#Bridge Street Belly Dance

[lilspooky-doll]

True Happiness Headcanons

pairing — Aegon II Targaryen x Handmaid! Reader

themes — canon targcest, fluff, aegon is a soft boi, au! aegon, one bad word (that's it, just the one), female! reader, mentions of pregnancy and childbirth, children (warning in and of itself), some healing for Alicent, one mention of child death, just very fluffy headcanons

author's note — hello again, lovelies! this was going to be a two-parter but i decided to condense it down into one post. it wasn't realy as long as i though it was lol but, it involves the different headcanons of their lives from when they first met all the way into the bits of their lives that i didn't really touch on in the original parts. i have plans for a more canon version of aegon soon and it will be a very dark fic overall. so i hope you enjoy these little fluffy tidbits!!

ADOLESCENCE

Once Aegon trusted her, he started teaching her Valyrian in attempt to be able to speak to one another throughout the Keep without word getting back to Otto or his mother

Sure, his siblings could slightly understand what they spoke of but, there was no need to eavesdrop on something that was working

Aegon loves his hair being played with whether it’s just fingers combing through the strands or braids being plaited into small sections before gently being pulled apart

There has been a few times that he has fallen asleep with his head in her lap in the early days of them being close to one another

More open to one another, she taught Aegon how to braid hair so at the end of the day when they debrief about their days, she would play with his hair as he talked and he would braid her hair as she spoke

On rough days, she would read aloud or recite stories that her mother and father would tell her when she was young

Aegon would hoard his snacks that he would collect throughout his scheduled day and have her try some when they are together

When Aegon began to develop feelings for her, he would leave little bundles of dragon’s breath he picked throughout his day on her bed

She started reciprocating by leaving notes and poems in Valyrian under his pillow for him to find when he would rest for the night

Sporadically during the week, Aegon would take his supper in his chambers as a way of innocently courting her despite the differences in their statuses

She was the one to help Aegon with cutting his hair when the length began to bother him; the braided strands of cut hair are hidden away as a souvenir in her bedroom chambers

ADULTHOOD

Aegon is a giver in every sense of the word

He always tries to take care of her like how she takes care of him

He enjoys the warm feeling in his belly every time he saw her smile or laugh

Every few nights, Aegon would sneak them away to the pit for an evening ride on Sunfyre

The older they get, the more everyone began to notice how much he’s changed

He stopped picking on Aemond; 

He was able to maneuver things around for Helaena to marry Aemond; 

She would help him in her free time to catch insects to deliver to Helaena at the end of the day

They all begin to appreciate each other more

On days where there isn’t anything scheduled for them, picnics were organized for all of them in the Godswood and when Daeron is visiting from Oldtown, he is along for the trip

It’s the smallest things he does for them and they love how much he’s matured 

Aemond has thanked aegon for helping his betrothal

Alicent has walked in on them on multiple occasions

 She found them cuddled up on the couch him asleep and her playing with his hair; 

During a festival in the streets, she’s witnessed them dancing to the music and cheers that could be heard from the windows

Aegon has talking to Rhaenyra not long before their marriage as a way to bridge the gap between them

Rhaenyra’s shock receiving his letters wore off when she read that he had fallen in love with his handmaid and he planned to wed her much like she and daemon did

He offers Rhaenyra’s children sanctuary if Alicent or Otto ever tried to change the succession; this was his way of trying to ensure that he has no ill will towards her and her family anymore

She has them do their  wedding at Dragonstone under Valyrian tradition

Aegon uses a refitted ring of his for her to wear as a sign of marriage and he purposefully wears only one ring on his left hand

After the fight in her solar, Alicent still tries to force a betrothal upon Aegon

It immediately fails as every one of the betrothal letters Alicent sent out are either met with no response or word of outrage that she would try to arrange a second marriage; worried about another Maegor situation

Eventually, Alicent starts to love and respected Aegon the way that she does with her other children

Aegon didn’t instigate the nephews during that family dinner

Otto has tried to manipulate her but she’s far too aware of his games for his liking (gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss)

FAMILY

She became pregnant not long after their wedding and Aegon quietly announces the news to a select few people; in person: Aemond, Helaena and Alicent, by letter: Rhaenyra during a regular correspondence he has with her

After learning the news, Alicent starts to make an effort to know her and help her with what she needs as a way to make amends

Aegon handling her pregnancy like a pro 

Constantly he was catering to her every need and trying to make her comfortable

He always tried to make sure she didn’t get hurt while doing the few chores that she wanted to do (she comes from a long line of headstrong women who will not let a pregnancy stop them from doing what needs to be done)

He usually ended up just helping her with what she needed to do 

When it came time for their first born, Baelon, to make his appearance, she kicked out all of the maids and Maesters demanding only for Aegon to stay

Of course, he was well out of his depths but she tried to prep him the best she could the last several days leading up to the birth

Baelon was born with no complications with only his parents in the room and was never away from his mother despite the disgruntled protests that she used a nursemaid for the baby boy

Shortly after his birth, they set up a more secure and secretive correspondence between them and her family in hopes that if the time comes and Otto does something stupid, they could safely flee to hid away

Alicent is definitely a better grandmother than she was a mother

She routinely sets up for long relaxing midday activities for all her grandchildren so, she can spend time with them and the little cousins can grow together while their parents can relax worry-free

There’s 2 children who were born before they fled: Baelon & Alysanne. Once they settle on the homestead, they have twin girls: Laera and Rhaela with one more boy, Aerion

The children are raised with equal love from their parents and are raised under the belief that although they are technically royalty, they will learn to be kind and considerate of those around them

Raised to put the work into what they want just like their mother was raised before she left to work at the Red Keep

The Boys are strong but not emotionally stunted. They are taught that emotions are okay to have and apart of who they are

No toxic masculinity bullshit

The girls are taught to defend and protect themselves. They are physically strong and can use any weapon they can get their hands on if they need to

THE DANCE OF THE DRAGONS

The second they get to the Dornish marshlands, Aegon dyes his hair brown to hide better (brunette! Aegon all the way)

Once they settled on the family homestead, it didn’t take long for Aegon to fit in with her family

He actually quite likes the hard work that the family does everyday to make sure that everything runs smoothly

Aegon still keeps in regular contact with his family whether it be his siblings or even Rhaenyra; he always tries to maintain some semblance of what is happening with them as he escapes the plan that was to be forced upon him

When the plan Otto sets in place happens with Aemond as the usurper, they coordinate for all of the children from both his full siblings and half sibling to be safely hidden away on the homestead to prevent any possible bloodshed of the innocent

The plan went into effect too late as Lucerys was brutally killed on accident

As much as it pained Rhaenyra that she lost her children, she is happy that she can now safely know that they are away from this disaster

As a sign of thanks, Rhaenyra sent some of Syrax’s eggs so that Aegon’s children had a chance at being a dragon rider like their cousins

The Dance did not last long with Aemond as the usurper since he had no real standing like Aegon, first born son, or Rhaenyra, first born and declared heir

The Dance was more of a fight between councils and not nearly as bloody as canon

Once Otto was found to be the one pulling the strings, he was sentenced to death and the Targaryen children by Alicent bent their knee at Rhaenyra being the true Targaryen heir after Viserys

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Slimy fellow meets slimy fellow.

Also known as Fellow meets Azul.

I thought this one would be more fun to write if I immediately cut to Fellow at the Mostro Lounge (following the reader's advice, of course)! Also, I will take any excuse to write the twins--

This ended up being a lot longer than I had initially intended, it's over 2k words (blame my Octavinelle bias)... Hope you enjoy!

So tell me, do you wanna go?

"Whoa, Giddie. Check out this classy joint."

Fellow whistled as he took in the majesty of the Mostro Lounge.

Plum carpets gave rise to a set of stairs, and up the railings were several plush, quilted booths. Each table had its own lamp, a shining orb held up by a gnarled arm of coral. There was a bar area too, complete with a row of sleek stools, the shelves behind the counter well-stocked with tins of tea blends.

Overlooking the entire establishment was a massive glass wall, where the ocean itself peered in on the patrons. Shadows of seaweed and coral ran along the seabed outside, rainbow-colored fish darting by in bursts. Jellyfish lights swung from the ceiling, casting the lounge in an otherworldly blue glow. Smooth jazz emanated from somewhere in the eatery, backed by the soft accompaniment of ambient sounds--water splashing, bubbles dancing.

As Fellow and Gidel stood there gawking, they hadn't noticed two lanky shadows approach them from behind--not until they uttered a greeting in unison.

"Welcome to the Mostro Lounge!"

Fellow jumped at the hands that clapped onto either of his shoulders. He met two nearly identical faces.

"Table for two?" Jade offered.

"Can we getcha started with drinks?" Floyd asked.

Fellow jolted back, pointing a shaking finger at the twins. "H-HIEEEEEEE!! I-It's you guys!"

Jade smiled politely, feigning ignorance. “Oya, Fellow-san. You appear to be rather jumpy today. You’ve come to just the right place to put that anxiety to rest.”

“Y-You’re not gonna wail on us?!”

“Wail on ya?” Floyd’s mouth was stretched eerily wide. “Eheheh. Why’d we wanna do that?”

“Quite right, Floyd." Jade nodded. "We would never harm an esteemed guest. This is a gentlemen's lounge--there is no fighting allowed."

"You're... not mad about what happened before?"

The corners of Jade's mouth twitched. A droll laugh, suppressed. "Think nothing of it. Call it water under the bridge. Floyd and I, we are not the vengeful sort."

Fellow stared at him as though Jade had suddenly sprouted another head. I don't buy that for one second!!

"So do ya want grub or not? Hurry up, cuz we got other customers to deal with," Floyd groused, jabbing at finger at the packed tables behind him.

Fellow eyed them both suspiciously--but his gaze darted between the shady eels and Gidel, who was patting his belly. His reply came out weak and reluctant. "Well... If you're offering food..."

"Then right this way." Jade bent, gesturing with one hand. "I believe this is your first time dining with us, so allow me to inform you of our specials."

He led the way, expertly weaving between Octavinelle servers and roaming guests. Fellow followed, Gidel lagging behind him, and Floyd held the back of the line, plucking up two menus from a podium as they passed it. As they briskly made their way to an open booth, Jade rattled off facts.

"You may order a la cart, but we also offer meal sets in which we have curated the perfectly paired the dishes for you. Substitutions can be made upon request to accommodate allergies and dietary restrictions. There is a separate specialty beverage menu. The Mystery Drink is our most popular item--we highly recommend it."

"Wait a sec!" Fellow held up a hand. "Food's great and all, but I was hopin' to hear about something else too."

Jade craned his head. "Oh? And what might that be?"

The fox beastman leaned in, cupping his mouth against Jade's ear. "Word on the street is, the big shot around here has the ability to make wishes come true. I want in on that."

The twins exchanged a knowing look. Their mismatched eyes glinted with delight.

"... Of course, dear customer. We can arrange an audience with Azul for you. However, please be advised that it requires that you order a certain amount of food. The meal sets are worth 3 points each, and the drinks, 1 point. You will need to accumulate at least 50 points total in order to secure a spot with Azul."

"No problem! Together, Giddie and I could eat a man out of house and home," Fellow chuckled. "We'll take one of everything you've got!"

“Out of house and home!!” For some reason, this made Floyd laugh. It was an odd, raspy sound, like branches and the wind scraping and rustling against a ratty window.

“What’s so funny?”

"Oh, nothin’. You just made me remember a funny joke,” Floyd reassured him. “Don’t worry. We’ll get your order ready for ya in a jiffy~"

"Azul, you have a new client."

Jade held the door open for Fellow and Gidel to pass through. Floyd lingered in the corridor like a bouncer guarding the room--or a jailer ensuring they stay in it.

The duo stepped into a neat office, flanked on both sides by towering bookshelves. The carpet they treaded on bore an intricate pattern of scalloped shells and swirls. Two deep purple couches were set across from one another. A coffee table was between them, its surface layered glass. Luminescent blue colored the base of the bookshelves and the interior of the coffee table.

A large chunk of the back wall composed a massive vault. Seated in front of it was a young man at a grand desk. He had silvery hair swept to one side, and sharp eyes behind thick frames. A pile of contracts say upon his desk, along with a lamp and a pot of ink. He deposited what appeared to be a fish skeleton in his inkwell and stood, smiling at Fellow and Gidel.

“Welcome to the VIP Room,” the young man purred. “I am the dorm leader of Octavinelle and the manager of Mostro Lounge. Azul Ashengrotto, at your service.”

“Honest. Fellow Honest. And this here’s my little buddy, Gidel.”

"Oh, there's no need for introductions, Fellow-san. I've already heard plenty about you from Jade and Floyd."

"Have you now?" A slight edge formed in Fellow's voice. "It sounds like my reputation precedes me."

Azul chuckled darkly. "Indeed. Ah, but that is why you've come to seek my counsel, is it not? You're seeking something. Please, have a seat." He gestured to the couches. "Tell me of your troubles."

Gidel happily planted himself down, but Fellow stood his ground and clenched his fists.

"It's money," he blurted out. "I need money, and lots of it."

Azul blinked. He quickly composed himself and gave a laugh. "If I could materialize thaumarks out of thin air, the value of them would surely plummet. May I ask what it is that you intend on using these funds for?"

"I want to start my own school. One that'll be WAY better than this crappy establishment for entitled rich kids!" Fellow waved at the overembellished office with his cane. "A school for everyone, no matter what their background or social class is! A school that teaches practical life skills!"

(The twins, listening in from the doorway, snickered amongst themselves. Azul shot them a glare.)

"Hmm... I see that you're an ambitious man, Fellow-san. As a businessman myself, I must commend your drive," the merman drawled, "and I am willing to help make it a reality, provided you are also willing to pay the price. You can't get something for nothing, as I'm sure you know."

Fellow's stomach dropped. He had anticipated this, but it didn't make the gut punch any less painful. "What's it gonna cost me?"

"I'm not asking much. Just a token, really--a trifle! You'll never even miss it." Slime coated each of Azul's words. "What I want from you is... your unique magic."

He went cold, the color draining from him. From the couch, Gidel startled, suddenly alarmed. "Life is Fun?""

"Correct." Azul's smile seemed more like a smirk now. "From my understanding, your spell is able to enhance one's optimism, making the subject more susceptible to suggestion and taking risks. Not only that, but it is subtle enough to avoid detection. It would be a great boon to have at my disposal. I could easily dispel any doubts my clients may have about signing a contract."

"But that's...! That's...!" Fellow sputtered, unable to come up with a coherent argument.

"That is my offer, Fellow-san. It's non-negotiable." Azul looked him up and down. Not that he has much else to offer.

"Tch...!"

He weighed the options.

Riches for his magic. A magic so measly that mightier mages spat upon it. His magic for riches. Riches so vast he could jumpstart his dream, ensure a golden future for him and Gidel.

Azul's words coiled around him like constrictive tentacles.

"I'm not asking much. Just a token, really--a trifle! You'll never even miss it."

Fellow wavered.

Maybe I should take the deal...

"...!!"

Gidel rose from the couch and tackled Fellow, latching onto an arm. Fellow stumbled backwards, nearly crashing into a bookshelf.

"W-Whoa! Hey, watch it, Giddie!!" he yelped, trying to pry the boy off of him. "Can't 'cha see I'm thinkin' here?!"

Fellow abruptly stopped. Gidel gazed at him with wide, pleading eyes. Wetness coated the corners, tears threatening to spill.

It's a part of you. It's yours. Don't give it up, he begged.

"Giddie..." Fellow's hand sank into Gidel's hair and ruffled it. "... Thanks for that. I needed it."

His resolve returned to him, hardening into steel. Turning back to Azul, Fellow replied, "Sorry, I've changed my mind. I think I'll work things out on my own."

"!!" Gidel beamed proudly.

"Are you certain? These endeavors can be a challenge without sufficient financial backing," Azul warned.

"Positive. I don't wanna kiss up to some board of investors to move up in the world!" Fellow seized Gidel's oversized sleeve. "C'mon, we've got places to be!"

"Well!" Azul huffed, looking displeased. "If you think you can manage!"

"We can, no worries!"

With that, Fellow steered himself and Gidel out of the VIP Room. They skipped along, humming a jolly tune. Azul waited for their sound to completely vanish before he jerked his head to the twins.

"I thought you said they'd be easy marks," he bellowed.

"Perhaps we misjudged," Jade suggested, brows upturned. "The child appears to act as Fellow-san's conscience--and a rather effective one, at that."

"We did almost get them though!" Floyd protested. "Hook, line, and sinker!!"

Azul sighed deeply. "There's no helping it. What's done is done. This time, they got away from us--but it's alright. At the very least, we've got their money!"

Silence threaded the room.

"... I said, at the very least, we've got their money." Azul stared at the twins, who were strangely quiet. "We DO have their money, correct?"

"My, I may have neglected to disclose our prices to Fellow-san," Jade said with a smile. "It seems he was under the impression that the Mostro Lounge's offerings were as free as the cafeteria's buffet is."

"And since we know you're soooo generous, we thought it would be okay to let'm eat their fill to rack up those points~" Floyd added. "'Sides, Jade and I wanted to see how you'd get along!"

Azul's expression splintered. "... So you two allowed Fellow-san and Gidel-san to dine and dash? All to get a rise out of me?"

"You could phrase it like that, yes."

"Yup~!!"

Panic immediately set in. His mind raced, running the calculations simultaneously. How many tens of hundreds of thaumarks he was losing out on.

Azul pushed past the nonchalant Leeches and to the door. Gathering all of his breath, he hollered down the hallway.

"All Mostro Loungs staff on deck, this is an order from your manager!! I want that redheaded fox beastman and his cat accomplice captured and brought to me STAT!! Is that clear?!"

"Wow, Azul's really losin' it!" Floyd cackled. "It was worth all that trouble just to see this~"

"I couldn't agree more, Floyd. Fufufu, there is never a dull day in Octavinelle."

[melanieph321]

Ruben Dias x Reader - Risk It All Part 2/6

The way I described this outfit 🤣. Hahaha I really didn't know how else to describe it 😅

Read to find out!

Reader gets pregnant by Ruben. Although the two are not together Ruben promises to support her through the pregnancy, eventually letting reader stay with him until the child is born.  (This fic includes alot of angst and serious topics)

Enjoy!

You were ready to quit school too, but Lina convinced you that your belly wouldn't show for at least three more months. The plan was to still attened classes, eventually blaming the changes in your body on a poor diet. You wouldn't be stripped of your dancing scholarship for that, at least not right away. Nevertheless, you didn't really feel like dancing anymore, or attend classes for that matter. But right now going to school was the only thing that felt normal about your life.

"Y/N."

"Ruben?"

You were on your way, leaving campus, when suddenly you bumped into him.

"What are you doing here?"

He knew your schedule, at least which time your classes ended.

"I think we need to talk."

