, his boots thudding softly against the worn floorboards.

As he disappeared around the corner, you closed the door behind you, still smiling. Maybe — just maybe — Friday night was about to get a lot more interesting.

The soft hum of music played from a small Bluetooth speaker in the corner of your living room, mixing with the sound of friendly chatter and the occasional burst of laughter. Your apartment was warmly lit, cozy but alive with energy as your housewarming party kicked into full swing. The smell of fresh-baked appetizers and various snacks wafted through the air, blending with the faint citrus scent of the candle you'd lit to cover up the ever-present paint smell that still clung to the walls from your earlier projects.

You'd spent the last hour moving from one conversation to the next, introducing yourself to neighbors you'd only seen in passing before. Mrs. Alvarez from down the hall had already handed you a homemade flan "as a welcome gift," and a couple from the third floor was currently explaining the best late-night takeout spots in Gotham while sipping drinks from your mismatched cups.

"...But don't go to Big Lou's after midnight," the woman warned, wagging her finger playfully. "Unless you want to wait two hours or get into a shouting match with someone."

"Noted," you laughed, taking another sip from your drink, feeling pleasantly warm from the lively atmosphere.

As you chatted, your eyes kept flicking toward the door, half-expecting — or maybe just hoping — to see Jason Todd show up. You'd invited him on a whim, and though he'd seemed genuinely intrigued, part of you wondered if he'd decide it wasn't his scene after all.

You were just about to turn back to the conversation when there was a firm knock at the door. Your heart jumped a little, and you quickly excused yourself, weaving through the small cluster of guests toward the entrance.

Taking a steadying breath, you opened the door — and there he was.

Jason Todd stood there, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark leather jacket, his eyes scanning the lively room behind you before settling on your face. He was dressed casually — dark jeans, a fitted black henley that stretched across his broad chest, and his ever-present boots that were still faintly scuffed from... well, whatever he got up to during the nights.

"Hey," he greeted simply, his voice low and familiar.

You smiled, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. "Hey... you made it."

Jason shrugged lightly, but there was something almost shy in the way his gaze lingered on you. "Told you I'd think about it."

"Glad you did," you said, stepping aside to let him in. "Come on in."

He hesitated for half a second before stepping through the threshold, his sharp eyes immediately scanning the room, taking in every detail like he couldn't help but assess his surroundings. You noticed the way his posture remained slightly guarded — not tense exactly, but aware, like he was ready for something to go wrong at any moment.

"Drink?" you offered, motioning toward the makeshift bar area set up near the kitchen.

Jason's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk. "Sure. What's the strongest thing you've got?"

"Whiskey... maybe rum, if you're feeling adventurous."

He nodded approvingly, following you toward the small bar setup. As you poured him a drink, he lingered close, his presence warm and steady, grounding you amid the lively noise of the party.

"So," he asked after taking a sip of his drink, "met any interesting neighbors yet?"

You chuckled, leaning back against the counter. "A few. Mrs. Alvarez might be my new favorite person — she brought homemade flan."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Homemade flan? You're already doing better than me. All I got was a noise complaint the first week I moved in."

You laughed, imagining it vividly. "Yeah, I can definitely see that happening."

He smirked but didn't argue.

A comfortable silence settled between you as the party buzzed on around you. You found yourself watching him — the way he stood, grounded but still somehow restless, like he was unused to standing still for too long. Yet... he was here. With you.

"I'm glad you came," you said softly, meaning it.

Jason met your gaze, something warm flickering in his piercing blue eyes. "Yeah... me too."

For the first time all night, you felt like everything had fallen perfectly into place.

The weeks after your housewarming party passed in a blur of unexpected encounters, shared moments, and a growing connection with Jason that felt surprisingly natural — and effortless. What started as polite hallway conversations evolved into something deeper, something more meaningful.

It had been one of those long, restless nights where sleep felt impossible, and you found yourself wandering out of your apartment around midnight for some fresh air and maybe a cup of coffee from the 24-hour diner down the street.

Halfway down the dimly lit street, you spotted a familiar figure leaning against the brick wall outside the diner, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. His dark hair was tousled, and his expression was distant, his sharp gaze flicking toward the street like he was watching for something... or someone.

"Jason?" you called out cautiously, stepping closer.

His eyes snapped toward you, instantly alert — but when he recognized you, his shoulders visibly relaxed.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, pushing off the wall, his voice rough but warm.

"Couldn't sleep," you admitted with a small shrug. "Thought I'd grab some coffee." You paused, studying him. "What about you?"

Jason hesitated, clearly considering how much to share. "Same," he said finally. "Couldn't sit still."

A comfortable silence settled between you as the quiet hum of the city buzzed around you. Without a second thought, you tilted your head toward the diner. "Wanna join me?"

He arched an eyebrow but didn't refuse. "Sure."

The two of you slid into a worn booth inside the small diner, the smell of old coffee and greasy bacon lingering in the air. Jason ordered black coffee—strong and bitter, just like you'd expected—while you went for something sweeter.

"You come here a lot?" you asked, stirring your drink.

Jason shrugged. "Sometimes. It's quiet... and no one asks questions."

You smiled knowingly. "I get that."

Before you realized it, the two of you were deep in conversation — talking about everything and nothing. He shared small pieces of himself, stories laced with dry humor and a hint of something darker beneath the surface. You listened, fascinated by the way he let his guard down just a little more each time he spoke.

A week later, after another late-night coffee run, Jason surprised you by showing up at your door with a bag of snacks and an old DVD of some gritty action movie you'd jokingly mentioned you'd never seen.

"Figured you should fix that," he said simply, holding up the worn DVD case.

You grinned, stepping aside to let him in. "You brought snacks? Who are you?"

"Don't get used to it," he deadpanned, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement.

You ended up sprawled on your worn couch, a bowl of popcorn between you as the movie flickered across the screen. Jason's sharp commentary made you laugh until your sides ached — and you realized how much you liked seeing him like this, relaxed and at ease.

Halfway through the movie, you found yourself leaning against his shoulder, his warmth steady and comforting. He didn't move away — just shifted slightly, letting you settle closer.

Somehow, hanging out with Jason started to feel like second nature — like he'd always been there. So when he mentioned going to the small gym a few blocks away, you'd half-jokingly challenged him to a sparring match.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked with an arched brow, wrapping his hands in worn boxing tape. "I don't hold back."

"Neither do I," you shot back, stubbornly determined.

The "match" quickly became less about winning and more about seeing how long you could keep up. Jason was fast — terrifyingly skilled and precise — but he never hit harder than you could handle. His smirk only widened each time you landed a decent hit, his voice laced with teasing approval.

By the end of it, you were sweaty, exhausted, and grinning like an idiot.

"Not bad," he admitted, tossing you a water bottle. "For a beginner."

"Please," you panted, rolling your eyes. "You were totally struggling out there."

Jason chuckled, shaking his head. "Keep telling yourself that."

Spending time with Jason became your new normal. He started showing up at your door with takeout on nights when neither of you felt like cooking. You dragged him to the farmer's market one Saturday, laughing at how completely out of place he looked among the cheerful vendors and fruit stands. He even let you rope him into helping repaint your living room after you'd complained about hating the previous color.

But more than that, you talked. Late nights stretched into early mornings, with conversations that were both lighthearted and deep. Jason opened up in small, careful doses — stories about growing up in Gotham, about loss, about survival. You never pushed, just listened — and he never judged you for sharing your own stories in return.

And somewhere along the way, you realized you weren't just friends — you trusted him, in a way you hadn't trusted anyone in a long time.

One night, as you stood together on the fire escape outside your apartment, watching the city lights flicker against the dark Gotham skyline, Jason glanced at you, something unreadable in his piercing blue eyes.

"You're... good company," he said quietly, almost like the words surprised him.

You smiled, brushing your fingers lightly against his. "So are you."

Jason didn't pull away. Instead, his hand shifted just enough to intertwine with yours, his grip steady and sure.

And in that quiet, fleeting moment, the world outside seemed just a little less harsh — because, for once, you weren't facing it alone.

One night, you were making your way home from a late shift. The chilly night air bit at your exposed skin, making you tug your jacket tighter around yourself. The streets were unusually quiet, the typical city noise reduced to the occasional distant wail of a siren or the faint hum of passing cars on the main road.

Unbeknownst to you, high above, perched on the edge of a grimy rooftop, Red Hood—watched your every step with sharp, calculated focus. His patrol had brought him through this part of Gotham, the crime-ridden backstreets he knew too well. When he saw you, walking alone, his breath hitched for just a second.

"What the hell are you doing out here...?" he muttered under his breath, adjusting his tactical grip on the rifle slung across his back. His protective instincts kicked in immediately, though he told himself it was just a coincidence that he happened to be patrolling your area.

Then, movement caught his eye.

Three men emerged from a dark alley ahead of you — rough-looking, clad in mismatched street gear, eyes gleaming with malice. A fourth trailed close behind, circling like a predator. Jason's jaw clenched beneath his crimson helmet as he shifted into position, ready to intervene before things got ugly.

"Hey there," one of the thugs sneered, stepping into your path. "Bit late for a stroll, don't you think?"

You stopped cold, instinctively assessing the situation. They were armed — knives, possibly a concealed gun on the one hanging back. Typical Gotham lowlifes looking for an easy target.

"Not interested," you said flatly, your voice steady and calm.

"Aww, don't be like that," the second thug chuckled darkly, moving closer. "Why don't you hand over that bag... and maybe we can talk about letting you walk away."

Jason's finger tightened on the trigger of his grapple gun. He was already calculating his drop angle, planning how fast he could take them all down before they laid a hand on you—

Then you moved.

