#osburns

[  @osburns  ]  upon reading the attached card , greta plucks one flower from the garish bouquet and stares at it . while their time during the valentines’ event was cut short , they’d held out hope for the other . they didn’t know the circumstances behind why they’d been pulled away and if greta was being honest , they didn’t think it was their business . they hum one of those love songs they’d heard their mother hum when they were younger and twirls around like they were the lead in one of the rom-coms they’d love to watch . romantic or not , getting sent flowers had always been a dream of theirs and having it come to fruition was more satisfying than they had hoped .  “ forgiven , mister osborn ! “ they’d said to no one in particular inside theirs and jubes’ shared room as they twirled one more time only to land themselves on their bed . 

it was stupid, the way being around harry sometimes made some kind of lingering feel jump out. it had been years since she even saw him regularly. she didn’t even like him anymore. he was with her sister ( though mary jane could do better than harry osborn, or peter parker for that matter, and she hoped one day she fucking figured it out ) and he had been. but when michelle was around him, it felt like she was that sixteen year old, watching him with stars in her eyes, like she was seventeen, daydreaming about what it would be like to go to prom with him, like she was eighteen, tear stained cheeks and alcohol on their breath as they shared their one and only kiss. 

emma hates going to oscorp. it smells of cheap cologne and disappointment - two things that she likes to AVOID. but unfortunately she’s got a meeting with norman osborn so she HAS to be here. after a quick yet professional apology from his secretary ( or one of norman’s regular employees - frankly she doesn’t care ) that ‘ mr osborn ‘ would be running late, emma’s told to sit down and enjoy the magazines. but it hasn’t even been 5 minutes until she sees someone else walking towards his office. 

. . .

he's never been good with pressure. ever. for all his good deeds and good intentions, edward leeds simply couldn't stand the abrupt change in tone whenever it does happen and he happens to catch it. the thought of there being so much to lose; well, he's never touted himself as a gambler. not with money nor people. right now was no different.

he'd woken up the morning after new years' in his bed, memories of the night before playing back like one of those badly-clipped montages he'd made in high school. out of sync, glitches abound. he'd drank a ton with cassie and still somehow found the energy to race betty to the drinks later on. though he figured that's one of the reasons why his head pounded like crazy right after. there were flashes of harry in there, too. and felicia. and peter. and .. well, he had stared at the ceiling all morning, not bothering to get up from his bed as he tried to fit together bits and pieces of his new year’s eve. harry's question just added another piece. a piece to a puzzle that he wasn't sure he wanted to solve anymore. wasn't life easier when nobody knew anything?

​He sat on the rooftop across the street, grateful for the shadow of the night masking him. He knew this block well; it was one of the few he’d consistently approached from the ground, one of the few doorways he’d taken regularly, one of the few doormen he’d had to brave. But he knew it from up here, too. He’d sat and watched before, protecting, guarding, making sure everything was alright. The owner of the apartment across the way, however, had never known he was there. They’d never known who he was.

Peter had followed him across the city today, staying just out of sight, stopping to perform a few Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man duties along the way. It wasn’t stalking, it was just... watching. Monitoring. Keeping an eye on the friendship he’d released into the crowds and noises of New York City. A thread he’d cut but couldn’t release; a habit he couldn’t kick.

If Harry could come to May for advice, Peter could keep tabs on him. He needed to make sure he’d made the right choice. He needed to make sure Harry was alright. (Even if he’d been wrong, there was nothing he could do about it now. They’d said their piece; they’d made their beds.) He just needed to know.

He had supernaturally good senses to start, and the suit enhanced his vision after dark--he couldn’t quite tell what was going on inside Harry’s window, but he could see the silhouette of a figure. Someone was inside, just out of reach. He wanted to get closer. He wanted to know; he needed to see. Quickly, quietly, he swung himself across the street, landing in a crouch on Harry’s fire escape. He willed the iron to be quiet under his feet and his shadow not to loom too long--why did Miles get the cool invisibility? Except--oh no. It creaked beneath him, and someone was coming. The window was opening. He pinned himself to the wall, scrambling up, trying to get above and out of sight just in time, but his breathing was ragged and his heart pounding and his grip clumsy, and he stumbled, moments too late, still stranded in plain view.

🥴 : a drunk text