He came disguised, wearing a plumbers jacket and construction boots. A working man's outfit. People on the streets were passing him by, only throwing second glances at his black Mercedes that stood parked along the sidewalk.

"Ruben, I can't...."

Lina wouldn't like this. Not at all.

"Please." He instead, nodding his head towards his car. You hesitated at first, but let him hold the door open for you as you slipped into the passenger seat.

"Where are you taking me?"

He was driving fast, maneuvering past cars that were slowing you down.

"Ruben?"

Eventually he stopped, the car having pulled up to a...

"Family Health Clinic?" You read it off a large sign. "Ruben are you serious right now?"

He had been quiet up until now, turning to you with a serious look on his face. "I wanna see you take the test."

"Wow." You exclaimed. "So you don't believe me, you don't think I'm pregnant?"

"No."

"Why would I lie?"

"I dunno." He shrugged. "Some women lie."

It was laughable, disgustingly laughable. "Ruben, you're the one who came on to me, coming to the café every day, asking me to go out with you. I make the mistake of letting you fuck me without a condom and now I'm the liar. How is that anyway near fair?"

"Y/N, you're pregnant, telling me I'm the baby's father, with no proof. What am I suppose to think?"

"You know what, fine." You fumbled with the door, desperate to get out of his car. You almost had it when...

"Wait."

Goosebumps covered your forearms as Ruben grabbed a hold of your wrist, preventing you from leaving.

"Wait, there's people in there." He said, eyes trying to see through the cars tinted windows.

"So?" You tugged his hand away. "There's people everywhere Ruben, so what?"

"Exactly." He said. "I...I mean we, can't be seen going in there....together. This has to be done in private."

You pinched the bridge of your nose, irritated. "Ruben, if it's so difficult for you I'll just go in there by myself."

"No."

His hand returned to touch you, this time your knee.

"Ruben?"

He sighed. "If the baby is mine, then...."

"Yes?"

He looked to you, eyes sincere. "Then I have to be accountable. I want to be accountable."

Your heart reacted by making an attempt to leap out of your chest. "I..." What could you possibly say in that moment? You had pre-made the assumption that Ruben would leave you, wanting nothing to do with you or the baby. Lina even advised you to make it easy for him, easy for Ruben to walk out of your life. However, he wasn't that kind of man.

"I'll take you home." He muttured. "There's tests that they can send us. Then we'll know for sure."

He sounded unhappy. Why did you want him to be happy? Maybe because you were happy, happy that Ruben was the father and not some random guy you met on a drunk night out. Believe it or not, at some point the thought of fucking Ruben in the back of his car sounded like a good idea to you.

It still did.

[bylerbigbang]

Second Chances and Dances

Fic by @foodiewithdahoodie and art by @fluffyfangirl

Teen | 40k words

In 1988 Will and Mike promise to leave town together, except Will decides to go off on his own, and Mike is left behind. Ten years later in 1998, the two reunite with drastically different lives. Will is known in the art community and has made a name for himself outside of Hawkins while Mike has stayed on Maple Street, becoming a father to a seven month old baby girl named Bea. Both of them have questions, both of them have regrets, and both of them still love each other. But how did Mike get a baby and why did Will leave? They'll fins out and figure it out together because they're a team. And they're always going to be best friends.

gay pining, internalized homophobia, implied drinking, implied smoking, implied sexual content, Original Characters, Will Byers/Original Male Characters, Mike Wheeler/Original Female Characters, Unlabeled Mike, Gay Will Byers, one night stand, unplanned pregnancy, implied sexual content, Will Byers has powers but they’re not the focus as much, fatherhood, homophobia, homophobic slurs, f-slur, undescriptive promiscuity, depression, repression, implied underage sexual content

Read on Ao3 | View Art | View Additional Art

Read an excerpt below:

Will is staring at a blade of grass, watching some kind of bug nibble away at the green hungrily. He's comfortably lying on his belly, arms folded to pillow his head. Beside him is Mike, who rests on his back and gazes up at the clouds suspended in the murky sky. Things are starting to get normal around here. A relief and also a tad uncanny. The duo have grown accustomed to Hawkins being a combat zone, billowing darkness and spores clinging to the air, with gates opened to bridge the gap between the Upside Down and Hawkins into a hazardous merger. Seemed to be the end of times how the Party and their families felt desolate then.

"If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?" Mike's feathery voice is close to Will's right ear.

He must've sat up and rolled to his side just to lean in for a whisper. It's unnecessary to be this intimate, almost touching as Will internally swears at the feel of long raven curls titillating his cheek and temple all plumy. Mike's caging him in, their shadows mixing together to create one amalgamation on the ground.

"Probably somewhere far away from here."

Will casually answers, angling his head to meet Mike's pools of glistening dark brown with his own immersive hazel eyes of intrigue. Their faces are too close. The caps of their noses grazing. They've recanted personal space ages ago.

"C'mon! Be specific, Will. Imagine!"

Mike huffs cutely and Will fights to remain strong, lips tingling, ready to iron onto the boy he's pining for. His thoughts about romance are now whimsical and idealistic. Younger Will would be appalled to know that older Will didn’t believe falling in love is gross and synonymous with cooties anymore.

"I really wouldn't care where, Mike. As long as you're there with me, I'll make do."

He's honest. Will always tries to be honest when it comes to these matters with Mike. Hellish days and agonizing nights were spent with Mike planning a detailed future with Will to give them something to look forward to. Something to keep their wits amongst them as Vecna slowly gnawed at their resolve by spreading fear and chaos in the vicinity.

"Well, duh! That's a given. We can't do that again. I can't dream of moving somewhere and you're not at my side."

"As best friends, right?" Will fails to recognize the disappointed look crossing Mike's face.

"Oh. Uh. Yeah. Sure."

"What's that for? You don't wanna be best friends? Are we demoted to just friends, now?" Will teases, pretending to pout with a suspicious eyebrow raised before breaking into a breezy grin.

Mike is not catching the hint at Will's mischievous attitude. He hastily rejects such a possibility of them ever being less than best friends, a solid hand gripping Will’s shoulder tightly. The pressure is almost painful.

"No! No, no, no! I want to… I just thought…" Mike doesn't finish his sentence, teeth snatching on his bottom lip to harshly chew.

The motion captivates Will, who observes the natural pink lip color redden from Mike's nervous biting.

"Thought? Thought what?" Will inquires, drifting his eyes from Mike’s mouth. He notices Mike leaves a lot unsaid. He's nostalgic for the days when Mike would talk a mile a minute unfiltered.

"Nevermind! It's nothing!"

[idliketobeatree]

HIII 8 and 18 for the ask game <3

hi hello Leanne <3 sorry this is so late, and thank u for asking dearie!!

8. do you prefer season 1 or 2, and why?

oof that's a tough one, and i'm probably going to be in a minority here, but i prefer season 2, actually?

and not juuust because of the ineffable duo content. really! season 1 made sense, it was executed really well, following the book and introducing the characters that i've learned to know and like, and it was great, but also kinda uneven? like the pacing was very diluted. they dropped S1e03 Hard Times and then expected me to sit through Shadwell discussing witchfinder scamming with Newt. even good acting didn't stop me from hyperfixating on Them

now, season 2 is a whole other trip. you just get thrown into the middle of a 4-years-and-counting story that wraps around itself, changes POVs like gloves, leaves breadcrumbs of context and clears up absolutely nothing. it's like a fairytale to me. and the colors are so bright and you blink and Crowley's sitting on a throne in Hell basked in green and you blink again and they're having a casual bdsm apology dance on a Thursday morning. the whole Whickber Street has never looked more like a dollhouse. literally what' s going on

me on the left watching S2 for the first time. neil gaiman on the right

where's the logic where's the integrity where is Gabriel where is GOD. where is She???? oh look Aziraphale's on Blue's Clues. Crowley sleeps in his car? this would kill the 2019 fans from angst potential but luckily we have the most devastating damn kiss in the history of television to distract us from everything else!

i could go on and on and i understand why people don't like this season. i really do. but S2 was my brand of weird and unexplainable, and cheesy, and fanfic thropes, and chaos incarnate. all those metas could only grow in the aftermath of that particular tempest. if this is the bridge between S1 and S3? it's uh, flaming like anything

18. what is your favorite moment through history, and why?

besides going feral for 1941 i have an extremely weak spot for their first meeting in Eden. bible canon divergence for the win! other people have written it better, but i can't get enough of how much symbolism their choices held. they've barely set a foot (or belly) on Earth and immediately chose to love it. come on. you can't do it to ex-catholic girlies. not to mention David and Michael's unparalled chemistry.

((i'm also forever haunted by Crowley speaking of this moment in riddles like "they looked into each other's eyes and realized they were made for each other" what tf is wrong with him : ))

—

[good omens ask game]

[fallingyams]

Another piece from the writing challenge.

Prompt: Sleep

Sleep does not come easy to him any more. In this cage that overlooks the glorious, flourishing city, Albert only sees the price of his brother's sacrifice. 

His insistence at having a view of the tower bridge is his form of penance, picking at the scabs of his heart so that they may never heal because that pain is the only tangible reminder he has left of his little brother. 

Sometimes, his gaze is drawn towards the townsfolk who dance in the streets, merrily rebuilding in the ash of destruction and can't help but grow to resent them, just a little.

How blissfully ignorant these people are, decrying the name of the Lord of Crime like the Jews at Golgotha, spitting on their saviour and sending him to his death.

Albert wonders if this peace had truly been worth his brother's life.

Had the serpent ever felt remorse for tempting Eve with a bite of fruit?

Or were these feelings born from the loss of the serpent's legs? Being forced to slither the ground on his belly, crawling along the heels of mankind full of spite and despair until he might someday find himself at the feet of his brother and beg him for forgiveness.

Sleep is an elusive thing, for Albert. His nights are plagued with the dreadful final image of his brother falling from the bridge, branded into memory. Dying for an ideal that they had all sought and thought they had counted the cost of and yet-

Albert wonders if this is what the apostles had felt that night in the garden, wrong-footed and helpless as they watched soldiers march away with saviour in tow.

The worst nights are when he dreams of happier times. Between the fire and their move to Durham, they had very briefly known peace. They had little to their name, only sharp minds and sweet words and guileless faces to navigate the unforgiving aristocracy.

But they had been together, the three brothers Moriarty.

Dreams of reading by the fireplace with William and Louis taunt him, the lingering taste of Louis’s calming tea leaving his mouth laden with ash.

Sleep leaves Albert missing his brothers like a limb, the loss of William running through him like a phantom pain he’ll never be rid of. 

His dreams carve the presence of his brothers into his very soul, an excruciating process that leaves him screaming hoarse in the morning, panting into sweat-soaked sheets.

Pain seems a small price to pay, to briefly live that bliss of being with his brothers once again.

.

Albert closes his eyes and prays for sleep.

.

[brooklynislandgirl]

@ronmanmob {{from here because tumblr.}} {also tagging @nolegacies for reasons™}

Her wants are simple. Moreso, they are taken for granted daily by the average person; a roof overhead, something however small or uncomplicated in her belly, warmth against the cold she feels so keenly as there is little of her to act as a bulwark. Safety. Boy. Ron. The dogs. Those last ones all seem wound together by the fragile threads of hope and much as she might wish otherwise, she knows they cannot last long. Eventually, she and Boy will have to move on because if they remain then they will call trouble on the one person they've met willing to help them and that is something she cannot do. Ron does not deserve to bear the brunt of the violence normal people find themselves capable of enacting. And certainly not on their behalf. She cannot read minds though sometimes it would be ever so much easier if she could. But she can read body language. The very aura that surrounds him and she can see he's pulled somewhere dark, some place that doesn't make him very happy even if it's only in bits and shadows in his head. She can't help but remember the last time she'd seen this sort of look, and she's taken back to the night when Boy was hurt. When Ron made sure that particular man could never hurt Boy or anyone like him ever again. She remembers what she and Boy did about it, how they'd spent the night under the bridge huddle up together with their shared can of peaches and some damp crackers that they'd saved. She half shakes herself from her thoughts. Too close to the surface to think about right now with any sort of clarity. Ron would understand if she told him that but as always, she is soundless when she pours herself out of her seat. She watches him as she always does. Drinking in every minute movement, every breath, every word spoken. Hyper-vigilance that cannot be helped as it has soaked into her psyche. She will never not be that way. She doesn't see him as a direct threat though. If she did, she'd never flit to his side like a little moth. Small hands and feet stretching slightly toward the fed warmth as she plops down on her back-side. As she watches him retreat into the deeper recesses of the Trader, she lets her gaze drop to the now bright and warm flames. The dance between colours and sparks provides her a sort of blank canvas to let her thoughts wander once more. Treacherously her currents drag her back to where she was perched at the bar. The question of where they could go once they had to leave, to save Ron and Mountain and the people here that were so kind to them. She has heard whispers of a great man, tall as trees and steel-eyed, with long silver hair and an unbreakable will. He is one of them and does not tolerate the daily abuses heaped upon mutant kind. This man is a defender, a leader. Sometimes he has been accused of great harm but is this not a war? Are most people not content to see mutants at best shipped off to camps, or slaughtered in the streets? To be used in experiments, like Boy and her? Ron seems to understand what it is like to be different though she cannot quite put her finger on why or how. She only knows that he cares about them and has put himself on the line to protect them. Would the silver-man see Ron the way she does, the way Boy does, if he had to find some place to run to? And how would they find the silver-man. Would he welcome Ron as a friend? If the tides turned, would Ron and Mountain and the Nice Older Lady and the rest be spared? What if Silver-Mane is just a story? Someone made up to put a face on all mutants and to gather all the hate and fear in one place? What if there's no place to go? What happens then?

There are so many questions she has no answers to, and the stream of fear and anxiety slip from the corners of her eyes, tremble through her limbs as she wraps her arms around her knees while drawing them up tightly to her chest.

She is aware of his presence before she sees Ron reappear physically. He is careful to never startle Boy and herself as often as he can. He doesn't like being sneaked up on either. There has been a time or two where she has been so sure Ron is one of their kind, but she cannot sense in him the thing that sets mutants apart from humankind. She does sometimes think that maybe he'd speak to animals, if he could.

She reached out for the sandwich, the most substantial thing offered to her, and despite every urge she had to rip into it and shove as much into her mouth as she could ~which itself fought with the need to save half or more for Boy~ and for a few moments, she stared up at Ron with big wide green eyes set in her thin, hollow face. She makes a few small gestures, one that communicated her deepest appreciation, willowy thanks. Next the slow fingers tear a bit of sandwich off the end and put the piece into her mouth. As she chews slowly, she becomes animated once more. Fluttering fingertips anchored by heavier gestures that involve hand and arm. She asks why he cares so much, and why he helps the way he does. What is he getting out of it? Underlying the question is the distinct impression she has that nothing ever comes freely.

[littlelovelyspiderling]

Meeting The Real You (Chapter 7)

Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2 -- Chapter 3 -- Chapter 4 -- Chapter 5 -- Chapter 6 -- Chapter 7 -- Chapter 8 -- Chapter 9 -- Chapter 10 -- Chapter 11 -- Chapter 12

AO3 story link

word count: 15,303

_______________________________

The two heroes stopped for snacks, parted ways to run some errands—Johnny heading to PetSmart to grab some crickets and Spidey swinging by Marshmallow’s apartment to fill her food bowl—then reconvened for more snacks and a bit of strategizing. Sue always came by before bed to say goodnight to him—a tradition as embarrassing as it was touching—so Johnny would claim he was hitting the hay early, bid her goodnight, then sneak upstairs to meet Spidey on the penthouse floor balcony.

Unbeknownst to the webhead, he did so by yelling at her through her bedroom door and running away the moment her grunt of acknowledgment came from the other side. Johnny was compartmentalizing Sue’s warning from earlier fairly well, too distracted and excited by the rebellious thrills that lay ahead. But one more steely look from his sister could send him reeling down another heartsick spiral he had no desire to excavate. Soaring above the city and knocking a few heads sounded a lot more fun. 

They found each other on the Quinjet launching pad, bellies filled with double stuffed Oreos and excitement buzzing beneath their skin. Spider-Man claimed he always left the tower this way, but Johnny insisted they be extra stealthy. They were only a few stories above his teammates’ rooms, and the last thing Johnny needed was another run-in with Sue with the masked vigilante by his side. 

“I never thought between the two of us, I’d be considered the bad boy rebel type,” Spider-Man giggled, leaning over the railing. It was the only thing between them and the 98-story drop to the city below.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Johnny asked. Warm wind whipped at his hair. The drone of traffic hummed from the glittering, distant streets. “You don’t think I’m a bad boy?”

“You’re America’s favorite golden child who wears Versace sneakers and only drinks bubbly water,” Spider-Man laughed, turning towards him daringly. “Plus, you made us tip-toe around the place like a couple of kids up past their bedtime instead of two superheroes fighting crime. Of course you’re not a bad boy.”

Johnny scoffed, raising his hand in front of his eyes, flames dancing between his fingers. “I’m a teenager who can light his entire body on fire at will. That makes me hot, combustible, and deliciously dangerous. What’s more bad boy than that, Spider-Man? Or should I say, Afraid-of-Spiders-Man.”

“How about a masked menace with a secret identity and a shady reputation who scours the streets of the city in the night, angsty and alone?” 

The young hero poised the question in a deep, sultry voice, only to bubble with laughter a second later. Johnny rolled his eyes.

“All that mysteriousness disappears the moment anyone actually meets you. In reality, you’re a goofy little science nerd who laughs at his own jokes and wears Hello Kitty pajamas to bed. And I’ve got the photo to prove it.”

Spider-Man pouted. “You’re gonna be holding that one over my head for the rest of time, aren’t yah?”

Johnny stood up tall to emphasize their height difference and leaned in close with a smirk on his face. “Just until you admit I’m more of a rebellious bad boy than you are.”

The young hero gazed up at him, the lights of the city twinkling in his eye lenses. Realizing what he was doing—again—Johnny backed off a bit, cursing himself in his head. Spider-Man stared across the skyline, then hopped on top of the railing. 

“Race yah to the Williamsburg Bridge. First one there wins the title of King Bad Boy.”

Johnny snickered. “You know, the more we say the phrase ‘bad boy’ out loud, the less cool it sounds.”

“Famous last words of a 2nd place un-bad boyish loser,” Spidey taunted him, making an “L” with his fingers and holding it against his forehead. Then he backflipped off the balcony and dove towards the distant pavement, hollering like a howler monkey as he fired webbing from his wrists.

The Human Torch chuckled softly to himself. He watched the masked vigilante swing between buildings—a speck of red in an ocean of sparkling gray. He stepped up onto the railing but hesitated, fresh uncertainty gnawing at his gut. Johnny Storm liked to flirt; the world knew this, especially his fans. Nobody was safe from his suave compliments and teasing smooth-talk. It was a way to win others over, assert his dominance, and showcase his charm; it didn’t insinuate he intended to pursue anything with those subjected to it. He simply enjoyed flaunting his ability to flatter and fluster people.

