#We look goofy with these un-backed up claims

[antiyourwokehomophobia2]

I ain't gonna lie, I do noooot think radblr is gonna come out of this Imane Khelif thing unscathed. Like, y'all, I'm sorry, but there is not enough evidence for some of y'all to confidently call this person male and say some of the stuff you've been saying. At the very least you have to acknowledge that Khelif did not compete against women with malicious intent.

[littlelovelyspiderling]

Meeting The Real You (Chapter 7)

Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2 -- Chapter 3 -- Chapter 4 -- Chapter 5 -- Chapter 6 -- Chapter 7 -- Chapter 8

word count: 15,303

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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 her 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 his sister 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 you?”

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 only 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 it 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 affection 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 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 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 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 hero 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, fumbling for 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, he 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 masked 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. “God dammit, webhead,” 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 into 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. Understood?”

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, Spidey! 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 he 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 sobbing 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 young woman 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 woman 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 son 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, Matchstick? 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 wide eyes. 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, Torchy? 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 okay?”

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. But the driver just 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 wonder who 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, bleeding, and tremendously bruised, 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 his heart thumping inside his chest. 

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

Even so, the Human Torch hugged him a couple seconds longer, only letting go after the kid 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 accident happened. 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 leeching a scary amount of blood down his chest 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. 

“No 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 out of here,” 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 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. 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 malice, 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, 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 his 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 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 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 he 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. 

[jovialyouthmusic]

Special Delivery

Fabio and I share a bottle of wine and discuss previous relationships.

Word Count 2993

No warnings - just a few feelings and a bit of sexual tension No under 18s please

8 What Came Before?

It was late afternoon on the day my new lodger moved in. He retreated to his room after Martin’s visit, and came out when he heard me clattering around in the kitchen.

‘I can help?’ he asked.

‘You say can I help? I corrected him.

‘Ah.’ he sighed. ‘I never learn.’

‘Don’t worry.’ I reassured him ‘I like the way you speak, and you make yourself understood very well. Your vocabulary is really good, but the tenses are difficult. I looked into learning a couple of other languages a little while ago, but most of them have masculine and feminine forms, and that really confuses me.’

‘Ah yes, that is all normal for me.’ He gestured at the salad ingredients. ‘I get these ready if you like?’

‘Okay.’ I smiled ‘Do you want an apron?’ I tugged at my own apron just in case he didn’t know the word. He nodded. ‘I have just the right one for you then.’ I giggled, reaching into a drawer to bring one out that was made to look like a dinner jacket and bow tie. He grinned.

‘Perfecto! I look smart, yes?’ He put it on and struck a pose, hand on his cheek, looking off into the distance, one of the poses that had made my heart beat a little faster when I had seen it on Instagram.

‘You do’. I smiled. I got on with grilling the salmon while he washed and cut up the lettuce and rocket. I told him how to make the dressing, and before long the meal was ready. I put a small portion of fish out for Ginger, who I had shut out of the room while we cooked. He rushed in and wolfed it down eagerly. I hoped he would go and sleep it off rather than sit and stare at me as I ate my dinner. Fabio reached into the fridge, where he had put the bottle of wine he’d brought, and opened it while I got out the wine glasses. We went through to the dining room, the table set out neatly. I loved having a separate dining room and putting everything out just so, with flowers and napkins – it made meal times more of an occasion. Earlier on I had prepared strawberries for dessert, washing and cutting them up and putting a little sugar on them before placing the bowl in the fridge. He poured the wine while I waited.

‘Salud, to my new English home, and my new beautiful friend.’ he said, raising his glass, and I reached out with mine to clink them together, feeling my cheeks heat up.

‘Bottoms up.’ I said, without thinking. For a moment he looked puzzled, then he laughed loudly. I blushed even more, but he set me at my ease.

‘Ah, you mean the bottom of the glass.’

‘You can say cheers or to your health.’ I explained ‘bottoms up is rather – informal.’ I refrained from saying cheeky in case that got me in hot water.

‘Thankyou for telling me - it sounds very English.’ He waved his fork in the air ‘Tomorrow we go out to eat, yes? I pay.’

‘That would be nice. You can say my treat if you like. There’s an place on the coast that does great bar meals, very English. We can go there after our walk.’

‘Si, it sounds good. Do we need to book?’

‘Not usually, but I can do to make sure.’ I replied. We began eating, the fish fragrant and tasty, the salad crisp and the dressing piquant. The wine went down nicely, and he kept my glass topped up.

‘We get just a little drunk.’ He winked. ‘But I don’t throw stones at the window.’

‘You don’t need to, you’re already inside.’ I said drily.

‘That is true.’ he grinned, sitting back in his chair, stretching, his hand behind his head. I reached out to clear our empty plates.

‘Strawberries?’ I asked ‘I have Greek yogurt too. To be properly English we should have them with cream, but I think that’s a little calorific – and I like Greek yogurt.’ He made the gesture again with his thumb and forefinger touching, kissing his fingers and raising his hand

‘Perfecto.’ he grinned, obviously relaxed from the wine, as was I. I presented him with a bowl of the red fruit, bringing the yogurt in with a spoon. He picked a piece up ‘Try this’ he said, and dropped it into his glass ‘Is better with champagne or prosecco, but is good’

‘I’ve heard of prosecco and strawberries’ I replied ‘I’ve never tried it though’ I dropped a piece in my drink and swirled it round. A little of the sugar clung to the fruit, and when I drank it sweetened the wine, while the strawberry was a little tart. I became aware that Fabio was intently watching me as my lips parted to suck the strawberry from the glass. He kept eye contact with me as he sucked his from the wine and rolled it around his mouth. Heat pooled in my belly and I felt a little light headed from the wine.

‘Is good, no?’ he smiled seductively, quirking an eyebrow.

‘Mmmm.’ I replied, spooning the yogurt into my bowl to try and break the spell he had on me. He reached out for the pot when I had done, and ladled a dollop onto his. He took his time with dessert, toying with his spoon and savouring every mouthful until his bowl was empty. I went to take the empty bowl, but he reached across and stopped me, his hand on mine. Our eyes locked as a little jolt of electricity travelled up my arm, and my cheeks flamed red.

‘Is okay, I wash up.’ He said ‘Go, take your glass and sit in the lounge.’

‘I – umm - don’t bother to dry things. I usually leave things and put them away later. I – it annoys me if things aren’t in the right place.’ I couldn’t handle standing next to him drying the dishes, I decided, and although my house was often cluttered and disorganised, in the kitchen everything had its place so that it was easy to cook.

‘You teach me where things go tomorrow.’ he smiled, and stood, taking the bowls and spoons out. I rose onto shaky legs to pick up the yogurt to put it away, then went through to the lounge. I sat in the easy chair and curled up, comfortably full and a little tipsy, taking a deep calming breath. The couch was dangerous territory, I told myself, and leaned forward to put my glass on the coffee table. Ginger was curled up on the couch and opened his eyes to look at me sleepily before dozing off again.

I listened to Fabio washing up in the kitchen. It was good to have company, even company that made my knees go weak and my heart flutter. I told myself he couldn’t possibly feel anything for me, being used to rubbing shoulders with beautiful models. I was just ordinary, my only claim to being exotic in his eyes was my nationality. Of course he was flirting with me, good looking men like him just did that naturally, I told myself. Perhaps he didn’t even know how he was affecting me.

Fabio came into the room with his glass and the rest of the bottle, almost empty now. He sank down onto the couch and Ginger made a little sound of surprise.

‘El gato churo.’ he smiled, and reached out to stroke him. The cat stretched out luxuriously and exposed his belly, a goofy expression on his furry face. I envied him his relaxed acceptance of my new lodger and his total lack of restraint or self consciousness.

‘So we are a little drunk.’ he said, raising his gaze to mine. ‘Relaxed, no?’

‘Solo un poco.’ just a little. I admitted.

‘Martin, he is a good friend?’ he asked, turning the conversation in a direction I hadn’t expected.

‘He is. We talk a lot, about all sorts of things.’

‘He tries to protect you. I think he doesn’t like me.’

‘It’s only natural I suppose. He’s like a brother to me.’ my breath caught in my throat as Fabio gave me a slow smile. ‘I’m an only child – no brothers or sisters’ I said quickly.

‘Senora, you said your head and your heart tell you different things.’ He leaned his elbow on the back of the couch, his cheek resting on his palm.

‘Doesn’t everybody feel the same way?’ I asked ‘your heart tells you to – to jump in, not think about the consequences, and your head tells you to stop. I suppose mostly my head wins.’

‘You mean with love? You have had a boyfriend – or someone special before?’

‘Of course, I’m only human. Nothing longer than a couple of years, mostly just months.’

‘Me also. Perhaps every now and again it is good to jump in, otherwise we are lonely.’ His words made me suddenly feel sorry for him.

‘You’re lonely, Fabio?’ I asked softly. He shifted self consiously.

‘I travel alone. I have friends here and there, but when you move around so much it is difficult.’

‘I’m sorry. Sometimes I feel lonely too, but most of the time I don’t mind.’

‘If I was not here?’ he asked, the end of his question hanging in the air.

‘I’d take in a lodger, maybe not as soon as this, but unless I meet Mr Right One, I guess Ginger would be my companion.’ He smiled and stroked Ginger, who was now sitting with his paws tucked under his body, his head dropping forward sleepily.

‘Lucky cat, to live in this English house, quiet and happy. Rabbits to chase, a warm place to sleep, someone to look after him if he gets sick.’

‘Fabio…’ I started, but he interrupted me.

‘I’m sorry senora, perhaps I move too fast, I…’ he paused and reached into his back pocket for his phone to translate his thoughts ‘I think that maybe you want…’ he rubbed his forehead. ‘Perhaps the wine is talking.’

‘We should just be friendly for now.’ I said gently ‘it’s easy to get carried away.’ He smiled ruefully.

‘Your head is strong. Your heart…’

‘My heart needs a little more time’ I explained ‘It doesn’t always lose, sometimes my head realises that my heart is right. We only met a few days ago.’ He nodded sagely.

‘That is true senora. Tell me, you like me calling you Lisa?’

‘Lisa is fine.’ I replied ‘How about you? Do you have a nickname? Something shorter?’ he shrugged.

‘Not really’ he smiled.

‘You know, the first part of your name – Fab – is like ‘fabulous. How about Fabby?’ He grinned widely.

‘I like Fabby. You use that. Is almost the same in Spanish - fabuloso’ He stretched and took his glass up again, taking a sip and putting it back down again. He looked very relaxed, long legged, his ankle resting on his knee, his arms spread wide along the back of the couch.

‘So you and Martin. You are just friends? Always?’

‘Yes, always, though I had a bit of a crush on him when we met. He was married though, and by the time he was free we were – just friends. I don’t think of him that way, and his life is very complicated.’ We spent a little more time talking about old partners, falling into a comfortable place. Eventually Fabricio yawned.

‘I am tired.’ he announced ‘I think I will go to my room. Tomorrow we go for a walk – you said the coast?’

‘Yes’ I smiled.

‘And you listen to your head, let your heart get used to things.’ he smiled, standing. I stood to pick up the glasses and bottle. He moved toward me, then stopped, thoughtful.

‘Do friends whose hearts are waiting hug each other?’ he asked ‘Is alright?

‘I think so.’ I replied, putting the glasses back down. I walked into his embrace and he held me tight. It was different to hugging Martin – I felt it was something Fabio needed, something that grounded him, but there was an undercurrent, a feeling of potential. I felt him sigh happily, then he drew back and kissed me on the cheek. Doing anything more daring was not a good idea after the wine, I told myself with a little pang of regret.

‘Sleep well. Do you need anything?’

‘No, is fine. I see you in the morning. Is okay to shower when I get up?’

‘Of course, the door has a lock on it, and I’ll hear you. This is your home.’

‘My English home. Goodnight my friend.’

-------

I slept surprisingly well that night, but I closed my bedroom door which did not please Ginger at all. He fussed to be let in, and settled down with a little grumble. At two o’clock in the morning I relented and left the door open when he yowled at me, but he didn’t return until he decided it was breakfast time. He was so insistent that I thought I would risk going downstairs in my dressing gown. I could hear the shower running in the bathroom and calculated that I had time to complete my task before he emerged, so I went to feed Ginger and put the kettle on for coffee. I started out to go back upstairs to get dressed when I realised the sound of the kettle boiling had masked the sounds from the bathroom, and Fabrio emerged, clad only in a towel wrapped around his waist.

My breath caught in my throat at the sight of his bare chest, unwaxed and unshaved with dark hair forming a trail that lead down below the towel. His hair was wet and tousled from towel drying and steam billowed out from the bathroom. He was barefoot and grinned at me disarmingly.

‘Buenos días senora.’ he said as I gripped the newel post to stop my legs from giving way. The scent of his shower gel flooded the hall and I managed to return his greeting.

‘Good Morning Fabio. Did you sleep well?’

‘Muy beuno. Is quiet here. El gato – Ginger, he came to sleep on my bed when I got up for the bathroom.’ I eyed the cat, who had strolled out from the kitchen licking his chops and making for a comfortable place to digest his food. He avoided Fabio’s bare legs, but went to his door and looked up at him, mewing to demand entrance. ‘Ginger, you are bad.’ he scolded ‘You go to Lisa, not me.’

‘I’m so sorry. If you don’t want him in your room…’

‘Is okay, I don’t mind, but he should be more – faithful.’ I shrugged

‘Cats are very independent. I’m glad he likes you, it means you’re not a threat.’ Fabio gave me a smouldering look, and I pulled my dressing gown closer around me. He looked back down at the cat, nodding sagely.

‘Ginger, you are a good wing man. You make me look good.’ He laughed loudly and the cat glared at him and stalked off to the lounge.

‘I uh – I’ll get dressed and we can have breakfast.’

‘Thankyou Lisa.’ He shook his head at me, his hair flopping over his forehead. He pulled at it ‘I do this and then I join you.’

It wasn’t long before we met again in the kitchen, both fully dressed, Fabio’s jet black hair styled and glossy. I made coffee and showed him what was available for breakfast.

‘Have you ever had porridge?’ I asked ‘It’s more Scottish than English. In the USA they call it oatmeal.’

‘Si, I have it before.’

‘I like to cut up banana and cook it with oats and water, and I add something sweet – honey is good, and a splash of milk. The Scots like it with salt.’ He looked thoughtful.

‘Make it the way you like it, and I try it.’

‘Okay, if you go and sit down I’ll get it ready.’ He took his coffee and phone and went into the dining room, and ten minutes later we were sitting together eating and looking out at the garden.

‘Ginger will love it when he’s allowed out.’ I said ‘He probably won’t bother sleeping on my bed if it’s warm outside.’ Fabio looked at me.

‘El gato, he is not sure who to sleep with now. This is good.’ he waved his spoon over his bowl ‘Very healthy, yes?’

‘Thanks. You can make it richer if you make it with milk instead of water. You can put sultanas in, or any kind of fruit you like.’

‘Strawberries?’ He asked, and I nodded, remembering how we had flirted over strawberries and wine the night before.

‘I like bananas best.’

‘You don’t have to feed me all the time, senora.’ he said ‘today we eat out, and on my next day off, I make paella.’

‘Okay, I can put aside space in the cupboard and fridge for any food you want to cook, but otherwise you can share most things – if you’re not sure, just ask.’ 

When we had finished, Fabio washed up for me again, and I showed him where to put things away in the kitchen. I was getting more comfortable having him around, but there was still an undercurrent, the sense of possibility. I had wanted excitement – but as usual my head had put the brakes on, and I hoped I could overcome that and manage to go toward that goal again very soon.