With explosive speed, you surged forward, your bag forgotten on the ground. The nearest thug barely had time to blink before your fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling into a nearby trash can with a satisfying crash.

Jason froze, eyes widening beneath his helmet.

"What the—?"

The second thug lunged at you with a switchblade, but you sidestepped gracefully, grabbing his wrist and twisting hard. He yelped in pain as you delivered a brutal knee strike to his stomach, doubling him over.

The third thug cursed and charged, swinging wildly. You ducked, your movements fluid and precise, as if you'd done this a hundred times before. You kicked out, sweeping his legs from under him in a practiced maneuver. He hit the pavement hard with a groan.

Jason could barely believe what he was seeing. You moved like a trained fighter — better than most he'd seen in Gotham. Your strikes were sharp, deliberate, and efficient. No wasted energy. Every blow calculated for maximum impact.

But the fourth thug — the one with the concealed pistol — was already drawing his weapon, snarling angrily.

Jason didn't hesitate.

CRACK!

A warning shot from his dual pistols echoed through the alley, and the gun flew from the thug's hand as he yelped in fear, clutching his wrist. Before he could react, Jason dropped from the rooftop like a shadow of death, landing with a heavy thud that made the ground tremble.

The thug staggered back, eyes wide with terror.

"Oh sh—"

Jason's fist smashed into his face, sending him crumpling to the ground, unconscious.

The sudden silence rang louder than the gunshot.

Breathing hard, you slowly straightened, eyes still sharp, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Only then did you realize who had taken down the last guy. The familiar crimson mask gleamed faintly in the dim streetlight.

"...Red Hood?" you breathed, still catching your breath.

Jason took a deliberate step closer, towering over the fallen thugs. His gaze locked onto you, unreadable behind the visor.

"You," he said, his voice low and edged with curiosity. "Where the hell did that come from?"

You shrugged, still on guard but calming down. "Self-defense class," you quipped lightly, wiping your hands on your jacket. "Really intense classes."

Jason snorted softly. "Yeah. And I'm the Commissioner of Gotham." His voice was rough but laced with something almost... impressed.

You sighed, realizing there was no point in playing it off. "Let's just say... I've had some training," you admitted carefully. "Didn't exactly plan on using it tonight."

He stepped closer, folding his arms over his broad chest. "That was more than some training," he said slowly. "You moved like you've done this for years. You could've taken them all — if he hadn't pulled the gun."

Your lips twitched faintly. "I would've figured something out."

Jason shook his head, still processing what he'd just seen. "You shouldn't be out here alone," he muttered, glancing around. "This area's bad news."

You met his gaze evenly, undaunted. "I can handle myself."

He tilted his head, considering you. "Yeah... I can see that."

A tense silence settled between you, thick with unspoken questions. Jason's mind raced with possibilities—Who trained you? Why didn't you ever say anything? What else are you capable of?

Before he could voice any of them, you bent down and retrieved your bag, shooting him a small, teasing smile.

"Thanks for the assist," you said lightly. "Guess I owe you one."

Jason shook his head, that faint smirk returning beneath his helmet. "You held your own just fine."

As you started to walk away, he called after you.

"Hey," his voice softened slightly, "Next time... don't wait until they're that close."

You smiled over your shoulder. "Noted."

Jason watched you disappear into the dark street, still stunned — and, for the first time in a long while, genuinely intrigued.

Water dripped steadily from the distant stalactites, the only sound besides the hum of advanced tech running tirelessly throughout the cavern of the Bat Cave. Jason sat rigidly in the main command chair, his fingers tapping the edge of the desk as he replayed the same grainy surveillance footage for what felt like the hundredth time.

It was you, frozen mid-fight, delivering a flawless spinning back-kick to a knife-wielding thug in a dark Gotham alley. The camera caught the brutal efficiency of your movements — precise, controlled, and undeniably lethal. No wasted energy, no second-guessing. Jason watched again as you effortlessly disarmed another attacker, snapping his wrist before sweeping his legs out from under him with near-mechanical precision.

"Play it back again," Jason muttered, his tone sharp, though mostly at himself. His mind needed to make sense of what he'd seen that night.

"Still obsessing over that fight?" Tim Drake's voice broke through the cavern's quiet as he descended the spiral staircase in his casual gear, a cup of coffee in hand. "You've been staring at that footage for hours."

Jason didn't look up. "I know what I saw."

"Okay, what exactly are we looking at?" came another familiar voice — Dick Grayson, still half-suited in his Nightwing gear, sliding down the metal railing with practiced ease. "Because I'm pretty sure I heard you mumbling something about 'this doesn't make sense' when I walked in."

Jason finally tore his eyes from the screen and gestured toward the frozen footage. "Him. My neighbor. You've met him. He's just... some guy. An artist." He jabbed a finger at the screen. "Except apparently, he's not. Look at this."

Dick leaned in with a curious frown, eyes narrowing as he took in your movements, replaying the fight in slow motion. "...Okay. That's not 'just some guy.' That's serious combat training. Where'd you get this?"

Jason sighed, crossing his arms. "Street cam footage from last week. He was walking home, got jumped by four armed guys... and wiped the floor with all of them." His voice dipped with something like frustration — you hadn't even seemed rattled afterward.

Tim sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "Military? Ex-special forces maybe?"

Jason shook his head. "No. His moves are too... precise. Calculated. He wasn't just fighting to survive — he controlled that whole fight like he'd done it a thousand times." His voice dropped. "And the weird part? He doesn't even know how he did it."

Both Tim and Dick turned to Jason in confusion.

"What do you mean 'doesn't know'?" Dick asked, crossing his arms. "He was there, right?"

Jason ran a hand down his face. "We're... friends. He told me afterward he didn't even think — he just... reacted. Like his body took over. He was just as freaked out as I was."

Tim frowned. "Muscle memory maybe? Could be PTSD-related... something buried in his subconscious."

Jason leaned back, scowling. "Maybe... but you don't just accidentally know how to fight like that."

Before anyone could respond, a sharp voice cut through the cavern from the far shadows.

"He was trained by the League of Assassins."

The three of them turned as Damian Wayne emerged from the darkness, arms crossed, his green cape brushing lightly against the cavern floor. His expression was cool and unreadable — sharp, calculating.

Jason rolled his eyes. "Of course you'd say that."

Damian's gaze didn't waver. He stepped forward, eyes locked on the paused footage like he was evaluating a soldier on the field. "His movements are too deliberate. Too precise." His voice was cold and matter-of-fact. "He didn't hesitate. He struck with maximum efficiency. No wasted motion." His tone dropped lower. "That is League of Assassins combat."

Jason scoffed, waving him off. "He's not with the League, Damian."

"You don't know that," Damian shot back sharply. "Perhaps he doesn't know that." His green eyes gleamed with suspicion. "It wouldn't be the first time the League trained someone, erased their memory, and left them as a sleeper agent."

Dick held up a hand. "Let's not jump to 'assassin sleeper agent' just yet," he said evenly, though his expression was thoughtful. "But Damian's... not wrong. His fighting style looks like League training — fast, lethal, precise."

Tim folded his arms, studying the footage. "You said he didn't know how he did it... if that's true, something could've triggered a buried memory or... conditioning."

Jason clenched his jaw, hating how much sense that made. Conditioning. That word sat uneasily in his chest. It could explain how you'd reacted so perfectly without even realizing what you were doing...

But he didn't want to believe it.

"He's not like that," Jason said firmly. "He's... normal. He doesn't even like conflict, let alone fighting."

Damian's voice turned cold. "Normal people don't fight like that. They run. They panic. He didn't."

Jason's fists clenched. "And maybe he just... had to. Maybe someone made him this way without his knowledge."

The cavern went quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the Batcomputer still playing the footage on loop.

After a tense pause, Dick spoke, voice softer now. "Jason... what are you going to do?"

Jason's jaw worked for a moment before he finally said, "I'm going to find out the truth... before someone else does." His eyes burned with determination.

"...And if you don't like what you find?" Tim asked cautiously.

Jason's gaze flickered toward the frozen image of you mid-fight, locked in a perfect strike. For a second, he hesitated.

Then he grabbed his helmet and strode toward the Batcycle.

"Then I'll deal with it."

His words were rough, edged with something protective... and personal.

Behind him, Damian watched with narrowed eyes, suspicion still lingering like a dark cloud over his mind.

The soft glow of your TV cast warm, flickering light across your apartment's living room. The familiar hum of the film's soundtrack filled the quiet space as the opening credits of a classic action movie rolled across the screen. You sat comfortably on the worn couch, leaning back with a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously between you and Jason.

Jason had shown up earlier that night, casually knocking on your door with a bag of takeout and a familiar, easy smirk that somehow still felt a little guarded. It was something he'd started doing more often lately—showing up with food, an old DVD, or sometimes just himself. No excuses, no explanations—just there.

You hadn't questioned it. You liked having him around.

"Alright," you said, tossing a piece of popcorn into your mouth as the first action sequence began, "This better be as good as you hyped it up to be."

Jason chuckled, stretching his long legs out on the coffee table. "Trust me, this one's a classic. If you don't like it, I'll...I dunno, pay for your next takeout or something."

You grinned, pretending to consider. "Hmm... I could order something really expensive..."

Jason smirked, giving you a light shove with his shoulder. "Relax. You're gonna love it."

The movie played on, filled with intense action, sharp one-liners, and over-the-top explosions. The two of you traded commentary throughout, making jokes at ridiculous stunts or quietly appreciating the genuinely cool fight choreography.

But even as he watched the movie, Jason's mind was elsewhere — back in the Batcave, back to the footage of you moving with deadly precision during that alley fight. It had been gnawing at him since he saw it, refusing to let go. He hadn't been able to make sense of it... and something about you still didn't add up.