In that case, he shouldn’t feel weird about flirting with Spider-Man. Right?

Spider-Man knew his rep. He’d seen him interact with his friends and fans before. Flirting was part of his personality. There was no reason for either of them to read anything into it, including Johnny himself. 

The problem was, when Johnny flirted with others, they were the ones who got bashful and coy, not the other way around. But every time he caught himself playing his usual tricks on the masked hero, a nervousness he rarely experienced found its way into his throat. It was as frustrating as it was telling.

But like Sue said, nothing was going to happen. So what did it matter? As long as he didn’t push things too far, Johnny could mess with Spider-Man as much as he wanted without any repercussions. Altering his behavior to act less like himself around him would only further confirm his affections for him. And if the webhead hadn’t caught on by now, Johnny doubted he ever would. 

“Come on, slow poke!” Spidey shouted from below, cupping his hands around his mouth at the peak of his swing. “Whatcha waiting for?” 

Johnny breathed deep, exhuming the unnecessary anxieties from his lungs, then grinned. Absolutely nothing to worry about, he told himself. He could get over these ridiculous emotions for the sake of their friendship. Easy-peasy.

He stepped off the ledge, letting himself drop for a few terrifying, thrilling seconds, then went up in a roar of flames. With a cheer, he blazed forward, rocketing past the masked hero in seconds, making him jolt in surprise mid-swing.

“I figured I’d give you a head start,” Johnny countered smoothly, circling back to hover in front of him, “seeing how I could fly to the bridge and back before you even left this block.”

Spider-Man twirled and spun between each “thwip” of his webs, swooping low to then launch himself skyward. “Probably,” he admitted, somersaulting into his next swing. “But I’d look cooler getting there.”

Johnny shot a puff of flame from his fingers right as Spidey fired his next web-line, slicing the silk in half and making him tumble through the air with a yelp, limbs flailing. The Human Torch cackled as the young vigilante caught himself on a second strand of webbing, his typically graceful movements turned clumsy and frantic.

“Dude!” Spider-Man scoffed, nervous laughter lacing his voice. “Not cool!”

“I’ll say!” Johnny wheezed. “You looked like a frog falling out of a tree!” 

In retaliation, Spidey fired a glob of webbing at his face, rendering the teen celebrity spitting and sputtering as he tried to wipe it away while the masked hero giggled boisterously. Spider webs plus fire evidently led to sticky melted goop that smelled like burnt popcorn. 

“Ugh! This stuff is like glue!”

“Thank you,” Spider-Man stated proudly. “Engineered it myself.”

Johnny cleared the rest of the webbing by flaring the flames surrounding his body, slowing to a glide at the masked hero’s side. “Oh, your enemies must love you—getting caked in this shit all the time.” 

“You know what? They should be grateful when I use it on them. Do you have any idea how long it took me to perfect this formula? Finding the right tools and materials was not easy! Not to mention, testing how much of each compound to add and what temperature to heat it to and for how long and—”

“Jesus Christ,” Johnny laughed. “You’re worse than Sue and Reed combined. You’re like my sister’s nerdy little mini me—swooning over science experiments and chemistry shit like there’s nothing more exciting in the world. You should talk shop around her more often; maybe her love of science could eventually supersede her hatred of you.”

Spider-Man pirouetted out of his swing and landed atop a giant digital billboard. Johnny swerved to hover in front of him, flames gilding the edges of his vision. 

“Unfortunately, once somebody decides they hate me, it’s really hard to change their mind.” He gestured to the screen beneath him. “Exhibit A.”

The image switched from an iPhone ad to a blurry photo of Spider-Man overlaid with flashing red text. Hear It Here First! The Latest Atrocities Committed By The Scourge of New York City! Find Out Why YOU Should Despise The Masked Menace Spider-Man! Only On The Daily Bugle.

Johnny winced. This Jameson dick really had it out for him. “Well, you changed my mind,” the Human Torch pointed out. “Maybe, with the right approach, you can change Sue’s mind, too. Hell, even Jonah’s!”

Spider-Man threw his head back and laughed brightly. “I think you’re becoming even more sunny side-up than me.”

The image on the board shifted again, now to a Gucci ad of Johnny Storm wearing baggy cargo pants, a giant belt, and a black crop top. His hands were tangled in his hair, which was lit ablaze, and his face was tilted towards the heavens, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Normally, Johnny loved seeing his face splashed across screens and TVs and billboards for the whole world to worship. But right now, the Human Torch found himself blushing.

Spidey chuckled again. “Oh, the duality of superheroes,” he lamented. He pointed between the giant Johnny’s eyes in disbelief. “Oh my god. Did you used to have a nose ring?”

Johnny camouflaged his embarrassment behind a suave grin. “Still do,” he replied. “But if I wear it while my flames are on, it usually ends up melting. So you’ll only see me with it every now and then.” 

“I’m actually mad at how good it looks on you,” Spider-Man grumbled. “You and your goddamn model face can pull things off I’d never dream of trying. Also, nose ring definitely adds extra points to your bad boy rating.”

The Human Torch ran his fingers through his flaming locks with a dreamy sigh. “I get it, all right? I’m gorgeous, and you’re obsessed with me. Get in line.”

A nervous giggle escaped the spider-themed hero. “Ugh. Remind me to never compliment you ever again.” He launched himself off the sign and whipped around the closest skyscraper. The Human Torch followed shortly behind.

“I’ll try,” Johnny teased him, catching up to the masked vigilante and flanking him on the left, “but you just can’t seem to help yourself. There’s so many wonderful things about me for you to gush over.” 

“Get bent, Johnny,” Spider-Man laughed, using the momentum from his next swing to kick off of his back like a fiery springboard. 

“Hey!” Johnny cried. He wobbled in the air for a moment before regaining his balance, then shot after the cackling hero as he thwipped ahead. 

“My advice from before still stands, by the way!” Johnny called, catching up to him. “If you want to try to mend your public image, I can help you! We could make a page or profile for Spider-Man together.”

The masked vigilante cupped his hand behind one ear as if he’d spontaneously gone deaf. “Huh? What’s that? The wind’s too loud! I can’t hear you!” He dashed across the windows of an office building and extended his pointer finger in front of him. “Anyways, the bridge is just ahead! And I’m totally gonna beat you to it!”

“You liar,” Johnny scoffed, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “You told everyone back at the tower you have heightened senses! I know you can hear me! Hey! Wait up! Spidey!”

Spider-Man pressed forward as fast as his webs would carry him, sprinting and swinging and slingshotting his way between buildings. For a few moments, Johnny let him take the lead. He watched him bob above the skyline and dip towards the earth, admiring the lovely shapes his body made as he arched and soared. His hard edges seemed to soften between flips and somersaults and swings, like the warm wind was eroding away his points. He was a perfect stone skipping across a pond’s glass surface. He was a colorful kingfisher swooping and breaching the surf. He was a fairy in the cosmos bounding between constellations.

And then…he was falling.

Johnny watched in shock as Spider-Man made his signature “thwipping” motion only for nothing to come out of his web shooters but a puff of smoke. Mid-drop, he tried again, aiming with his left wrist this time. Again—more smoke, no webs. He ran through a rapid-fire list of expletives as he plunged towards the ground, arms windmilling through the air. Johnny raced forward to catch him, but it was too late. Spider-Man crashed stomach-first into a streetlamp, his body folding in on itself from the impact, a painful “oof” punching out of his chest. In an instant, the magic spell Spidey had him under was broken, replaced instead by the vigilante’s true essence—a dumbass teenager in full-body pantyhose who’d just belly-flopped into a light post. 

“Oh my god,” Johnny exclaimed, half-laughing, half-concerned. He dove down to where the masked hero had fallen. “Dude! Are you okay?”

Moaning, the young hero clambered on top of the light, hugging his midsection pitifully. “I’m good…y-yep. Totally good. That wasn’t embarrassing at all. Ugh…” He raised his arm in front of his eyes and tapped at his palm triggers. A tiny metal capsule shot out of the device on his wrist, spinning and steaming. He snatched it out of the air and huffed bitterly. “Forgot to load my web-shooters with new cartridges. You’d think with all times I’ve ate shit after running out of webs, I would’ve learned my lesson by now. But no.”

Johnny snickered into his hands. “You have a knack for switching from remarkable athlete to helpless klutz in the blink of an eye. You’re like a cartoon character. It’s very entertaining.”

“Mm-hmm, great. So glad one of us is entertained by this. You know what’s not entertaining? Ramming your gut into a pole after inhaling six handfuls of Oreos. Why did I have to go for double stuffed? Ugh…regrets…”

The Human Torch extended his arms above his head and spoke in his best Anchorman voice. “Breaking news: Spider-Man crashes into a streetlamp then pukes all over the sidewalk! Will his reign of terror never cease? Maybe if he let his friend Johnny help him restore his reputation, dumb stories like these would stop making headlines.”

Spider-Man perched on top of the light post, rubbing gingerly at his belly. “I told you before, Johnny. I don’t care what people like Jameson think about me.”

“I think you do,” Johnny countered, crossing his arms against his chest. “Not Jameson, specifically. But this city as a whole. It’s okay for it to bother you, you know. Being hated isn’t fun. Not that I would know—I’m adored the entire world over.”

The masked hero chuckled feebly. “It isn’t fun,” he admitted. “But I’m used to it by now. And I have better things to do than trying to change their minds.”

“You wouldn’t have to do anything. I would head the entire operation. Since you’re obviously incapable of unburying your rep on your own.”

Spider-Man stood and started to say something else, then backtracked. “Uh,” he stammered, eyeing the sidewalk below. “We’re kind of attracting an audience.”

Johnny turned towards the small mob forming beneath the lamppost. Teens and adults alike were gathering along the curb, murmuring and whispering excitedly, filming the two of them on their phones. The Human Torch grinned and waved, sending a thrill of squeals through the crowd, and a lightbulb went off inside his head.

“Hey friends,” he called. He rose to hover at Spider-Man’s side, dousing the flames on his right arm and slinging it around the vigilante’s shoulders. “Make sure to capture me and Spidey’s good side, yeah?”

Exclamations of surprise and snapping camera shutters bubbled from the pedestrians. Spider-Man shot a glance at him, eye lenses wide, squirming a little beneath his embrace. 

“Johnny…” he said nervously. “We shouldn’t—I mean, your sister will—”

“To hell with my sister,” Johnny hissed under his breath. “Just follow my lead, Webhead! Smile and wave!”

“Johnny! Hey Johnny!” a man hollered from below. “Are you friends with Spider-Man?”

“Of course not!” another guy answered for him. “Have you been living under a goddamn rock? Spider-Man is a criminal! Johnny Storm is a hero!”

Johnny frowned, raising his hand. “Hold on a minute—”

“Are you taking the masked menace to the police for burning down that boba shop?” a woman interjected.

“Or assassinating JFK?”

“Or running a whorehouse out of every bagel shop in Queens?”

“It’s true! I’ve seen it! Einstein’s has been overrun by prostitutes! Just look at the outfits those cashiers wear! And it’s all Spider-Man’s fault!”

“Oh my god,” Spider-Man groaned, hanging his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Come on, people! I’ve never even been to an Einstein’s before! Everyone knows Hot Bialys Bagels is where it’s at!”

The crowd’s booing drowned him out. Other than a few supporters sprinkled here and there, the majority of the mob seemed staunchly anti-Spider-Man. Their bitter animosity made Johnny’s stomach twist. 

“Get out of our city!” one guy yelled.

“Leave Johnny Storm alone!” another hollered. 

“Can I get a selfie?”

“We love you, Johnny!”

“Fuck off, menace!”

“You’re my hero, Spider-Man!”

“No he’s not!”

“Shut up!” 

“You shut up!”

“Stop sexualizing bagels!”

Spider-Man sighed. “Love you too, New York,” he said begrudgingly. Then he tugged at Johnny’s non-fiery arm. “I think we should go.”

“But—” Johnny began, grasping for the right words. But the masked hero was already zipping away on silken threads, dodging a few handfuls of garbage flung at him from the streets below. The flickering flames on the Human Torch’s shoulders flared in frustration. He turned towards the growing mob, floating high above their heads.

“You’re wrong about him, you know!” he shouted over their bickering, stunning a section of them silent. “You shouldn’t believe everything you see on sketchy news sites!” 

“Don’t get caught in his web of lies, Johnny!” a young woman cried. “You’re one of the good ones!”

“Have my babies, Johnny Storm!”

“Sign my forehead!”

“Step on my throat!”

“Fantastic Four Forever!”

Johnny huffed defeatedly. No matter what Spider-Man did, people continued to hate him. And no matter what Johnny Storm did, people continued to love him. Both of them were caught on opposite sides of the same inescapable fate, but Johnny was determined to drag Spidey over to his end of the spectrum. Unfortunately, at this rate, it’d probably take more than an impromptu photo op or shouting at randos on the streets to make it happen. 

With a sigh, Johnny blew a flaming kiss to his fans, sending a wave of shrieks cascading down the sidewalk. Then he jetted after Spider-Man, who was swinging between skyscrapers once again.  

“Bagel prostitutes, huh?” he said, moving close enough to see himself glimmering in the whites of Spidey’s eye lenses. “That’s a new one.”

Spider-Man shrugged mid-thwip. “Everyone needs a hobby.”

Against his will, Johnny busted out laughing, which made Spidey giggle, too. Johnny considered saying more—about the billboard, the mob, the cruel nonsense they’d spouted about him. But the bridge was in their sights, looming dead ahead, poking above the horizon. And the young vigilante was picking up speed, cutting eager glances his way, daring him to keep up. They zoomed down Delancey Street, passing pie shops and bodegas and fancy overpriced ramen restaurants, the world blurring at the edges of their vision, the wind howling in their ears. Taxis and tour buses whizzed by like race cars. Spider-Man moved like a web-slinging machine and wore the city’s colors well. 

Johnny could easily blaze ahead of him, but flying by Spidey’s side was much more fun. He started bobbing up and down to match Spider-Man’s swinging motions, which made the masked hero laugh. 

“You look like a flaming dolphin!” he giggled, slightly out of breath. 

Johnny smiled. “You look like this city was made just for you.”

Spider-Man’s eyes snapped up to meet his—so quickly, in fact, he fumbled a little on his next swing, very nearly letting the web-line slip right through his fingers. “O-oh yeah?” he sputtered in response, gripping onto the thread for dear life. Johnny laughed into the wind and rocketed forward.

“Eat my flames, web for brains!”

He circled Spidey in a few wide arcs, wondering how they must’ve looked from afar. Perhaps like ice skaters mirroring each other in the rink, or a brilliant comet orbiting its favorite red and blue planet. As they cleared the final stretch of land between them and the East River, Johnny propelled himself into the lead, weaving between suspension cables to land atop the bridge’s first tower. He turned to watch Spider-Man brachiate up the metal wires and flip onto the concrete platform beside him. Once he found his footing, the masked hero doubled over with his hands on his knees, wheezing with breathless laughter.

“You’re looking a little winded there, buddy,” Johnny teased him, extinguishing his flames to pat him on the back. “That’s embarrassing. I haven’t even broken a sweat.”

“Shut up,” Spider-Man chuckled, clutching his ribs. “I have to actually exert effort to go fast. You just—I don’t know—think about it, and it happens. Like Iron Man or Captain Marvel with your goddamn rocket booster feet.”

“You mean like two of the most powerful superheroes ever? Guess I’m in good company, then. Cooler, less smellier company.”

Spider-Man sank to his knees with a huff, then flopped dramatically onto his back, letting his legs dangle off the edge of the tower. Johnny sat beside him, tossing a tiny ball of fire between his hands. 

“How long have you had your powers again?” Spidey asked, gazing up at the sky. “Four months?”

“Almost five,” Johnny replied.

The vigilante shifted to fold his arms behind his head. “I know you’ve talked about it in interviews and stuff, but…what was it like? The incident in space, waking up with superpowers, all of it? Did anything happen that you’ve never told anyone before?”

Johnny narrowed his eyes and rested his chin on his knees. “Hmm. I peed a little when I got hit with the particle cloud. Does that count?”

Spider-Man snickered in that adorable little way that spun Johnny’s brain to scrambled eggs. “Seriously? That’s all?”

The Human Torch stared across the glistening river, reliving the moments that had changed his life forever, trying to remember the jumbled thoughts that had raced through his mind. He snuffed the tiny fireball in his fist.

“When the particle cloud hit, I was…the last one to get struck by it. Ben, Reed, and Sue were in front of me, and I had to watch all three of them disappear behind a wall of radioactive space dust.” The menacing storm colliding with their ship and swallowing his friends whole replayed behind his eyes.“In that fraction of a second, everything kinda…dipped into slow motion. I was certain I’d just witnessed all the people I had left to care about die in one fell swoop. And as the ship’s co-pilot, it was partially my fault.” 

Something thorny squeezed the inside of his throat. Johnny swallowed, turning towards the vigilante. “Do you know what I was thinking in that moment?”

Spider-Man sat up slowly, holding his gaze, uncharacteristically quiet. Johnny stared at his fingers as they kneaded the fabric on his forearms. 

“I thought, ‘if this thing kills them, then it better fucking kill me, too.’”

A couple seconds passed before Spider-Man laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Johnny glanced at him quickly then lowered his gaze, feeling queasy and exposed all of a sudden, wondering how the masked hero always found a way to pull these kinds of confessions out of him. Wondering why things that normally felt impossible to say spilled from his lips so easily in his presence. 

“I’m really sorry you felt that way,” Spider-Man said. “You’ve lost a lot of your loved ones at a really young age. Losing the ones you’ve got left is the scariest scenario imaginable for people like us. I know that had to be terrifying.”

With a groan, Johnny turned away from him, wiping at the tears suddenly falling from his eyes. “Goddammit, Webs,” he laughed, throat tight. “How do you always manage to turn me into an absolute sap? This is not very King Bad Boy of me.” 

The masked hero giggled apologetically. “For what it’s worth, being emotionally vulnerable is the most bad boy thing ever in my book. It’s something I’ve always admired about you.”

“I hate it, but thanks,” Johnny chuckled. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and took a slow, shaky breath. Johnny Storm’s tendency to feel his feelings very strongly was one of his fans’ favorite things about him. He just wished he could control them more instead of them controlling him. His therapist said big feelings often signify that we embrace life fully because we’re not repressing our natural reactions, but being unable to properly regulate them can be frustrating and scary. It was a very difficult balance to strike—managing without repressing.

“You know what?" Johnny sighed. "You can keep your bad boy title. I’m more of the overly sensitive manic pixie dream boy-type anyhow. If I wanted to come off as dark and mysterious, I’d probably have to follow your example and start wearing a mask. And I don’t see that happening anytime soon; it’d be criminal to cover a face this pretty.”