[shawn-does-stuff]

Shawn Mendes: ‘I’m 20. I want to have fun’

by Michael Cragg

Shawn Mendes is the red-hot poster boy of pop. His videos have been viewed 6bn times and he has more than 42m followers on Instagram. But don’t worry if you haven’t heard of him… just ask a teenager

Shawn Mendes is standing in his underpants in a suite on the fifth floor of a London hotel as a 200-strong crowd of screaming teenage girls gathers outside. “Everyone who doesn’t need to be in the room, leave the room,” he says politely but firmly, in a soft Canadian drawl. Pop’s current poster boy should be used to causing a stir. His #MyCalvins campaign (following in the footsteps of Justin Bieber in 2016) broke the internet earlier this year, inching the 20-year-old teen phenomenon – three US chart-topping albums, 30m monthly listeners on Spotify, more than 6bn video views – closer to tabloid supremacy and global domination.

At the Brit Awards that night, Mendes will cringe as presenter Jack Whitehall ribs him about “suspicious packages”, so it’s curious to hear him describe the Calvin Klein opportunity – and the subsequent results pored over by his 42m Instagram followers – as “a goal of mine at the top of 2018. As much as it’s a stepping stone for me to play a stadium, it’s a huge moment for me to step in front of a camera and take my shirt off. I don’t see one being less meaningful than the other.”

The air is thick with earnestness as we sit down for lunch in the hotel restaurant. I blurt out a question about whether he had to wear extra padding. “No,” he says, eyebrow raised. “They’re really good underwear.” Did they send you some free ones? “Yeah, I have boxes of them at home.” He lifts up the bottom edge of his T-shirt and pulls at the waistband of his underwear before quickly pulling his shirt back down. You’re not wearing them today are you? “Not right now,” he says sheepishly. “I should be.”

Mendes’s boy-next-door appeal and laser-guided ambition feels rather wholesome, with his sensitive, heart-on-sleeve pop-rock bops such as 2015’s UK chart-topper Stitches, positioning him as perfect boyfriend material in pop’s all important fantasy world. If Bieber is the unknowable loose cannon, then Mendes is pop’s picture-perfect head boy. But it’s clear that exposing himself so literally has its downside. “The last 48 hours have been so consuming, just reading what people are saying about me [on social media],” he sighs. Do you have to read it? “No, but there’s something about being human that makes you. I’m scared of social media and how much it affects me,” he continues. “It’s literally become infused with who I am.”

Last October he apologised to his 21m Twitter followers, claiming he was worried that what he was posting wasn’t meaningful enough. “For the first time I realised how many people are listening,” he says. He now monitors how often he goes online and tries to take regular breaks, using meditation to relax. “I don’t think of myself as conceited, but I definitely spend a lot of time reading about myself,” he says.

Mendes famously has three daily rules – going to the gym, two vocal lessons and never saying no to a selfie with a fan. He’s managed the first two so far and “took about 200 selfies yesterday”. Despite this, his rise has chimed with a shift in the upper echelons of pop – its recent exponents being anti-pop stars Adele, Ed Sheeran and (with her goofy dancing style and eternal quest for relatability) Taylor Swift, who’s now a friend. Even One Direction – whose blend of teen-orientated, guitar-led pop paved the way for Mendes – always felt like they were trying to play down the pop star element.

“The more open the world is getting, the more people are craving real,” he says. “I don’t think people want to see a made-up person. [In the past] there’s been a lot of dressing up, and I still think that stuff is amazing – like I’ll wear a sleeveless top – but at the end of it, when it comes down to you, I think it’s about being authentic.” For all this talk of authenticity and being like everyone else, I tell him, you’re also a pop star begging people to look at you. Do you have to believe your own hype? “Of course,” he says, his eyes darting over my shoulder to the mirrored wall behind. “You have to. If you wake up every day and say, ‘I’m OK,’ you’re going to just be that. If you wake up everyday and look at yourself in the mirror and say, ‘I’m great, let’s go sell out that stadium,’ then you will.”

You could say he’s been in motivational training for a while now, having started out as a 14-year-old YouTube star, uploading acoustic covers of songs (Bieber, among others), before switching to the now defunct social media platform Vine. He taught himself to play the guitar via YouTube tutorials at home in the small town of Pickering, Ontario, while one of his first public performances was in a plaza in Portugal where his family – mum Karen, a British estate agent, dad Manny, a Portuguese businessman, and younger sister Aaliyah – were holidaying. While his parents were shopping, Mendes hopped up next to a statue and belted out a Bruno Mars song. “I was sweating and I thought, ‘Dude, if you want to be a singer, you’ve got to at least be able to stand on this statue and sing,’” he says of that moment.

Where was that pressure coming from? “It was from myself, which is pretty much a big statement on my personality at 14 years old.”

While he says he loved school, his early fame – after signing to Island Records his debut single, Life of the Party, was released when he was just 15 – meant he was bullied. “People were cruel at first,” he says, clearing his throat and fiddling with the rim of a cup of green tea. “They just thought it was so stupid.” He’d skip school every Friday to attend influencer events in which social media stars met fans who already assumed they were friends. “I was taking 1,500 selfies a night,” he laughs. “You quickly learn that what you love to do is a job, but I don’t resent what I do. I don’t hate taking selfies.”

Success was rapid, with his third single Stitches breaking the US top five and peaking at number one in the UK. That same year he supported Swift on her 1989 stadium tour. How did he cope? “This life is more real to me than anything,” he says. “If I were to walk down the street and no one recognised me, I’d feel something was wrong. When I was really young [fame] morphed who I was. If it was to become normal, it would feel un-normal to me.”

From the outside, I say, the other recent pop artists who can relate to that are Britney Spears or Bieber, people who have had issues with growing up in the spotlight. “A couple of times I’ve worried about that, too, but outside of all this I live a really normal life,” he says slowly. “You have to make an effort to carry your own bags, drive your own car and not be afraid of the public. I don’t blame people at all who stay inside. I understand how it could be terrifying to go to a restaurant and eat because you’re scared someone’s going to take a photo of you.”

Is that more intrusive than a selfie? “I’ve been so lucky that fans have been taking photos of me eating since I was 15, so I’m a little bit numb to it,” he says, his tone rarely deviating from preternaturally calm. There’s probably an Instagram account called Shawn Mendes Eating, I joke (I check later and while there’s no account, there is a hashtag to follow). Can it feel as if he’s being watched? “I’m inherently [aware of] that all the time.” If it ever gets too much, he leaves rather than making a scene. Are you a people-pleaser, I ask? “Yeah, is that bad?” he smiles. “It can lead to failure, but if I fail trying to please everyone, then that’s OK.”

Mendes spends a lot of time contemplating people’s perceptions of him. Last year he publicly criticised a Rolling Stone cover story, expressing his regret that “the positive side of a story doesn’t always get fully told”. I assume it’s because the piece mentioned his penchant for smoking weed, a detail that had upset some fans. “That didn’t bother me,” he smiles. “Actually, I was happy about that because maybe it’s OK for them to understand that weed’s not a big deal.” He says he hasn’t smoked in three months.

Another part of the story focused on rumours about his sexuality. “For me it’s hurtful,” he says. “I get mad when people assume things about me because I imagine the people who don’t have the support system I have and how that must affect them.” (In late 2017 he posted an emotional Snapchat story: “First of all, I’m not gay. Second of all, it shouldn’t make a difference if I was or wasn’t.”) He sighs and says: “That was why I was so angry, and you can see I still get riled up, because I don’t think people understand that when you come at me about something that’s stupid you hurt so many other people. They might not be speaking, but they’re listening.”

He says the reason he criticised the article was over a small detail in which he mentioned Dua Lipa and her boyfriend, and how amazing it looked to be in love. “It made me seem so creepy,” he says. “If anything, the article made me realise your career isn’t over if people think you’re not perfect.” You could see how the creepy singleton tag might irk him, and also why it might stick – a lot of Mendes’s biggest singles play on the idea of him as the emotionally needy bloke who gets messed around and comes back for more.

Are you bored of being The Nice Guy? He splutters, clears his throat and sits bolt upright. “Yeah, I am! It sounds so stupid – to be a nice person is the best thing in the world – but, yeah, I’m 20 and I just want to have fun. What I don’t want to do is live the rest of my life thinking, ‘I wouldn’t do that because I’m known as Prince Charming.’ The second that someone corners you into a personality, you don’t want to be that person any more.”

Two weeks later, Mendes is onstage in Amsterdam. In keeping with the floral artwork for his recent self-titled album, a 50ft rose snakes up to the ceiling from the so-called B-stage where he’ll later serenade the throngs of teenage fans and nodding dads with a handful of ballads. Replica light-up roses (€20 a pop at the merch stand) bob about in the dark as Mendes runs through a hugely entertaining, PG-13 simulacrum of a rock show to ear-bleeding screams (“God I’m so old,” a woman sitting behind me yells as she surveys the crowd).

Keen to further align himself with the pantheon of rock’s smiliest exponents, tonight Mendes segues from a cover of Coldplay’s big-hearted anthem Fix You into his own, the Kings of Leon-esque In My Blood, a song that surprised fans by touching on depression. Tonight it’s transformed – with the help of a ticker tape explosion – into something close to catharsis.

“There’s nothing like being on stage – you feel like Superman!” he’d said earlier, claiming it to be better than sex or any high. “My goal now is to enjoy what I do more and more because otherwise it doesn’t fucking matter. I used to think it was all about the crowd, but I have to be happy within myself.” As he takes his millionth selfie, his face radiating pure elation, you believe he might be.

Shawn Mendes plays London O2 on 16, 17 and 19 April

Fashion editor Helen Seamons; grooming by Anna Thompson using Bobbi Brown and Monat; lighting by Michael Furlonger and Tilly Pearson; digital operator John Munro; fashion assistant Penny Chan; shot at 12th Knot, seacontainerslondon.com

[alo-piss-trancy]

What would be some Grell omorashi headcanons?

Quick Note: I tend to use she/her for Gr/ell and hc her as a tra/ns wo/man, but I also understand between canon sources, non-canon char interviews, author intentions, dif cultural views, The time period the canon takes place in vs. The year the media was published vs. Our current time now changing views/terms, it's ALL a giant clustertruck question mark blob. So feel free to hc Gre/ll differently, be that a very feminine ga/y man or b/i or nonb/inary or whatever, I genuinely don't mind how anyone hcs characters and fan content does not affect my enjoyment of canon in any way. I'm never gonna pick fights and claim somebody's playing with their imaginary Barbie wrong lmao, kindergarteners know better than that

Now to the actual ask:

ANON I LOVE YOU!!! Gr/ell is one of my fav chars EVER but I never get to talk about her hhhhh ❤❤❤

I've had 8 dang years to think about this so enjoy a varied selection 😼 I'm sorry in advance bc half of these are very lemony oops

General:

* Reapers have stronger bladders than humans (in terms of capacity/general strength), but they're still much weaker than a demon's (goes for all bodily functions tbh. Demons don't really have any, the only reason they would need to go is if they chose to partake in occasional food/drink, and could easily hold it for weeks or even months at a time). A reaper can probably hang in there with a full bladder for a day or two if very determined, less if they've had any strong diuretics/alcohol (I imagine the humans' stuff is p weak tho and barely gets them buzzed).

* Gr/ell's bladder is stronger than a newbie like Ro/nald's, but weaker than someone like W/ill's. Mostly bc she's frequently drinking unhealthy stuff and has no problem up and ditching to pee as soon as she's tired of waiting.

* Not bladdershy in the slightest, and not dysp/horic either. (While she wants a womb/too look more womanly, she also seems fairly content with her body and even takes pride in it in several scenes.) The only time I could see her getting nervous/locking up is if she had a really bad day or felt extra self-conscious, and it wouldn't be a very severe condition.

* She doesn't like going in weird/gross places because she is a Beautiful Lady With Standards, thank you very much. If she has absolutely no choice she'll suck it up and pee in an alley like the commoner humans, but she will complain about it for the next few years at every opportunity.

* That being said she's also a huge hypocrite, and if the situation was reversed would immediately snap at someone like W/ill or Ro/nald to just go in the alley already instead of failing to hide their desperation on the job. You bunch of damn babies, grow a pair.

* If she needs to be serious/doesn't want ppl to know, she can hide desperation fairly well (a little clumsy/flushed and sweaty, but that could be mistaken as her normal goofy behavior), masking how bad it really is until she's a minute from wetting herself.

* If she doesn't care and wants to complain though, she's obvious af. Whines and gripes the whole time, full-blown potty dance to garner sympathy, legs crossed and bouncing, everything. By the time she gets to the suspiciously e/rotic moans ppl usually hurry to find her a bathroom/yell at her to leave lol

* There have definitely been times when Gre/ll used going to the bathroom as an excuse to ditch work for a LONG time or took many frequent smaller breaks to do her nails/read magazines/flirt with Seb, etc. Needless to say, this backfires terribly the one time she actually does have to go because W/illiam definitely isn't putting up with her bs no matter how much she begs or squirms. He's even madder at her when he realizes he'll have to clean the floor. If she wasn't so mad/embarrassed herself, she'd have taken joy in his karma and gladly told him to suck her d/ick.

* That's def not the first time W/ill's seen her desperate or piss herself. As young stud reapers in training I guarantee G/rell got shitfaced at company parties on more than one occasion (or just went out drinking the night before work on a weekday lol). Frequently showed up for field work having to pee every other hour and driving him nuts c':

* She and Ma/dame Red definitely fooled around a couple of times (she's the only woman Gr/ell's ever been attracted to) . Maybe Gr/ell already had the kink and brought it up, or maybe Red saw Gr/ell squirming and asked (insisted) she let her watch until she lost control, but either way things got dirty real quick lmao. Red slapped a demon's ass in the same room as her nephew, she's dom AF (and inappropriate lmao). G/rell's a giant masochist/sadist combo. Do the math 👀👌💯

* I personally love the concept of her ending up desperate after inviting herself along and crashing one of C/iel and Seb/astian's missions and just being miserable the whole time trying to hide it. Because she def can't embarrass herself in front of B/assy, but even worse she will NOT prove she has to take a potty break before some human kid. Naturally, C/iel being the complete brat and posessive bitch he is, immediately picks up on her predicament and torments her the whole time/makes a fool of her without letting Seb know the real issue. She can't lay a finger on him because she'd be Dead and she can't whine for B/assy to get him to stop bc that would mean explaining her problem so it just keeps escalating in comedic fashion. (This isn't even an omo hc really sorry lol, I just love any plot with those two bickering like petty babies as rivals for Seb's attention, even better if Ci/el consistently pulls one over on her and is the more mature one. You killed my aunt and then tried to steal my butler, Get Rekt Bitch )

* In any aus where she isn't hooking up with Red or trying to get Seb, I ship her hard with Un/dertaker (they're my otp actually don't judge me). In those he's actually the one with a massive piss kink and she's weirded tf out at first, but I mean if ur bf already eats dog biscuits and sleeps in a coffin u can probs learn to live with it. She indulges him periodically and he spoils her rotten afterwards. (I actually had several fic ideas for those two back in the day. One day maybe I'll finally get around to it).

* No matter what she draws a hard line at drinking it. No thank you. Golden showers are a maybe but they better have some gr8 shampoo to scrub her luxurious hair with afterwards.

* Wetting herself in that too small choir outfit from s1 that basically made short shorts and a crop top? P l e a s e

Dom G/rell:

* Has totally tried to pin Seb down/trap him somewhere and use his increasing desperation as leverage to get what she wants since he's too proper to wet himself. It probably doesn't work bc he's crafty and also could just throw her across the room, but u know. Points for trying.