His eyes flicked toward you. You looked relaxed, entirely at ease — not like someone carrying the weight of a dangerous past. But Jason had been around enough people with secrets to know when someone was keeping something buried... even if they didn't realize it themselves.

Maybe... maybe he doesn't even know.

Jason cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his seat. "Hey," he said casually, keeping his tone light. "You never really talk about yourself much."

You glanced over, surprised but not defensive. "What do you mean?"

Jason shrugged, picking at the label of his water bottle. "I dunno... like, where you're from. What you used to do before you moved here."

You raised an eyebrow, curious. "Why the sudden interest?"

He chuckled, playing it off easily. "Can't I be curious about my friend?"

That seemed to ease your suspicion. You smiled faintly, leaning back against the couch. "Not much to tell, honestly. I moved around a lot growing up. Never really stayed in one place for long."

Jason tilted his head. "Military family?"

You hesitated for a split second — just long enough for him to notice. "Something like that," you admitted, your voice a touch quieter.

He nodded slowly. "Must've been... tough."

You shrugged, eyes distant for a moment. "You get used to it."

Jason studied your face carefully. There was something about the way you spoke—like you were choosing your words carefully, even if you didn't realize it. You weren't lying, but you weren't telling the whole truth, either.

"So, what got you into art?" he pressed, shifting the topic just enough to keep things casual.

Your expression softened, clearly more comfortable with that question. "It was... an escape, I guess." You smiled faintly. "I've always liked creating things. Something about making something yours... it just feels... right."

Jason nodded, understanding more than he let on. He could relate to that feeling — creating something his, away from the chaos of Gotham, away from his past.

But still, the question burned at the back of his mind.

Who taught you how to fight like that?

He wanted to ask directly... but he couldn't. Not without raising suspicion.

Instead, he leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head like he didn't have a care in the world. "Ever... learn anything else growing up?" he asked, keeping his voice light. "Like... I dunno, martial arts or something? You seem like someone who'd be good at self-defense."

Your brow furrowed slightly, thoughtful. "Not really... I mean, I took a few classes here and there. My dad was... strict about that kind of stuff. Said I needed to know how to protect myself." You chuckled softly. "Guess some of it stuck."

Jason nodded slowly, processing every word.

He could hear the truth in what you were saying—but also what you weren't saying. The way you'd said "strict" hinted at something deeper. And the way you'd fought in that alley... that wasn't something you picked up from a few self-defense classes. That was instinct. Trained instinct.

But maybe... maybe you didn't even know how deep that training went. Maybe there were things about your past that even you didn't understand yet.

Jason shook the thought away when you nudged him playfully with your elbow.

"Why all the questions?" you teased lightly. "You writing a biography on me or something?"

He smirked, shrugging. "Just curious... you're an interesting guy."

You laughed. "You're calling me interesting? You're the one who shows up randomly with takeout and action movies like you've got nothing better to do."

Jason chuckled, shaking his head. "Maybe I don't."

The conversation drifted back into something more comfortable, more familiar, as the movie rolled on. But even as the night stretched on, Jason couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to your story — more than even you realized.

And he was going to figure it out... one way or another.

Suddenly, Jason's phone buzzed in his pajamas pocket, breaking the moment. His brow furrowed as he pulled it out, seeing Dickhead flashing across the screen. Dick didn't call for casual reasons—this was serious.

"Hold on," Jason muttered, rising from the couch and walking toward the kitchen. He pressed the phone to his ear. "Yeah?"

"Jason, listen to me." Dick's voice was sharp and breathless. "You need to get him out of there. Right now."

Jason's stomach twisted, his grip tightening on the phone. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Damian," Dick hissed. "He... he called in the League of Assassins. He's trying to prove your friend is connected to them. He thinks he's hiding something—"

Jason's blood ran cold. "What? How the hell did he—?"

"You know how," Dick cut him off, voice strained. "He still has influence over some of them. Jason... they're already in Gotham. They might already be there."

Jason snapped his head toward the living room where you were still sitting, oblivious to the conversation. His mind raced. He couldn't believe Damian would go this far—calling in the League was a line you didn't cross, especially not for a personal vendetta.

"Jason," Dick urged, voice low and urgent. "Get him out. Now."

Jason shoved the phone into his pocket and stormed back toward you, his face set in a hard, determined expression.

"We need to leave. Right now," he commanded, already pulling on his jacket.

You blinked, confused by the sudden shift in his demeanor. "What's going on?"

"No time to explain," Jason growled, grabbing his gear from where it rested near the door. "You're in danger. We have to go."

Before you could react, the distant sound of something sharp slicing through glass reached your ears. Jason's eyes flicked toward the window—his instincts screaming.

Too late.

The window near the fire escape shattered inward, sending jagged shards flying across the room. Two dark-clad assassins from the League of Assassins dropped soundlessly into the apartment like deadly shadows, their swords gleaming faintly in the low light.

Jason drew his twin pistols in a heartbeat, stepping protectively in front of you. His expression hardened into something lethal, sharp as a blade.

"Stay behind me," he ordered, voice rough and deadly.

The assassins moved without a word, circling like predators. Jason fired a warning shot, forcing them to scatter and take cover.

But before he could engage fully, something... changed.

You gently placed a hand on Jason's shoulder, stepping forward into the light.

"...What are you doing?!" Jason hissed, his eyes wide.

Your expression shifted — calm, focused, and entirely different from the confusion you'd shown earlier. You let out a slow, measured breath, your eyes cold and calculating as they locked onto the nearest assassin.

"Stand back," you said, your voice low and controlled. No panic. No hesitation.

Jason's mind reeled as you lunged forward, moving with the deadly precision he'd seen only in League-trained operatives. In one fluid motion, you disarmed the first assassin, twisting their sword arm with a vicious snap and slamming your elbow into their jaw with enough force to send them sprawling.

Jason could only watch in stunned silence as you seamlessly pivoted to dodge the second assassin's blade, catching their wrist mid-swing. With brutal efficiency, you wrenched the weapon free and delivered a devastating roundhouse kick that sent them crashing into the coffee table.

The sound of the apartment door being kicked open shattered the brief silence as two more assassins stormed inside, their faces hidden behind black hoods.

Jason snapped out of his daze, firing precise shots that forced one assassin to dive for cover. But his mind was still racing. What the hell was going on?!

Meanwhile, you advanced on the last remaining assassin with a cold, calculated intensity Jason had never seen in you before. You moved like someone who'd spent years mastering the art of combat — each step measured, each strike devastating.

The final assassin rushed you with a pair of twin blades, but you sidestepped their slash effortlessly, twisting behind them and locking their arm in a brutal hold. With a sharp twist and a sickening snap, they crumpled to the floor.

The room fell silent.

You stood there, breathing hard but steady, the light of the shattered TV casting strange shadows across your face. Your eyes burned with something... lethal.

Jason lowered his guns, still frozen in place, his mind spinning. His voice came out rough, disbelieving.

"What the hell... was that?"

You slowly turned to face him, your expression unreadable now. The facade you'd worn around him for weeks — the quiet, artistic, easy-going mask — had completely shattered.

"I was trying to avoid this," you muttered darkly, brushing glass off your sleeve.

Jason's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his guns again. "Avoid what?!"

Before you could answer, more faint footsteps echoed from the stairwell outside.

"They'll send more," you said grimly, already moving toward the scattered weapons left behind by the fallen assassins. "We have to go."

Jason stepped in front of you, his guns still raised, his voice harsh and demanding.

"Start talking. Now. Who the hell are you?*"

You stared at him for a long, tense moment, weighing your options. The flicker of recognition in your eyes told him everything: You knew. You'd always known.

"I'm not your enemy," you said slowly, your voice cold but steady. "But if we don't leave now... we both die."

Jason's eyes burned with a thousand unanswered questions — but the sound of reinforcements drawing closer snapped him back into survival mode.

This wasn't over.

But for now... he needed you alive.

[kindheart525]