Spider-Man leaned back with his weight on his palms and his chin tilted towards the clouds. “I’m not gonna lie—on top of hiding my identity, that was one of the main reasons I decided to start wearing one.”

Johnny pulled his hands away from his eyes in surprise. “Really? You’re a big crybaby, too?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Definitely not as big as you are,” he ribbed him. “But…despite all of the life-or-death situations I’ve gotten myself into, I still get scared a lot more often than people probably realize. When I’m fighting bad guys ten times my size and double my age, or getting shot at by machine guns, or struggling to save someone, knowing one wrong move on my end could get them killed…I’m petrified.” 

The Human Torch studied him curiously, the smile on his lips waning. Spider-Man tapped his eye lenses with his fingers. 

“If my enemies and teammates and the people I rescue could see how scared I am all the time, I don’t think they’d have as much faith in me to do what I do well. So I wear a mask and crack stupid jokes to seem cool and chill and in control instead of four seconds away from shitting my pants. Or bawling my eyes out.”

Johnny traced the contours of Spider-Man’s mask with his gaze, his brain deconstructing and rewiring its understanding of the vigilante in real time. He gave his leg a playful punch. 

“Guess we’re both just a couple of dumb, terrified kids in way over our heads, huh?” 

“Probably me more than you,” Spidey giggled. He hugged his knees to his chest and stared at the cars buzzing beneath their feet, his voice suddenly timid. “I used to be scared of heights, you know.”

Johnny cracked a grin. “No way,” he said.

“It’s true. Have you seen that footage of me scaling the Washington Monument? At the time, that was the highest I’d ever climbed before. When I finally got to the top and looked down, I thought I was going to puke. Or faint. Or both.”

“That is so adorable,” Johnny cackled. “Aw, man. Poor Webhead. Scared of heights, scared of spiders. Fate dealt you one helluva hand, my guy.”

Spider-Man huffed. “I’ll have you know I sacrificed one of those poor, defenseless crickets you gave me to Benji, and I only screamed for fifteen seconds. Did I want to scream more? Yes. Did I make myself watch as he tore that helpless insect to shreds? Of course not. I don’t even know if he ate it. I very likely could’ve missed his cage entirely. I had my eyes shut the whole time.”

Johnny snickered into his palm. “At least you’re referring to Benji by his name instead of ‘it’ or ‘monstrosity’ or ‘nightmare fuel.’ That’s progress!”

A helicopter passed overhead, chomping at the air, lights winking. After a beat, Spidey nudged him with his elbow.

“Hey, so…in case no one’s ever said this, I want you to know you can’t blame yourself for what happened on the space mission. Nobody could’ve predicted that—not even Dr. Richards, and he’s one of the smartest guys ever!”

Johnny blinked, bit his cheek, then furrowed his brow. “I know,” he murmured eventually. “It just…it could’ve been really bad.”

“But it wasn’t,” Spider-Man reminded him. “Instead of hurting your friends, the particle cloud gave you all superpowers. I think you were meant to be there when the space dust hit. I think everything happened exactly as it did for a reason.”

A hesitant smile found Johnny’s lips. “And what reason might that be, Thwippy?”

The masked hero shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe so you can save the world. Maybe to give you a family again—one that’s united unlike any other family out there.” He pressed his finger against the Fantastic Four symbol in the center of his chest, making Johnny stiffen and glance down. “But I know for a fact this didn’t happen for nothing.” 

His touch lingered just long enough to stir Johnny’s heart inside his ribs, and he wondered if Spider-Man could feel it. When he withdrew his hand, which felt decades later yet far too soon, the masked hero giggled.

“You’re not about to cry again, are you?”

Jarred back to the real world, Johnny managed a curt laugh. “No, asshole,” he snapped, even though he suddenly felt like bursting into tears. He gave him a shove for good measure and ran the back of his hand under his nose. “I’m not that pathetic.”

The masked hero chuckled, tilting his head to the side. “It’s all right. I think it’s sweet how much you care about your teammates. Even though you act like you hate each other most of the time.”

“Oh, I do hate them,” Johnny corrected him. He grabbed a handful of Spidey’s suit in his fist and yanked him forward with a playfully threatening grin. “And if you tell them I said anything that suggests otherwise, I’ll deny it all and sneak little Benji under your pillow while you’re sleeping. How’s that sound?”

Spidey laughed skittishly, curling his fingers around the ones gripping his suit. “I don’t know. Still feels worth it to me.”

“Then I’ll tweet out to all my followers that Spider-Man is scared of spiders and heights.”

“That’s all you got? I have far more damning things tweeted about me every day. Try again.”

“You’re playing a very dangerous game, my friend.”

“Danger is my middle name, Torch.”

Johnny had released his hold on him by that point, but they were still leaning towards each other, gazes locked, faces recklessly close, kneecaps brushing, breaths stilled. Each daring the other to be the first to back away, chicken out. It wasn’t going to be Johnny. His pulse raced as he pressed the tiniest bit closer, blood electric, voice small. 

“Spidey, I—”

“Something’s wrong.”

Johnny opened his eyes, which had unconsciously slipped shut, to find himself facing the back of Spider-Man’s head. The masked hero was looking behind them towards the Brooklyn side of the city beyond the Williamsburg Bridge. The Human Torch blinked, the fairy lights untangling from his heart, the rose-tinted sparkles dissolving from his vision. Sickly embarrassment replaced all other emotions. He shrunk into himself, swallowing. 

“W-what is it?” he asked in a hollow voice. Spider-Man rose to his feet. 

“Someone’s in trouble,” the masked hero said, animated with urgency. “Like…really in trouble. We have to go.” He kicked off the tower, waving for Johnny to follow him. “Come on!”

Johnny stood up slowly, watching the red and blue figure swing down the center of the bridge, lines of webbing hooked between swooping suspension cables. He emptied the stale air from his lungs. God, I’m an idiot. At least Spidey was too clueless and heterosexual to take a hint. He’d never fallen for anyone this quickly or acutely before. It was bordering on pathetic—unhinged, even. Johnny Storm could have anyone else he wanted: so why did he choose to torture himself by crushing on a guy so clearly not interested? He had to stop entertaining this delusional fantasy. He had to quit reopening old wounds. No more toeing needlessly inflammatory lines. After all the shit Johnny had put him through—from scoffing at his kindness to exploiting his compassion and now forcing his affections on him when they weren’t reciprocated—it was a wonder Spider-Man still wanted to be friends with him at all.

Self-destructive tendencies ran deep in the Storm family. It was time to end this before he officially ruined everything. 

Igniting the fire in his veins once again, Johnny chased after the masked hero, a trail of embers on his tail. They cleared the bridge and zipped above the bustling streets of Brooklyn, the city growing darker and quieter as they approached the more residential neighborhoods near Prospect Park. Spider-Man followed whatever 6th sense instinct was guiding him all the way into an alley between two apartment complexes, which reeked of rotting takeout and sewage. Johnny braked to hover at his side and grimaced. 

“Blech,” he said, pinching his nose. “You sure your danger detecting powers weren’t leading us here because that dumpster is emitting some kind of bio-hazardous radiation? ‘Cuz that’s a bit below my pay grade.” 

“No,” Spider-Man insisted. “It’s something else.”

“You said so yourself your senses can be a bit finicky. Maybe the threat’s already passed.”

“That’s not how it works,” Spidey snapped, taking a couple steps forward. “I can feel it. Someone’s in trouble really close by.”

“Could it be someone in one of these apartments? That’ll take ages to figure out. Maybe we should look for an easier victim to rescue.”

Spidey faced him with a scoff. “Johnny! Somebody needs our help! We can’t just leave! We have to find them!”

“All right! I’m just saying! Maybe this ‘spider sense’ you claim to have isn’t as reliable as you think.”

“It’s reliable enough to be buzzing like crazy right now! Which I know means there’s danger nearby!” 

“Well maybe the danger you’re sensing is the smelliest dumpster in all of New York that you’ve decided to park us by! I mean, Jesus, Webhead! Are your eyes not watering right now? ‘Cuz mine are practically melting out of my face!”

Spider-Man groaned and turned back down the alleyway. “I know someone’s in trouble. You can go if you want, but I’m staying until I find whoever it is.”

Johnny mumbled a few choice words under his breath, but reluctantly followed him. “This would be a lot easier if the person in danger was actively vocalizing that fact. You know, screaming, wailing, flipping some kind of alarm. Doing something to alert us that they need our—”

“Help! Please help!”

The two heroes stiffened in surprise, wide eyes meeting in the pale darkness. What? No way.

“Help me!”

Spidey and Johnny gasped in unison. Oh shit. Yes way.

To their horror, the weak cries were coming from inside the rancid dumpster beside them. Immediately, Spidey sprung into action. He stuck to the wall above the bin and got right to work digging through the muck, a fresh stink of ungodly horrors bubbling up and assaulting their airways. 

“Oh god, I’m gonna puke,” Johnny croaked. He dared not imagine how anyone could survive being trapped in that noxious filth. 

“We’re coming! We’re gonna get you out!” Spider-Man plunged his entire arm into the garbage, rooting around feverishly, then shot Johnny a look. “I could use a hand here, Gucci Couture!”

“B-but what if there’s something flammable in there? I don’t want to accidentally light you both on fire!”

“Then turn your flames off!”

The Human Torch whined in defeat and extinguished the fire encasing him. “This is not what I had in mind for our superhero team-up night.” He definitely would’ve stayed home if he knew this was what he was signing up for. Looking away with his eyes pinched shut, Johnny gingerly pawed at the sticky trash pile, cursing and gagging into his elbow. The whimpers from within grew louder and louder. As Johnny’s dinner threatened to make a reappearance, his fingers bumped something that felt strangely solid. Johnny ventured a glance into the dumpster to find a hand poking out of the debris. 

“Here!” he cried, only to break into a nauseous coughing fit. While Johnny dry-heaved against the opposite wall, Spider-Man cleared away another layer of garbage and seized the buried man by the wrist. 

“I gotcha!” he said. Spidey pulled him out of the trash mound, an avalanche of filth falling around them, then scooped the man into his arms bridal-style. He hopped off the lip of the dumpster and knelt to the ground, brushing banana peels and Pop Tart wrappers out of his hair. “Oh my god. Are you okay?”

The man blinked dazedly, his eyes distant and bloodshot, his clothes smeared and stained. He had a large bruise on his left temple that was crusted with blood and other smaller wounds sprinkled across his body. Early thirties, Johnny guessed—a waiter, based on his attire. Johnny’s heart twinged at the sight of him while his stomach turned from the smell. 

“Sir? Can you hear me? We’re going to call you an ambulance, okay?”

“My son,” he wheezed, his eyes flashing with realization. He sat up rigidly, grabbing Spider-Man’s arm. “Please. They took my son!”

“Who took your son?” the masked hero asked. “Was it the same people who did this to you?”

“Yes! They ambushed me! They cornered us, ripped him right out of my arms, b-beat me unconscious, then—” He choked on his words, tears flooding his eyes. “I have to get him back! Please! I’ll do anything!”

“Did you see where they took him?” Johnny said. “Did they have a vehicle?”

The man was weeping hysterically now, hands shaking, hardly able to speak. “I don’t know! It h-happened so fast! I couldn’t protect him! Why would anyone do this? Who would steal someone’s child?”

He doubled over his lap, racked with sobs. Spider-Man laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“We’re going to get him back,” he assured him. A far-off scream suddenly cut through the air, sending a chill through Johnny’s skeleton. The two teens winced in alarm, then dashed to the end of the alleyway, entering the street it fed into. At the nearest intersection, four men were wrestling a teenage girl into the back of a van. She was kicking and shrieking with all her might, but horrendously, painfully outnumbered. Adrenaline sizzled like pop rocks in Johnny’s bloodstream. Spider-Man whirled towards the father on the ground. 

“Call 911!” he shouted. “Tell them we're in pursuit of the kidnappers! And have them send an ambulance!”

Without waiting to see if he followed his demands, Spider-Man launched himself towards the van on taut strands of webbing. Johnny rocketed after him, pulse humming in his ears. 

“Shit!” one of the thugs hissed. “It’s him! The spider freak is here!”

“Who’s that with him? Oh, fuck! Is that that fruity flaming kid?” 

“Let her go, dipshits!” Spidey cried. A glob of webbing splattered across the largest goon’s face, muffling his cries of terror.

“Call it in! We gotta get outta here!"

"Step on it!”

The men shoved the girl into the vehicle and piled in frantically behind her. Just before the back doors clapped shut, Johnny caught a glimpse of a tiny figure huddled in the corner, arms hugging his knees, feeble cries tearing from his throat.

“Daddy!” the boy wept. 

“Help!” the girl screamed.

Then they disappeared behind tinted windows as the van peeled away from the curb.

“They’re getting away!” Johnny cried. “We have to stop them!” 

The vehicle screeched around a corner. Johnny zipped after it, pumping everything he had into propelling himself faster, leaving Spider-Man far in his wake. He was gaining on the kidnappers, pushing closer and closer, reaching out to grab hold of the door handles on the back—

And then, two more vehicles appeared. 

Zooming up from behind, flanking Johnny on his left and right, gunning it at eighty miles an hour at least. The Human Torch wavered in surprise, glancing between the pair of unexpected bonus vans, squinting to try to see through their near-black windows. 

“The hell—?” he started to say.

“Johnny!” Spider-Man’s voice called from above, his red and blue shape leaping from the rooftops in his peripherals. “Watch out!”

Johnny’s gaze whipped forward just in time to stare down the barrel of a handgun. Poking out of the passenger side window, aimed directly between his eyes. A finger pulling back on the trigger. Johnny sucked in a gasp. His heart lodged in his throat. He wouldn’t be able to dodge in time. 

Shit, he realized. I’m about to be shot!  

The muzzle flashed, a bang rang out, but something struck him before the bullet could, knocking him out of the way. The air was punched from his lungs twice: once when he was tackled, and again when his body crashed into concrete. Searing pain blossomed in his shoulder, making him cry out. He gripped his upper arm and groaned furiously, the weight of whatever had hit him rising off his chest.

“Ow, ow, ow!” Spidey hissed. Johnny peeled his eyes open to find the masked vigilante kneeling over him, swatting at his torso and waving his arms around. “Gah! Shit! That was not my brightest idea!”

Johnny blinked, the recognition flooding in. “Oh my god,” he breathed. “You…that was you? You knocked me out of the way?” He blinked again, the rattled gears in his head gradually clicking back into place. “I…I was about to die. You saved me.”

Spider-Man dusted the remaining cinders off his suit, bits of burnt fabric falling away to reveal blistered skin underneath. “Are you okay? That was a close call. You fell on your shoulder pretty bad, huh? Sorry I hit you so hard.”

The piercing pain snaking down his arm was still present but bearable. Johnny sat up with a grimace, the rumble of car engines fading into the distance, drinking in the scorch marks on Spider-Man’s costume and flesh. Despair lashed around his stomach. 

“Fuck,” he choked out. “I burnt you.” He doused his flames immediately, fingers hovering over the freshly seared skin. “Oh my god. You're burnt all over.”

“I’ll be okay,” Spider-Man assured him unconvincingly. “Nothing a little aloe vera can’t fix. Who knows—maybe I’ll get lucky and it’ll peel into a tan.” 

He flinched when the Human Torch brushed the exposed flesh on his forearm, driving a nail straight through Johnny’s heart. He’d never burnt someone he cared about this severely before. Sure, he’d singed the occasional eyebrow off, fried a few teammates’ reading glasses to ashes, but not this. Nothing like this.

“You’re really hurt,” Johnny croaked, tears pricking his eyes. “You’re hurt because of me.” 

“It’s not that bad. And It wasn’t your fault. I’m the one who body-slammed into you, remember?” Spider-Man was putting on his cheeriest, most comedic facade to try to lighten the mood and lessen Johnny’s remorse, but the streaks of blistered skin peeking through his blackened suit spoke for themselves. 

“I shouldn’t have come,” the Human Torch whispered, skewered with guilt.

The masked hero clasped his arm and gave it a shake. “I promise I’m fine. And if you’re fine too, we’ve gotta get moving. We can’t let them escape with the kid and that girl.”

The thought of the two of them trapped with those monsters was enough to anchor Johnny’s focus. Bleary-eyed, he tried his best to swallow down his emotions—just enough that he could execute the task at hand. People needed their help. For their sake, he had to shift his concern. Temporarily, anyway. The despair clinging to his throat sloughed into his stomach and boiled to rage. 

He rolled his aching shoulder and nodded. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Spidey stood, helped him to his feet, and together, they were off: zipping between buildings, tracking the three vans through Brooklyn. Johnny couldn’t help but notice the masked hero favoring his left side as he swung, which was a little less burnt than his right. The Human Torch kept his distance so none of his heat or embers would accidentally blow into Spider-Man, guilt branching through his insides. He was never going to burn him ever again. 

Two blocks ahead, the trio of dark vehicles came into sight, weaving recklessly through traffic. Johnny scrutinized them from afar, fire licking the edges of his vision. 

“We need to work together to get to the hostages without getting shot,” Johnny called to Spider-Man. The masked hero swung off a flagpole at his side. 

“What did you have in mind, Torchy? You’re the better team player here.”

Johnny narrowed his eyes and pressed a little faster forward. “You focus on getting to the front car and rescuing the captives. I’ll cover you, disarm anyone who has a weapon, and try to take out the back-up vans.”

Spider-Man nodded. “We’ll cover each other. Just be careful going after the other two cars; for all we know, they could have hostages inside, too.”

The Human Torch balled up his hands at his sides. “Let’s bust these douchebags.”

Spidey charged ahead first, catapulting skyward and slingshotting himself down the street. Johnny jetted after him, eyes darting between the three vans, fistfuls of fire at the ready. Right as Spider-Man landed on top of the front car, the right side door of the van on the left clattered open, revealing three men dressed in black and armed with the scariest machine guns Johnny had ever seen. 

Jesus Christ, Johnny thought, alarm coating his throat. What kind of kidnappers are these guys? Military-grade weapons and matching body armor weren’t prevalent among everyday criminals. These men had funding far beyond any street gang Johnny had encountered. One of the thugs leaned out of the van and pointed his gun at the back of Spider-Man’s head. Magma ignited in Johnny’s blood.

“Nope!” he cried, hurling a fire blast at his hands. “Not today, sir!” Flames exploded in the man’s face, making him drop the weapon with a shout of surprise. The Human Torch propelled himself inside the van, kicking the now unarmed thug into the two other gunmen. They staggered into the back door, scrambling to get to their feet, gawking at the flaming teenager hovering before them. Johnny’s blaze cast a flickering orange glow across the walls of the vehicle and flashed in the men’s dark sunglasses. He swept his gaze across the hostage-less van and smirked. 

“No captives,” Johnny noted. “Perfect. No one to get in the way of me wiping the floor with you three.”