* When someone lets her dom them willingly she's an absolutely sadistic fiend. W/ill completely torment them until they're begging and broken, and they have to pleasure her first before she'll show any mercy and allow them to let go. That said, she's got an almost sweet tone to anything she says and is very affectionate the whole time. It's a dichotomy that leaves any subs an absolute wreck. Her absolute fav part is watching ppl squirm and start to leak, it's cute.

* She also likes doing the whole fake sympathy play, where everything nice she says makes it 20x worse for the sub. Poor babies ❤

* Making out so they can't say anything no matter how desperate they are, just writhing underneath her with their whimpers muffled in her mouth? Perfection.

* Slowly pressing her boot into someone's abdomen is her signature move.

Sub Gr/ell:

* Loves the whole humiliation aspect and being all squirmy and nervous in front of (S/EBASTIAN) people, struggling to hide her problems and act casual but knowing her face is flushed red.

* When it gets really bad she gets super whiny and submissive, whimpering and moaning and really playing up the vulnerable aspect. Look how pitiful she is, it would be oh so easy for them to have their way with her~ (and then she bats her eyelashes and they just glare ajdkgk stop fucking around G/rell this is a Serious Scene we talked about this before we started)

* Sometimes she does public holds or gets desperate before a mission/visit just so she can see how long she can get away with it before she has to cave/people get suspicious. It's k/inky, exh/ibitionist, and oh so delicious~

* Lives for (S/EBASTIAN) the dom to get mad and disappointed in her, verbally berating her for not being more composed and embarrassing them in public, manhandling her as she's dragged somewhere more secluded to get ahold of herself, being teased and poked and prodded all while they're sneering in her ear. She wants to feel like the dirtiest, most ashamed and nervous person alive for such a simple need, knowing it's going to come out eventually no matter how hard she tries to be Good, having to beg and plead with teary eyes only to be denied access to the bathroom and told to suck it up and hold it.

* She really liked her original disguise/persona from the Ma/dame Red Days for this exact reason. Could be as shy and stuttery as possible and really play it up, got bossed around/teased by everyone, it was great. Totally got desperate once or twice so 'he' could beg Seb/astian to use the manor bathroom and get pitied. If he 'tripped' and just so happened to lose control and start crying, well, that couldn't be helped...

[chiseler]

JOE DALLESANDRO: Body Worship

The faces and voices of movie stars past and present continue to be extensively written about and well covered, but what about the bodies on the screen? We saw most of Rudolph Valentino’s body, and enough of Clara Bow to want more. Jean Harlow iced her nipples to make them stand out and up at attention under her gowns, and Tyrone Power loved to wear the tightest possible pants to display his lower extremities. It was only in the 1950s, though, that Marilyn Monroe and Marlon Brando tested the limits of their clothes and wantonly imposed the fleshiest grabbable flesh. In the 1960s, the women in movies started getting rail-thin while one muscular and fleshy man took all of his clothes off on screen without any self-consciousness. In the area of exposing and idly flaunting on-screen flesh, this man is the all-time champion, and much more besides.

His name was and is Joe Dallesandro, a kid from the mean streets of New York who stole cars and went to reform school and acquired a scar on his knee after a gun battle with police. As a teenager, he began posing for nude photographs out in California, and he learned how to hit up gay guys for bread. “I’d come from New York where I’d seen people do the hustle,” Dallesandro said, “and I knew people could get away with anything if they just knew what to say. My hustle was about getting anything I could for nothing.” Back in New York at age eighteen in 1967, Dallesandro wandered into a Greenwich Village apartment where a movie was being shot, an underground movie made under the auspices of Andy Warhol and his Factory but controlled by Paul Morrissey, a mysterious, conservative figure who looked at Dallesandro and immediately liked what he saw.

Dallesandro went out to Arizona with the Warhol crew to make Lonesome Cowboys (1968), a queer anti-western where he does a hilariously open and polymorphously perverse little dance with sprightly Taylor Mead and is coached to do ballet pliés by another cowboy in order to build up his legs and butt (which certainly needed no building). At one point in San Diego Surf (1968), Warhol superstar Viva accidentally drops a baby and Dallesandro moves with a lightning fast reflex to catch it. At this point, it was clear that Dallesandro had a beautifully balanced and open face, with a sunburst smile that made him look innocent and childlike, and a body to make Michelangelo all hot and bothered. But he also had the pinched voice of a New York wise guy and skin that made it look like he probably ate mainly pizza. This contrast moved Morrissey, and maybe he was also moved by the knightly, responsible way that Dallesandro caught that baby before it fell to the ground.

In 1968, for very little money, Morrissey created a whole vehicle just for Dallesandro called Flesh, a film that nods to earlier Warhol experiments by opening with a two-and-a-half minute shot of Dallesandro’s sleeping face. After being rudely awakened by his demanding wife (Geraldine Smith), Dallesandro passively complains that she never does his laundry; he says a man’s job is protecting his family. He is wearing nothing but a cross around his neck.

Put-upon and beguilingly passive, standing in the street waiting for guys who might give him some money for nothing or for something a little more, Dallesandro in Flesh is as un-self-conscious as Louise Brooks in Pandora’s Box (1928), but his energy is more inward-directed. He doesn’t “act” so much as enter fully into any scenario Morrissey has given him like a little kid playing “let’s pretend” in their backyard. Every kid plays “let’s pretend,” but some kids are just more fun to play with than others, and the camera picks up on that, just as the person directing behind the camera can become entranced.

There are close-ups of Dallesandro in Flesh that stop the movie dead in its tracks. Like Marilyn Monroe and James Dean, Dallesandro knew exactly what to offer to a still camera, assuming all the attitudes from Back Off to Come Hither to Take Care Of Me. And always, essentially, he is distant and removed, which is his real trick, the thing that keeps people coming back for more. Often fully naked on screen, Dallesandro offers all of that bounty to the camera, but he keeps himself to himself.

In Lou Reed’s hit song “Walk on the Wild Side,” one section claims, “Little Joe never once gave it away/everybody had to pay and pay.” But Morrissey in Flesh is saying, even howling, yes, you can all have or stare at his body, but look at who he is! Look at all the beauty there in his face, in the way he moves, and particularly in his innate sense of masculine responsibility. He’s very funny in Flesh when he looks frankly bored and forlorn with some of his chattier clients, like a kid made to stay after school in detention who would much rather be outside, but his face is usually such a patient face, a stoic face, and always rivetingly photogenic. Maybe his screen presence is a bit of a hustle, too, but if it is, I’ll gladly pay and pay.

Morrissey’s conservatism might not come through as strongly as he thinks in his early films because he often ceded them to charismatic speakers for hedonism like Holly Woodlawn, who made a comic and tragic thing of her love for Dallesandro in Trash (1970). In that movie, Dallesandro plays an impotent drug addict who seems more dead than alive as women and men paw him and clutch at him. When Woodlawn is forced to use a beer bottle to get off sexually, Morrissey makes sure to cut to a close-up of Dallesandro holding her hand, one of the most moving images of tender disconnection in all of cinema.

Morrissey played Svengali with Dallesandro, who worked at Warhol’s Factory, trying to mold him into an ambiguous and unchanging star like John Wayne or Marlene Dietrich (at this time, Morrissey often spoke of wanting to remake The Blue Angel {1930} with Dallesandro playing Dietrich’s role of the inactive femme fatale Lola-Lola). In Morrissey’s Heat (1972), Dallesandro is cast as a washed-up child star angling for a comeback amid the hothouse improvisations of Sylvia Miles and Pat Ast. He has moved even further into a kind of waiting catatonia, but even at his most sedentary and unresponsive, Dallesandro signals that he is always on the make, occasionally throwing out a zinger when you least expect it just to prove that he can pay close attention to what’s going on around him when he wants to (but he usually doesn’t want to). Morrissey took his star to Europe to make back-to-back horror films, Flesh for Frankenstein and Blood for Dracula (both 1974), where Dallesandro has his funny, incongruous moments but mainly takes a backseat to the campy authority of Udo Kier.

Dallesandro decided to strike out on his own in the mid-1970s, and the results were rich and varied. “How’s it goin’?” he nonchalantly asks a moaning woman he is humping in Donna e Bello (1974), checking on her pleasure before sneaking a look at his wristwatch, like Jane Fonda does in Klute (1971). He made a lot of films in Italy where he was cast as psychos on crime sprees, yet those movies still captured moments of film-stopping purity in his face.

This quality he had was picked up on by Louis Malle, who made Dallesandro look princely and storybook-like in his experimental feature Black Moon (1975). Best of all in this period, Dallesandro appeared in Je t’aime moi non plus (1975), a vibrantly strange road picture directed by bad boy French songwriter Serge Gainsbourg. In that movie, Dallesandro plays Krassky, a gay truck driver who falls for Johnny (Jane Birkin), a roadside waitress. Maybe it’s because he’s dubbed in French, but in this movie something very romantic and almost Byronic emerges in Dallesandro, with elements of the goofiness that he had shown when he danced with Taylor Mead in Lonesome Cowboys.

While working in Europe, Dallesandro collaborated with a remarkable array of intriguing directors. In Walerian Borowczyk’s The Streetwalker (1976), Dallesandro himself pays for lady-of-the-night Sylvia Kristel. For the young Catherine Breillat, he was a sex object to a female director in Tapage nocturne (1979). During the making of Jacques Rivette’s Merry-Go-Round (1978, but only released in 1981), Dallesandro, his co-star Maria Schneider and Rivette himself were all in despair and trouble of some kind in their personal lives, so that the film has a very unsettling air of real desperation underneath Rivette’s suggestive, paranoid mise-en-scène. This is Dallesandro’s most touching work on screen. Even though he seems at the end of his tether in Merry-Go-Round, he still tries his very best to make sense of it all, like a kid trying to play a game when the rules of that game keep changing. Again, what comes across here is Dallesandro’s helpless sense of responsibility, the fact that he cares and wants to tidy up messes other people might make.

After beating a drinking problem, Dallesandro returned to the US and drove a limo for a while before being tapped by Francis Ford Coppola to play Lucky Luciano in The Cotton Club (1984), a film that he steals with his suave self-assurance in spite of limited screen time. In the movies he made after that, for Blake Edwards and John Waters and for many lesser talents, Dallesandro is never less than fully present and usually very inventively foul-mouthed. In Steven Soderbergh’s The Limey (1999), Dallesandro has a colorful small part as a slow henchman who manages to sink a shot on a pool table to his own much-evident and childlike delight. Let’s pretend!

In recent years, Dallesandro has managed a building in LA and he often single-handedly makes Facebook worthwhile with friendly quips, clips and all-around survivor humor. He’s cool with being a Sex God, skeptical of mythmaking, and quietly proud of his movies and his image. His Morrissey films secure him a place in film history, and his European work awaits further and more detailed investigation. He is an icon of a period and milieu when sex did not have boundaries, when pleasure was a vocation and a principle, and when a man taking off his clothes in front of a camera could not divert us from trying to find the part of himself that he would not give away.

by Dan Callahan

[hunchbearing]

Yar (Something I Wrote in High School)

Looking forward, I see a giant mouth; a top blue lip of sky and a bottom blue lip of water.

Looking starboard,  I see a giant mouth; a top blue lip of sky and a bottom blue lip of water.

Looking port, I see a giant mouth; a top blue lip of sky and a bottom blue lip of water.

Looking sternwise, there’s a large ship with light gray flapping sails and dark gray paint on the hull. 

Oozing around the deck is a gaggle of limping, sunburned fools. 

My name is Tony, and I’m a pirate. 

My crew is the craftiest group of sour, salty worms to ever drift around this big blue bowl called the Atlantic. Cap’n Mutt’s crew, I should say. I am no poop deck scrubber, however. I’m the first mate. Well, the first mate when the other fifteen first mates die, anyway.

Our vessel is called the Dynamite Explosive Awesome Thrashing Hellforged Rascally Atrocious Bloody Bane of the Indian Trader. The acronym that comes to mind, DEATHRABBIT, is never used, because it was completely unintentional, not that Mutt would ever admit it. For the sake of saving time, however, I’ll use it. 

The DEATHRABBIT’s crew is what makes the British navy shiver while it sips its tea, and with very good reason. This old floating wasps’ nest has turned fifteen of those lily baskets into floating piles of lit matches just this week. Oddly enough, though, a lot of people claim to pray for us! They pray for us to sink back to hell where we belong. I know because King George left us a lovely letter on one of his many ill fated ships.

People I meet constantly ask why I do what I do. Truthfully, I ask myself the same thing in the mirror every morning. Then I see something shine in the corner of the mirror. It’s a five foot heap of doubloons on a Persian carpet with naked women laughing and playing in it. It doesn’t take long to remember at that point. 

Of course, I wasn’t always in this line of work. I was just a simple, normal butcher working my way through the Meatman’s Academy. 

Then one day, the pirates came to town.

They hurled small bombs and shot bulletholes into the buildings like freckles. While dazedly running in circles in almost total blindness, I saw through the smoke. I saw the silhouette of a man. He was like a statue of a god, just standing with his fists on his hips. A slumped, grunting chap ran up to him and dropped a jingling bag into his hand. Under the hat-man’s other arm came the gorgeous figure of a female, a woman from my own bloody town. The guy never even turned his head! My mouth was agape until the smoke cleared and I saw that the man in the hat was looking at me. Captain Mutt himself. His scarred, pocked face may as well have been a beacon of light. He nodded at me, and I followed without a thought. I left my stupid normal wife, my stupid normal house, and my stupid normal taxes behind forever, never shedding a tear over it. I was born for this stuff. 

Anyway, the action started on a typical calm morning at sea.

I had lookout duty that day. Cap’n Mutt expects us to diligently sit with the muscles of one eye socket clamped around the narrow end of an 8-foot spyglass for six consecutive hours or more. That’s rarely what occurs. One would think that pirates leap at the chance to do the ship’s one sit-down job, and one is wrong. It’s boring. Such work makes a man’s mind softer and eyes duller than a barrel o’grog. To help pass the time, us lackeys have conjured up a few games. 

One is called Butt Crack Countin’, which is self-explanatory. Another is called Hawkey, where you try to spit all the way across a side of the ship. I was playing the latter when a cliche peg-leg pirate yelled from below that white sails seemed to be coming from the starboard horizon. Grimacing as I swallowed my aborted projectile, I snapped to the eyehole of the looking glass. A smile split my face when I saw the old fart was right.

Now, an enemy ship is nothing to celebrate about for anyone, but for the man in the nest, it means you get to use the Bell. The big black, loud bell that makes the ringer feel like a bear standing over an anthill. I reached straight up into the Bell’s rusty black depths and eagerly slammed the brass ball into the side like a mountain man with a deer’s skull. Every man on deck aside from the wheel warmer (Mutt only likes to steer when ladies are watching) ran below deck to prepare the cannons.

These battles with the Brits are always the same. It’s almost sad, really. The British are an ever-gentlemanly group. They insist on taking turns, then they make the most baffled faces when we unload a dozen cannons on them at once. It’s hilarious. Of course, it’s easy to imagine that the battles can get boring, and they do. Like in the crows’ nest, we get creative.

One popular game is White Flag Pop. We withdraw our cannons, stick our white underwear out of the holes, and when they parallel their ship to ours to walk their plank over here, we bring the cannons through the deck and shoot at close range to blow their vessel into hamster cage chips. 

My personal favorite game is Copycat. We put up a British flag in lieu of our own, dress in some of their long-since fallen comrades’ uniforms, and when they start asking us questions, we repeat what they say word for word, and as soon as they get angry, we throw bags of excrement at them, then shoot them and raid their jewelry boxes. 

This time, however, we decided to wing it.

The flags drew closer and we were still out of ideas. All the men were pitching their two farthings, saying we should throw our rotten apples at them, wear masks, give them the finger, and one guy even suggested shooting our livestock out of our cannons. Annabel and Eliza, my two girlfriends, both joined in to scold me for leaving the privy lid up, and I remarked that we should launch them to a land where someone cared about their lady times. While everyone laughed (except for the women, who stomped off after slapping me), I had not realized I’d just sealed my doom.