Summer Beauty had just returned from another day of being given a rain check by her father with her flight lessons, the new baby was taking up all his time! Fragile wings this and wobbly walking that... it could go on all day and she was tired of it. Why'd they keep that annoying thing anyways?! No matter, she didn't need them. Oh, she didn't need anypony. Not when she had her best friend Crash Racket! As she ran out into the field she knew exactly where he was. "Hey Four Eyes! Wanna play tag?" She called out to the grumpy colt under the big oak tree, reading another one of his egghead novels. Crash looked up from his book, a disgruntled frown twisting his face but a twinkle of mischief in his eye. “I’m reading, dingus! Something I bet you don’t even know how to do!” Summer really wasn't all that intelligent so it took her a few more milliseconds than she would would have liked to come up with a comeback. "Uh..." She mumbled, her wings twitching against her back as she felt so eager to fly. Then she got an idea. "I bet they don't play sports at nerd college!" Teasing her friend with a totally stinging burn, she grabbed the book from his hooves and took flight. Making sure to not be more than a few inches off the ground. No higher than an earth pony could jump. "Come get it!" “Hey!” Crash jumped up from his spot, galloping after Summer as she sped off. “Give it back you butthead!” He leapt up to grab her tail, fluttering his tiny wings to gain momentum. He almost had her caught, until she quickly flew just out of his reach at the last millisecond. “No fair!” The pair of them could go on like this for hours, or days, or weeks. Summer was right, she'd never need anypony else. She and Crash would be friends to the end, even if they didn't enjoy the same things. She knew life would be wonderful with her best friend by her side.

~~~~~~~~~~ Previous: Invisible Next: Habit

Collaboration with @gelidponies

[ao3lestappeninchident]

What sbout max softlaunching his gf (reader) in the summer break, with help from her of course because he doesnt know what it is. No one knew, expect his family, yours snd maybe daniel -🍸

Thanks in advance💕💕

What is a soft launch?

Max verstappen x reader

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

@ Maxverstappen1

Liked by Alexalbon, danielricciardo and 1.379.382 others

Maxverstappen1: Back home with my darlings.

-

Redbullracing: New line up?

-User: i don't know if they can reach the padels.

-user: yuki can, they can

-user: not the yuki slander

Alexalbon: This is the kind of content that I like

User: what a cutie ( i am not talking bout the cats)

-user: well the cats are cute too, but not the point

User: who took the photos maxy

-user: probably family or friend

-user; maybe he has a gf

-user; it was me guys

user; sometimes a baby girl is a 26 year old men.

-user: amen

danielriccardo: I have some new toys for them

-maxverstappen: they have so many

-Danielricciardo: that is not what they said. They like it

-maxverstappen1: of course they do. I are cats

@ Maxverstappen1

Liked by Charlesleclerc, redbullracing and 1.379.302 others

Maxverstappen1: Padel session

-

User: Mr Verstappen, is this a soft launch?

User: Never thought i live to the day Max does a soft launch

user: THAT SHOULD BE ME

User: what you mean soft launch, this is basicly a hard launch if you ask me

Charlesleclerc: how did you blame the racket this time

-Maxverstappen1: Ha ha ha, so funny . . . . . . . . .

-user; lestappen content

-user: not much, but i take it

User: please forgive me for the words i am about to say

user: can you hit me with you racket,

user: TELL US THE NAME

-user: please

-

@ Maxverstappen1

Liked by DanielRicciardo, Christianhorner and 1.690.303 others

Maxverstappen1: Holiday with my favourite people. @ VictoriaVerstappen, @ SopieKumpen @ Yourusername

user; we have a name!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

user: Victoria, she is so beautiful

user: she is so pretty

-user: you cant see her face

-user: stalked her account

-user: god, i wish i looked like that

user: we lost him

user: noo, my boyfriend

.

@ Yourusername

Liked by 862.792 people

Yourusername: Date night with my darling, @ Maxverstappen1

comments disabled.

-

@ Daniel Ricciardo

Liked by, Yourusername, maxverstappen1, landonorris and 1.580.937 others

Danielricciardo: As they finally told everyone. Here are some pictures I took of the lovely couple @ Maxverstappen1 and @ Yourusername. Thank you of making me feel like a third wheel.

Youruser: These are so pretty. Thanks danny

-danierriccardo: Tnks, mostly your doing.

-maxverstappen1: don't flirt with my girlfriend man

-danielriccardo: not flirting, just appreciating beauty

-maxverstappen1: i crash you of the track

-visacashapp: please don't

user: she is so pretty

user: god had favourites

Maxverstappen1: no problem, get a gf and you can be fourth wheel

user: if you look close you see me jumping of a clif.

user: she is beautifull

user: we need more pictures

-landonorris: say no more

-user: whaattaa

.

@ Lando Norris jpg

Liked by RacerBia, yourusername and 599.573 others

Landonorrisjpg: Cleaning up the gallery. @ Youruername @ Maxverstappen1

Youruser: How did i never noticed you made these

-Landonorris"cause you kept staring at him

Maxverstappen1: maybe you are good for something

-user: hahahahaha, Pleaseee max

-landonorris: no more pictured

user: fuck romeo and juliet, i want what these bitches have

-user: same

-user same2

-user: same3

-user: same13937

user: all i need is a tall blue eyes boyfriend who looks at me like that.

-user: is it to much to ask

user: tell us your secrect yn

-yourusername: i catched him with kebab

-user; i will try, let you know how it goed

-yourusername: 👍 good luck honey.

[palmettoshenanigans]

You know, now that I think about it, how hard exactly did Aaron crash out when Andrew was taken to the hospital for a fucking BROKEN COLLARBONE??? Yes Neil crashed out but WHAT ABOUT AARON??? Someone broke his brother, was he having flashbacks of bloody sheets and the weight of a heavy racket? Did he have to be told to behave in a hospital?? Was he questioning his willingness to cop another charge??

Why haven't I thought of this until now???

[grimmcheems]

Do you think she ever thinks about how she never got to see her found family again?💣🐰

💣“Hey! I know this grumpy lady who’ll let us crash, she’s mean but she’s cool once you get to know her.”

⚙️🎰“I never liked her much since we met, but I prefer the racket she caused everywhere she went to the silence that befalls the air vents in The Last Drop.”

It was rly hard trying to mimic/get the style of the show down for this, I didn’t draw it how I usually do bc I feel like the stylization gives it life compared to my regular style. Other than that 🗣️🗣️I LOVE YOU SEVIKA🗣️🗣️🙏🏽😭🎀💖

(Spoilers‼️⚠️⬇️)

I have so many other arcane arts but this is one of the few I’ve managed to finish. I wonder if anyone bothered to tell Sevika about Jinx and Isha?!😭like please. She was such an unwilling aunt to Jinx and cared about the two overtime. I refuse to believe she wouldn’t be devastated. She watched her grow up from a little girl to a destructive teen to a revolutionary, there’s no way she wouldn’t have any reaction to finding out they’re gone. :(

Ignore the fact that ishas body is missing🗿👩🏽‍🦯

I have other parts to this art that explore that but not finished yet. I also have arts of the twinks in the show bc I was on my knees fr, not even…. Like HEAR ME OUT: HUCK AND SALO?!?!🙏🏽😭🫶🏽💖🤭😔👩🏽‍🦯😳🥺🗿please, I wish they had more scenes.

[luveline]

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

you start to second guess your relationship when eddie doesn't waylay you with his usual abundance of kisses after work. meanwhile, eddie tries to work out what's upsetting you, how to fix it, and most urgently, how to ask you a super important question. fem!reader, 5k

cw: eddie skipping meals at work, suggestive flirting

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

Eddie's borrowed headphones slip down your head as you dance. Nothing dramatic, a shoulder wiggle as you do the dishes. You can't hear the racket you're making, plates crashing into one another on the drying rack, the hot water pounding the basin, the clip of your sock-clad foot against wooden slats as you tap it. 

Your hands burn at the high temperature. Your fingertips are pruned, palms chapped as you finish washing Eddie's mountain of dishes. His whole apartment was in similar disarray before you arrived, laundry to the eyes and one of his haphazard book towers collapsed in the bedroom. The dishes had been scraped and rinsed but not washed, the laundry designated to one corner of the bathroom; Eddie's not unclean, necessarily, but unfocused. 

You had time. You don't mind coming over to help him out. 

Though if he knew you were here doing this he'd blow a gasket. I don't want you wasting your time doing shit I should've done a week ago, he'd say. 

It isn't time that matters to you. You'd take a couple of days out if it helped him, if it meant he could enjoy the place he lives to the fullest extent. Plus, you spend time here too. And you get to borrow his Walkman the whole time. Eddie has the best tapes. 

You hum along to the finishing line of the song and set the last clean cup upside down on the draining board. Satisfied at a job well done, you wipe the sink basin clean, drain suds from the sponge, and turn off the water. Cool air floats in through the open window, kissing your lightly perspiring skin hello. 

You dry your hands on a cloth and push Eddie's headphones carefully down to your neck, more than careful with his things. He works hard for everything he has, days and nights and any shift they want him to take. Most of it goes into his savings account. His spare change gets dropped into a washed out pasta sauce jar on the sill for a forthcoming rainy day. Ridiculous amounts of it get spent on you, and if you asked Eddie he'd say it was perfectly reasonable, sweetheart. 

You're not asking him. You don't think new clothes and sweet treats nearly every time you see him counts as reasonable, but you'd be a liar if you said you didn't appreciate it. 

Hence your unsanctioned use of his spare key. You buy him treats too, but money can't buy the satisfaction of a clean home. (Well, it could. Hiring a day maid might've been quicker and cleaner in the end, but would a day maid have put their heart and soul into dusting his figurines with a makeup brush for fifteen minutes?)

You turn around with Eddie on your mind, feeling grateful and tired at once. Your thoughts stutter at the warm body standing casually in the doorway, his shoulder pressed to the jam, a rucksack and a carabiner of keys hanging from his curled fingers. 

"Hey," Eddie says. 

You flinch like he's coming at you, startled by his sudden appearance. 

His laugh is apologetic, at least. "Woah! I thought you heard me, where's your head?" 

You slap a hand to your racing heart and huff out a breath that fans up your face. Eddie straightens from his cool guy slouch, dropping his keys on the counter and sliding his bag beside them. 