“The fuck?” the disarmed thug exclaimed. The other goons grappled frantically with their guns as Johnny summoned flames to his palms. Before they could shoot, Johnny seized the barrels of their assault rifles in his fists and heated his hands so hot, they melted shut. He bashed the useless weapons into their skulls, stunning both men dizzy. The third guy pulled a baton from his belt that buzzed with electricity. Johnny laughed.

“You seriously think that’ll hurt me? I’m made of plasma, dude.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the thug growled. The men had thick Russian accents, like they’d been plucked right out of a James Bond movie. They had such visceral “bad guy” energy, it was almost laughable.

Almost.

“Don’t kidnap children, and I won’t have to be,” the Human Torch countered. The sound of a gun cocking rang from behind him, making him whip around with frenzied movements.

“Don’t shoot!” the goon with the baton ordered. The van’s driver lowered his weapon, looking just as confused as Johnny. “Not that one. We only kill the Spider-Man.”

Johnny faced the thug with a puzzled scoff, throwing his hands in the air. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not good enough for you to kill?”

“Knock him out,” he demanded. “Save your bullets for the Spider.”

Sticky unease swam through his entrails. Why would they want him dead but not me? The goon twirled the baton in his fingers, then charged at him. Johnny met him in the middle—darting forwards and ramming his good shoulder into his chest, knocking him hard enough into the back doors to bust one off its hinges. He screamed and flew out of the van onto the broken door as it skidded across the pavement, sparks flying. Within seconds, he was a receding dot in the distance. The wail of approaching police sirens found Johnny’s ears. Hopefully the cops would grab him before he could make a getaway.

Johnny snatched two pairs of handcuffs from the ominous pile of restraints in the corner and cuffed the remaining thugs to the metal support bars on the wall. Gunfire suddenly exploded from behind him, making him yelp in surprise. Johnny spun around to find the third van careening towards him with four more men inside. They were shooting at Spider-Man, but their car was barreling straight for Johnny. The Human Torch hit the deck as the vehicles collided. The crash made his teeth rattle inside his skull. The van he was in went airborne. He braced for the second impact. 

But it didn’t come. Instead, the van bounced and wobbled like it had landed in jello instead of crashing into the sidewalk. Dizzy relief crossed with wary confusion swirled through Johnny’s system as he crawled across the lopsided surface and staggered to his feet. He poked his head out of the sliding door to find the van suspended about ten feet above the pavement, strung between buildings by thick nets of webbing.

Cursing, the vehicle’s driver flung himself out the window to try to escape, only to drop into the tangle of spider webs and wind up trapped and squirming like a fly awaiting a gruesome demise. Far ahead, Spider-Man tottered on top of the van in front, hopping and dancing all over the place to avoid the bullets blasting through the roof beneath his feet. The vehicle zig-zagged between lanes in attempt to shake him off while the second van revved to catch up. Flashing police cars barreled up the road behind them, the overlapping wail of sirens drowning out everything except the pop of gunfire.

Johnny spared himself a moment to admire Spidey’s quick web work, then launched out of the van. Red-hot flames pulsed off his body as he chased the runaway vehicles, which the police were gradually gaining on. 

The two remaining vans were charging madly down the road. They clipped parked cars and rammed aside any other vehicles in their way, sending sprays of shattered headlights bounding across the pavement. Spider-Man shot quick globs of webbing at the men in the adjacent van while struggling to dodge the gunfire from the thug in the passenger’s seat underneath him. He caught Johnny’s eye and gave him a wave.

“Johnny!” he called. “Could you—?”

“On it!” Johnny said, racing past him. He whacked the pistol out of the gunman’s hands and grabbed hold of his arm through the window, ignoring his cries of pain. Or perhaps, rather, savoring them. This man was the bastard who had almost shot him. He was the reason Spider-Man knocked him out of the way and wound up getting burnt. He was also, not to mention, a goddamn kidnapper. He deserved every ounce of pain Johnny’s fingers were searing into his skin. Johnny held on a little while longer, tightening his grip just for good measure, the stench of fried flesh filling his nose. Then he kicked off the side of the van, dragging the man out through the window, and chucked him into a pile of garbage bags stacked on the curb. He hoped they smelled just as rank as the dumpster they’d left their captive’s father in. 

Spider-Man ducked behind the side of the van as bullets erupted from the opposing vehicle. Johnny faced the car overflowing with thugs and assault rifles as it gunned towards him head-on. Liquid fire coursed through his veins. Summer wind whistled in his ears. He took a deep breath, gathering oxygen into his lungs, then released it as a blast of flames from his palms. The stream of fire spilled over the van’s front tires, making them burst. The car swerved uncontrollably, scraping along on metal rims, streaks of melted rubber trailing behind it. It veered off the road and crashed into a fire hydrant, sending the goons hanging off the sides spilling onto the concrete. A spume of water arched high above their heads and rained across the hot pavement. Johnny checked the van for hostages and was grateful to find none. The police were quick to surround the wreck, so he left the scene for them to handle. The most important pieces of this car chase were still trapped in the final van. 

Dead ahead, Spider-Man was clinging onto the remaining vehicle, whose doors remained firmly locked shut. He climbed around to the back of the car and grabbed hold of the handles, yanking with all his might. The doors tore away like tissue paper and bounced down the street. One shivering girl, one crying child, and a trio balking men greeted him on the other side. 

Three things happened in the next three seconds. 

First, quick as lightning, Spider-Man latched a web-line to the girl’s waist and whipped her out of the van, pulling a shriek from her lips as he flung her down the road. A web hammock unfurled beneath her from a perfectly timed, perfectly aimed web grenade, softening her landing and leaving her ruffled but safe. 

“Sorry!” Spidey shouted to her over his shoulder.

Next, a flash bomb went off inside the van, as loud as it was bright, catching the masked hero off guard. He cried out and clutched his eyes, giving the thugs the opportunity to strike. Unaffected by the blast—perhaps due to the creepy sunglasses they all wore—the largest of the men barreled forward and rammed two electrified batons square in the center of Spidey’s chest. 

Lastly, Spider-Man fell off the back of the van and struck the unforgiving pavement, rolling and tumbling before sprawling to a stop in the middle of a wide, bustling intersection. 

“Spidey!” Johnny gasped. The Human Torch rocketed ahead of the incoming traffic to scoop him off the street—seconds before a semi could stampede over his battered body. He extinguished his flames as much as he could to safely hold him and still stay airborne. The masked vigilante moaned in his arms, volts of electricity jittering through his muscles, hands kneading at his eye lenses. They were squinted into slits and fluttering out of control.

“Agh! Shit! Is that you, Torch? Dammit! We have got to stop meeting like this.”

“Are you all right? Your eye things—they’re flipping out.”

“No kidding. Ugh. Now I have two very different but equally scarring stories to tell about getting flashed in Brooklyn. Still not sure which one hurt my eyes more, but this is certainly giving ‘old man in untied SpongeBob bathrobe’ a run for his money.”

“But you’re okay, right?”

“Mentally speaking? Absolutely not. I don’t think I’ll ever recover from the horrors I bore witness to that bitter autumn day. All my remaining innocence, ripped away in a heartbeat. Curse you, old man in untied SpongeBob bathrobe: ruiner of childhoods.”

Worry and frustration boiled to the tip of Johnny’s tongue. “Would you stop making jokes for two seconds and just tell me if you’re all right?”

Startled, Spidey pulled his hands away from his eyes. The lenses were still pinched small and twitching, but gradually returning to normal. He stared at him in silence, tiny rivulets of blood running down his arms and leaping into the breeze. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Johnny added, the anger melting from his voice. “You can’t confess to me you crack stupid jokes to hide your fear then turn around five minutes later and try to use it against me. I’m not gonna let it slide.”

Spider-Man started to say something in response, but it died on his lips. Probably another preloaded wisecrack he had to stop himself from unconsciously retorting with. His scorch marks from before were now bisected by a fresh collection of scratches and road burns. The poor hero looked like he’d been thrown into a pit full of rabid, fire-breathing cats. 

“I…sorry,” he eventually mumbled, the artificial spark leaving his voice, head slightly hung. “Force of habit. Turning it off is like trying to make yourself stop blinking. Now I’m kinda regretting telling you about that. It’s like my constant, go-to thing.” He gave a frail, awkward laugh, then cleared his throat. “I’m fine, really. I just got stunned by the flash, and it gave them the chance to get a cheap hit in. Heightened senses also means heightened sensitivity, unfortunately. It was a shock to the system, but I’m okay.”

Johnny breathed out slowly, then set his jaw. “We’ve both nearly died way too many times today. I don’t think this ‘team-up’ thing is going so hot for either of us.” 

“Hey, at least we know we’re good at rescuing each other seconds before certain doom.”

“Certain doom that we got each other into,” Johnny added grimly. 

“Both of us would’ve gone after the kidnappers, whether we were together or alone,” Spidey insisted. “I’m glad we’re doing it together.”

Johnny hinted a smile. “Me too.”

Spider-Man’s gaze dropped to observe his current position: bundled in Johnny’s strong, protective arms. Suddenly bashful, he squirmed against his hold. “You, uh—you know you can put me down now, right? We’ve still got one more rescue to make.”

“I know,” Johnny answered, a grin lifting his lips, making no move to let him go. “You’re just so light and easy to carry. It’s like holding a little puppy. Or a newspaper. Or a handful of grapes. Or one of those sticky climbing toys you throw against the wall. Or—”

“Okay, got it, thank you,” Spider-Man grumbled. He shifted to escape his grip, then stopped suddenly, shooting a glance at the van up ahead. “Wait. That actually gives me an idea.”

“Really?” Johnny snickered. “Which part?”

He turned back to face him. “The throwing the sticky guy part. You’re going to fly as fast as you can towards the back of the van and throw me inside.”

Johnny blinked. “I’m sorry—what? Absolutely not!”

“I need to get between them and the kid!” Spidey explained. “This will catch the thugs by surprise and give me enough momentum to break through their wall of muscle and guns and poorly masked body odor.”

“What if they flash bang you again? Or worse?”

“I’ll be ready this time. Trust me.”

Johnny’s eyes flickered to the three brawny men crowding the cramped van and the obscured shape of the child huddled behind them. He swallowed, throat dry with uncertainty. 

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” Johnny said. He fed the fire pulsing off his feet, the flames creeping up his legs and fanning across his torso, driving the two of them faster forward. “Just get the kid out of there, okay?”

Spider-Man nodded. “I will.”

As the fire consumed more and more of his body, Johnny released Spider-Man so the only part of him he was still hanging onto was his wrist. He dragged the masked hero underneath him, their speed climbing, the city streaking by. 

Once the goons spotted the heroes making their approach, they started chucking pinecone-sized objects in their direction. The first one hit the ground and exploded on impact directly beneath them, sending Johnny swerving sideways in terror. He leveled himself, gawking in disbelief. Grenades! he realized. They’re throwing goddamn grenades at us! Who the hell is selling these assholes grenades? Better yet—who’s giving them money to buy them? To make matters worse, a constant stream of bullets poured from the back of the van. Johnny wove to avoid the barrage of deadly projectiles: ducking and rolling and snaking left and right. It didn't take long to notice they were shooting at Spider-Man, not him. He had to swing the vigilante around like a red and blue pendulum to keep his narrow frame out of the gunmen's path. Chunks of concrete whizzed past the two teens as more and more explosions tore into the road.

“I’ll try to slow down the driver while you save the kid!” Johnny shouted.

“Okay!” Spidey hollered. “Ready? Throw me…now!”

With a grunt of effort, Johnny swung Spidey back then hurled him forward. The masked hero road the momentum perfectly, bellowing: “Special delivery, coming in hot!” as he flew into the van. Shrieks of surprise sounded from inside as Spider-Man plowed into them feet-first. Johnny whispered an anxious prayer for anyone who was listening: Please keep him safe. Then he soared to the front of the car, locking eyes with the frazzled man in the driver’s seat.

“Stop!” the Human Torch roared, flaring his flames to punctuate the demand. Instead, the driver screamed and floored it. A choked gasp punched out of Johnny’s chest as the van rammed into him. His top half flattened across the hood while his legs knocked against the grill. He grimaced and groaned, hoping the hit hadn’t fractured any of his ribs. 

“Jesus,” he coughed, flames flickering weakly. “That’s the exact opposite of what I said.” Shouts and gunshots and the sound of fists landing blows echoed from the back of the van. The whole vehicle bounced and shook, fresh dents buckling out of the frame every few seconds. He couldn’t see how the fight was going—only hear it and hope the masked hero was holding strong. He pushed up on his elbows, palms burning handprints into the paint, weighing his next approach. 

Then a man flew screeching from the car, sticking to the nearest streetlamp in a cocoon of webbing. A couple yells and fired rounds later, another thug tumbled from the back onto the street, coated in a layer of spider’s silk as thick as a sleeping bag, wriggling uselessly. Spider-Man is winning, Johnny realized, new strength surging through him. We’ve got this! Almost there!

Johnny clambered the rest of the way onto the hood, white-knuckled as the vehicle bucked and swerved. Maybe if he burnt through the van’s battery cables, he could end this wild car chase once and for all. But if he wasn’t precise enough, he ran the risk of blowing up the entire vehicle. Perhaps he could punch through the windshield and yank the driver out. Or counter their forward momentum by pushing the van backwards with all the power of his flames behind him. He had to act fast. He had to come up with something before—

HOOONK! The shrill warning gave Johnny only seconds to register the incoming disaster. A truck was pulling out in front of them on the left. The van was hurtling through a red light at full-speed. If he stayed put, he’d be crushed between the two vehicles. 

But what about Spidey and the kid?

He had no time to think. He kicked off the hood in a panic as the van struck the front of the truck. The van skidded in circles until the wheels lost traction with the road. Johnny sailed into an abandoned construction zone on the sidewalk, taking out a few traffic cones along the way. Debris spewed in every direction as the van crashed down the street, eventually groaning to a feeble stop. When the Human Torch rose off the gritty asphalt, he spotted the van on its side about fifty feet away, smoke streaming out of the engine. 

“Shit,” he hissed, rocketing off the ground. The top of the car had been crushed to the point that it blocked the opening to the back of the van. Spider-Man and the kid could be trapped inside, their heads bashed in as much as the vehicle. Johnny dropped behind the car and pulled at the jagged barrier with all his strength, the plastic shell of the van melting beneath his grip. He wasn’t moving fast enough.

“Spidey! Can you hear me? Please tell me you guys are okay!” 

No answer came. What if they were dead by the time he pried the car open? They could be bleeding out right now, their bodies twisted into unnatural shapes, their faces slack with shock. Were their hearts still beating? Were they breathing their final breaths? He tried to blink away his last moments with his mother, yet the images rallied to the forefront of his mind. The splashes of red mottling her skin, the crooked angle her neck was bent at, the lively spark fading from her eyes. 

“Answer me!” Johnny pleaded, clawing frantically at the mangled van. One of the pieces had softened enough for him to tear. As he ripped it away and flung it aside, a figure came into view—a person sprawled across the floor of the vehicle, moaning and still. Terror seized him, followed by crippling relief, then confusion. 

It was the last of the thugs. Thoroughly battered, probably concussed, but alive and likely to stay that way. Too beefy and bulky to be the webhead. Johnny’s arms fell to his sides. But if they aren’t here, then where—?

“Torchy!”

Numb, Johnny spun on his heels. At the end of the block, surrounded by overturned traffic cones and pot holes and smashed car bits, Spider-Man stood in the center of the street, holding the young boy in his arms. Although the masked hero was burned, bruised, and tremendously bloody, he was alive, and the child was, too. Spidey gave him a wave, and Johnny's heart soared. He blasted down the road, scrubbing the tears from his eyes. 

“Are you okay?” Spidey asked. Johnny answered by dousing his flames and wrapping the vigilante into a lung-crushing hug. A startled squeak leapt from his throat, followed by a strangled laugh. Johnny squeezed him so hard and held him so close, he could hear the masked hero’s heart thumping inside his chest. 

“Ouch! Johnny!” Spider-Man giggled. “Easy! You’re gonna smoosh the kid!”

Even so, the Human Torch hugged him a couple seconds longer, only letting go after the child gave his head a shove. “Oh! Sorry!” he stammered. The boy whined and pouted his lips, burying his face back into the crook of Spider-Man’s neck. 

“He’s okay,” Spidey insisted. “Just scared and shaken.”

“That makes two of us,” Johnny said hoarsely. “I thought you guys were trapped inside the van! I thought you were dead!”

Spider-Man glanced at him in surprise. “Really? I guess it was hard to see from your angle. We got out right before the truck hit. I had warning tingles coming from pretty much every direction, but one that big was impossible to ignore.”

Johnny must’ve looked as ashen and haunted as he felt, because the masked hero changed his tune from bright and sunny to soft and reassuring. “We’re fine, all right? Everything’s okay.” He gestured to the chaos scattered around them. “We stopped the bad guys and got everyone out safe.”

The Human Torch clenched his jaw, lowering his gaze. “I hate car wrecks,” he said hollowly.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Neither hero spoke for the next few moments, both of them mourning people who’d passed long ago. Then the kid slowly raised his head from Spidey’s shoulder, tears shining in his eyes. He looked about two with dark hair and skin like his dad. 

“Hey there, bud,” Spider-Man said gently, shifting the boy higher up his hip so he sat at his eye-level. “You doing okay? That was scary, huh? You were super brave, though! Avengers-level brave! We’re gonna get you back to your dad real soon, okay?”

At the mention of his father, the boy immediately burst into tears, scrunching up his hands into angry little fists. Johnny flinched back in alarm. He had no experience deescalating toddler meltdowns. Fortunately, Spider-Man stayed calm.

“Shhh, it’s okay! Hey! Watch this!” The masked hero raised his hand in front of the kid’s face, and a card appeared between his fingers—seemingly out of thin air. Then, just as quickly, he made another motion, and the card vanished. The little trick was enough to pique the boy’s interest and distract him from his sobbing. He stared at Spider-Man’s empty palm, sniffling softly, cheeks stained with tear tracks. Spidey faked a dramatic gasp.

“Where’d it go? What do you think? Wait a minute!” He reached behind his ear, wiggling his fingers against his neck as he did, and produced the card once again, saying: “Ah-ha! Here it is! You were hiding it!”

The boy’s hesitant smile transformed into shy giggles. He grabbed for the card, and Spidey let him take it. The softness of the scene was enough to melt Johnny’s heart. 

“You’re good with kids,” he observed.

Spider-Man shrugged. “Me-me babysits a lot, but it’s not so easy when I’m in costume. The mask tends to scare them.”

Johnny gestured to the card the boy was currently chewing on. “Where’d you learn how to do that?”