Us boys finally reached a consensus about the attack plan, and not a moment too soon. We decided to wait until they approached, put a crucifix flag up, dress in black, and pretend to be stranded ministers. The men with big beards were okay, but those of us with stubble had to shave, and we rushed to do it before they arrived. Some of us had to use swords, since straight razors weren’t often used on the ship. Indeed, we were committed to our hijinks. 

By the time I was shaven, I went back on deck in my black suit to see most of the other men with their game faces on, in costume and frantically waving to our “rescuers”. Shortly, the British ship floated parallel to our starboard side.

“Ello, ‘oly men!” The captain of the Brit vessel greeted from his deck. Lanky with a huge goofy grin, a huge goofy nose, and skin that refused to tan despite the ruthless sun.

“And hello to you, my son.” Cap’n Mutt said in a subtle, accent-less voice with his hands dramatically clasped behind his rear. “We seem to be in some trouble.”

“We can see that, sir! Looks like a bit of a sticky wicket! What seems to be the dilemma?”

“Oh, it’s silly. I’m rather embarrassed, but...” Mutt sighed with a half-smile. “We whipped all our slaves to death.”

“Oh my! Gee, sir! I hate when that happens, so I do! Them things ain’t cheap! But you can’t exactly ask them to not do something again, now can you? Ha! Ye can’t feed ‘em salt water, either! Well, we have plenty of slaves to go ‘round! You can borrow then while we escort your holinesses back home, how’d that be?”

Ted, Frank, and Joey, our three black pirates who naturally had to sit this prank out, were cursing under their breaths below deck with their fists clenched.

“My son, that would be divine. Get it? Divine? Because I worship a deity?” The entire crews of both ships heaved with laughter in a beautiful moment of unity before the Brits boarded the DEATHRABBIT. 

Each of us had our rapiers hidden down a leg of our loose pants. Soon every Brit was aboard with ten slaves coming along. Before they got the slaves acquainted with their new quarters, we made small talk for a little while, having no idea that two women were sneaking from the DEATHRABBIT onto the white-sailed Brit ship, the Gaylord Butterworthy. 

We were supposed to stall the pale officers, so we started singing hymns (in low voices so they would mistake our gibberish for Latin). Meanwhile, Eliza and Annabel let the remaining slaves on the Gaylord know they were the new commanders of the vessel, using two of my guns to enunciate their points. 

After singing the sixteenth chorus of “Jesus Gmlsi Dffftrd God Lfdces,” a familiar voice came from the deck of the Gaylord.

“Hello, you sorry blisters of the Atlantic! This is Captain Eliza Ruth Covington! I’m here to tell you that this ship is going with me and my first mate! And as for the ‘holy men’ among you, they are nothing but filthy pirates! They have swords in their pants and they have a drape over the ship’s label! You may have heard of it! The Dynamite Explosive Awesome Thrashing Hellforged Rascally Atrocious Bloody Bane of the Indian Trader! Toodles, boys! We now have our own bathroom for our “lady times!” Oh, and I hope you can swim!”

A cannon protruded from the Gaylord’s hull and fired a massive hole into the DEATHRABBIT’s belly before the women released their sails and drifted off. 

We were silent enough to hear their laughter even when they were a hundred yards away. Finally, we all looked at our foes and destroyed the ship as well as each other in the ensuing gory battle. In the end, only Cap’n Mutt and I survived, floating on a desk.

“Well, today was bad, eh?” I at last spoke.

“Quite,” Mutt answered. “If I die trying, if I have to paddle a thousand miles, which is very likey, I will kill Eliza and Annabel. Are you with me, boy?”

“Actually,” I said as I drew my cutlass, “It’s captain now.” 

In one swing, I sliced off Mutt’s head and placed his hat on my head. I smiled, enjoying the feel. “Captain Tony Baloney. Has a nice ring to it,” I mused as I began to paddle west.

[whoacanada]

NHL!Bitty, Part XII -  ‘A Stanley Cup Wedding’

The Schooners win game seven and dethrone the defending champion Falconers to claim Seattle’s first national title. 

Eric was definitely not expecting Jack to propose immediately after losing.

(A rework of the ‘Game 7 PVD vs SEA’ prompt that totally retcons some NHL!Bitty stuff, so timeline-wise: the Falconers took the cup Eric’s second year with the Schooners. The Schooners win the following season.)

NHL!Bitty Masterpost

Game Seven. Third period. Eric’s running on adrenaline, blue Gatorade, and rage.

Jack and the rest of the Falconers first line are racing to catch up, but Eric is ‘criminally fast’ (thank you ESPN for the lovely descriptor), and it’s almost too easy to whip the puck to Carter and wait for the siren.

Snowy can’t stop it. The Schooners will win in regulation. 

For a brief, terrifying moment, Eric sees Morin’s breakaway as the death knell of his relationship. He has flashes of Freshman year and he thinks ‘Jack is going to hate me’.

Eric closes his eyes and waits.

The siren blares and someone slams into his side, but he only has a moment to rally before he’s hit by a wall of sound that vibrates the ice beneath his skates and reverbs in his chest. The whole arena must be shaking because he’s never heard anything like this before.

Except that’s not quite true, because he was there last year in Providence, it’s just that the sound wasn’t directed at him.

It’s Seattle’s first championship.

Eric forces open his eyes and can’t see much beyond the mob of teammates that have surrounded him, but there’s someone else. A body in Falconer’s blue that’s mushed up against Eric and screaming as loudly as any of his teammates.

“Mon Petit Lapin est un Champion!” Jack shouts, right in his ear, before pressing a sloppy kiss against Eric’s cheek, the affectionate gesture hidden in the safety of the huddle.

So much for Jack being upset.

When the mob starts to break down Cricket notices Jack among their ranks and grabs his jersey to pull him away from Eric. 

“Zimmermann! Get back to your own team!” 

“Mon dieu, t'es beau,” Jack continues talking, refusing to break eye contact even as Bay shoves him back to wrap Eric in a hug of his own.

“Ouais, il est,” Bitty says back, though Jack can’t hear him, skating back to console the Falconers after the loss. “I am. Oh, my god, I am. We won.”

“We won!” Cricket echoes, and the team roars. 

They line up to shake hands and when Jack reaches Eric he says, “I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than you.”

Eric doesn’t have time to respond before he’s being coaxed along and Tater slaps his hand so hard Eric thinks he might have broken something.

The next few minutes are a blur of screaming, sweaty hugs, candid photos, posed photos, interviews, and distantly he can see his parents with the Zimmermanns behind the glass, waving and waiting to be escorted to the ice. Behind them, Eric can just make out the small hoard of Samwell alums dressed in custom red ‘Bittlemann’ and ‘Zimbits’ jerseys, though Shitty appears to have shed most of his clothing at this point. 

Eric slips away from another reporter and, overwhelmed, can’t quite figure out what to do now. He wants his parents. He wants Jack. He wants to lift the fucking Stanley Cup.

They’re rolling out the carpet for the cup presentation and someone is tugging at his arm. Someone that stinks a lot like --

“Jack!” He spins and hugs his boyfriend before remembering there are cameras and pushing away quickly.

“It’s okay,” Jack assures him, pulling him back into a tight hold. “I’m gonna propose,” he huffs against Eric’s sweaty hair, “right here.”

“What? Now?” Eric asks, not sure if its the exhaustion or just generic shock. “I mean, are you going to come out?”

“Right now,” Jack nods, pulling back with a goofy grin. “But only if you want to.”

The music is deafening and out of the corner of his eye, Eric can see Cricket grinning like a loon before a swarm of reporters and several cameras. They’re bringing out the cup, and Eric doesn’t exactly care because Jack’s going to come out. And he just proposed that he is planning to propose?

Maybe he has a concussion. Maybe he’s not thinking clearly because is what universe does Jack lose the Stanley Cup, come out, and propose to Eric at the same time?

“But you lost,” Eric says gently, afraid Jack’s about to realize he’s made a mistake. 

“And you won,” Jack counters, just as gently, cupping Bitty’s face. “And you have no idea how proud I am. Six years ago you’d pass out if you got hit. Tonight you ran me into the boards twice!”

“Cause you were being an asshole, Sweetpea,” Eric defends, fighting the warmth rising in his cheeks.

“And it was great, but you know who helped you through that? I did,” Jack grins. “Checked you so many times you forgot you hated me. So, it’s a bit like I won too, you know? I got to see the man I love, the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, fearless.”

Oh. That’s. 

Eric grabs a handful of Jack’s jersey and pulls him down into a kiss, heedless of the flashing lights and screaming spectators. When they separate Jack’s expression is dazed.

“So you’ll marry me?” Jack cradles Eric’s sweaty face and peppers kisses across his cheek. “Please say yes. Make it official.”

Eric grins and tucks his face against Jack’s neck, “Yes, I will marry you.”

They’d discussed it before, in the same half-measures and what-ifs that always circled conversations about their relationship and Jack’s eventual coming out. 

Somewhere between the playoffs and this moment, Jack must have made peace with his demons because he’s here now, declaring his love on the biggest stage he could possibly find. It’s only by the grace of the hockey gods that no reporters have managed to stick a microphone between them yet. 

Then Eric blinks, noticing Sorenson’s blond head in the crowd, and he has a bold, terrible, horrible, wonderful idea.

“Sorenson is ordained,” Eric says, just loud enough for Jack to hear. “Our family and friends are here. What about right now?” 

“Right now?” Jack stares at Eric and grins like he hasn’t just lost Game 7 of the finals. Like Eric isn’t about to hoist the cup. Like they didn’t just out themselves on national television.

“That’s crazy,” he breathes, pulling Eric into another kiss. “Let’s do it.”

Something bubbles up in Eric’s stomach. Butterflies? Adrenaline? Sheer joy? Perhaps all of the above?

Carter swings by with a stack of hats and shoves one on Eric’s head so the brim knocks against Jack’s nose. “Stop macking on your man and come lift the fucking cup!”

Jack laughs and shoves the cap out of his face. “Carter, we’re getting married. Right now. Grab Sorenson.”

Morin freezes. “No shit? Can I be his best man?”

“Sure, just get Andrew before it’s too late. We have to kiss when Bits lifts the cup.”

Morin retreats and Jack takes Eric’s face in his hands again. 

“You sure this is what you want, Bits?” Jack asks, brow furrowed slightly. “I’m all for it, but if we wait for everyone to get over here we’ll be swarmed. We have to do this right now.”

Eric pulls Jack’s hands down into his own and smiles up at his fiancé (fiancé!). “I’m okay with that if you are.”

Sorenson skates over with Bay and Morin, interrupting the moment. “What’s this about you getting married?”

“You’re still ordained, right? We want you to marry us.” Eric explains. “Like right now.”

Sorenson looks at Morin. “Is this legit?”

“Why would we lie about this?” Bay shoves Sorenson’s shoulder. “C’mon, you in or out?”

“What, now? I mean, yeah, I can, but shit, Bittle, you’re putting me on the spot, you have vows? Rings?” Eric shakes his head and Jack must mirror the action because Andrew just groans and rips off his hat. “Fuck guys, fine. I’ve never done a gay wedding, but okay.”

He motions for them to scoot closer. “Uh, dearly beloved --”

Eric sees an NBC reporter hovering nearby and snaps his fingers to interrupt. “No time, skip to the end.”

“Bridezilla over here -- do you, Eric Bittle, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband to have and to hold in sickness and in health yadda yadda yadda?”

“I do,” Eric says, taking Jack’s hand and squeezing tight.

“And do you, Jack Zimmermann, take Eric Bittle to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“Definitely,” Jack breathes, smiling so hard Eric thinks his chapped lips might split. 

“Then by the power vested in me by the Universal Life Church, you fuckers are married.” Andrew waves his arms half-heartedly. “But not totally. You still need paperwork, and Morin and Bay are your witnesses.”

“Sick!” Bay high-fives Morin.

Eric tugs the sleeve of Jack’s jersey. “Hey, we still need to kiss.”

“Not yet,” Jack warns. “We should both be touching the cup when we share our first kiss as a married couple.”

A few short years ago, Eric would have laughed outright at Jack’s superstitions. But now? 

“Lord Stanley will bless the union, and the league will fear our power,” Eric jokes, only half-kidding when Jack’s smile turns just a little self-indulgent. 

“Bittle!” Someone yells, and Jack shoos him away.

“Go be with your team!”

“I think I’d rather be with my husband,” Eric says, and Jack flushes pink before Eric looses sight again, Carter dragging him bodily back to the reporters and the cup. He blinks and he’s standing beside his captain while the world narrows to the trophy held above his head.

“Congratulations, kid,” Cricket grins, handing the cup to Eric. “You’ve earned this.”

Eric grips the metal tight and feels the weight of it for the first time. Not just the 35 pounds of silver and nickel, but the weight of a legacy far bigger than any one player. 

He stops fighting the urge to be presentable, lifts the cup high and screams, forcing every painful moment in his entire life out into one throat-shredding cry. 

For every church lady who looked down her nose at him and talked to Mama about ‘camps’, for every relative who described his love of figure skating as ‘faggy’, for the classmates who wouldn’t sit next to him and the junior varsity football players that actually tried to kill him . . .

For every person that every tried to make him think he was less than. 

Fuck you.

His cheeks are wet, the crowd is going nuts, and his parents are crying. 

Bob has an arm around his father’s shoulder and Coach is crying.

He needs to pass the cup on, but he’s not ready yet. He scans quickly for Jack’s name from the previous year, and when he finds it he brings the cup to his lips, pressing firmly enough he’s sure ‘ZIMMERMANN’ can be read plain-as-day on his lips.

‘Thank you for giving me this,’ Eric thinks, blocking out everything else for just a moment. ‘And thank you for giving us Jack.’ 

He blinks against the lights and finds Jack in the crowd, beaming beside his parents. 

It’s time. 

Eric makes a b-line to his family (His family!) and stops short of Jack. 

“Hey,” he says, suddenly hoarse with the realization that this is his husband. He’s married (kinda), he’s holding the Stanley Cup in front of everyone he’s ever cared about, and Jack Zimmermann’s ass will forever belong to Eric Richard Bittle.

“Hey, Bits,” Jack replies, barely audibly over Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, and Holster chanting ‘Bittle, Bittle, Bittle.’ Eric motions up with his chin and Jack reaches up to cover Eric’s fingers with his own until the cup’s weight is split between them. 

By now word has spread and every camera in the arena is trained on them, but he tunes out the crowd, his teammates, the reporters, his friends, his parents and his in-laws, and he leans in to capture Jack’s lips.

It’s not their first kiss, but it might as well be.

[agnetta]

I’m in shock

tldr; every story has it’s perspective, but be sure to read the WHOLE story. Actors should be accountable for their actions, however they are still regular people. Their jobs just give them a lot more exposure.

   I just happen to look for Mark Pellegrino’s twitter for unrelated reasons and I see all of this hate. So I investigate. Let me start off by saying I love this fandom, and seeing it torn apart like this is heart breaking. However, I have a couple of devil’s advocate thoughts (slightly biased though).

Part A

1- Celebrities are just PEOPLE. They are people with lots of followers.       a) Because they have hundreds of thousands of followers they should be aware they are potentially influential so they mind what they say       b) They are still people with opinions and different ideas and backgrounds and they don’t always agree with one another, and like people they want to say their piece, whether you have 0 followers or 600,000.