"It's around here somewhere," you say through a smile, trying and failing to glare at him as he puts his hands on your waist. "You scared me bad." 

"It was accidental." 

He pulls your hips to his and leans back. A close pressure without being particularly sexual. It's obvious that he's looking you over, like you might've miraculously run into harm in the sixteen hours you've been apart. 

"I didn't think you'd be back yet, sorry," you say breathlessly, still recuperating from your scare. 

"I'm the sorry one." 

He brings a hand to your face. If there's one thing you can count on with your boyfriend, it's that he's going to find an excuse to touch your face at least once a day, whether it be with the back of a ring-heavy finger trailing down your cheek lightly, or a flat, hot palm, calluses scratching ever so slightly as he squeezes it into whatever shape he feels like. Never cruel, but melding. 

He's in a mood. 

Not salacious. Teasing at most, he pulls a rough line down from the corner of your eye to your lips. 

"Why are you doing my dishes?" he asks. 

His hands smell like citrus scrub and white vinegar. They must've had him cleaning in the kitchen at work again. 

"So you wouldn't have to. I know you don't mean to let them pile up." 

"I'll find my laundry in the dryer, I'm guessing." 

"Nope. Folded in your dresser, more like."

He pulls your chest to his, the heat of his breath kissing your nose. It smells like the spearmint gum he chews obsessively during his morning shifts. Eddie has a theory that eating in the mornings is breaking a seal —you'll be much hungrier for the rest of the day than you would've been otherwise. Better to wait for lunch. 

You hate his theory (three meals a day plus as many snacks as he needs would be perfect,  if he could find the time) and his gum for what it represents. It reminds you that he likely hasn't eaten today, and you're quick to start brainstorming ideas for dinner from the ingredients you'd seen while cleaning. He has ground beef, enough eggs to make pasta, and a tupperware of frozen soup from last Wednesday. The world's your oyster. 

"What are you thinking about?" he asks. You don't have time to answer. "I wish you didn't do all the laundry, babe. Those stairs are a fucking killer." 

He leans that last inch. A kiss is coming any second now, your pulse capering between your ears. A hundred kisses shared between you and you wait for the next with the same calibre of excitement as you did for the first. 

"I owe you a deep tissue massage, right?" he murmurs. 

You beam at him, pushing the heel of your palm against his chest to widen the distance between you into something a little less heart-pounding. "You haven't eaten today, have you?" 

"I'm pretty hungry," he says, his voice smooth as angora silk. 

He looks, again, like he might kiss you. His eyes dip to your lips, a molten brown shining in the kitchen light. You wait, and you wait, but he doesn't close the gap. 

You push your smile to one side, your eyelashes twined in the corners from the force of it. Your smile isn't entirely genuine. It's cool if he doesn't wanna kiss you… sort of. He can do whatever he likes, of course, you'd never force him to kiss you just to keep you happy or for any other reason, but you're a little down at the idea that he doesn't want to. You love how they feel. You're used to them as both hello and goodbye. 

Eddie might not want to kiss you, but he isn't putting on a show, his amorous smirking a reality you battle with (read: give in to, enjoy, daydream about) on the regular. Perhaps he isn't eager to ravish you after a full day bussing tables. That's more than okay. 

However he might be feeling, you aren't going to let him go hungry a minute longer. "Dinner?" you ask. 

"I was thinking sloppy Joes," he says, his hand running down your arm. He turns for the fridge. You follow. "Brioche buns?" 

You step in front of him, the fridge door a cacophony of glass rattling as you tug it open. "I'm making them." 

Eddie wraps his arms around you, moving you bodily to the side. It's too quick for you to dig your heels in. 

"You used to be a gentleman," you complain. 

"No, I didn't." He taps your ankle with the rubber toe of his converse. 

You make dinner together, to each other's chagrin. Eddie steals spatulas and frying pan handles from your grip. You bump his hip away from the stove grill to toast buns. When you sit down together on the couch, it's at war, elbows digging into soft spots and cups placed out of reach on the coffee table. 

"Dick," you say. 

Eddie takes a bite, says, "You're the dick, dick," and starts shovelling fries onto your plate. "Giving me more fries is ridiculous. We should eat the same portions, we're the same age." 

"But one of us had breakfast and lunch, and one of us didn't," you say, using your fork to give his gifted fries straight back. 

And here's where you get the first inkling that something's making him not want to kiss you, emphasis on you. 

Eddie loves kissing you when he feels loved. For obvious starters, whenever you tell him you love him he makes sure to kiss your lips. When you make him laugh, when you wash his hair in the shower, when you draw stars into his palms, all those things garner a fond peck to the temple. He kisses the space just under your ear so often you're sure there's a contusion in the shape of his mouth there, permanent and purpling, his go-to whenever he's laying on top of you or hugging you from behind. 

You can count on a mildly greasy kiss no matter the meal. Eddie loves eating dinner together. He waits for you to get home, sometimes for hours, to share a plate with you. You've never not indulged him with a kiss. Tonight, he doesn't ask. 

It would be here. Name-calling dripping in affection, you elbow glancing off of his as you cut into your sloppy Joe, and the TV failing to cover the sound of a quick kiss before he digs in. You're gutted at the lack and surprised to have noticed it, but you don't go so far as to mourn the loss: Eddie's likely too hungry to think about kissing, that's all. Right?

Despite attempts to convince you otherwise, he's hungry. He finishes his plate in what feels like five big bites, hair tucked behind his ears, an innocent but far off look about him as he wipes his fingers in a piece of kitchen towel and leans back into the couch cushions with a small groan. 

"We should stop eating on the couch," he says. 

"You told me you wanted to sit here." You're confused. 

"It's like, testing fate. I'm a mess. I'll ruin it and have to get a new one I can't afford." 

You chew on a fry. "I mean," —you put your hand over your mouth, pleased when he turns to you with a ready-made smile, like the act of just looking at you is one he enjoys— "even if you drop something on it, we can Didi Seven it. Or get one of those fancy water vacuum things." 

"It's my couch," he says. "You wouldn't have to clean it." 

"You're my boyfriend," you respond, "so I wouldn't mind." 

"I'm your boyfriend," he says, his head tilted ever so slightly to one side. 

His lips close, his eyes tracking up and along the lines of your features with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. You'd like to say that it's love, but you're starting to think it's something else. 

"Don't say it like that. You sound too unsure," you say.

Amusement dances across his face. "Are you finished?" he asks, opening his hand for your tray. 

"No," you say, faux-stroppy. You take another fry. 

Eddie grabs his tray. He skirts around your legs and stops at your side. In his more dopey moods, he'd take your face into his hand again and hold your head still as he kisses your crown. 

He squeezes your shoulder. "I'm not unsure about anything," he says warmly. "I'll get you a drink, yeah? Ice?" 

A chuck under the chin with his forefinger and he's gone, leaving you sitting there wondering what's wrong with him. Home an hour now and not one single kiss? Is this the end of the honeymoon phase? How do people survive this shit, you think. It's agonising.

Your chewing turns morose. 

You and Eddie go through phases, waxing and waning, as most people do. There's always love there, but sometimes there's so much of it you don't know what to do with yourself besides lavish in it. Only yesterday morning he'd been in your bed, shirtless (as you often wish he'd be), dark ink like bruises in the low light where it climbed the lengths of his arms and his bare chest. You were lax under his touch, his nose and lips pressing to your skin as he kissed you from rib to soft tummy. Slow, kissing you as though he had nowhere else to be but there. As though his next shift wasn't thirty minutes around the corner. 

You were mortified when he blew a raspberry. Now you're thinking you might peel out of your shirt and ask him to do it again if it means he'll kiss you in any definition. 

"What are you thinking about?" he asks as he returns, his hand sliding along from your shoulder to the other while he steps over your legs. 

"What are you thinking about?" you ask. 

"Feeling very repetitive today, are we?" he teases, no consideration for your dinner tray as he collapses into the seat beside you. 

You're expecting his cheek on your shoulder, his hair tickling your upper arm. It doesn't come. Worried he's discouraged by your tray, you place it on the coffee table and sit back. You really want him to kiss you. 

Kissing someone isn't something you thought you'd want to do before you met Eddie. To be kissed, sure. To give a chaste peck, absolutely. But to have someone put their weight on you, to press at the seam of your lips with their own and to wade in like a steady wave, one breath at a time, until you're unsure where the boundary of your mouth begins and his ends, that was all new. Eddie kisses like he loves, loud and brash, rough and eager. Gentle when he needs to be but arduous. 

He makes you feel wanted in a thousand ways and the first is his greedy penchant for stealing a kiss or three at every opportunity. It's weird that he hasn't kissed you yet. He's acting weird. 

"You're being super weird," you say. You feel like a pressure cooker with steam pouring from the release valve. 

Eddie smirks at you. "That so? Any explanation attached to that, or are we name-calling? I have some names for you, if we are." 

"Oh, I have to know." 

"Figured you would." He throws his leg over your thigh. The firm muscle of it tenses as he wiggles his foot. 

"What were you gonna call me?" you prompt impatiently.   

"Sweetheart. Angel." He turns his cheek into the back of the couch, bringing his pinky to your face and drawing a line from the smoothest skin under your eye outward. "Pretty. Very pretty." 

"Says you," you murmur. If he thinks you're so pretty, why won't he kiss you? "I can't work out your angle today." 

"Am I acting differently?" he asks, seemingly unperturbed. 

No. He just hasn't kissed you. There might have been a moment when he first came home where you thought he was hesitating to kiss you, but since then he's acted exactly as he usually does (minus kissing, therefore making it unusual). 