“Antman showed me,” Spidey beamed. “That guy is weirdly good at close-up magic. There’s one more trick I can do. Let me see if I try—”

He held his palm up to his mouth, but cards suddenly spilled out of his hand, shooting off in random directions and fluttering to the ground. Spider-Man groaned in defeat as Johnny and the child laughed. 

“Did you mean to do that?” Johnny snickered.

“No. It was supposed to look like I was barfing them up. Guess I need to keep practicing.”

Johnny grinned at the giggling child. “The kid still liked it.”

Spidey bounced the boy in his arms, making him laugh even harder. Johnny watched the pair like a spectator at the movies: delighted and endeared yet detached from the moment. Cheering others up when they were at their lowest came so naturally to the masked hero. It was like another superpower of his. Johnny wasn’t sure if Spidey even understood the effect he had on those around him. He dismissed his own well-being and acted playful and calm even while in pain—all to make others happy and keep them safe. 

“I’m glad you’re both okay,” Johnny said. He gave the vigilante a hardy clap on the back. It was meant to be a friendly love-tap, but he was surprised when Spider-Man jerked from his touch like he’d electrocuted him, releasing a sharp gasp. Frowning, Johnny retracted his hand. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked. His gaze wandered down to his palm, which suddenly felt damp. The deep blue of his glove was drenched through with purple stains. It took him a moment to realize his hand was soaked in blood. 

Johnny’s eyes snapped up. A particularly dark section of Spider-Man’s suit stood out against the other lesions peppered across his body, smudged just below his rib cage. Up until now, the child had been blocking it. His abdomen had a puncture wound that was leaking a scary amount of blood down his midsection and his back. The fact that Spider-Man was acting so normal and plucky made the devastating injury difficult for Johnny’s mind to grasp. Slowly, his smile fell. 

“Spidey…?” he said, trying to read his unreadable stare. He pointed to the spot with his bloodstained fingers. “What is that? What happened? You’re dripping blood!”

The masked vigilante shushed him like a grouchy librarian. “Not in front of the kid!” he snapped. “I don’t want to freak him out any more than he already is!”

Johnny just stared at him. “You’re bleeding out in the street, and your biggest concern is not freaking people out? We need to get you to a hospital!”

“Shhh! Johnny!” Spider-Man spoke in a hushed, exasperated tone. “Avengers Tower has a fully stocked medical bay, all right? I’ll get myself fixed up there, no problem! It’s not a big deal!” He was talking at breakneck speed, as if trying to convince himself. 

“Not a big deal?” the Human Torch exclaimed. “What kind of masochistic bullshit are you on? You have a gaping wound in your side!”

“Johnny! You can’t say bullshit in front of kids!” 

“I think the gravity of the situation more than warrants it! Besides—you just said it, too!”

“Whatever! I’m telling you I’m fine, okay? I’ve been shot before!”

“You were shot?” Johnny spluttered, gripping the sides of his head in his hands. “What the actual fuck, man? When were you planning to tell me you had a bullet wound in your stomach? Who the hell did that to you? How long has it been there? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Before he could respond, the child erupted into violent sobs once again. Spider-Man sighed, rubbing the boy’s back with one hand and cradling his head with the other.

“Great. Now he’s crying again. Thanks a lot.”

Smoke fizzled from Johnny’s shoulders and fists. “I don’t understand how you’re acting so calm right now! You’ve been shot!”

A crash and a grunt from behind them made both teenagers turn their heads. The van’s driver had smashed through the window and tumbled out of the vehicle onto the street. He started booking it down the road as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Hold this guy a sec,” Spidey said, handing Johnny the kid. 

“What? Wait—I don’t—” he began to protest. But suddenly the boy was in his arms, and Spider-Man was marching after the fleeing thug. “Spidey! Come back! I’m not a baby person!”

Spider-Man stopped beside the overturned van and aimed his wrist in front of him. He fired a web grenade down the block, planting it on the side of a car parked a few paces ahead of the thug’s trajectory. At just the right moment, the trap went off; webs exploded all over the kidnapper, pinning him to a trash can in a squirming, screaming heap. Spidey withdrew his arm and pressed a palm to his bullet wound, pinching his eyes shut with a groan of pain. Blood dribbled off his fingers onto the ground.

“Stop moving, Jesus Christ!” Johnny jogged up behind him, laying his free hand against Spider-Man’s chest. “You’re bleeding all over the road!”

“He was getting away,” the vigilante replied, voice a little more ragged, breaths a tad more strained. “I had to stop him.”

Johnny scanned the battered hero up and down. He could see the adrenaline seeping from his bloodstream in real time, giving way to his body’s true state of wounded exhaustion. His arms hung heavy at his sides. He was swaying a little on his feet. The hand holding his injury was saturated in blood. Johnny’s frustration persisted, but the sight of him so broken and pathetic singed every trace of it from his lips. He grabbed Spidey’s wrist and gave it a light squeeze. 

“For someone with dodging with powers, you’re awfully good at getting your ass kicked, you know that?” He shook his head in dismay. “Is this a regular thing for you? Getting beat half to death every time you go on patrol?”

The masked hero chuckled thinly. “Happens more often than I’d like to admit, but today’s ass beating was something else. My usual thugs aren’t armed like these guys. They knew my fighting patterns, how to counter my attacks, how to knock my senses out of whack. It’s like they were expecting me to come after them.”

Johnny nodded. “I think they were. They were aiming their guns at you specifically, like they were following orders from someone. The same someone who must be funding their operation; no regular street criminals are packing that kind of firepower.” He pressed the heel of his palm on top of Spidey's hand to help him stem the bleeding, pulling a shivery whimper from his lips. “I can’t believe how badly they hurt you.” 

“I couldn’t either,” he hissed through his teeth, “until I noticed the company name on the side of those vans.”

Johnny narrowed his eyes, craning his head away from the child, who was trying to rip out fistfuls of his hair. “What do you mean?”

“Veles Taxi,” Spidey said, sparing a glance at his blood-soaked midsection. “It took me a while to realize where I recognized it from. It’s a company that’s owned and operated by the Russian mafia, who are in turn controlled by Kingpin.” He glared at the thug still bound to the trash can. He’d given up trying to break free of the webbing and had resigned himself to pitiful whimpering. “These kidnappers work for Wilson Fisk.”

The Human Torch scoffed. “Fisk? You mean that bald rich guy from Hell’s Kitchen? I didn’t know he was evil. I heard he was trying to win candidacy for New York’s next mayoral election.”

Spider-Man’s eye lenses bulged as wide as physically possible. “What? You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

“I saw it on the news a couple days ago. He even voiced his support for the Fantastic Four—said we were vital to keeping the city safe and that he wanted to work with us if he was elected.”

“That bastard,” Spidey snarled. “How could he…h-how could anyone…?”

He staggered suddenly, knees buckling beneath him. Johnny rushed to catch him, the wounded hero’s weight sagging into his chest. Spider-Man grappled sluggishly with Johnny’s arms, trying to lift himself back upright. The skin on his face that was visible through the cuts in his mask looked sweaty and pale. 

“M’fine,” he rasped, pushing him away. “Sorry, I—I’m fine. Tripped.”

“We have to get you some help,” Johnny said distraughtly. 

Seconds later, the NYPD came screeching onto the scene. Howling police cars surrounded them, bathing the teenagers in colorful flashing lights. A drizzle of relief settled over Johnny’s heart.

“Shit,” Spider-Man hissed.

“It’s okay,” the Human Torch assured him. “They can help you. We’ll ask them to give you a ride to Avengers Tower.”

“Liam!” 

A man stumbled out of one of the cop cars and charged through the barricade of police. It was the father they’d dragged from the dumpster—still grimy and bruised but buzzing with wild hope. The cops roared at him to stop, but he ignored them. He raced towards the superheroes in the center of the road, tears flooding his eyes. 

“Daddy!” the boy cheered, reaching out for him. Johnny handed the child to his father, who buried him in his arms and a million adoring kisses. 

“My son! My boy! My beautiful Liam!” he wept. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

The reunion inundated Johnny with indescribable warmth. If Sue were here, she’d be scrambling to get pictures taken, people posed, interviews lined up. It was refreshing to save the day, to return a stolen child to his father, and simply bask in the joy of that triumph, instead of exploiting the moment for fan content. 

The dad lifted his face from his son’s dark curls and met Johnny’s gaze with an endlessly grateful smile. “Thank you,” he sniffled. “Thank you both. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”

“It was all this guy,” Johnny said, wrapping an arm around the wounded vigilante, who was fighting to stay on his feet. “Spider-Man’s the one who got him out of there. I just burned some shit, flipped a van or two.”

The father turned to the masked hero nervously. “Thank you, Spider-Man. Please take care of yourself. That looks really bad.”

Spider-Man gave him a bloody thumbs up. “Yep. That’s up next on my to-do list.” His voice sounded gravelly, like he was speaking through gritted teeth. “Make sure you get yourselves checked out, too. And give Liam all the chocolate pudding he wants for being so brave. He t-told me it’s his favorite.”

The dad chuckled. “Will do.”

As father and son were led to an ambulance, the cops approached the two teens on high alert. Johnny slung Spidey’s arm over his shoulder and started to guide him towards the police, but the masked hero dragged his feet. 

“Johnny…” he grated out. “I can’t. They’re not going to help. I have to go.”

“What?” Johnny exclaimed. “Of course they will. They saw you save the kid. Plus, you’re with me. I work with them all the time. It’ll be okay.”

“Mr. Storm!” the cop at the front of the wedge of officers called. “Step away from Spider-Man and stand aside!”

Johnny approached the policewoman with the masked hero in tow, throwing her a wave. “Chief Yuri! Nice to see you! Loving the new haircut! Really complements your bone structure!” He patted the side of the vigilante’s head, which was slightly drooped towards the ground. “My friend Spider-Man here got shot by those thugs and needs a ride to Avengers Tower for medical assistance! Could one of your officers give us a lift?”

“Stop where you are!” Chief Yuri demanded, fingering the gun in her holster. “Don’t make me ask again, Storm! Drop the vigilante and stand down!”

Johnny froze in place, unfamiliar fear spearing through him. He swept his gaze across the sea of icy stares and glinting badges. His grip tightened around Spidey’s waist. 

“What’s your problem?” he snapped. “Can’t you see he needs help? He just risked his life to save two hostages! Why are you acting like he’s the bad guy here?”

“Please, Johnny,” the injured hero implored. “I can get back on my own. Just let me go.” He tugged weakly against Johnny’s hold. The Human Torch pinned him to his side and clasped his wrist in his bloody fingers.  

“Spider-Man is under arrest for unlawful vigilantism, arson, theft, destruction of public property, and too many other things for me to list out right now. He’s not worth the trouble, Storm. Hand him over and step aside, now.”

Johnny’s tongue tasted like lead. Even when people witnessed Spidey’s heroics firsthand, they still rallied against him. How could they be so blinded by lies? Why couldn’t they see him the way Johnny did? What possessed the world to love the Human Torch so fondly and hate Spider-Man so mercilessly?

The officers pressed in around them, guns at the ready. The masked vigilante was fading by the second. Johnny’s hands were slicked with his blood. He stared down the police chief, fury churning in his gut.

“If I leave with him, will you shoot me?”

Yuri’s eyes widened. “Don’t do anything rash, kid. You’re a hero. He’s a criminal. I’d hate for that to get twisted.”

“And I’d hate to think how my fans would react to the NYPD killing their favorite superhero,” Johnny countered. “My teammates, too.”

“At this rate, they may not be your fans for long.”

Johnny bared his teeth, then laughed. “The chief of police, trying to lecture me about good PR. That’s rich. You’re the ones the public barely trusts. Your image depends on me smiling and shaking hands with your officers like they actually help us instead of just getting in the way. You need my endorsement, but I don’t need yours.”

“He doesn’t mean that!” Spider-Man blurted out. “I’m sure you’re all v-very good at your jobs and want to stay friends with the Fantastic Four and wow chief that haircut does frame your face well and—mmph!”

The Human Torch smothered him into silence. “Hey! Can it, Webhead!”

The block fell eerily quiet. Spider-Man spat muffled curses into his palm. Chief Yuri shook her head. 

“You’re making a mistake, Storm.”

Johnny tilted his chin towards the sky. “I’m leaving.”

Bright yellow flames jetted cautiously from his feet, lifting the two of them off the ground. Johnny held the police chief’s gaze, daring her to stop him. Yuri’s face twisted with frustration, but her hand lifted reluctantly from her holster. 

“Hold your fire,” she demanded. “Clear the street.”

A tiny crumb of his anxiety eased. Johnny hooked an arm underneath Spidey’s knees and whisked him fully off his feet, ignoring his protests as he cradled his spindly shape close to his chest. He looked and felt so fragile—and this time, it was true. Fire encased his lower half and carried them above the city, away from the leering cops, the wreckage, and out of harm’s path. Skyscrapers whisked beneath them, followed by the dark maw of the river. Johnny braced his hand against the exit wound on Spider-Man’s back so both sides of the bullet hole had pressure on them. A ragged moan rose in his throat.

“I got you, okay? I’m taking you home.”

“You d-didn’t have to do that,” Spider-Man said, voice choked with pain. “Now the cops will hate you, too.”

“Let them,” Johnny growled. “I never liked those bastards, anyway. ACAB, am I right?”

The masked hero managed a dismal laugh. “Yeah. Fuck the police.”

The moon hung low over the East River. Spider-Man’s head rested just beneath Johnny’s shoulder, close enough for him to lean down and plant a kiss on his temple. The thought made him blush, and he discarded it immediately. The audacity of his emotions never ceased to astound him. 

“I’m sorry about tonight,” Spidey murmured. His eye lenses blinked slowly, half-closed and drooping. “This w-wasn’t how it was supposed to go.”

“As far as team-ups go, it was a pretty badass evening. Dangerous criminals, mid-car-chase battles, a son reunited with his father, pissed off cops. As soon as you’re healed, I’m crashing every last one of your late night patrols from here on out.”

The hand Spider-Man wasn’t clutching his wound with tightened its grip on Johnny’s shoulder. “Thanks for s-sticking up for me,” he said. 

Butterflies danced up Johnny’s throat. “Oh—of course. How could I not?” He swallowed as many of them down as he could. “You risked your life to save those people. You took a bullet to protect them from those monsters. I am now and forever officially crowning you the Ultimate King Bad Boy. Congratulations, your majesty.”

When Spider-Man didn’t respond, Johnny glanced down in surprise. The masked hero’s eye lenses had slipped shut, and his cheek was squished against his sternum. At first, Johnny marveled at how cute and sleepy he looked. Like a baby kitten snoozing in his arms. Then he remembered he was on the brink of bleeding out, and gave the vigilante a violent shake.

“Whoa! Hey! Wakey-wakey, Webhead! I know you must be tired, but you can’t fall asleep yet!”

Spider-Man jerked back to consciousness, then scrunched into a moaning little ball, gripping his bloody torso. “Ugh. No fair. You’re the one who woke me up at crack of ass o’clock this morning and didn’t let me nap after the p-power demos…”

Johnny deflated with relief. “We’re almost there, okay? Just hang on a little bit longer. And once we get you all fixed up, I’ll let you sleep as late as you want tomorrow. No early morning wake-up calls.”

“Promise?” 

“Promise.”

Spidey slumped against his chest with a pitiful whimper. “It’s so hard,” he whined. “My eyes won’t stay open.”

Johnny pursed his lips in thought. “Why don’t you tell me about something sciencey? Go on one of your nerdy little rants. That ought to keep you awake.”

The masked hero’s eye lenses flicked wide, blinking twice. “Does it annoy you when I talk about that kind of stuff?” he asked timidly. It broke Johnny’s heart when he realized he was being genuine. It was a challenge not to immediately drown him in words of affirmation. 

“It pisses me off that you’re so much smarter than me,” Johnny chuckled. He gazed across the shimmering expanse beneath them and the blue-black endlessness above, unable to meet his gaze. “But no, it doesn’t annoy me. I like listening to people talk about the things they’re passionate about. Even if I don’t understand half of what you’re saying.”

Spider-Man hummed in sleepy acknowledgment, eye lenses sinking closed again. Johnny gave him a second shake, this one a tad more gentle than the first. 

“Come on, bud. Tell me more about your webbing. You said it was hard to make, right? Walk me through it. Every nitty-gritty detail.”

He yawned into Johnny’s shoulder. “Can I do it with my eyes closed?”

“As long as you’re awake and talking.”

“Mm’kay,” he mumbled. He snuggled a little deeper into his embrace. “Let’s see. The hardest thing was f-finding the right balance between strength, malleability, and stickiness. The tensile strength of natural spider silk is 1.75 GPa, which means it’s really strong, but not flexible enough for my purposes. 1.0 gigapascals wound up being the sweet spot. Load-bearing and strong, able to withstand extreme amounts of weight and stress, but with a little stretch to it. I borrowed some materials from my school to synthesize my first formula. I started with salicylic acid, toulene, methanol, carbon tetrachloride, and potassium carbonate, but something was missing…”

He rambled in his arms the rest of the way to the tower, nodding off a couple more times mid-sentence, forcing Johnny to softly rouse him. He prompted him questions when his tangents slowed, asking what this word meant, what that compound did, why he decided to try this thing instead of something else. He listened and held him and tried not to think about the warm, wet stickiness of the vigilante’s blood on his hands. He listened, and decided it was enough. 

This was enough. Just being around him. Being his friend. Bearing witness to his goofy, reckless, motor-mouth way of moving through the world. Watching him throw himself in harm’s way to protect others; defending him from those who sought his destruction. Coaxing out his radiant laugh and sunning himself in the halo of light that gleamed off the webhead like a warm, perpetual aurora. Learning his quirks and passions and fears. Fighting by his side. Overriding his self-sacrificial tendencies. Teasing, taunting, poking fun. Being super awesome superhero besties, and nothing more. 

Johnny Storm wasn’t allowed to fall for Spider-Man. It wasn’t fair to either of them.

But what to do with this abundance of affection with no place to go?

Well.

If he couldn’t love him, perhaps the world could love him for him.  

In that moment, with the wounded hero prattling drowsily in his arms, Johnny vowed he would make the universe see Spider-Man for who he was. No more deceptive headlines, no more twisted narratives, no more blatant lies. No more Daily Bugle tabloids running unopposed; no more pacifying Sue or their investors. Spidey was a hero, and Johnny Storm was going to prove it. Once the public got a glimpse of the real friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, they wouldn’t be able to resist it. They’d have no choice but to fall in love. 

Avengers Tower rose like a beacon on the horizon. Johnny Storm bore the masked hero across the city determinedly. 

It was enough. 

It was enough.

It had to be enough. 