B) So much of this is taken out of context. I’m not saying the context makes it perfectly un-offensive and unpolitical, but there are a few select people who research all of the information, and to prove their point highlight select tweets (that are part of a multi-tweet, or part of a back and forth conversation) and THAT is what is seen by the majority of thousands of people who don’t have the time or care to look into the details - they see the ugly stuff the handful of people who made these compilations point out and they retweet it - continuing the cycle. People take the bait but don’t they notice the tweets are incomplete sentences - therefore there must be more? I’m working on compiling context photos in response to these but really all you have to do is do an advanced search on twitter like this: whatever the text is from:markrpellegrino  and if you want to add dates instead of (or along with) text it’s: from:markrpellegrino since:year-numericalmonth-day until:2015-12-29 I for example I did: from:markrpellegrino since:2015-12-26 until:2015-12-29 or universal healthcare aka mandated healthcare is immoral from:markpellegrino and it popped up with the tweet I could click on for the discussion trail and replies.

Part 2

People are saying Mark Pellegrino systematically and consistently bullies fans over the internet - but I have combed through many many posts and I have not seen individualized, pointed bullying. The ONLY directed comment I’ve seen is about some superfan called “Lua” who they refer to as “Queen L” because she takes it upon herself to police the entire fandom of the twittersphere and she regularly (according to the actors) attempts to personally message them and “manage” over them. I’m not sure what all of that is about, I only learned about it today, and read up on some of it here.  Other than those interactions with a fan who “likes to stir up trouble” -according to other fans in the twitterverse - Mark Pellegrino only expresses his opinions on political matters. Which lots of people do, and I can tell you that I have very close friends with whom I disagree about politics. Every person is different, and I am not going to find someone who completely matches up with all of my opinions of the world unless I’m looking in the mirror. He is sharing his thoughts most people do on twitter. (Refer to Part A, 1 for my feelings on this)

However, do you know what evidence I’ve seen a lot of spreading through the support of fans? Context. The un-cut tweets. Apologies from Mark. Or if you want to see the video out of his mouth, so you don’t think someone writes apologies on his behalf. Outright support of Israel and other countries that people claim he speaks hate about. He actively engages with people who reply to his posts and his responses are patient, link articles, and he doesn’t just throw something out there and leave it, he converses. I think people are confusing discussion of sensitive subjects which he chooses not to ignore as bullying. And Yeah discussion is not a euphemism, he is not hate messaging people, he is just engaging in conversation.

Part 3

PEOPLE ARE HATING ON JARED AND JENSEN. This came as the most shock to me because I don’t follow Mark Pellegrino’s personal life much, but I am an avid watcher of fan news on Jared and Jensen. I understand that on social media a person usually shows his best self, so I’m not talking about their personal instagrams/facebook interactions.  Do you know where I have formed my opinions of Jensen and Jared? Hundreds of fan interactions I’ve read about/seen photos of out in the street. Non-convention, non-autograph events, just running into them in real life. HUNDREDS that I’ve read of them being the most charming and kindest and most caring human beings on the planet.

WHAT THE @#$*& are you talking about? “If you’re always running into assholes..., maybe the problem is you.” FIRST OFF get off your damn high horse because go ahead and TELL ME you’ve never ever had a problem with customer service in your life. Which by the way, I’ve tried searching and...he runs into these ‘assholes’ once in about every six months. If that’s how often he runs into assholes that blow his gasket then he is a fortunate man. SECONDLY, holy my Jesus. May I refer to my above paragraph of nothing but love with encountering them?

Let me back up here and say that even after a decade of paparazzi and fans they STILL say “If you do see us out and about, not at the convention, say Hi, you’re family...seriously treat us like a friend, because we are” even though they state that doing this captures the attention of a dozen other people each time they do this. Both Jensen and Jared have proved to have giant hearts and defending people in situations that they were not tied to or obligated to participate in - BUT THEY MAKE IT THEIR OBLIGATION. The best part is they didn’t praise themselves on social media for doing these things, they know you just have to stand up all the time. I’m not saying they please everybody all of the time, but as men they are pillars in our society.

Yes there’s situations like this, so we know it’s not a first time mistake from Jared. But if you were epic-ly pissed for being mistreated you wouldn’t be thinking clearly about your revenge. EVERY time he’s done this he deletes the tweet later for some reason. I don’t know and I won’t speculate. But for the record - that tweet got over 6000 likes and over 1000 retweets. That is really fucked up, however I read about the two of them A LOT, from regular people, and the fact is that for every one bad thing I read out of every 6 months or more I read amazing news about them on a weekly basis. It truly just makes me see they are more real, as cliche as that sounds. It is the truth. Not to mention JP’s full disclosure on a different time he tweeted about his displeasure with a person seems like a once and for all stand that he has the right to express his feelings regardless of who he is, and we have our right to voice our opinions as well.

Anyone who’s watched any convention interview with ANY of the SPN actors knows that Jared is the biggest prankster on the set. I am sure that you’ve met many people that don’t like people with personalities like that - not everyone gets along. To some you may seem fun and goofy, and to others you seem cocky and annoying. It doesn’t diminish how those ‘others’ feel, but it’s all a matter of perspective.

P.S. if you read any of my links read the entire conversation - the perspectives switch around a lot. ie: the last link I posted was about Jared being an ass but if you read later the same person who posted that says, “Ah, they fooled around a bit but I never heard any gripes from the crew about any of their antics.” Many other comments on the thread talk about personal experiences and second hand stories and personal quotes from the actors. So always read the full story.

[anthrat]

The Akatsuki members as high-school students

Has this been done before? Probably! Do I care? No, because these are my terrible headcanons and nobody can take them from me.

A/N: This has been in my drafts for a long time, probably since early February. I’ve been lacking motivation to do anything at all for months and lo and behold, I find this basically finished piece bar one character. I really, really want to start writing again but I’m struggling to think of ideas, so if you have any requests for future headcanons/one shots/etc feel free to slide me a message or something :)

He's definitely the generic super intelligent kid who gets straight A's in pretty much every subject. All of his notes are really well organised, he keeps bullet journals and everything is colour coded - mans notes are literal art. His handwriting is definitely beautiful, we're talking professional calligrapher here.

All of his equipment is immaculate, he cries if one of his books gets a crease or something on it somehow. If you accidentally nudge him or ruin his notes he will silently hold a grudge against you forever - he probably won't act on his grudge though, he just wants to blend in and he dislikes conflict in general.

Despite being fully aware of his intelligence he hardly ever speaks up in classes. He only really speaks when spoken to and so is renown as the token quiet kid. I also envision him as being super pretentious, although he doesn't show it he definitely thinks he's better than everyone else.

His favourite subject would be English because he enjoys analysing anything and everything. If you're friends with him he will make comments on how random pieces of media etc. are a representation of -insert important world issue or theory.- He'd also like art despite it being the only subject he's not very good at. All his art is abstract, he will draw a pink square and claim it represents a patriarchal society.

Doesn't have many friends because he isn't very talkative, spends most of his time at school alone doing schoolwork. Sees school purely as an educational setting and so doesn't see the point in making an attempt to be social.

All of his school equipment looks like it's been mauled by 300 dogs because its all second/third/fourth+ hand. Man would never pay full price for a textbook. He definitely steals all the faculty equipment too. You could fill an entire room with the amount of stationary this man has but he will NEVER lend it to anyone else. If he does lend you something it's because its either A) broken B) barely functional (so like pens which can write 2 letters before running out) or C) you're giving him something better in return/paying for it (even then he'll probably take whatever he lent you back without you realising)

He also definitely runs mini-shops in school where he'll sell stolen equipment and things like sweets/chewing gum/trendy items (he made bank when fidget spinners were a thing) for like triple what they're actually worth.

His favourite subject is definitely history (He's a crusty dusty old man so of course) but he will never admit this. He takes business and economics but hates them, he's already done all of his own research into the subjects and is only doing them to get the qualification. Definitely complains about how he already knows it all already and it's a waste of time for him to learn it again. His only conversation topic is him talking about how he's going to set up his own business as soon as he leaves school.

Is very intelligent but only gets average grades in most subjects because he refuses to try if he dislikes the subject or sees it as a waste of time.

Watched DeathNote once and now thinks he's an actual real life version of Light Yagame. Carries around his own DeathNote and threatens to write people's name in it.

Convinced that he's been bestowed with supernatural powers, whenever he speaks he does lots of flashy hand gestures, - think generic cool-dude protagonist poses - these change depending on what piece of media he's currently obsessed with. His personality also changes alongside the poses.

Basically what I'm trying to say is he's the over-saturated 'weird anime kid' with a touch of superiority complex. Although, he's super confident and has absolutely 0 shame in this fact.

Bless his little heart, he loves writing but is the definition of 'uses complicated words without knowing what they mean'. He's still decently smart though. His grades would probably be pretty average because he struggles to apply himself properly. His favourite subject would definitely be something like sociology where he can freely express his profound ideas, even if some of them are completely god awful. He'd also enjoy any subject which gives him creative freedom such as art or English.

Cannot see this lad as anything but a jock. He loves sports, lives and breathes them. He's probably a member of practically every single sports team and is surviving on the basis he has a sports scholarship of some kind.

Despite him being a jock he'd be the most approachable out of all the Akatsuki members. He's the kind of guy who no matter who you are he'd always be happy to crack jokes and talk with you. He definitely brings in way too much food, he's that dude who brings a whole mini banquet to school every day for no discernible reason. He's always happy to share though, he's definitely the kind of guy who if he saw someone sat by themselves at lunch he'd sit with them and offer them food.

His grades would be a little on the lower side because most of his free time is taken up with all his sports, however, he'd still work hard at his academics regardless. If anything this man is probably the most dedicated, he would hate the fact that he's falling behind all his classmates but at the same time would rather die than give up any of his extracurricular activities.

He'd be fairly popular because of his naturally easygoing and humorous nature, but people would rarely ever invite him to events as they'd just assume he was busy.

Konan is an absolute babe, the kindest and most caring person in the whole school. Forgotten your lunch? She'll buy you some or give you her own. Didn't do your homework? Bitch will give you hers to copy, if it's an essay or something she'll sit with you and help you write it. Looking a little upset? Konan's right there to try and cheer you up even if you aren't friends.

Despite how wonderful and 100/10 a person she is she probably won't have many close friends. She'll get used a lot by others who take advantage of her good nature. She's smart enough to know what they're doing but she doesn't care, she's happy to be of help to anyone even if they don't appreciate it.

She's a bit of a teachers pet though, she's on super good terms with every teacher in the school even if she doesn't take the subjects they teach. Most of her breaks/lunches would be taken up by her helping with display boards or whatever.

Her favourite subject would be geography, she'd really enjoy learning about different cultures and societies. I can see her just really enjoying learning about how rivers are formed and stuff like that as well. Her least favourite would be something like math which is only fact based, she enjoys being able to look at things from different perspectives.

Also bitch would bake all the time, literally every lesson she'd whip out a box of cakes/cookies/anything else she'd baked the night before to share with the whole class.

Carries knives around with him because he thinks they make him look cool. He can and will whip one out at any given opportunity so he can flex a knife trick on you. His knife tricks suck though, he always drops them or cuts himself, if you try and walk away he'll beg you to stay claiming that fortieth time's the charm or something.

He never shows up to lessons, he doesn't even know what one is. If you ever ask him what subjects he takes he'll look at you blankly and ask what you mean. If he ever is in a lesson it's because he was dragged there by a member of staff. Honestly, the few lessons he's actually present for are so chaotic teachers find themselves praying he doesn't show up. Being as he never willingly shows up he'll never know what subject it is, and he'll ask insanely bizarre questions un-ironically because he gives no fucks and has no idea what is happening. For example, you'll be learning about arteries in biology and he'll ask something like "What ingredients do we need?" because he'll have confused arteries with artichoke and think he's in a home economics lesson.

Despite being the weird knife kid he's pretty popular, he's so completely brain dead and unaware of his surroundings that its impossible not to get along with him. He doesn't have the critical thought to bully anyone and so even if he tries to be horrible it always comes off as though he's just trying to be funny.

Oh dear oh lord what can I say about Zetsu? Zetsu is an absolute shit show of a student. Black Zetsu I can see as being very academic focussed, with their favourite subjects being religion, politics and some form of economics. I imagine they’d be very active within school politics/religious scenes, probably the head of some sort of group for both.

Black Zetsu would also be interested in applying for positions such as Head of Year, Class Representative and anything similar. They’re a big control freak and as a result have basically 0 friends. People would find them overbearing and awful to be around. They’re the incredibly opinionated kid who dismisses anything which they don’t personally agree with.

White Zetsu on the over hand, hoo boy. Class clown obviously. The living bane of Black Zetsu. If Black Zetsu wants class representative then you know people will vote for white Zetsu instead because he’s infinitely more popular. He’s incredibly weird but in such an innocent and goofy way they’d have a large group of friends. They wouldn’t be popular per say, but they’d be friends with practically everyone.

Their favourite subject would probably be biology because sex jokes, but I also think they’d enjoy English because uhh… Sex jokes. I just can’t see White Zetsu taking school even slightly seriously.

He basically lives in the art department. If you walk near him he will tag along and start talking to you about art, it doesn’t matter who you are you will be forced to listen to his speech.

Incredibly confident and has no issue starting a conversation with anyone. He's definitely the type of person who every time you see him he'd be with a completely different group of people, whether they want him there or not.

Despite his weird constant art rants he'd be the life and soul of the party. He's always fun to be around purely because of how much energy he has. He'd be the kid who makes everyone laugh completely on accident, although people would probably be laughing more at him than with him.

He'd probably get invited to lots of places by other kids just so he could be the butt of every joke. He wouldn't mind though, he'd brush it off and probably enjoy the attention he gets from it.

Most of his friends would end up being people who know nothing about art though, all the students who participated in any artistic subjects would stay far away in fear of him starting another argument about art.

If the art class ever does clay his has to be put in the kiln separately because it always blows up. He also has a habit of 'accidentally' damaging other people's art if he dislikes it. Eventually he would mellow out and start appreciating other forms.

Nobody knows who he is, people will have sat next to him for years and won't even know his name. The amount of times his name is called in the register and people will pipe up with "who's that?" or "didn't he move to another school?" is genuinely concerning. He doesn't care though, he'd rather go through school completely unnoticed.

Excels at all subjects (besides sports, he's never showed up to a PE lesson because of 'health reasons') despite putting very little effort into academics. His favourite subjects would be biology and math. He'd absolutely hate art as a subject, preferring to do art in his free time rather than make it into a chore at school. He'd have been put in Deidara's class at least once and it would have completely ruined all enjoyment of art as a subject for him. He'd also hate any subjects which prompt discussion such as English or sociology, he doesn't have any opinions on them and he doesn't care to listen to anyone else's.

Honestly, dude is the definition of a background character at school. He just simply does not exist, and I have mad respect for him. On the off chance anyone even tried to speak to him he'd probably completely ignore them, the only communication he has at school is through emails with teachers. He has 0 interest in making friends when they have nothing in common with him.

Another character sort of hard to pinpoint. He’d probably be somewhat similar to White Zetsu, but not quite as popular. He’d be a right teachers pet, with few friends his own age. He’d probably spend spend all his breaks and lunches with teachers in their classrooms, offering to help them with display boards etc.

Despite being a teachers pet he wouldn’t be academic whatsoever. He’d always try his best but bless him, he’s terrible at every subject and ends up constantly making a fool of himself. He’s definitely the sort to raise his hand to make a really great point, but his really great point is basically repeating the lesson objective. When studying of mice of men he definitely asked “what’s the name of Curly’s wife’s husband?”

His favourite subject, regardless of his ineptitude would be drama. He’d always be the most melodramatic and over the top in every character he played, not really caring what other people thought of him. In fact, that’s probably his best feature. Despite his lack of popularity he’d always unapologetically be himself, his goofy and over the top self.