You sigh, half serious and half wanton sadness. "No." His nose twitches. You startle. "What?" 

"Nothing." 

"What, do I have bad breath?" you ask, bringing a hurried palm to your mouth to try and test it. 

Eddie pulls your hand down, admonishing through a laugh, "You obviously don't. You know I'd tell you, babe." 

"Oh." 

"I got gum though, if you want it." 

You bat his chest. "I bet you do… I don't know what it is, then. I give up." 

"What's what?" he asks. He takes a curl of his hair around a painted fingernail. It coils on his finger, where he pinches the end, bringing it up to your chin and drawing a smile under your lips with the tip. 

"I… do I have something in my teeth? A zit? What's the issue?" you ask, lost. 

"There's no issue!" He laughs, and he curves his hand gently around your neck. "Why do you think there's an issue?" he asks. A thread of his voice wavers. Impossible to notice if you didn't know everything about him, down to the stray hair. 

"No, because," —your voice shrinks— "you're being off with me." You won't cry, but it's impossible to stop the doubt that seeps into your voice. "You're not…" 

Eddie strokes your neck with his thumb, growing serious. "I'm not what?" 

"You haven't kissed me." You avoid his eyes. "Not since you saw me." 

"I'm sorry," he says, immediately dipping forward. 

You pull back. "Wait–" 

Eddie waits. "What?" he asks. 

"I don't want you to kiss me just 'cus I asked you to." 

Eddie pushes his hand upward, his index finger shaped to your jawline. He rubs a quarter circle from your chin to your jaw tentatively with his thumb, an awful sorry look in his eyes that he gets whenever you're upset. "Well, I always want to kiss you," he confesses. His eyebrows furrow. "You know that, right?" 

"But you haven't, today." 

Is that pathetic? you panic. Noticing, caring, it feels so, so silly all of a sudden, you can't believe you spilled it that easily. You may as well have written clingy loser across your forehead in glaring pen. 

Eddie sees it. He doesn't cringe at you like you fear he will. 

"Ah," he says, almost humming, his lips barely parted, "that's just not okay, is it? My girl waiting on a kiss." 

He leans in. You shy away, wanting his kiss but wanting the run up more. Eddie follows your lead, keeping space between you, rubbing a diligent and affectionate circle into your cheek. His touch is soft enough to tickle. 

"I'm not trying to act desperate, I just figured– I thought there was a reason you hadn't," you say. 

Eddie asks you in his softest, most genial tones if he can kiss you. 

You don't say yes so much as you lift your chin and close your eyes. Your relief is sharp as he closes the fizzing space between you, as he guides your face to his and holds it there like a treasured pearl cupped in two palms. He makes a sound at the back of his throat that kills any doubts of his affection stone cold dead. Your lips part a millimetre if that, and Eddie slots into the gap, his hands growing less and less careful by the second, the pressure of his touch amping up. He moves back only long enough to turn his head, your noses bumping, another breathy sound slipping past his lips. You smother it gracelessly with a rougher reciprocation. 

It's not your longest kiss, but it works. It's the reassurement you needed. Eddie pulls away to suck in a harsh breath, the feeling foreign against your tingling lips. His face dips, his eyes out of view. His hands move in twin down the slope of your neck, languish, feel along the thin layer of your t-shirt as though he's looking for some secret answer. 

"I'm not trying to act weird around you, I'm just nervous," he says.

You feel your back aching, stiff as a rod. "Nervous?" you ask quietly. 

Eddie rests his forehead on your chin. He whispers a cuss, and then he sits up very tall and looks you in the eye. 

It takes him five seconds to tell you what it is that's making him anxious. In that time, you come up with a handful of things. I lost my job. I don't want to be with you anymore. There's someone else. There's no one else, but you did something that pissed me off/made me uncomfortable/disgusted me. I'm sick. None of your guesses are good, and none prepare you for what he asks next. 

"Would you wanna move in with me?" 

His hand meanders along your thigh. An awkward smile catches his lip like a fish hook, tugging it up on one side. 

"I… what?" 

"I think it's a good idea. I was trying to ask you yesterday, and now today it didn't feel right. I don't want you thinking I'm asking because you did my laundry." His hand warms your thigh, a pervasive heat. Your face is similarly hot. "We could split rent, and you could keep saving. You wouldn't have to deal with your shitty neighbours. You'd be closer to your job, and– and to me. It's a good idea," he repeats. "There's a ton of reasons it would be good for you, but I'm asking 'cus I missed you so bad last night I couldn't sleep. I wanna be with you whenever we can be." 

"You'd really want me to?" you ask. 

"You'd never have to wait for a kiss again," he says hopefully. "I know it's a big move. I get it if you're not ready." 

"I'm ready," you say. You don't know it's true until you've said it aloud. 

Delight sparks and catches like sun-dried tinder. Elation lights his eyes. "Holy shit, yeah? You want to?" 

"Yeah," you say, nodding emphatically, trying not to yell. "Yes, I want to. I'd love to! That would be–" 

"A dream," he finishes, snatching your waist into his grasp, basically yanking you into his arms.

"Amazing," you say, your arms forced over his shoulders. 

You wrap your arms around the back of his head, curls that smell of almond oil and a generous dollop of hair mousse crushed to your face. Your eyes slip closed. You suck in an inconspicuous breath, though your self-indulgent action is interrupted by a groan, Eddie squeezing you hard enough to make the bones in your back click three at a time. 

"I can't believe you, sweetheart. I don't kiss you for an hour and you think there's something wrong?" He laughs.

"I'm spoiled," you say sheepishly. To draw his attention, you add, "I can't believe you, afraid to ask me that! Why would I say no? I love you." 

"I love you, too," he says, pulling the small of your back tighter still so he can dig his nose into the side of your head. 

He kisses you all over the side of your face until you're painted in little warm patches from overexposure. A loved up mess, and dizzy with relief.

Relief and excitement. "How soon do you want me in here?" you ask, sitting back. 

"How soon do you want another kiss?" he asks. 

"Will we be stealing each other's questions all day?" you ask. 

"For the rest of time, if I get my way." 

"That's so corny," you whisper, ecstatic. 

Eddie pushes you down onto the couch cushions. You know before he so much as pulls up a knee that he's going to climb on top of you. You make room for him, your heart feeling like it could breach through your ribs one bone at a time. 

"What are you doing?" you whisper with a smile. 

"Making up for lost kisses."

—

Two Weeks Later

Eddie wakes to a kiss. 

Your arm thrown over his waist, your hand feeling greedily at the trim curve atop his hip, you've well and truly wrapped yourself around him. Like an octopus. He imagines the popping sound of your suckers if he tried to detach you (not that he'd want to). 

You're dotting shy, soft kisses down the column of his throat. "I love you," you say softly between them, a melody that turns him to jelly. "I love you. Love you, love you, love you." 

Your kisses are a compromise —after the general holy fucking shit-ism of your conversation a fortnight ago, Eddie put his foot down. He was out of his mind knowing his apartment was about to become yours, but he was also incredibly unhappy about the faces you'd made before he asked. He remembers your voice, your apprehension as you mumbled, "No, because, you're being off with me."  

Eddie had been totally off trying to figure out how to ask what was potentially the second most important question he could ever ask you; he was distracted enough by it that he totally forgot about kissing you senseless. And your worrying asked a totally new question he hadn't thought of before. Why does Eddie always kiss you first? And why had the lack of a kiss been seen as a bar, and not an invitation? 

Hence Project Kiss Me, Stupid. Or Project Kiss Me Stupid if he's feeling particularly in love (because you aren't stupid at all, but you may have made an unintelligent assumption (Eddie not kissing you for a few hours did not mean even slightly that he isn't gross in love). 

The project was more like a proposal. Eddie decided you should be making the first move more often, so you weren't ever left feeling like something was wrong between you for lack of a kiss again. "If you ever think I'm mad at you, plant one on me. I promise I won't be mad much longer," he told you.

You're passing with flying colours, as far as he's concerned. Eddie thinks your moving in was gift enough, but fuck, all these kisses? He's been a walking vestibule of love, and lust, and sickening fondness for two weeks now. Project Kiss Me Stupid is the best thing that's ever happened to him. He's a genius.

"Good morning," you say into his neck, a hint of teeth scratching him with the greeting. Eddie cups the back of your head with a weak, tired groan as your lips close over his pulse.

"Morning," he says. His voice is thick with the grit of sleep. 

"This is okay?" you ask, pausing in your kiss. 

Eddie tips his head back heavily into plush pillows, your pillows, fresh with new bedding to match the nightstands you'd decided on together. "Please," he says. His arm slides behind your back to belt you in. "I'm gonna think you don't like me anymore if you take any longer." 

"Very funny," you murmur. 

He knows he's forgiven for teasing when your face dives back into the crook of his neck. His eyes shutter closed, blissed, thinking, God, I could get used to this, when you nip him. 

"You didn't like my joke, I take it?" 

"It was funny," you say, giving him a scratching kiss.

"That's counter-intuitive," he warns. "I like it rough." 

You fall away from him to cover your face with both hands. He knows he's rubbing off on you at the sight, your head shaking a theatrical side to side that fails to hide real embarrassment beneath it. You look especially tortured. 

Eddie knows exactly how to fix it. 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed!

[xinganhao]

playing for your number 🎾 challengers!seokmin x reader x vernon.

“for about fifteen seconds there, we were actually playing tennis. and we understood each other completely. so did everyone watching. it's like we were in love.” lifts/rewrites from the challengers (2024) script, orig. by justin kuritzkes + happy seokmin & vernon day!

SET ONE

C. VERNON: 0 - 0 

L. SEOKMIN: 0 - 0

EXT. A TENNIS COURT IN GANGDONG, SEOUL  –  LATE EVENING. THE YEAR IS 2015. 

VERNON, 17, wearing a black Kenzo hoodie. He has a mop of wavy brown hair that he keeps pushing out of his face. You could almost be fooled that he’s bored, with the way he pointedly tries not to look at you. Almost. 