[kvetchlandia]

I’m an old man now, and a lonesome man in Kansas    but not afraid        to speak my lonesomeness in a car,        because not only my lonesomeness            it’s Ours, all over America,                O tender fellows—            & spoken lonesomeness is Prophecy            in the moon 100 years ago or in                the middle of Kansas now. It’s not the vast plains mute our mouths            that fill at midnite with ecstatic language        when our trembling bodies hold each other            breast to breast on a mattress—    Not the empty sky that hides                the feeling from our faces    nor our skirts and trousers that conceal        the bodylove emanating in a glow of beloved skin,            white smooth abdomen down to the hair                between our legs,    It’s not a God that bore us that forbid        our Being, like a sunny rose                all red with naked joy        between our eyes & bellies, yes All we do is for this frightened thing        we call Love, want and lack—    fear that we aren’t the one whose body could be        beloved of all the brides of Kansas City,        kissed all over by every boy of Wichita—    O but how many in their solitude weep aloud like me—        On the bridge over Republican River            almost in tears to know                how to speak the right language—        on the frosty broad road            uphill between highway embankments        I search for the language                that is also yours—        almost all our language has been taxed by war. Radio antennae high tension    wires ranging from Junction City across the plains—    highway cloverleaf sunk in a vast meadow        lanes curving past Abilene            to Denver filled with old                heroes of love—        to Wichita where McClure’s mind            burst into animal beauty            drunk, getting laid in a car                in a neon misted street                    15 years ago—    to Independence where the old man’s still alive    who loosed the bomb that’s slaved all human consciousness        and made the body universe a place of fear— Now, speeding along the empty plain,        no giant demon machine            visible on the horizon    but tiny human trees and wooden houses at the sky’s edge        I claim my birthright!            reborn forever as long as Man                in Kansas or other universe—Joy        reborn after the vast sadness of the War Gods! A lone man talking to myself, no house in the brown vastness to hear        imagining that throng of Selves            that make this nation one body of Prophecy                languaged by Declaration as Pursuit of                    Happiness! I call all Powers of imagination    to my side in this auto to make Prophecy,                    all Lords        of human kingdoms to come Shambu Bharti Baba naked covered with ash        Khaki Baba fat-bellied mad with the dogs Dehorahava Baba who moans Oh how wounded, How wounded    Sitaram Onkar Das Thakur who commands                    give up your desire Satyananda who raises two thumbs in tranquility    Kali Pada Guha Roy whose yoga drops before the void            Shivananda who touches the breast and says OM Srimata Krishnaji of Brindaban who says take for your guru    William Blake the invisible father of English visions    Sri Ramakrishna master of ecstasy eyes        half closed who only cries for his mother Chitanya arms upraised singing & dancing his own praise    merciful Chango judging our bodies        Durga-Ma covered with blood            destroyer of battlefield illusions        million faced Tathagata gone past suffering    Preserver Harekrishna returning in the age of pain Sacred Heart my Christ acceptable        Allah the compassionate one                Jaweh Righteous One            all Knowledge-Princes of Earth-man, all    ancient Seraphim of heavenly Desire, Devas, yogis            & holymen I chant to—                Come to my lone presence                    into this Vortex named Kansas, I lift my voice aloud,    make Mantra of American language now,            I here declare the end of the War!                Ancient days’ Illusion!—        and pronounce words beginning my own millennium. Let the States tremble,    let the nation weep,        let Congress legislate its own delight,            let the President execute his own desire— this Act done by my own voice,                nameless Mystery— published to my own senses,        blissfully received by my own form    approved with pleasure by my sensations        manifestation of my very thought        accomplished in my own imagination            all realms within my consciousness fulfilled    60 miles from Wichita                near El Dorado,                    The Golden One, in chill earthly mist    houseless brown farmland plains rolling heavenward                        in every direction one midwinter afternoon Sunday called the day of the Lord—    Pure Spring Water gathered in one tower            where Florence is                    set on a hill,            stop for tea & gas

   Cars passing their messages along country crossroads        to populaces cement-networked on flatness,                    giant white mist on earth        and a Wichita Eagle-Beacon headlines        “Kennedy Urges Cong Get Chair in Negotiations” The War is gone,    Language emerging on the motel news stand,                    the right magic        Formula, the language known    in the back of the mind before, now in black print                    daily consciousness Eagle News Services Saigon—    Headline Surrounded Vietcong Charge Into Fire Fight        the suffering not yet ended                    for others        The last spasms of the dragon of pain                shoot thru the muscles            a crackling around the eyeballs            of a sensitive yellow boy by a muddy wall Continued from page one area    after the Marines killed 256 Vietcong captured 31    ten day operation Harvest Moon last December                Language language    U.S. Military Spokesmen            Language language                    Cong death toll        has soared to 100 in First Air Cavalry        Division’s Sector of                Language language            Operation White Wing near Bong Son Some of the    Language language            Communist                Language language soldiers charged so desperately    they were struck with six or seven bullets before they fell    Language Language M-60 Machine Guns            Language language in La Drang Valley    the terrain is rougher infested with leeches and scorpions            The war was over several hours ago! Oh at last again the radio opens    blue Invitations!        Angelic Dylan singing across the nation            “When all your children start to resent you            Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?”    His youthful voice making glad                the brown endless meadows    His tenderness penetrating aether,        soft prayer on the airwaves,            Language language, and sweet music too            even unto thee,                hairy flatness!            even unto thee                despairing Burns! Future speeding on swift wheels        straight to the heart of Wichita! Now radio voices cry population hunger world                if unhappy people        waiting for Man to be born                O man in America!    you certainly smell good                the radio says    passing mysterious families of winking towers    grouped round a Quonset-hut on a hillock—        feed storage or military fear factory here? Sensitive City, Ooh! Hamburger & Skelley’s Gas            lights feed man and machine,    Kansas Electric Substation aluminum robot        signals thru thin antennae towers        above the empty football field                    at Sunday dusk to a solitary derrick that pumps oil from the unconscious                working night & day    & factory gas-flares edge a huge golf course        where tired businessmen can come and play— Cloverleaf, Merging Traffic East Wichita turnoff            McConnell Airforce Base                    nourishing the City—    Lights rising in the suburbs    Supermarket Texaco brilliance starred            over streetlamp vertebrae on Kellogg,        green jeweled traffic lights            confronting the windshield, Centertown ganglion entered!        Crowds of autos moving with their lightshine,        signbulbs winking in the driver’s eyeball—    The human nest collected, neon lit,                and sunburst signed        for business as usual, except on the Lord’s Day—    Redeemer Lutheran’s three crosses lit on the lawn                reminder of our sins    and Titsworth offers insurance on Hydraulic    by De Voors Guard’s Mortuary for outmoded bodies                of the human vehicle        which no Titsworth of insurance will customize for resale— So home, traveler, past the newspaper language factory    under Union Station railroad bridge on Douglas    to the center of the Vortex, calmly returned        to Hotel Eaton Carry Nation began the war on Vietnam here            with an angry smashing ax                attacking Wine—    Here fifty years ago, by her violence began a vortex of hatred that defoliated the Mekong Delta—    Proud Wichita! vain Wichita        cast the first stone!—                That murdered my mother        who died of the communist anticommunist psychosis            in the madhouse one decade long ago    complaining about wires of masscommunication in her head            and phantom political voices in the air                besmirching her girlish character.    Many another has suffered death and madness            in the Vortex from Hydraulic                to the end of 17th –enough! The war is over now—    Except for the souls            held prisoner in Niggertown still pining for love of your tender white bodies O children of Wichita!

-- Allen Ginsberg, “Wichita Vortex Sutra”  1966

[koishua]

UNFORGIVEN ALBUM REVIEW

i have so much to say about these tracks y'all the wait was worth it it always is when it's with them!! UNFORGIVEN as a title track slaps i can't overstate how amazing this turned out thank you nile rodgers this is incredible i adore the beats though i wish that for the "unforgiven girls" part, the vocals were stronger in volume and impression bc it's SUCH a hype section i can already imagine ceremonies starting with that exact part!! the melody just evokes that feeling if you know what i mean?? and yunjin's grungy voice compliments this song and its message so so well. also kkura's deep voice?? she is an icon she has always been the moment but oml zuha's wings and her lines are SO good i won't even start talking about chaewon bc y'all know how i feel about her gosh she never ever disappoints. now for manchae oml she has come so far from fearless and she's getting better and better each comeback and she's starting to solidify her presence on stage im so excited for five years down the line how she's going to turn out!! the choreo snippet from knowing bros had already surprised me so much i love love love their choreos and this one has to be one of my top threes?? anyways not to get too deep into this so im going to just keep it like this and move on. overall 9.5/10

NO-RETURN (INTO THE UNKNOWN) — the bass!! they have a signature feel-good sound to their tracks similar to this you just want to get up and jump or dance around with a smile on your face. the saxophone is that a saxophone in the chorus that took me off guard in the best way really. the brass is so cnncncbc!! chaewon and yunjin carry the vocal heavy parts and they do it amazingly like they may not be the strongest vocalists ever but they're strong in their own ways that fit le sserafim's sound so well!! overall 9/10

EVE, PSYCHE & THE BLUEBEARD'S WIFE — i know a club song when i hear one despite not ever being in one 😔😔 the beat im salivating this is my three am hallucinating dancing in the dark in my own room type of song i swear to you the verses after the first chorus has me in a chokehold. the things i would do to get to listen to this in a concert setting and ascend with the bridge and then the drum pads that come in right after like stfu. overall 9/10

FEARNOT (BETWEEN YOU, ME, AND THE LAMPPOST) — i just started writing a small fic based on this song and its vibes!! this makes me feel all sorts of things and the lyrics are straight out of a heartwarming story. this is one of my most favourite songs from this album. it's so atmospheric with the electric guitar building up to the chorus and the drum beats that kick in and their vocals. the melody is beautiful and i just can't get over the vibes. i cried while i first listened to this half an hour ago actually ;-; i don't have any single thing to complain about in this song. "i go where you go" line being given to chaewon was an amazing decision because her voice is so pure and it felt like i was pulled into another world for the brief moment she sung with the background going silent :') i think this will be one of my most listened to songs on spotify this year. overall 10/10

FLASH FORWARD — this is exactly my vibe i listen to these kinds of songs everyday all day it's just so vibey and you can strut playfully to this song down the street and sway and jam all you want and it feels like flowers of all bright colours are blooming all around you as you go!! it's like it brightens up the world around each step you take :< it's just feel-good. overall 9/10

FIRE IN THE BELLY — when i say hot damn i want to shake my hips and call my latina friends and have them listen to this. the chorus makes something in my chest feel so full with life!! reminds me of my childhood especially the olé olé olé in the background chants ugh im a little tired from all of the jumping and screeching i did within the last hour so my brain is slowing down just know that it's overall a 9/10 for me for this too

CONCLUSION i love them they occupy a large spot in my heart i can't ever dislike any song they release and i know it seems like im giving way too many compliments but i can't help it idc if it's subjective they just make good ass music ‼️

[capettitwrites]

Blurb: In Verona's bustling streets, beneath the shadow of Juliet's iconic balcony, a traveler reflects on the weight of tradition, love, and the enduring objectification of women. As tourists flock to touch the bronze statue of Shakespeare's heroine, seeking luck in love, one woman confronts her own past and the cultural stories that shape us. 'To Be A Statue' is a poignant exploration of autonomy, trauma, and the silent strength required to reclaim one's narrative.

CW: Sexual harassment/assault, objectification, implied trauma.

They say that touching certain parts of statues will bring good luck. Rubbing the belly of a Budha, or a dog statue’s nose, or the Charging Bull’s balls. I’ve seen my fair share of bronze statues buffed by human hands, even participated in some myself. A little turtle on Il Porcellino in Sydney owes its shiny head, at least in part, to me and the daily pets I give it on my morning walk. Something about bronze statues just makes us want to reach out and touch. 

Verona, Italy was beautiful. A day and a half of cramped legs and turbulence was well worth it for the medieval town that meandered along the Adige River. The orange street lights glittered off the turquoise water. Foliage of trees and potted plants hanging from balconies doused the streets in green. Burnt orange and muted yellow bricks contrasted against the beige masonry of the Romanesque architecture that surrounded us. 

Yesterday, Hayley and I had visited the Arena. While only a third of the size compared to the Colosseum, we were absolutely struck by how much it imposed. The streets of Piazza Bra from the Arena danced like a rainbow with its colourful houses. In addition to the tour, we managed to get tickets to Giuseppe Zenatallo’s Aida and the tragic opera filled our evening. 

Today, Hayley and I stand in Juliet’s House. Well, her courtyard to be more precise. Amongst the crowds, we admire her balcony and the ivy-coated trellis her Romeo would have climbed. The gate at the back of the courtyard is heavy with the weight of lovers’ locks, names of couples daring to love like Romeo and Juliet shining out under the sun. I can’t help but be reminded of the love lock bridge in Paris and wonder how long before the government puts an end to this too. How long before the gate falls over and all those relationships shatter with it?

There’s a bronze statue of Juliet standing just below the balcony. The people queue to have a photo with her and we join the curling line. All around, the tourists chatter in a thesaurus of languages. As we come to the front, with Juliet’s dim face staring back at us, I remember how cruel humanity is. Locked into herself, the people laugh and fondle her breast. Only her clothed chest has been rubbed golden. 

‘It’s a tradition,’ Hayley whispers to me. ‘They say if you touch her right breast, it’ll bring good luck for finding your one true love.’ 

The more I look at her, the sadder her eyes seem. It’s a familiar sadness. With our eyes locked, the line between statue and person begins to blur. As if the day were Friday and we spoke in unison, I feel I’m the one encased in bronze, standing there having my right breast cupped and carressed for the good fortune of a stranger. Juliet takes my place in line with Hayley, carrying all my history. 

It seems easy to put that young girl, only age fourteen, in my place. In my memories, my fiery red locks turn into her coppery bronze. The girl in My Little Pony pyjamas, dancing to Hannah Montana, becomes the statue Juliet. When Aunt Petra helps Mum in the kitchen and her boyfriend stays, I’m no longer the one in the room. Juliet takes the fall. Dull bronze shining under his touch. Maybe it’ll bring him luck. Maybe he and Aunt Petra will be together forever.. 

I can feel tourists groping at my breast when Juliet wanders onto my high school oval. The boys crowd her like the sightseers at Casa de Giulietta. It wasn’t her fault that she began maturing so young. It was natural for her to have a D-cup chest by the time she started high school. She wasn’t doing anything wrong when she let them ogle her. As far as she was concerned that’s what gave her purpose. If being sexualised was the only time she was given attention then how can you blame her for letting them have their way?

Juliet never grew past that point. Man devoured her before she became a grown up. Murder by lust. I think if she had the opportunity to live in this world a little longer, her eyes would have ended up looking like mine. Maybe her eyes were even the same shade ofshade of green. With age, they’d harden and grey. With age, she’d learn to hate her body. With age, she’d come to learn that Romeo never loved her. His infatuation was flighty and hardly worth the death she endured. Dream that the two resolved their families’ issues, that they spent their final moments with wrinkled hands wrapped around each other. Enjoy that innocence. 

‘Should we leave a message?’ Hayley asks and gestures to the wall below Juliet’s balcony. Littered in messages from young lovers in the hopes their love will last forever. Wandering closer, I see notes from Gloria and Chiara, Leo and Baby, E+R, someone named Armin. Messages that read ‘por las amores que te hacen’ and ‘que se lia conmigo’ and ‘I love my family so much’. People will do anything other than work hard for what they want. Relying on superstition and luck. 

I don’t want love. Not anymore. 

‘Yes,’ I answer and Hayley pulls out a paper and pen. She’s never been one to leave the house without some stationary on her. Writer’s habit, she jokes. Taking the pen in hand, I write down my wish. Maybe someday Juliet will make it come true. 

‘For love that liberates rather than confines. In the pursuit of dreams, may we shatter the bronze ceiling.

-Serena’

[starseedfxofficial]

Master CCI and Statistical Arbitrage: The Secret Sauce You Need to Profit How to Master CCI and Statistical Arbitrage Without Losing Your Mind (Or Your Shirt) Alright, Forex ninjas, let's talk about something a little different today: CCI (Commodity Channel Index) and statistical arbitrage. Before you roll your eyes and think, "Great, another overly complicated trading strategy I won't use," let me assure you—what I'm about to share is a game-changing blend of math, intuition, and a touch of ninja magic. So, sit back, get comfortable, and let’s turn that confusion into confidence (and maybe a little profit while we're at it). CCI's Real Power Most traders look at CCI as just another oscillator, a footnote in a textbook they skimmed during a free trial of an online course. But I’m here to let you in on a little secret: CCI is an underrated gem when it comes to spotting hidden opportunities in the Forex market. It’s like that strange-looking tool in your toolbox that you’ve never used, but when you finally figure out what it’s for, it saves you a ton of time—and maybe even keeps your thumb intact. The Commodity Channel Index, or CCI, measures price deviations from the statistical mean, basically giving you a heads-up when something’s about to go haywire. Imagine you’re walking on a bridge, and suddenly you hear a loud creak—that’s CCI telling you that something's about to break, either in your favor (cha-ching) or not (uh-oh). Now, most traders just use CCI to identify overbought or oversold levels. But here's where we turn things up a notch: CCI can help pinpoint divergences with stunning accuracy when you pair it with a bit of statistical magic. Picture this: you spot a divergence between CCI and price action, just as your neighbor is about to tell you how his cousin’s forex “sure thing” went belly-up. That's the moment when your Spidey-sense should be tingling, because an excellent trade setup could be on the horizon. The Underrated Art of Statistical Arbitrage: A Beginner’s Nightmare, A Pro’s Dream Let’s be real for a second—“statistical arbitrage” sounds like something only MIT graduates or Wall Street quants could appreciate. But let me tell you a secret that your broker would never admit: you don't need a degree in rocket science to master this. You just need a solid understanding of probabilities, correlations, and some mean-reversion magic. Statistical arbitrage is about as cool as buying ten-dollar shoes from a street vendor only to realize they’re actually Yeezys (and they're real!). It’s about finding pricing inefficiencies and riding them until equilibrium is restored—which, in Forex terms, is like waiting for the chaos of New York and London sessions to calm down and give you predictable, low-hanging fruit to harvest. To apply statistical arbitrage effectively, you want to focus on correlations between currency pairs. Think of currency pairs as dance partners at a wedding. Some pairs just can't keep away from each other—like EUR/USD and GBP/USD. When one takes a step forward, the other tends to follow. If you see one pair making a dramatic move while its “partner” seems to lag behind, congratulations—you just spotted a potential arbitrage opportunity. And the CCI? It’s your undercover agent, subtly pointing out the moments where one partner is about to make an unexpected twist. Pairing CCI With Statistical Arbitrage Here's the juicy part: when you combine CCI with statistical arbitrage, you create a sophisticated strategy that blends momentum with mean reversion—essentially getting the best of both worlds. Imagine a car with a jet engine and wings—you've got speed, lift, and way more excitement than anyone expected. Step-by-Step Game Plan: - Identify Correlated Pairs: First, grab your favorite correlation tool and determine which currency pairs are highly correlated. Let’s say we have EUR/USD and GBP/USD with a strong positive correlation. - Look for Divergences: Monitor the CCI for each of these pairs. What you're looking for are divergences—if EUR/USD is hitting an overbought level but GBP/USD’s CCI is in the oversold zone, that's like getting a text from the future saying, "Hey, something's about to happen!" - Time Your Entry: Use the divergence as your entry signal. If CCI tells you EUR/USD is overbought and GBP/USD is oversold, you could consider a strategy where you short EUR/USD and go long on GBP/USD simultaneously. - Manage Risk Wisely: Keep your positions tight—like your belt after Thanksgiving. Always remember that trading, especially with statistical arbitrage, involves calculated risks. Use stop-losses and keep position sizes modest to avoid big blowouts. Common Pitfalls Most Traders Fall Into (And How To Dodge Them) If you’ve been around the Forex block, you know there are some traps almost every trader falls into. Let's dissect a few, so you’re not the one buying a $20 haircut that ends up costing you a fortune in public embarrassment: 1. Assuming Correlations Are Forever: Correlations are like relationships—they’re dynamic, they change, and sometimes they break down without warning. It’s critical to keep track of changing correlations and adjust your approach accordingly. Just because two pairs were correlated last month doesn't mean they'll dance together forever. Keep your eyes open and always verify correlation strength. 2. Over-Reliance on CCI: CCI is an amazing tool, but it's not a crystal ball. Traders who get starry-eyed about one indicator can end up justifying bad trades instead of recognizing weak setups. Remember, the CCI is one piece of the puzzle—pair it with solid market context and risk management strategies. 3. Forgetting About Market Fundamentals: It's easy to get lost in charts and numbers. But the truth is, fundamental news events can wipe out even the prettiest technical setups. Don’t ignore that press conference from the ECB—if the fundamentals suggest a market-shaking change, statistical arbitrage can become extremely risky. Check the news before diving in, and you'll thank yourself later. The One Simple Trick That Can Change Your Trading Mindset One last secret for those who are still with me (you get a virtual high-five for making it this far): the best trades are often the simplest ones. Sure, combining CCI and statistical arbitrage sounds sophisticated—and it is—but the key here is simplicity in execution. When you're working with these tools, don’t overthink every twist and turn. The market doesn’t move to frustrate you, it moves according to supply and demand. Let the CCI alert you to changes, use statistical arbitrage to understand relationships, and don't let the complexity of the tools intimidate you. Remember, even the most advanced setups should feel almost boring once you understand them well enough. Want to Level Up? Here’s How If you’re ready to dive deeper into advanced Forex strategies and make sense of complex concepts like a seasoned pro, check out our services: - Latest Economic Indicators and Forex News: Get exclusive, real-time updates to make your trades count at StarseedFX Forex News. - Forex Education: Dive into advanced methodologies and secret tactics at Free Forex Courses. - Community Membership: Gain access to daily alerts, insider tips, and live trading insights at StarseedFX Community. Trading is a journey, and you’re always learning. Stick around, take advantage of what’s available to you, and keep your humor intact—it makes the drawdowns a lot easier to handle. —————– Image Credits: Cover image at the top is AI-generated   Read the full article