SPOILERS AHEAD:

If we’re thinking more about Obito, I’d like to imagine for the sake of this headcanon Tobi is what he’s like during lower school years and then suddenly one summer he comes back and he’s completely matured into this foreign character unrecognisable to nobody.

He’d become incredibly serious, forgoing the role of energetic teachers pet to a much more muted one. He’d still be just as terrible at all his lessons, and still spend most of his time around teachers rather than others his age but he’d no longer have that fun spark. He’d probably start caring greatly about what people thought of him so his latter years would be trying to stay under the radar completely.

[back-and-totheleft]

Peck’s bad boy

He still looks like Peck's bad boy up on charges before Mrs. Jones, the schoolmarm. "Did you put bubble gum in Ruby Sue's hair? Did you dip Polly's pigtails in the inkwell? Did you break that window with your slingshot? Oliver -- what are we going to do with you?"

Except that the charges on which the ever-mischievous Oliver Stone has been brought up reflect not yesterday's bucolic but today's brutal America:

"Did you accuse your leaders of lying to your generation and wasting them in an unwinnable war? Did you accuse them of dishonoring and debasing the men who fought and bled for them? Did you accuse them of killing the president of the United States back in 1963? And are you now accusing them of devastating a land and culture for the most trifling of reasons? What are we going to do with you?"

Well, apparently what we're going to do with you is make you rich and famous and powerful, though to look at Oliver Stone sitting in a New York hotel room isn't to see wealth or fame or power, but only . . . Peck's bad boy.

The hair's a thatch hanging in bangs down his head, messy and un-moussed; the front teeth have that goofy gap between them, similar to Alfred E. Neuman's and Huck Finn's. In jeans and a work shirt, he seems unformed and sleepy, as if he's just awakened from a nap. He has that infernal American boy-man thing going on: can't sit still, always squirming or squinching up his face, arms and legs flapping wildly as though he courses with energies for which no release valve exists. A bellicose laugh, a bully's pugnaciousness, a sense of not suffering fools -- not even quasi-, demi-, pseudo- or neo-fools -- lightly.

But still, and over everything, he's got passion. It burns and flashes; you see it when his eyes flame up as he denounces the MIA controversy as "a bogus right-wing scheme cooked up to keep us hating [the Vietnamese] and to make sure we don't end the sanctions against them." President Clinton, he scoffs, is "terrified of being called a wimpy Democrat." Attorney General Janet Reno, he snorts, has "the Puritan mind-set." The newspapers, he smirks, are going nuts over Gerald Posner's "Case Closed," which is "just the Warren Commission reheated and restirred."

He's a great harrumpher. He snorts, he paws, he bellows; the energy flickers out and so does the gloom, for clearly this is a man with a morose, even petulant, side. He doesn't give interviews so much as hold court -- issuing edicts and generalizations and position papers.

And some say his movies are position papers. The latest, which opens Christmas Day, is "Heaven and Earth," which may be the only movie about the Vietnam War that's louder than the Vietnam War.

"It's the last part of the story I have to tell," says Stone, defiantly.

"Heaven and Earth" is nothing if not ambitious: Derived from two memoirs by Le Ly Hayslip ("When Heaven and Earth Changed Places" and "Child of War, Woman of Peace"), it's the peasant's view of Vietnam. It shows a young rural girl during the French Indo-Chinese War in 1954 and then, a decade later, in the middle of the American presence in her country, which for her involves not merely war but a lengthy interrogation, torture and rape. Then, after the fall of Saigon in 1975, she's off to America, married to an ex-Marine and experiencing still more tribulations, including violent abuse, alcoholism and bigotry.

In all, it's pretty heavy sledding.

"Part of what art does," Stone announces, "is bring up the most evil things and make us confront them."

Yet however much Stone may believe in "art," it's also clear he's operating out of a reservoir of experience unique in film culture. If he's a blowhard, he earned the right to his hard blowing. Alone among his Hollywood peers, he is the man who was there.

After dropping out of Yale, he served the grunt's 12-month tour of Vietnam as an infantryman, earning the Bronze Star. He returned to the United States with an attitude problem that manifested itself in an arrest for marijuana possession. He studied filmmaking at New York University's famous school, under the not-yet-famous Martin Scorsese. He made his early way as a writer, winning an Oscar for the superheated "Midnight Express" in 1978. His first film as director was utterly forgettable -- "The Hand," a psychological thriller. His second attracted attention but not ticket buyers -- "Salvador." But it was "Platoon," his third, a semi-autobiographical account of a grunt's long year in the paddies and glades -- and perhaps the first installment of the exorcism that has marked his professional life -- that made him a commanding world figure.

Even though "Heaven and Earth" is his fifth film dealing with Vietnam either directly or indirectly, Stone denies he is obsessed with it. Besides "Platoon," others that touched on the American experience of Vietnam were "Born on the Fourth of July," "The Doors" and "JFK."

"Everyone says that," he says, almost laughing, "but I would have to say that Vietnam was not the most formative experience that I've had. My birth was."

That's an example of Stone's sense of humor, which is why nobody will confuse him with David Letterman.

Leaving the joke hanging laughlessly in the air, he continues: "Really, one of the worst things I had to get through was my parents' divorce. A lot of my madness, my rage, comes from that period.

"Vietnam certainly helped form my character -- it was the furnace. But it wasn't the beginning or the end. I think of other things I've done or felt -- the teaching, the death of JFK, a period in the Merchant Marine -- that were all important."

Yet clearly there's a sense of exculpation in "Heaven and Earth," which closely examines a culture that Stone saw 20 years ago over the gun-sight of an M-16.

"We were always suspicious of the villagers. We assumed they were NVA. When I went back 20 years later, I saw the whole thing differently -- a whole culture there, a culture that worshiped its ancestors and loved the land which we had stupidly tried to move them off of. We called it 'relocation.' Those were the sort of things you never knew about if you were a soldier."

But he denies he's obsessed.

"No, I'm not. It's just that there are things to be learned from such events, however, and I don't know how you learn them without examining them. You have to examine things. Look, we Americans have a tendency to go into Third World countries -- Vietnam, El Salvador, now Somalia. But if you go into Third World countries, you should know what they are thinking -- otherwise, tragedy. I feel strongly we should not repeat our mistakes."

He claims he doesn't even court controversy.

"I don't seek it out. I do it from passion. It's not about self-promotion. If something needs clarification, I have to speak up. The film should speak for itself, but sometimes you have to take a stand.

"But I'm not a propagandist. I like to think of myself as an artist or a filmmaker."

He also admits, almost ruefully, "I seem to attract lightning. But I've never set out to make a controversial film. I guess it's the subjects I've chosen; they seem to be lightning rods. Obviously" -- joke alert, the Stone sense of humor is about to explode again -- "I'm being tortured for something I did in a previous life."

However, contrary impulses still run through his work. The villain in "Heaven and Earth," for example, is Marine gunnery Sgt. Steve Butler (Tommy Lee Jones), who marries and brutalizes Le Ly (Hiep Thi Le). Butler is a dark and troubling man, a ] representative of all that's evil in the American presence. For example, Butler is identified as a member of Operation Phoenix, the CIA-sponsored assassination campaign against Viet Cong officials.

Yet, even Stone admits there's something extremely charismatic about the sergeant, just as there was about the evil Sgt. Barnes in "Platoon."

"Yes, there is a fascination. What makes them exciting is that sense of danger. In this case, he turns it on himself. It's as if he's consumed in dark fire."

The same, almost certainly, could be said for his creator.

-Stephen Hunter, “The Obsessions of Oliver,” The Baltimore Sun, Dec 19 1993 [x]

[thevesseler]

Superbia, Part 3

Beginning of Story

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter [TBC]

This one’s kind of a long one, sorry.

[The perpetual frown stuck on your face deepens; not only are you finding yourself with rabbit on your plate once AGAIN, but you think the fairies might not be able to recognize you without the goofy grin you always wore around... her.  God.  Every time you think about how you coped with it, you shudder knowing it hit the rest of them hard at least tenfold.  You mutter under your breath.]

MILENAH:  Stupid lack of GPS signal, Stupid Terys for leading, stupid me for following, and thinking I could do any of this again!  But most importantly, stupid Grienburgh being in danger in the first place!

[After being overcome with Shoulder Infatuation, Lauren declared that your party would be spared immediate punishment, and instead treated to a nice “dinner”–if you can even call it that–until they figure out what to do with you.  Since then, they've taken you back to their commune.]

[Time did nothing to Lauren since you last saw her.  She's clearly trying to fill the shoes of the departed eldest the best she can, but you can tell even after the death there's a middle child inferiority complex brewing within.  Iris, on the other hand, gives you the evil eye from across the table.  This should come as no surprise to you; she was always far more perceptive than she was given credit for, and it's always been clear which of your late friend's younger sisters she was closer to.  No fault to Lauren, but she was often a little... in her own world.]

[Terys has already lost interest in trying to seduce her, but she hasn't taken the hint.]

LAUREN: You know, I've never seen a mustache up close before!  Does it ever get caught in anything?

TERYS: …

LAUREN: The strong silent type, are you?  I don't mind, though I can only hope you'll tell me why its color doesn't match that of the hair on your head.  With locks like that, you could be Iris' twin!

[Iris doesn't avert her gaze from you.  Even then, she still has something to say.]

IRIS: No thanks, I'd kill myself if I looked like that.

LAUREN: Hah! Ahahah!  She knows not what she speaks!

TERYS: I don't need your validation, I know how I look.

[Lauren tosses a bone at Iris' head with impeccable accuracy.]

LAUREN: We have guests, sister, please show them some hospitality!

[Iris mumbles something, only loud enough for Sarjane, sitting adjacent to her, to hear.]

SARJANE: Wait, hold up– Who's Macki?

[The tension in the air becomes twice as thick as Lauren tenses up, her knife nearly going through the wood of the table.  It's a unique knife, possibly customized and seemingly too big for eating.]

LAUREN: Iris... why would you bring up Ma–

IRIS: She was our sister.

[Your three friends lean forward in their seats.  You force yourself to zone out, expecting everything to fall apart.]

IRIS: Much like us, she had no interest in letting any human who wandered into our woods go on their merry way.  Except one. Her reasoning... was that she had fallen in love with her.  She passed the teachings of her craft onto her, too...

[She finally tears her gaze from you, looking down at her lap.]

IRIS: There's a wing-hoarding dragon who guards the caves, and sleeps on a pile of wings he's ripped off of other fairies over the years.  Macki wanted to make sure she and the human could defend each other while hunting in the forest.  Then one day, as the human was supposed to accompany her for their next hunt, she decided to sleep in, letting Macki go off on her own.  So what do you think happened next?

[Nobody dares ask.]

IRIS: By the time the she found her in the middle of the woods, Macki had already bled out.  We could've killed that human, but instead, Lauren let her go.

LAUREN: What would you have done?  I think it's what Macki would've wanted.

IRIS: ...Maybe.  How could you know for sure?  You're not Macki.

[Lauren twists the knife further into the wood.]

WYNTRAM: If you don't mind me asking, who was the human?

[Son of a bitch!]

IRIS: Her name was... uhh, M...Mi–Michelle.

[She shoots Lauren a look.]

LAUREN: That's right, it was Michelle.

IRIS: It was definitely Michelle.

[You don't know why the fairies are trying to protect your identity, but they're doing a terrible job of it.  Perhaps they just don't want to start any drama.  Seeing your chance, you decide to be bold.]

MILENAH: Now that that's behind us, what do we have to do to get you to trust humans again?

[Iris' lips tighten, forming a flat line.  You know it's already too late for her to go back on “Michelle.”]

LAUREN: Well, there really isn't anything you can do.  If it weren't for your handsome devil of a friend here, we would've punished you on the spot!

TERYS: You're welcome.

LAUREN: However, I have an interesting proposition.  Other than Macki, there isn't a pair of hands in our commune that can best my good little sister at archery.  If one of you could take on Iris and win, we'll grant you mercy, as well as our utmost respect.

[Your friends all turn to you.]

LAUREN: Of course, if you lose, we'll have to open up the portal to our own realm.  It's a lovely place to visit, but it's not so fun to live there, especially if you aren't a fairy.  Our queen could always use some more court entertainers, though.

[Your heart sinks.  You spot Terys from across the table, his arms instinctively wrapped around his abdomen, knowing what this would mean for him if you lost.  So it's come to this.]

LAUREN: Of course, you could always forfeit right now–

MILENAH: No!

[Iris grins smugly at you.]

IRIS: Oh?

MILENAH:  I'll take you on, I haven't missed a shot in years.  Soon enough, you'll understand the utility of a human!

[Wyntram and Sarjane, who had been holding their breaths the entire time, let out a sigh of relief.]

IRIS: Tomorrow morning, as soon as the sun rises.  I'll send someone to wake you up.

LAUREN: In the meantime, feel free to spend the night in our spare cabins!  We have two, which should be enough to accommodate four humans.  Have a good rest, for it might be your last.

[Time is of the essence, and these assholes are holding your party up by making you stay overnight.  The walk to the cabins is eerily quiet.  Two male fairies, both holding bukkehorns, stand outside the entrances.]

IRIS: They're here to make sure you don't escape in the middle of the night.

MILENAH: Wouldn't dream of it.

SARJANE: Well, I guess this is good-night for now.  And don't worry, we'll be there to cheer you on.  You're gonna be great!

MILENAH: I know, but don't jinx it.

[Sarjane grabs Wyntram's hand and starts pulling him toward the left cabin.]

SARJANE: This one is guarded by a cuter guy.

WYNTRAM: That's... subjective.

[He turns to Terys, who hasn't spoken a word since “You're welcome.”]

WYNTRAM: See you tomorrow, man.

TERYS: ...It healed so long ago... why does it still hurt...

[For a brief second, Wyntram looks considerably worried.]

SARJANE: There he goes with that vague cryptic BS again.  Come on, doc, I wanna see if they have indoor plumbing!

[Night falls, and much to Sarjane's disappointment, the cabins do not in fact have indoor plumbing.]

SARJANE: What do you think fairy shit looks like?

[Wyntram doesn't look up from his phone.  The cabin has no charger, and the battery should run out in a few hours, but that doesn't stop him from looking at the black screen in locked mode.]

WYNTRAM: Who knows?  Maybe flowers.  Like those hydrangeas.

SARJANE:  Noooo! I put those all over my face!

WYNTRAM: Heh.

SARJANE: You were a bioengineer, didn't you ever work on fairies?

WYNTRAM: Honestly?  No.  My town generally thought they were a myth, and anyone who claimed to see them was usually laughed off the mountain.

SARJANE: How many people can be laughed off the mountain before a scientist says “Hey, maybe what they're saying isn't totally made up”?

WYNTRAM: Since I started working, seven and counting.

SARJANE: Geez.  That is, like, five too many.

[Wyntram's message chime rings out in the hollow cabin.]

SARJANE: Looks like you get some service here after all.  Is it Dael?

WYNTRAM: No, it's my cousin.

“Hey DorkFuck 5000, have you watched The Stepford Wives yet?”

WYNTRAM: She likes to send me old movie recommendations that she thinks I'll overanalyze.

[He unlocks the screen to respond.]

“Which version?  I liked the remake better, but you can't tell me Joanna's marriage to Walter wasn't compulsory heterosexuality.  It's like they told her she had to choose a guy to marry, she threw a dart at a board, it landed on a picture of a deflated scrotum that looks like Matthew Broderick and she said 'Him, I guess...'”

SARJANE: That's not over-analysis, that's just fact.

WYNTRAM: Look at your own phone.

[The following silence between them lasts three minutes before either decides to say something.]

WYNTRAM: Man, this sucks.  Why do I always get stuck with you?