SEOKMIN, 17, wearing an orange sweatshirt with white stripes. His hair is kept better than Vernon’s, cropped closely to accentuate his features. He keeps glancing your way, as if checking to see if you’re still watching, or if you’re actually there. 

YOU, wearing a yet-to-be-released Adidas Tennis Y-Dress. You sit looking out at the court with one leg over the other, grinning with amusement at the sight of the two men looking like they are about to fight to the death. 

There is no one else in sight. No one to witness this allegedly load-bearing match, held between two men who are much more used to being on the same side of the court. The look on Vernon, Seokmin, and your face suggests that this is about something much more than tennis. 

YOU (exaggerated) Lee to serve. 

Vernon goes to serve. Thwackkk! The ball comes scorching off his racket. A rally ensues. Seokmin sends the ball out wide. 

YOU OUT!

SEOKMIN Aw, c’mooon!

YOU Fifteen - love. 

The two reset. Vernon sends in another scorcher. Thwackkk!

YOU Out!

VERNON Yeah, yeah. I hear ya. 

Vernon resets, steps back up to the line. Finally, finally, he looks at you. He doesn’t smile too wide, but there’s a hint of a smirk on his face as he readies to serve. 

SEOKMIN Any day now, ‘Nonnie!

VERNON Excited to lose, are you? 

Vernon doesn’t look away from you. When he throws the ball up, it almost looks like he’s going to serve it for you. In a way, he is. That’s the point of this ‘friendly’ match, anyway. The winner gets to text you. He’s intent on making sure that will be him by the end of the night. 

Thwwackkkkkkk!

CUT TO BLACK.

SNAP.

The crowd gasps. Seokmin gets to his feet. 

You are SCREAMING IN PAIN. A trainer is already on the floor with you, trying to calm you down. You writhe around, sobbing, holding your knee. You’d been off your game the entire match, and that was what led to the slight miscalculation. The slip. The attempt at correction. The crash. 

Seokmin pushes through the shell-shocked crowd. He feels the burn of his phone in his pocket, the one with the text from Vernon. “not coming. we had a big fight. it’s wtvr.” 

INT. SPORTS THERAPY ROOM  –  NIGHT.

Seokmin is sitting at your bedside. Neither of you are speaking. You stare at the wall, your expression devoid of emotion. You look like you just had the life sucked out of you. 

Vernon appears in the doorway, his face pale. You turn, see him.  

VERNON Babe— 

YOU (deceptively calm) Out. 

VERNON Hey—

YOU OUT. 

VERNON (distressed) Please, just— 

YOU OUT! OUT! OUT!

Vernon looks at Seokmin. Seokmin knows he has a choice, here. In this very moment. He chooses— 

SEOKMIN You heard her, Vernon. Get out. 

EXT. A TENNIS COURT IN YONGSAN, SEOUL  –  LATE AFTERNOON. THE YEAR IS 2025. 

VERNON, 28, wearing a dirty white tee. He is ranked 218 in the world. He has no sponsorship deal, no team to rep him. He’s just a guy playing tennis, aiming for the KRW11,000,000 tournament prize. At least that was the initial goal. Now, there’s something else to win. Something more. 

SEOKMIN, 28, wearing head-to-toe UNIQLO. He is the biggest men’s tennis star South Korea has seen in a generation. There are speculations he’s training to represent the country in the Olympics. (False.) There is no reason for him to be at this amateur tournament— except, maybe, for the man on the other side of the net, and you. 

YOU, wearing sunglasses. Seokmin’s head coach-slash-wife. You sit over by the bleachers with both feet planted firmly on the ground. You look somber. Like this is a funeral of some sorts. 

The spectators are tennis enthusiasts, tourists, and residents alike. Everyone is here to watch this weird matchup. Two men so different in status, supposedly dissimilar in their motivations. They are more alike than anyone would expect.

The look on Vernon, Seokmin and your face is the same as from a decade ago. This is about something much more than tennis.

THE NIGHT BEFORE —

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[yeyinde]

I’m begging for your opinions on regency era nasty Simon😭😭

i promised myself this wasn't going to become an anthology but here i am. anthologising.

he's from the absolute bottom of the social circle. his dad was the town drunk, and Simon made a lot of enemies. Price's shady dealings put him and Simon together. i want him to have gone to jail—possibly for murder—and it really shaped who he was as a person. made worse, naturally, when his whole family is killed as soon as he gets out. Simon is blamed, but there's no evidence. rumours start about how a rival gang tried to bury him alive when he was in jail, but he dug his way out. they say he died. he's a monster. a pariah.

he's probably a butcher by day but takes care of Price's dirty work by night. helps run the racket. is an enforcer. just a mean, broken man. spent his formative years in jail surrounded by horrible men.

and you!!! ahhh, Mrs Price's NOSY niece. she goes missing and you come down, sniffing around because this isn't right. why would your aunt run off when she's been raised properly? this isn't like her. it all seems so suspicious. and Price's accusations have tarnished your family's reputation - saying that she ran away with a lowly barkeep in the middle of the night. a decades-long affair, stole money from him. all sorts of nasty business that ruin your family. so, you come to stick your nose into things and ask the questions no one else will.

Price doesn't want you anywhere near his almost wife/servant girl, so he sics the biggest, meanest dog he has on you. only. instead of killing you, Simon takes a disgusting interest in the prim socialite who somehow manages to talk down to him even as he towers over you. it breeds an obsession. unravels all these awful thoughts he's had about the upper class. and his boss giving him the go-ahead to ruin this pretty little bird that always seemed so untouchable? well. sure.

he's keenly aware of how your circle works, and uses that tongue advantage. mocks you when you snap at him to keep his filthy hands off of you, and tells you that you should have stayed in your ivory cage, little bird. gets a sick, twisted pleasure dragging you down the social ladder just by lying his dirty fingers on you. from gold cuffs to a pair of rusting, iron shackles. he loves ruining you. gets off when you call him all sorts of nasty names, trying to act all prim and haughty still, even with his cum drying on your face.

you call him a monster and he pinches your face between his thumb and forefinger, cruelly asking you if he's a monster, then what does that make you? the little fool carrying his monstrous brood. who in your little circle is gonna want you now? knowing that a beast like him put his hands all over you and his babe inside of you? probs whistles to himself as he gets to work on "disappearing" your aunt for good while your whole world crashes down around you lmao

Price is miffed that you're not just as missing as your aunt, but. whatever. Simon's content. you're taken care of. and he gets to pretend to be a good man with his pretty little servant girl tucked into his side. everyone wins.

[coolgrl111]

THE LAST OF US. CHALLENGERS.

a/n: GUYSSSS!!!! i have been thinking about this for so long and finally had the lovely encouragement of my dear mutuals. thank you so much @blastzachilles @jesuistrestriste @222col @cherrygirlfriend @tashism @voidsuites @diyasgarden @cha11engers ily ily

—

the sun was kind that morning.

warm, radiant.

it spilled across the cracked pavement outside their house, catching on the droplets of water art sprayed in long indents across the driveway. the hose hissed in his hand, steady, controlled. he liked mornings. they were simple.

art had only just retired.

a quiet press release. a photo of him holding up a racket, smiling that slanted grin. no tour, no speeches, no farewell match. he didn’t want that. he didn’t want to become someone people said goodbye to.

he didn’t miss the game. not exactly. he missed the rhythm.

the way everything had a place—routine.

out here, everything was softer, unscored.

but he had tashi. he had patrick. he had mornings like this one—sunlight filtering through the bushes, cicadas buzzing like an old television left static in the next room.

across the street, someone was mowing their lawn. two blocks over, a child’s laughter rang out and broke open the stillness. somewhere, a dog barked.

and inside, tashi was asleep on patrick’s chest.

they’d fallen like that after breakfast, curled on the sunken couch, limbs tangled. the tv hummed low in front of them—an old tennis match, just background noise. tashi’s hair was damp from the shower, her cheek pressed against patrick’s heartbeat. his arm was slung around her waist, fingers trailing along the curve of her spine.

he wasn’t watching the match. he was watching her. eyes half-lidded, breath soft, like the whole world had finally gone quiet just for them.

they were happy. art was happy.

lily was upstate with tashi’s mother—one weekend, that was the plan. time to breathe. time to let the dust settle after everything. after the match, after the headlines, after the choice.

they had chosen each other.

the three of them in this too-small house with mismatched mugs and an overgrown backyard and a fridge full of groceries they bought together. patrick had moved in two weeks ago. no more hotels. no more rivalry, or radio silence. he woke up to their voices now. he knew where they kept the sugar. he belonged. they all did.

art shut the hose off. the driveway gleamed. the sun was higher now, warm on his shoulders. he looked up, squinting. there was a sound—a low thump, dull and heavy, like a car backfiring—but then it came again. and again. louder. closer.

his first thought wasn’t danger.

until he heard the screaming.

tashi sat up like a knife. patrick’s hand went to her shoulder.

“what was that?” she asked. the words sounded foreign in her mouth. too sharp.

art was standing in the yard, frozen. water pooled at his feet. across the street, a man ran past, shirt torn, blood streaked down his jaw. not stumbling. sprinting. there was a woman behind him, bare feet pounding the pavement, mouth open, shrieking. she didn’t stop—art didn’t move. he just watched as she caught the man and brought him down like a wave crashing on rock.

he took a step back.

the second that woman hit the man, the second he saw the blood and the way her body moved—like her bones didn’t fit right—he dropped the hose and ran.

his feet slapped wet against the concrete, heart punching against his ribs.

the front door swung open under his hands and he was shouting before he even saw them.

“tashi? patrick?”

tashi stood in the living room, already upright, eyes locked on the window.

patrick was behind her, halfway to the door.

“i heard screaming,” art said, breath sharp. “someone’s—someone’s attacking people outside. i think—i don’t know. i think something’s happening.”

inside, patrick was locking the front door. “don’t panic,” he said, voice flat, like he was convincing himself. “we’re okay. it’s probably—just some freak accident. someone on drugs.”