[xasha777]

In a world not unlike our own, where the line between science and magic blurred, the city of Neo-Gotham had always been a beacon of human ingenuity. The glittering skyscrapers, born from the restless dreams of architects and alchemists, stood tall against the canvas of the ever-changing sky.

But that day, the sky was an angry swirl of thunderheads, and the city was on the verge of despair. The citizens of Neo-Gotham had faced many challenges before—corporate warlocks, cybernetic beasts, rogue AIs—but the tempest above was the herald of something far more ancient and formidable.

Aranyaka, the primeval force of nature that had slumbered in the heart of the Neo-Gotham Central Park, had awakened. The very essence of wilderness, the spirit that predated the concrete jungles and neon lights, was stirring, its energies disrupting the fabric of the city.

Amidst this chaos, there emerged an unlikely hero. Whiskers fluttering in the storm, a feline figure stood proudly upon a gnarled branch that overlooked the metropolis. Clad in a shimmering cape with the emblem of a storied hero from another era, this was no ordinary cat.

His name was Leo, but the streets whispered his legend as "The Super Cat." Genetically enhanced by a forgotten technology, Leo possessed intellect and powers that rivaled the greatest superheroes of yore. His once-human companions had designed him as a protector, a guardian of the peace in a world teetering on the edge of tomorrow.

As the storm unleashed its fury upon Neo-Gotham, Leo's eyes glowed with a cosmic light. He could feel the pulse of Aranyaka, the wild heartbeat of the world, calling to him. It was a call to restore balance, to weave together the strands of science and nature that humanity had so carelessly unraveled.

With a graceful leap, Leo soared into the belly of the storm, his cape trailing like a comet's tail. The rain lashed at him, the winds roared their defiance, but Leo was resolute. He had to reach the core of the tempest, where Aranyaka's power was the strongest.

There, at the eye of the storm, Leo found the heart of Aranyaka—a vortex of primal energy, pulsing with life and ancient knowledge. It was not wrath that drove the spirit but a plea for recognition, for a place in the neon glow of the city it once called home.

Leo, with his paws channeling the ancient rites of the techno-mystics, began the dance of communion. He wove around him a tapestry of quantum spells and whispered enchantments that spoke of coexistence and harmony.

As the incantations grew stronger, the storm abated, the winds calmed, and the skies cleared to reveal the stars above. Neo-Gotham, bathed in the celestial light, looked on in wonder as their Super Cat descended, the tempest tamed and the spirit of Aranyaka soothed.

From that day forward, Neo-Gotham thrived like never before, a city in balance, where technology and nature existed as one. And at the heart of it all was Leo, the feline guardian, the bridge between worlds, the Super Cat who had saved them all.

[mint-moon25]

10 MUST HAVE gorgeous girly Summer outfits! 🤍 ~ Freddy My love

YESTERDAY - LESS - INTENSE

BUT - SHORT - HURRICANE FL

METROMOVER - STOPPED AT

BRICKELL - CITY - CENTRE

EIGHT STREET

THUS - DID - LIGHT - VERSION

LEILAH ISAAC - BELLY DANCE

NEW - YEAR's - BUT - MONDAY

MAIN - LIBRARY - CLOSED - SO

SAMSUNG - OFF - THUS - LEFT

DURING - BREAK OF - IAN - YES

NO - 'TRANSPORTATION' - BUT

$$$ - STORAGE - SO - WALKED

WENT - AGAIN - SW 7 ST - YES

OLD - STORAGE - SW 2 AV - SO

LIGHT - RAIN - WALKED - THAT

BRIDGE - THAT - GOES - UP SO

GOING - DOWN - FLOOD - THE

R SIDE - WORRIED - CROSSED

FAST - L SIDE - SAW -

SW 3 ST - GUESS - EDGE - OF

STREET - I SLEEP - ON GRAY

FENCE 24/7 - PAY BY PHONE

PARKING - I SAW - MALE YES

WITH - PUBLIX - BAG SAW -

HIM - WONDERED - WHAT -

PUBLIX - ITS - THE - 9 ST 4 -

OVER - 5 MIN - WALKING -

ONLY - TAKES - LONG TO -

GO 2 - METROMOVER SO -

WILL - FIND - GUY - CAN I -

HAVE - ELECTRICITY AND -

FOLDABLE - ELECTIC YES -

KETTLE - SMALL BACK OF -

MEASURING - TAPE - ONLY -

17 CM - BY 13 CM - CUTEST -

FOUND - SMALLER 2 BAGS -

RED - PINK OVER - $11 AND -

WATERPROOF - BACK FOR -

LUGGAGE - THOUGH - WILL -

GET - OTHER - SAVINGS XO -

RIGHT - NOW - THUS - TAKE -

BRIDGE - THE - UNDERLINE -

AND - 9TH ST - PUBLIX AND -

OVER - 5 MIN - WALKING SO -

SAVED - MYSELF - 15 MIN TO -

GO - 2 - INNER - LOOP - EXIT -

BAYFRONT PARK - WALKING -

IS - GROOVY - EVERYTHING -

IS - WORKING - OUT - YEAH -

JESUS - IS - LORD - GIVERS -

FOOD - DRINK - CLOTHES -

HISPANICS - & CATHOLICS -

99% - SUPER - COOL - YES

[b0kksu]

   The beauty of luscious green that he once tended to with nimble hands, warmth that exhibits itself in long digits, he loved the way each vine would grow. In these halls, his figure would move with a feline-like elegance, the eternal boy that burned with a purity all too lost in this cruel world, he would laugh && call it home. The song remains the same, encapsulated in times, a reputation that forced his hands to move in the same rhythm, just like before, one, two, three - dance. All that is missing was sunlight, the absence that grows thick over time && somewhere, in the void of darkness he wondered if his heart became lost too. Satoru could not weep, crying was an unthinkable act, he was to be higher than a regular ghoul, a dream that no human could conjure up in their wildest of fantasies.

    Why was he here? In mid air, his fingers stop && eerie nature the all perfection in pristine white appears confused. I live here, he wants to retort, I have lived here long before && even when you were gone. In another life, the bench would be occupied by them both, there would never be an empty seat in the audience. “My house is near, the train station isn’t too far, don’t you remember?” luxurious neighbors with their pristine French deco homes, obscene wealth && fancy cars, he walked their streets - none were the wiser. Satoru, Satoru, Satoru they sang his name in saccharine coos, interviews, glossy magazine sheets with his image upon them, would they butcher their idol if they knew the reality? Without hesitation.  His eyes roll, behind the designer brand glasses that sit on the bridge of his nose - this time, the wire frame is switched for red glossy cherry, jelly like, absurdly carefree.

  “It’s fine, I bought it yesterday, it won’t spoil” he doesn’t elaborate any deeper, there was no need, those who could not hunt had the option of meat via butchers - the irony made him want to laugh. There’s a low hiss, guttural && irritated, he loved that song. Precious, like a prayer he selfishly made when everything told him to become an altar, the fabled one eyed god who must give, even when his corpse was licked clean, his bones would never be his own. “Stop, I’m not arguing with you anymore” exasperated he sounds nostalgic, the phantom-like mimicry of their collective story, Suguru always worries even when he had no obligation. Hunger is another word for yearning, in a world where might && strength triumphed over all, he had no qualms cackling in the midst of a battle high; then, why must it be so difficult to protest when they were together? “You’re not supposed to be here” neither is he.

      The single bed that nudges sweetly against the window, he wants to curl into the soft fabric && wait till morning, let the light kiss his cool cheeks, feed the absence of a love that has paused once used to. Immaculate nails curl into his palms, leaving behind crescent indents, the eye weeps && red always remained to be his color. It’s low, a desperate chitter that entwines itself in the casualty of their shared dialect, a lilt that rivals the melody he plays spoken sweetly && heart wrenching.

     “You’re just as starved as I, don’t you see it? A couple of pastries can’t fill our bellies. Not even a fresh kill, it’s why we can’t leave this place, the fridge could be filled with the most sweetest of cuts && we’d still starve to death” his pale grasp reaches upwards, coiling around the other’s wrist && there is a hesitation in his touch as he taunts. “My mate used to feed me from his palms, he knew each cut, there are times I ponder - does he remember or has he willfully forgotten?”   

The small gods of the sacred places Geto Suguru penetrates in his forbidden return knew the truth: his whole existence was a violation. It's in the creaking of the wooden floors and the low humming of the refrigerator kept well-stocked and running ( no one's turned off the electricity here; someone's still paying the bills and leaving foot prints on the carpet, so the spores never have a chance to settle even if the still air grows stale and bitter with time — but no one lives here anymore; they just come and go, shake the dust and breathe in mothballs like imperfect guests in the wake of perfect residents laid to rest with one last goodbye that spans the length of his whole life and follows him like the corpse of his errors and the spirit in his ear that asks: is the house haunted or is it him? look at you, Suguru, always making ghosts for yourself but you can't stay dead / you can't stay gone / why'd you even leave? ), and how the apartment sighs when inhabited by bodies that have never left. Not really, anyway.

( He closes his eyes and he's sixteen again, with his whole life ahead of him, and this place is home and not a hiding place: a place he hides in his heart, a place that stays hidden, a place he wishes he could hide. He feels like a stranger in this place. )

“Why are you here?” He addresses the wraith sat on the piano bench, but it's only a delusion to think Satoru remains untouched by time even if he plays the same song. It's missing violin accompaniment: a companion ( and whose fault is that? ). He stops to listen to the melody of the past as Satoru talks about modern things with a thin voice. It's the fault of humans. “Don't tell me you're hiding from Doves and starving yourself. Waiting for a sale?” There's no point in waiting for the perfect moment. “You should take what you need from them. I'll check the meat.” ( In this way, he makes himself useful. ) “If it's gone bad, we're going hunting. The Family Mart's open 24/7.” Everyone needs to make ends meet. He thinks they needed it more than them. He thinks they have never really been hungry enough if they call places of nourishment convenience stores. All humans cared about was their own convenience. That's all the more reason Suguru, a ghoul whose existence was inconvenient, needed to take from them. They've taken something from him; among their history of taking, they've committed a theft most unforgivable. They've stolen something they should never have touched as long as he was alive. “Satoru.”

He closes the lid to the piano and hides the monochrome keys that divide the song in black and white. “You're coming with me. I can tell you're hungry.”

[murderousginger]

Wild Heart

John Shelby x reader

Word count: 1126

Warnings: They're criminals guys, they do bad things.

This song requested by @peakyrogers. John's 16 in this, before the war.

1911

Their laughter echoed the halls, louder than the grunts and grumbling of the officers dragging them both to the cells.

"They're both fuckin' mad," one of the officers exclaimed as he yanked John's arm to keep him from kicking another officer. 

Two officers held your arms as you laughed and fought behind John and the three officers holding him. You both stunk of whiskey and were dazed, wild eyed and hyper.

"They say we're mad, John boy," you cackled, throwing your head back and almost headbutting an officer behind you. 

"Mad as hatters, doll," John yipped as he bucked backward from their grip and crashed into you, kissing you hard before they pulled you apart. 

"Separate cells," one of the officers yelled to the one unlocking a cell ahead. "We'll need separate cells or else she'll be knocked up by morning."

"You think bars'll stop that if we want it?" John laughed as they threw him in the drunk tank with two other men. He grabbed the bars and swung around as he made a wild call.

They opened the next cell over and pushed you in. You stumbled into the cell before you gathered your footing and rushed to the shared wall. John followed, cupping your face as you both kissed through the bars.

"Young lust, eh?" One of the officers laughed. 

And maybe it was, but neither of you cared. 

The night had started like any other. You both snuck out of your houses and met each other on the cobblestone in hushed giggles. John spun you until you squealed and kissed you to quiet you, laughing against your lips. He took your hand and you both ran down the road until you were to the canal. 

John's grin split his face as he pulled a full bottle of whiskey from a bush. 

"You plannin' on getting me drunk and takin' advantage of me, John Shelby?" You asked with a smile. 

"Who's to say you won't take advantage of me?" He scoffed. "Those eyes don't look so innocent."

"Guess we'll have to find out," you sang as you came close and kissed him before wrestling the bottle from his hand and skipping off.

And drunk you both were. 

You had finished off the bottle and got bored dancing through the empty streets, so John had decided to drag you to the local tavern to find his older brothers. 

"The kids got a visitor," an officer called an hour later as he opened the door for an older boy to walk through. 

John yipped. 

"Arthur!" He called as he stood up and opened his arms. "Never thought I'd be so happy to see your ugly mug."

"Now, brother, don't go insulting your savior," the boy warned with a finger. "You're lucky I answered the door without Pol waking up."

"Oh she most certainly woke up," an agitated voice called out.

"Bloody hell, John," the older boy chuckled. "You're in for it now."

"Shut up, Arthur, as if you're any better," the woman snapped as she tugged a sleepy child behind her and a teen girl rested in the doorway. "What in the hell did you do now, John Shelby? What did he do?"

"Fuckin' hell," John said as he rubbed his face. "Where's Tommy to make it a whole body family affair?"

"Gone in the night but not caught by the coppers," the woman quipped. "So what did he do?"

The woman glared at the policemen fiercely, waiting for an answer. One of the policemen finally stepped forward. 

"He and the girl were making mischief, mum," he said. "They were throwing bottles at people and the boy got in a fist fight."

"It's always some bloody girl," she growled as she scanned the room and locked eyes with you. "This the tarte?"

"Seeing as I'm the only girl behind bars, ma'am, I'd hope so," you giggled drunkenly.  "Otherwise our John has some explaining to do."

Your eyes floated to John, whose demeanor has completely changed. He was stiff-backed and his face had fallen. He shot you a glance, making a quick cutting motion with his hand. 

"So you've found a girl just as stupid as you," the woman said as she cocked her eyebrow. "No wonder you're behind bars tonight. What's your name, tarte?"

"Y/N, ma'am," you said quietly as your hands fidgeted with your dress. 

"I got her into this, Pol," John said as he stepped closer to the bars.

"Aunt Pol," the woman snapped. "You're still under my care and if you're going to grovel, do it properly."

"Aunt Polly," John corrected as his hands reached the bars and he pressed his face to them. "It's all my doing, really. I'm to blame. It's not fair to keep her here all night because of me."

"And who said you weren't staying in that cell tonight?" Polly eyed him. "I've a mind to let them keep you. What happened to your lip?"

"We both know you wouldn't drag everyone out of bed to show me off like a pony just to leave me here," John reasoned. "Especially with work in the morning."

"He split his lip fighting for me, ma'am," you said quietly as you stepped forward. "A man had grabbed me and he was defending my honor."

You reached the bars near the corner closest to John and he silently reached for your hand. You clasped his hand in baited breath as you waited for Polly to speak.

Polly looked between you both and then at your hands, held between bars. 

"I've barely enough to get your arse out," Polly sighed as she pinched the bridge of her nose. 

"I've got it," Arthur spoke up. "I can cover her if you've got John. Was the plan to get him out without bothering you, anyway, until Ada woke you."

"So Ada's the rat," John said as he stuck his tongue out at the teen girl with her arms crossed by the door. "See if I keep quiet about that boy next time, dear sister."

Ada flushed and rolled her eyes as Polly and Arthur's eyes shot to the girl. 

"Bloody teenagers," Polly muttered before looking back to the policeman. "Fine then, let them out. I'll take them both. Bloody idiots."

1914

"Are you coming back?" You said, refusing to let go of John. "Please tell me you're coming back."

Your fingers gripped his uniform, wrinkling the fabric as he hugged you back tightly before pulling you away from his chest. His hand rested protectively over your swollen belly as the train whistled behind him. 

"I'd be crazy not to," he said with a soft smile. 

"They say we're mad, John," you whispered hoarsely as he kissed your forehead.

"Mad as hatters, doll."