SARJANE:  Whoa, wait a minute!

WYNTRAM: No– Shit!  Hold on, that's not what I meant.  It just seems like every time we camp or stay at inns, the two of us always end up rooming together.  Like I get it, we're really good friends, but sometimes, I feel like there's other people I need to talk to once in a while.

SARJANE: Hey, you're not still thinking about what he said outside the cabin, are you...?

WYNTRAM: …

[She crosses her arms.]

SARJANE: Oh? Ohohohoho???? Could it be the good doctor actually has genuine friendly concern for people other than Hard Glass Mazdaki?

WYNTRAM: Yeah, of course!  I'm human!  But please don't call yourself that.

SARJANE: The point is, you say this sucks.  I think I know how to make it un-suck.

[You wish you knew how to make him respond to you.  Anything, even an insult, would do.  If it weren't for the guards outside, Terys would probably leave the cabin to “meditate,” or whatever he claims to do to let off steam when he's alone.]

MILENAH: Big day tomorrow.

TERYS: …

MILENAH: You know, I took another one of your manuscript pages again.  Doesn't that piss you off?

TERYS: ..

MILENAH: Well, in the event that it doesn't, let me show you what I've been working on for you.

TERYS: .

[You slip the manuscript page onto his side of the cabin.  He scans it from where he sits.]

MILENAH: It's supposed to be a resurrection spell.  Our biggest concern was that since we don't have a healer, what are we gonna do if one of us drops dead?  This melody is the answer, the spell is a one-use-per-fight sort of thing, though, so use it wisely.  I call it... “Bring to Life.”

[He crumples the paper into a ball and throws it at you.]

MILENAH: Please don't tell me it's already been done!

TERYS: ….........

[You slam your head against the cabin wall.]

MILENAH: I'm not going to lose, you know!

TERYS: You better not.

MILENAH: I'm no fool!  I know what losing means for you, and I'm not gonna let you go through that again.

TERYS:  You better not.

MILENAH: Don't you have any faith in me?

TERYS: What difference does it make, how much I have in you?  Of course I do, but if you lose to that fairy, what will it even count for in the end?

[You'd normally try to give him some speech about moral support and The Power of Friendship that you only half-believe yourself, but you're interrupted by a knock on the door.  You walk over to answer it.]

MILENAH: Hm?

GUARD FAIRY: You have visitors.

[Behind him is Sarjane standing by her own cabin's guard, and Wyntram off to the side.]

SARJANE: Hey Millie, guess what?  I'm stealing you!

MILENAH: Why?

SARJANE: It doesn't matter, don't worry about it.

[You walk out the door to follow her and the guard, when you notice Wyntram stay put.]

MILENAH: Shouldn't he be following us?

SARJANE: It's fine!  The cabin can only fit two people!

MILENAH: Huh?  But then that means–

SARJANE: It's fiiine!

[As Sarjane approaches the door to open it, the subjectively cuter guard returns to his post.  She shuts the door behind you.]

SARJANE: Sorry I used you like that.  I just had to get those two alone.

[You feign offense.]

MILENAH: I'm hurt.  You don't like spending time with me?

SARJANE: Never said that.  How are you holding up?  Knowing your record, I think that violet-mopped malcontent will be in for a rude awakening tomorrow.

MILENAH: Which one, Iris or Terys?  Depending on who you're referring to, what you said has two entirely different meanings.

SARJANE: Pssh.  

[She causally walks over and flops onto her bed.]

SARJANE: Still, this lady seems pretty sure of herself, and according to the Orange One, their sister was even better.  Do you think she can do that thing where you pin the onion ring to the tree?

MILENAH: No idea.  Macki didn't teach me that one.

[Your blood freezes as you realize what you've just said.]

SARJANE: A-ha!

MILENAH: Yoooouuu!  You tricked me!

SARJANE: I did nothing, “Michelle.”  You just have a loose tongue.

MILENAH:  Die.

SARJANE: Oh, it's not like I'll tell anyone.

[You take a seat on Wyntram's bed, which you guess is yours now.]

MILENAH: Everyone in this commune knows what I did, but none of them will admit it's me.  All of this could have been avoided if we just went left like I wanted.

SARJANE: True, but think how much less I'd know about you if we did.

MILENAH: I don't have a loose tongue.  But I am a hypocrite.  I hold on to all of my friends' biggest secrets and guard them with my life, but then I don't trust them enough to share my own.  Can you blame me?  The incident with Macki wasn't my proudest moment.  It's funny... the day it happened, I swore it wasn't my fault.  I never sleep in, it's not my nature.  That morning, I felt... wrong.  Completely disoriented.  Why was I so tired the night before?

SARJANE: More importantly, the fairies had to hunt in pairs before you came along, right?  So why did she go off to hunt alone instead of asking someone else to go with her?

[You never considered that.]

MILENAH: I don't know her reasons.  I wish I could ask her.

SARJANE: Iris said Macki was in love with you.  I'd kill to hear your side of that story.

MILENAH: I actually never knew for sure.  She spent a lot of time with me, taught me everything I know, and told me how pretty I was, but does that really mean love?

SARJANE: You can't rule it out, I mean, you can't blame her for thinking yo–

MILENAH: ?

SARJANE: Ha!  I just remembered something!

[She's visibly sweating.  You don't think she knows how much louder she's speaking than she was a moment ago.]

SARJANE: Dinner!

MILENAH: What...

SARJANE: You didn't have any!

MILENAH: Well, I didn't want to eat rabbit.  I'll be fine, I can still shoot on an empty stomach.

SARJANE: You say that now until you pass out and impale yourself on your own arrows.

MILENAH: You've got an active imagination.  Now, what were you trying to say before?

[She ducks underneath the covers.]

SARJANE:  Good night!

[percontaion-points]

Misc Fanfictions (6/4/18)

These are fics with less than five stories in each category. Use ctrl+F to look for whichever category that you want. Categories are as follows: Scorpion, Ace Attorney, Avatar: TLA/LOK, Avengers, Agent Carter, Beauty and the Beast, Bob's Burgers, Dead Like Me, Disney's The Little Mermaid, Doctor Who, Fruits Basket, FullMetal Alchemist, Guardians of the Galaxy, Hannibal, Hellsing, Hey Arnold!, How to Train Your Dragon, Howl's Moving Castle, Jupiter Ascending, Labyrinth, The Librarians, Moana, Mulan, Pirates of the Caribbean, Pokemon, Shall We Date: Wizardess Heart, Sherlock, Sky High, Stargate: SG1/Atlantis/Universe, Stranger Things, Teen Titans, Torchwood, Twilight, What's Your Number New stories are marked with [NEW] before them.

scorpion

Just Like High School by Browneyesparker Description: It was like high school all over again. He would pull on her proverbial braids and say things just to get her attention. Toby/Quinn. Words: 1087 Timeline: Normal/none Pairing: Toby/Happy Minor: Paige/Walter Rating: Teen and up Warnings: You will literally die from fluff overload

Highly Educated & Informed Conclusions by MyseryLuvsCompany Description: Paige hasn't been well as of late and in true genius style, the boys immediately jump to the wrong conclusion. Words: 1298 Timeline: None/normal Pairing: Paige/Walter Rating: General audiences Warnings: Just some goofy genius antics

Modus Operandi by shirasade Description: Sex, if not aimed at procreation, was simple physical release, and Walter never understood why the rest of the world appeared to constantly obsess over it. Words: 1085 Timeline: None/normal Pairing: Toby/Walter, with minor mentions of Walter/Paige and Toby/Happy Rating: Teen, but should probably be Mature Warnings: Mild sex scenes

Baseline of Attraction by ChaoticByDesign Description: Paige hadn't expected or been prepared for the feelings that Walter stirred within her heart. There were days when his smug arrogance made her want to throttle him and his 197 IQ, but then there were those unexpected moments when he would do or say something that proved his emotional quotient wasn't as low as he claimed. -----OoO----- Paige was brave, compassionate and completely un-intimidated by the genius minds that surrounded her. She was, in a word, extraordinary, and every day that passed made it harder and harder for Walter to ignore the way his heart clenched every time she smiled at him. Words: 2142 Timeline: Normal Pairing: Paige/Walter Rating: Teen and up Warnings: Just some random fluff

Ace Attorney

Where We Feast by Pyrasaur Description: They'd both made it this far, so how bad could things be? Godot/Maya, spoilers for T&T Words: 1671 Timeline: Post Trials and Tribulations Pairing: Diego/Maya Rating: M Warnings: Some sex

Avatar: TLA/LOK

First by Lord Death's Paramour Description: She nearly always understood him, but it seemed that she could never quite see the "I love you" in his eyes. Words: 3550 Timeline: It starts up probably before Aang woke up in the ice, and goes past Jet's death Pairing: Smellerbee/Longshot Rating: Mature Warnings: Some sex, but not overly graphic

Prince Zuko: An Owner's Guide & Maintenance Manual by whirleeQ Description: Congratulations! Now that you've become the owner of a dead sexy firebender, this guide will teach you all you need to know about your PRINCE ZUKO. Non-Fic,Parody Words: ??? Timeline: Season 1 only Pairing: Um... I guess one might say you/Zuko... it makes sense when you read it Rating: N/A Warnings: There's some mentions of nakkey time with your PRINCE ZUKO and stuff like that, but it's pretty safe to read, I think

Avengers

Mr. & Mrs. Barton (Or: Why Natasha Sends Jennifer Aniston an Annual Apologetic Fruit Basket) by shellybelle Description: Five years before they meet as Hawkeye and the Black Widow, they meet as Clint and Natasha. There is a romance, a marriage, and then, predictably, everything goes absolutely to hell, and Clint still thinks they should be getting royalty money from the DVD sales of Mr. & Mrs. Smith. (Or: boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love. Boy and girl get married. Boy and girl neglect to do background checks.) Words: 13630 Timeline: AU; Mr. and Mrs. Smith AU Pairing: Clint/Natasha Rating: Explicit Warnings: Violence, sex

Agent Carter

Too Soon by ohmyohpioneer Description: Daniel Sousa knows exactly how many vacation days Peggy has remaining. Words: 1606 Timeline: Starts in the middle of season 2, and then goes past beyond where Peggy was hurt and diverges from canon and tiny bit. Pairing: Peggy/Daniel Sousa Rating: T+ Warnings: Implications of sex, but it's rated T for a reason...

Beauty and the Beast The Reddest Rose by FizzyLemon Description: Belle stared up at the figure in horror, falling back over a broken marble bench. She'd meant to be brave. She'd meant to not cry. Yet tears streamed down her cheeks and tremors took her body. She'd done this for her father. The minute he crawled in through the front door coughing and retching with fear, she knew she'd be giving something up. Words: 26,796 Timeline: It's like a mishmash of all different variations of the Beauty and the Beast story, including the one where Belle has a bunch of shitty sisters, Cupid and Psyche, and the Disney version. Pairing: Belle/Beast (Adam) Rating: M Warnings: There's some sex, but the violence is what I really need to warn about.

Bob's Burgers

Make You Better by weatheredlaw

Description:

Being a teenager is fucking hard sometimes.

Words:

2918

Timeline:

Future where Tina's older

Pairing:

Tina/Zeke

Rating:

T

Warnings:

Some mild slut-shaming and name calling

girl, you just don't realize by agreaterlove Description: The girl lets her arms fall to her sides and says, "I'm going to inevitably fall in love with one of you." She pauses. "And I pick Jimmy Jr." Zeke's hungry, so he's not really paying attention, but Jimmy Jr's eyebrows immediately shoot up and he exclaims, "I'm sorry, but--who are you?" (basically the growth of tina and zeke's relationship) Words: 5620 Timeline: It starts before the beginning of Bob's Burgers, and goes until Tina and Zeke are in their senior year of high school Pairing: Tina/Zeke Rating: Teen Warnings: Tina-related awkwardness

Dead Like Me

Addicted by Emania

Description:

[One Shot] Mason has always been an addict, that isn't going to change...but some addictions just might kill him. Angst. [MasonGeorge] Cross posted under user id803999

Words:

2428

Timeline:

None/normal

Pairing:

George/Mason (onesided?)

Rating:

Teen

Warnings:

Drug use, mild voyurism

Disney's The Little Mermaid

A Fish out of Water by enigmawing

Description:

Perhaps a missing chapter from one of our favorite movies about a certain little mermaid. Rated M for a small amount of sexual selfexploration.

Words:

1637

Timeline:

Normal/None

Pairing:

Eric/Ariel

Rating:

Mature

Warnings:

Graphic female masturbation, minor mentions of penatrative sex

Doctor Who

A Book Before Bedtime by Random-Battlecry

Description:

The Doctor reads a bedtime story. Rose is easily amused. Warning for gratuitous corruption of Dr. Seuss. Oneshot. 9Rose.

Words:

1444

Timeline:

Sometime during 2005 series 1 reboot, I guess

Pairing:

Nine/Rose

Rating:

K

Warnings:

Fluff overload

I'm Sorry by OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles Description: When Rose finally tells the Doctor how she feels, he gets scared and tells her it can never be. Will he be able to turn back the clock and tell her how he feels? [relatively long songfic] 9Rose Words: 2101 Timeline: I don't know Pairing: Rose/Nine Rating: K Warnings: Some angst, you might cry if you cry easily, fluff

Ode to a Throwaway Line by LilacFree Description: Based on a bit of dialogue from the 9th Doctor's first story: 'Rose' and depicts other things going on in London the night of the Auton attack. Words: 289 Timeline: Set during the very first episode of the 2005 reboot Pairing: None Rating: Mature Warnings: It's goofy and a little bit on the mature side, but it makes sense when you read it

Rose Tyler's History of Sex Description: At eight, Rose Tyler learns about sex. It all sounds very peculiar. [DoctorRose, RoseMickey, Others] Words: 3931 Timeline: Goes from the time that Rose is 8 until she dies of old age Pairing: Rose/9 and 10, Rose/Micky, Rose/several OMCs Rating: Mature Warnings: Obviously a lot of talk about sex, but the physical act isn't very graphic at all It's a bit of a tearjerker at the end

Fruits Basket

A Battle Lost by Mizaya

Description:

Kyoru. 'It was a weakness, letting her into his heart so firmly that he found himself dreaming of being with her forever.' Three-part fic with lime ending. COMPLETE

Words:

14297

Timeline:

Lord knows; don't ask me this

Pairing:

Tohru/Kyo

Rating:

Mature

Warnings:

Mildly graphic sex scenes

Home Schooling by gretel_chan Description: Shigure gives Tohru some lessons. . . PWP,M/F Words: ??? Timeline: I don't know/Normal? Pairing: Shigure/Tohru Rating: N/A Warnings: Graphic sex

FullMetal Alchemist

Riza Hawkeye, Cock Inspector by Anne Packrat

Description:

Not quite as bad as it sounds. Though I'm still going to hell for writing it. Riza Hawkeye vs. Roy Mustang in a bad hardboiled detective story. Rated for really bad double entendres, sexual language and situations, and excessive abuse of a single joke.

Words:

1752

Timeline:

I think this counts as an AU?

Pairing:

Um, I'm going to put Riza/Roy and just go...

Rating:

Mature

Warnings:

It makes sense when you read it until the end

Paperwork by Anne Packrat Description: Roy Mustang will jump at anything that gets him out of paperwork. Unfortunately, this time Riza Hawkeye is that distraction! Rated for sexual language and scenes. Royai. Roy Riza Words: 903 Timeline: Normal Pairing: Riza/Roy Rating: Mature Warnings: Slightly sexual but nothing very graphic

Guardians of the Galaxy

I Am Groot by sherlocksmyth

Description:

EXTREMELY NSFW fic told from the perspective of Groot.