“that wasn’t normal,” tashi said. she was already in motion. shoes on. bag in hand. “that was wrong.”

they tried calling lily. her grandmother. the neighbour who drove them to the airport that one time. no signal. no answer.

“shit. shit, shit, shit!”

tashi tried her mother again. one ring. two.

then silence.

she stared at the screen, thumb hovering, as if willing the signal back would make it so. patrick stood behind her, pacing. art leaned on the edge of the kitchen sink, watching the window, blinking too fast.

“nothing?” patrick asked.

tashi didn’t answer. didn’t need to.

“we have to go,” art said, voice flat. “we need to get to her. get our girl.”

tashi grabbed the bag they kept by the front door—just in case. extra clothes. passports. protein bars. it had always felt a bit paranoid. now it felt like a lifeline.

they moved fast. not speaking much. they were too damn scared. patrick loaded the car. tashi checked every lock. art lingered on the front steps a second too long, looking at the street. it was quiet now. too quiet. the calm before before the storm.

then they were in the car.

the car rocked forward inch by inch, boxed in by horns and sirens, people screaming out of open windows. art’s hands were tight on the wheel, jaw set. patrick kept glancing out the back, watching the way the skyline smoked.

tashi’s phone sat in her lap like it weighed a hundred pounds.

“try again,” art said. his voice was low. hoarse.

she did.

the line clicked.

and this time—

it rang.

tashi sat up straighter. eyes wide.

patrick leaned in.

one ring.

two.

three.

“—tashi?”

her mother’s voice. sharp with panic. full of motion.

“mama! it’s me—where are you? are you okay?”

static. the sound of something crashing. voices yelling in the background.

“i’m—i can’t—i don’t know what’s happening—your father went out and—lily’s here, she’s here, but—”

“let me talk to her,” tashi piped up, already crying.

then— a shift in the sound. the phone jostling.

a smaller voice, high and soft, piped through the speaker

“mama?”

tashi covered her mouth with her hand. patrick closed his eyes in relief. art swallowed hard, staring at the road but not seeing it.

“oh, baby,” tashi breathed. “baby, we’re coming, okay? stay with grandma, we’re coming, we’re—”

“i drew you something,” lily spoke up innocently. “for when you get here. i put sparkles on it.”

tashi choked out a laugh, like a sob wearing a mask.

“i love you so much,” she said. “so much, lily. we’re gonna be there soon.”

“okay,” lily said. her voice a whisper now. “i miss you.”

art bit his lip so hard it split.

then—

a crash. a scream.

the sound of the phone dropping.

then static.

nothing but static.

unbeknownst to them, that would be the last time they’d hear their sweet baby’s voice.

tashi called again and again. no answer. just the same broken noise.

they were certain she was okay. right?

“i’m sure it’s—“

“forget it patrick, let’s just get to her. okay?”

patrick nods at her instruction, complying. he didn’t want to push anyone, not right now. one thing he knew for certain is that tashi and art do not play about their daughter.

the roads were already swollen—people pouring out from side streets, families with bags, kids crying, the sound of sirens somewhere far and constant.

“jesus,” patrick murmured, watching out the window. “people are everywhere.”

“they wouldn’t shut down the city unless it was bad,” art spoke up, eyes on the road.

tashi turned on the radio. static.

then, a voice, shaky and high-speed—

“—advising residents to stay inside. repeat, do not try to leave by vehicle—roads are obstructed, we are getting reports of violent assaults throughout all districts—”

a new voice interrupted. sobbing. a man.

“—my wife—my wife is—oh god, she bit me—she bit me—”

tashi switched it off.

“i’m really fucking worried about lily— and my mom.”

“me too, tash. but we’ll get them, and then figure out what the fuck is happening right now.”

they were moving at a crawl now. cars jammed in every direction. people cutting through lawns. some running. some limping.

and then—a crash. two cars up ahead. a van plowed through a sedan. the sound of metal folding in on itself.

“fuck!” art cursed loudly.

patrick flinched. tashi’s hand shot out to brace herself against the dash.

“go around,” she said.

“there’s no room,” art muttered, checking the mirrors.

then they saw it.

a figure in the street—multiple. one of them dragged a man from the wreckage, mouth already at his throat, teeth gnashing.

patrick’s voice cracked. “oh fuck.”

art threw the car into reverse, tires squealing, people yelling behind them.

more infected spilled out from a side alley—fast, twitching, wild.

“where do we go?” tashi snapped.

“i don’t know!” art yelled, sweat pouring down his back. “everyone— get out.”

they flung the doors open and spilled into the street.

heat slammed into them, thick and humid and laced with smoke. the air was full of noise—sirens, screams, the distant thud of helicopters, the grind of metal against metal. people were everywhere, running in every direction, some bleeding, some dragging others, some not looking human at all.

patrick grabbed tashi’s hand. art pushed forward, arm out, clearing space. they didn’t know where they were going—only away.

they barely made it ten feet before the first one turned the corner.

a man—what used to be a man—sprinting full force, mouth wide open, skin pale and torn around the cheeks, eyes blown wide and milky. his jaw hung crooked, like it had been unhinged on impact. something in his throat made a sound like boiling.

he tackled another man to the pavement, biting deep into his neck. there was no hesitation. no reason. only hunger.

tashi stopped moving. just for a second.

then art grabbed her arm. “don’t look. go!”

they kept running.

another infected lunged from between two cars. a woman this time, barefoot and twitching. one foot bent the wrong way, bones visible through a tear in her ankle. her fingers were blackened at the tips, like frostbite.

she reached for tashi—howling.

tashi dodged, barely. stumbled.

then something else tackled her.

a man, snarling, breath wet and wrong. he slammed her into the pavement, teeth gnashing near her face. his eyes were leaking. his gums were peeling back from raw, red teeth. the stench of rot and blood hit her like a punch.

she screamed.

patrick was there in seconds. he threw himself at the attacker, ripped him off her with a guttural sound—half fury, half fear. they hit the ground hard. patrick didn’t stop. his fists connected again and again with the man’s skull until the thing stopped moving.

his knuckles came away slick with blood.

“you ok?” he gasped, pulling tashi to her feet. “run.”

she nodded, dazed, scraped. didn’t even feel the blood on her temple.

art was ahead, fending off another one—this one slower, limping, foaming at the mouth. it reached for him and art swung the crowbar he’d picked up from somewhere.

a wet crack. the body dropped. art was breathing like a runner past the finish line, adrenaline buzzing like static in his ears.

“stay behind me,” he said, voice low, steady.

he didn’t look scared. but his hands were shaking.

they ran again.

a fire burst out of a building just ahead. a man jumped from a window, landed wrong. a woman screamed. a police car smashed into a mailbox and flipped, wheels still spinning.

tashi turned to look at patrick.

his eyes were glassy. blood smeared his shirt. not his.

“you okay?” she asked.

“no. not even fucking close.” he said. “but i’m not dead. you’re not dead.”

“yet,” art muttered. “so, let’s keep it that way.”

they didn’t stop running.

not even when the ground shook. not even when another wave of infected screamed in the distance, closing in.

because stopping meant death.

—

time didn’t pass the same anymore. it didn’t tick or chime or unfold. it just dragged. like a torn bag behind a car.

they’d found a place.

not safe, not really. but empty. forgotten.

a rusting factory on the edge of some highway, windows shattered long before the world had ended. the walls were lined with old machines—hulking, silent things covered in dust and vines.

the air smelled like oil and iron and wet concrete. patrick had made a joke about “living like kings.” no one laughed.

they slept in a corner behind stacked crates, wrapped in coats they didn’t own. someone else’s blankets. someone else’s shoes. everything was borrowed now. nothing belonged.

patrick sat with his back against the wall, eyes fixed on a single crack running down the ceiling. he didn’t speak much. the quiet spoke more.

tashi curled beside him, knees drawn up, face pressed into the sleeve of her jacket.

art stood by the window, the one with the least glass, staring out at the dead lot below. he was thinner. paler. his hands stayed clenched even when he was asleep.

every noise outside made his head snap up.

art looked down at his wrist where a friendship bracelet sat tied there. a tiny thing—pink and green thread, uneven knots, a plastic bead shaped like a heart sitting crooked in the middle. lily had made it the day before she left for her grandma’s, tongue between her teeth, little fingers working hard.

“so you don’t forget me,” she’d said, climbing into his lap. “just in case.”

he laughed. kissed her forehead. “i couldn’t forget you if i tried.”

“you could,” she said, dead serious. “if you hit your head or something. so just wear it ‘til i come back.”

he promised he would.

and he kept that promise—through the screams, the fire, the flight, the blood. it stayed on his wrist, just above the cracked face of the watch he never used anymore.

sometimes at night, he pressed it to his lips. he didn’t even know he was doing it.

patrick noticed, but didn’t say anything.

tashi saw it once when he was washing his hands in an old sink, the water brown and stinking. she stared at it like it might speak.

they hadn’t said her name out loud in days. it hurt too much. their darling, darling girl.

but the bracelet said it for them.

every frayed thread. every faded knot. every bead still warm from his skin. it was a reminder of all she was, everything perfect in the world.

lily was only seven.

freshly seven. her birthday had been three weeks before the outbreak. she had a cake with strawberries on it. she asked for socks that matched and a toy sloth. tashi made her pancakes shaped like hearts, that art playfully stole a bite of. he could, he was retired. he read her to sleep that night—his voice soft and loving.

none of them said it out loud, but they knew.

they knew what a child looked like alone in this world.

they knew the odds.

still, sometimes, tashi whispered into the dark,

“maybe they got out. maybe they’re somewhere safe.”

and patrick would nod, because what else could he do?

art wiuld sit with his jaw tight, fists curled, breathing too slow.

“yeah. maybe they got out.”

outside, the wind whistled through broken beams.

inside, the silence was heavy with heartbreak.

they didn’t talk about tennis. or who they used to be. what they used to have— and what more they could have had.

that version of them died in the car, on that street, under that sky.