(Follow me on Tumblr -> marvelcolm.tumblr.com

Twitter: @marvelcolm)

Words:

1308

Timeline:

Normal/none

Pairing:

None

Rating:

Explicit

Warnings:

It makes sense when you read it

Hannibal

CLICK HERE FOR F R E E S L U T S by headbuttingbears

Description:

Will stared at the screen, his face blank.

"Throwback Thursday is a popular theme on the internet," Frederick said, grin audible. "These are from, what? Twenty years ago? How old is… Hot Cops 8: Bareback to the Academy?"

Words:

4,593

Timeline:

It says that it takes place in season 1

Pairing:

Chilton/Grahm

Rating:

Explicit

Warnings:

Gay oral sex, mentions of masturbation, porn consumption

Hellsing

Needing and Wanting by little-boo

Description:

Walter and Seras spend some time together as she can’t sleep. One shot.

Words:

2,519

Timeline:

Normal/none

Pairing:

Seras/Walter

Rating:

Mature

Warnings:

Mild sex scenes. There used to be the full, very graphic, version up on aff.net, but I can no longer find it

Day's Eyes and Moon Pennies by DreadNot Description: Yes, a Valentine's Day fic. Walter and Seras study Victorian flower language. Words: 1,132 Timeline: None/Normal Pairing: Seras/Walter Rating: K+ Warnings: Just some sweet fluff

Valentine's Day Blunder by kelles Description: This is my first attempt at humor. Pip wants to give Seras the perfect gift for Valentine's Day and seeks Walter advice. But, the advice was not the best. One shot, PxS. Words: 922 Timeline: Normal/none Pairing: Seras/Pip Rating: K+ Warnings: Sexy lingerie, but it's not worn, so I'd say that it's exceptionally safe

Eternal Rose by TeaRoses Description: Walter muses on his feelings for Seras Victoria (W x S). Very short. Spoilers. Words: 841 Timeline: Normal/None Pairing: Onesided Walter/Seras Rating: K+ Warnings: Just angsty fluff

Hey Arnold!

Second Helpings by AibouFTW Description: This can’t be happening. But, sure enough it is. Those emerald eyes, that kind smile, that football-shaped head…Yeah, there’s no mistaking it. He’s here. Fuck. Words: 18,743 Timeline: They're all like... in their 20's or something, IDK Pairing: Helga/Arnold, mentions of Phoebe/Gerald and Rhonda/Curly Rating: Explicit Warnings: Sex. Hella awkward, too

How to Train Your Dragon

Enough by astrxd

Description:

[Cross posted on my tumblr!] Life on Berk is just beginning to pick back up after Drago's defeat, and everybody has been coping with major changes. When Astrid takes a liking to a particular song (one that sparks many, many memories for Hiccup), the young chief reacts.

Words:

1041

Timeline:

Post second movie

Pairing:

Astrid/Hiccup, minor mentions of Stoick/Valka

Rating:

Not rated, but it's pretty clean

Warnings:

You might cry a little bit

Viking #2 by neurosis (bigspoonnoya) Description: Normally, Astrid didn’t begrudge the opinions of strangers (or she at least preferred to seem as though she didn’t), but when the whole archipelago is hunting you down because they’re mistakenly convinced you’re dating the Pride of Berk, Hope and Heir of the Hooligan Tribe, Dragon Master et al—that’s annoying. And mortifying. Mainly mortifying. Words: 59856 Timeline: Post the first movie Pairing: Astrid/Hiccup Rating: Mature Warnings: Some sex, some violence

Summer Goes by Barkour Description: Summer goes, but Astrid stays. That must stand for something. (Or: Hiccup and Astrid make out and discuss feelings in a meadow.) Words: 5555 Timeline: Post second movie Pairing: Astric/Hiccup Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic oral sex

Seize My Heart by oh_you_pretty_things Description: He was so persistent and his tenacity annoyed her. He was so clever and his innovation annoyed her. He wore his emotions on his face so openly and that annoyed her. But what annoyed her more than anything was how much she noticed him. A series of short vignettes about Astrid and Hiccup. HTTYD2 spoilers. Words: 51,459 Timeline: It starts off when Astrid and Hiccup are pretty young, and then goes way past the second movie Pairing: Hiccup/Astrid Rating: M Warnings: Sex, miscarriage, violence, brief mentions of torture, PTSD You will probably cry.

Howl's Moving Castle

As Others See by JediShampoo

Description:

A magical misfire ends with the wrong Howls in the wrong worlds. HMC movie crossover with HMC book. Romance, light humor, light angst. Warning for adult scenes. Complete.

Words:

39368

Timeline:

It's a crossover between the book and the movie; both post their respective endings (but the book timeline is before the sequel)

Pairing:

Book Howell/Book Sophie, Movie Howl/Movie Sophie, Movie Howl/Book Sophie, Book Howell/Movie Sophie

Rating:

Mature

Warnings:

Some mild sex scenes

Jupiter Ascending

out of the woods by encroix

Description:

A girl wanders into the woods, and is led off the path by a wolf who devours her.

A girl wanders into the woods. A girl falls off the path. A girl finds a wolf.

This is not the same story.

Words:

15,247

Timeline:

Post movie

Pairing:

Jupiter/Caine

Rating:

Explicit

Warnings:

Sex

Labyrinth

An After Dark Fairy Tale by Mrs. Pepperpot

Description:

Sarah Williams never believed her experience in the Labyrinth was anything more than a dream. Nine years later, she's a struggling actress in desperate need of a job. What's to become of her when she falls into the Midnight Prince's grasp?

Words:

26,343

Timeline:

9 years after the movie

Pairing:

Jareth/Sarah

Rating:

M

Warnings:

Mildly graphic sex that's a little on the dubious side, human and sex trafficking

A Carnival of Dreams by PaintedGlass Description: He's held control of her dreams for so long; it can only be a matter of time before he comes to claim her. Words: 74225 Timeline: 6 years after the movie Pairing: Sarah/Jareth Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic sex, lots of angst, hella long

Redefine by Woubazoid Description:They know how to play games. It's once the pieces are put away and the game is over that they're not sure what to do. Ten years after the end of Labyrinth. Words: 30428 Timeline: Ten years after the movie Pairing: Sarah/Jareth Rating: Mature Warnings: Mildly graphic sex, it's pretty long and crammed into one chapter

Mad World by Annissa Description: Later, Jareth would look back on the moment just before her sudden and unexpected arrival to reassure himself that he hadn’t made any wishes. Wishes always demand payment, and some wishes have far higher prices than others. Words: 98,809 Timeline: It's ~3 years after the movie? And then it just goes wild for a long time Pairing: Sarah/Jareth Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic sex Some implied child molestation and various child abuse, but it all feeds back into the "The gobling king takes children away from shitty situations". (But the story totally could have gone on without them, though, so I feel like it's just sort of shitty... Whatever.)

The Librarians

Summer of Fluff by angellwings, Imagination_Parade, justlook3

Description:

A collection of short, unrelated one-shots written from prompts sent to us on the JassandraTrash Tumblr blog as part of our Summer Fluffathon Celebration

Words:

12,008

Timeline:

They're all sort of all over the place...

Pairing:

Jacob/Cassandra

Rating:

General

Warnings:

Just a bunch of fluff. Some brief mentions of characters having had sex, but the actual sex is always off screen.

And the Global Phenomenon by Imagination_Parade Description: Some of the Librarians have gotten swept up in the Pokemon Go craze that's currently sweeping the globe...while others are left wondering what the heck has come over the team. A fun little team fic that you'll probably be able to relate to, whether you play the game or not! Words: 1699 Timeline: Obviously right after Pokemon Go came out... Pairing: None Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Mayhem and job ignoring because of Pokemon

Under the Mistletoe by Imagination_Parade Description: The Library knows what's going on between Stone and Cassandra. He sees all the looks, the smiles, the gentle flirting. Now, Christmas is approaching, and before the festive season is over, the Library's going to make sure those two end up under the mistletoe every time the opportunity presents itself. Maybe all they need is a gentle nudge in the right direction. Words: 3171 Timeline: Post that one episode with Jake's dad Pairing: Jake/Cassandra Rating: General Warnings: Just some holiday fluff; nothing more!

Moana

Totally Worth It by BadOctopus Description: "Do you really think I came all the way here, and stole you from your island on the night before your wedding, because I feel sorry for you?" Timeline: Post Movie Pairing: Maui/Moana Rating: Teen Warnings: A lot of awkward fluff and some makeouts

Smitten by NRGburst Description: “I am a demigod, okay? Stop that! I will smite you! You want to get… smote? Smoten?” Timeline: Post movie Pairing: Maui/Moana Rating: Mature Warnings: Masturbation, although the actual sex is rather glossed over and it's a little disapointing.

By Skies and Sea by Islenthatur Description: She prayed to the god's for Maui to find that love he desired, to fine anyone who would forever be by his side so he didn't have to suffer the frailty of mortality to an endless sky of immortality. It just took a while for her to realise they already did. Timeline: Post movie Pairing: Maui/Moana Rating: Teen Warnings: Just some mildly angsty fluff

Mulan

Sweet Water by wendybyrd

(Sequel:

Chasing Madame Cloud Splendor by Illyana Lian-hua Wendybyrd

)

Description:

Mulan, Shang, a river by moonlight..... Those who would see this as profane look away! Hide your eyes, for yes! I have brought sex into the story. (By popular request, a continuation of Wendybrd's "Sweet Water." Take note of the rating, this is our evocative version of Mulan.)

Words:

4,917 (28,200)

Timeline:

The first part happens just before Shang tries to send “Ping” home, and the sequel spans across the rest of the movie, and then some

Pairing:

Mulan (Ping)/Shang

Rating:

Mature/Mature

Warnings:

Graphic sex, some homosexuality until Shang realizes that Ping is actually Mulan

Pirates of the Caribbean

The Kiss by Lost and Found Puppy

Description:

It was worth it. Bugger, was it worth it. JackElizabeth, shortshort

Words:

569

Timeline:

Second movie (I think?)

Pairing:

Jack/Elizabeth

Rating:

Teen

Warnings:

Um... fluffy Jack thoughts about Liz?

Pokemon

1NEW1

Growth by thatonewriterchick

Description:

Guzma’s done a lot of growing in the decade since reemerging from the wormhole. But he’s still fighting to get and keep things he feels he doesn’t really deserve.

Words:

27,089

Timeline:

Ten years after the end of Sun/Moon

Pairing:

Guzma/Moon, mentions of Gladion/Moon

Rating:

Explicit

Warnings:

Sex, mentions of physical child abuse

1NEW1 Healing by irinokat Description: Seeing Guzma back with his parents is a bit more painful than you might realize at first. Words: 78,561 Timeline: It's a few months after the end of Sun/Moon Pairing: Guzma/You (female reader) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Sex, physical/domestic abuse

1NEW1 Not Safe For Work by filthy_rat Description: It's been a year and a half since Team Skull was actually a thing, and ex-boss Guzma is trying his best to be a better person. He's gotten a job at the local Pokecenter cafe, catering to demanding customers day in and day out to pay the rent on a crappy trailer he shares with his golisopod. He meets Crysta a few months after Team Skull disbands, and the two become fast friends. When he leaves his hoodie, the only thing he's kept from those days, at her apartment during a party, she decides to keep it... Just for a little bit. Words: 9007 Timeline: A year and a half post game, I guess? Pairing: Guzma/OC Rating: Mature Warnings: Sex. There's also a mildly NSFW picture about halfway into the story, so... take warning

Shall We Date: Wizardess Heart

What's Mine Is Yours by caustickitty

Description:

In which we discover that Elias and Klaus are good at sharing... at least when it comes to MC.

A warning: I didn’t tag this with incest, because there isn’t any physical contact or attraction between Klaus and Elias. There is more of a voyeurism kink to this story than anything else. But it’s still a story about group sex with two brothers, so… yeah, if that kind of thing bothers you, you should probably skip this.

Words:

7420

Timeline:

I'm not quite sure, but sometime after she's accepted, although it's probably during her Klaus route.

Pairing:

Klaus/MC/Elias threesome

Rating:

Mature

Warnings:

Graphic sex and some mild language

Sherlock

Three-Quarters Curiosity by Tallulah99

Description:

Curiosity has always been the driving force in the life of Sherlock Holmes. Tonight it drives him to embark on a potential experiment that means working with volatile elements and potentially explosive results...and Molly Hooper. Written for the '50 Reasons to Have (Sherlolly) Sex' meme on tumblr. Sherlolly. Rated M for a reason. Incredible cover art byFlavialikestodraw.

Words:

6846

Timeline:

Don't ask me this/Normal?

Pairing:

Molly/Sherlock

Rating:

Mature

Warnings:

Graphic Sex

Sky High

Honestly by pandacowhipster

Description:

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this."

“I wouldn’t call you stalking me at work every time you get stood up ‘meeting’, but I agree, please stop.”

Words:

4275

Timeline:

Post high school

Pairing:

Warren/Layla

Rating:

T

Warnings:

There was some mild mentions of sex, but you have to squint to see it

And kissing. There's some kissing, too

When we were strangers (or five ways Layla and Warren never met) Description: Five ways Layla and Warren never met Words: 5110 Timeline: All AUs Pairing: Warren/Layla, some mentions of Layla/Wil and Warren/random girl Rating: General audiences Warnings: There was some mild mentions of sex/one night stands, but it was really minor

Stargate: SG1/Atlantis/Universe

The Cat by Kuna Yashmaa

Description:

This is an old Wraith–related story. I’m just resubmitting it.

Words:

2,246

Timeline:

Um... none?

Pairing:

None

Rating:

T

Warnings:

The ending is mildly depressing

Stranger Things

The Time After The First Time by apollos Description: This is a love like no other. The first time Nancy and Jonathan have sex after the gate closes and all the emotions and realizations that come along with it. Words: 5841 Timeline: Post Season 2 Pairing: Johnathan/Nancy Rating: Mature Warnings: Sex

Teen Titans

Badedas by Salmon Pink

Description:

Starfire wants to learn of Earth customs, and she wants to experience everything, and she wants to experience EVERYTHING. Starfire x Raven

Words:

2836

Timeline:

Normal?

Pairing:

Main: Starfire/Raven (onesided)

Minor mentions of: Starfire/Nightwing

Rating:

Mature

Warnings:

Female masturbation

It's All Tamaranean to Me by Takashi Miike Description: One shot: Robin and Starfire, at last, have time to become intimate. Warning: graphic sexual content. First posted fic. Review please. Words: 3119 Timeline: Normal? Pairing: Robin/Starfire Rating: Mature Warnings: Pretty graphic sex ...I'm not quite sure that I can properly describe what happens at the end, but just read it, okay?

Torchwood

In Heat by samstjames

Description:

N/A

Words:

???

Timeline:

I don't know

Pairing:

Jack/Gwen

Rating:

R

Warnings:

Graphic Sex

Twilight

If Bella Were Sane by The One Called Demetra

Description:

The events of Twilight, had Bella been the only sane woman in the Twilight universe. Diarystyle. T because normal teenagers don't say 'Holy crow' when they swear.

Words:

4675

Timeline:

It spans the entire Twilight series

Pairing:

Bella/Mike, Bella/Jacob, one-sided Bella/Edward

Rating:

Teen

Warnings:

Mostly just some swearing and Edward being creepy as fuck, but there is some talk of rape at the end (it makes sense when you read it)

What's Your Number?

be the change by torigates Description: Colin lived in his apartment for almost four years before he ever said more than a “Hello,” or “Good morning,” to the girl in 6C, Allison Darling. Words: 6148 Timeline: Before and during the movie, and a tiny little bit after it Pairing: Ally/Colin Rating: Explicit Warnings: Sex, but it's about in line with the movie, with the exception of an oral scene