#the paper shredding ask meme

[timeofjuly]

🩹 for Quinn and mc!

🩹 ADHESIVE BANDAGE — does your oc have any physical and/or mental disabilities?

MC has a whole host of Stuff going on due to the ringer they’ve put their body and brain through. They joke about their memory issues and feeling slow but it’s not all just them being self-deprecating - there’s some significant cognitive issues going on. Drug use, particularly benzos and opioids, do a number on the hippocampus, which is heavily involved in memory.

Physically, also yes. We haven’t seen much of it yet - notably, the weather has been really good in the fic so far and all of my fellow chronic pain sufferers know how shitty weather just exacerbates everything. MC has a bad time in the winter (for many reasons. This is one of them). Also: MC’s immune system is compromised - they get sick really easily and it hits them hard. Also blood noses! I’ve headcanoned that from day dot - the nose bleeds are frequent and seemingly without cause.

In terms of Quinn: C-PTSD and religious trauma syndrome (which isn’t recognised in the DSM-5 but there’s a growing amount of awareness and research happening!). If you read about RTS in particular you’ll see a lot of Quinn reflected back at you.

You can find the ask meme here

[sssammich]

Let's try again...

💜 surprise kiss / impulsive kiss for Supercorp

💜 surprise kiss / impulsive kiss

thanks! alright let's seeeeee

ask meme

---

lena would never admit it, but one of her favorite past times is watching kara. call her a basic useless queer, but she can't help staring at her best friend across the couch from her. she's standing by the window of lena's office, pacing back and forth with a rolled up stack of papers as she essentially talks to herself.

the pacing has since graduated from kara standing on one side, giving out her lines before pivoting on her heel in a split second as if she's arguing with herself. lena can't help the smirk on her face when kara frowns at herself when she misses a line and has to open her stack of papers, haloed by the sun streaming through the windows.

now, lena knows that this is kara practicing for a speech she's about to give as a first time keynote speaker at an upcoming media conference tomorrow. but for now, she's more than happy to bask at this private performance that only she is privy to.

when kara huffs and practically tears the paper in her hands to shreds, lena is out of her seat on the couch and placing her own to stop her friend from making confetti.

"hey, hey," she starts, gentle. "what's going on?"

kara huffs, her glasses sliding just a smidgen down her nose. "i don't know why i agreed to this at all. i'm good with words, but not like this."

"now you know that's not true. you give hope speeches for a living. well, for a side gig."

that elicits an amused snort, albeit reluctant, from kara. "but this is different! i'm supposed to be talking about my work experience and my journey to becoming a senior reporter. that's less..." kara's words tapering off with a shrug.

"less what?"

"i don't know. less cool, i guess. i think about how i got this job and the other people in my office who are just as deserving of being able to share their work and their stories like me."

lena sighs, her heart warmed at her friend's admission, appreciative of her even more and think that through that alone, she thinks that kara deserves to try and share her story.

"then share their story. lift their voices up too. talk about your journey and theirs. let the people know that you're honored for the privilege of speaking to them but you're not the only one, and that the rest of your colleagues are a testament to that," she offers, suggesting a way to get kara out of any potential spiral that she might find herself in.

somehow, those are the right words to say to kara, who is now intently staring at her, nodding vigorously in understanding. then, before she knows what's happening, soft lips are on hers, their bodies pressed together. her mind, her panicking-and-going-cuckoo-bananas mind, finally catches up with what's going on and her body sinks into kara, her lips moving in synchronicity with kara's.

hands appear on her cheeks, cradling her, as her own hands wind up clutching at Kara's shoulders. if not for the need to breathe, lena thinks she would have stayed in that exact moment in time for the rest of her life, if she could.

with her chest slightly heaving, her eyelids slowly flutter open to find ocean blue eyes staring at her in what she can only assume is an identical dazed expression on her face.

"wow."

wow is right, she thinks. "wh-what was that for?"

kara shakes her head, but there's a smile on her face. her thumbs are caressing lena's cheeks. in response, she brings her hands to cradle kara's nape, her fingers just barely interlocking.

"i'd been wanting to do that for a while, but then you started talking and being so helpful and good and i just..."

"had to, huh?"

kara nods, smiles. "yeah."

she returns the smile with an earsplitting one of her own. "i know the feeling."

this time, it's she who leans forward.

[ckret2]

The most unpleasant breakfast.

I feel like this picture is a perfect summary of the fic so far.

Chapter 5 of The Pines Capture Human Bill Cipher But Can't Tell Anybody Because They Don't Know Whether Killing Him Will Restart Weirdmageddon (title TBD). Masterpost here. Updated 8/7/2024 for TBOB compatibility!

####

The group asking for a seat at the truck stop diner was an odd sight: three adult men; two children; and then one disheveled barefoot lunatic in a cartoon pony toga, handcuffs, a chain restricting one arm, and the dirt-smeared remains of a butterfly marker mask. But truckers and odd sights were the only things you saw at 3 a.m. in a Roadkill County truck stop that was old enough to still have functioning pay phones, and the handcuffed guest wasn't blinking SOS in Morse code, so the weary party was escorted to the round corner booth without question. They sandwiched Bill between Soos and Stan and silently awaited their menus.

"Hey, I'm Dani, I'll be taking care of you tonight." A waitress passed out menus to the group, hesitated uncertainly with a couple of paper kids' menus in front of Dipper and Mabel, and handed them over when Mabel made grabby hands for the accompanying four-pack of crayons. "Can I start you off with some coffee, or...?" Dani's gaze fell on Bill and her face lit up. "Oh, hey! Toga Lady! Hi!"

Bill gave her a puzzled smile and raised brows. "Hello?"

"Oh, yeah dude!" Soos laughed. "Wendy got a picture of you the last time you came by. You're totally a local meme now."

"Okay, I've gotta know." The waitress gestured at Bill's ensemble with her pen. "What's your story?"

"Well—" Bill opened his mouth, and froze; and the whole table went still as they simultaneously had the same realization.

If anybody revealed Bill's identity, in Gravity Falls, the epicenter of Weirdmageddon, they'd have a mob on their hands. At worst the town would rip Bill to shreds, and at best they'd throw him in a cell so they could schedule his shredding for a pleasant Saturday afternoon when more people could watch.

Bill couldn't risk the possibility that he'd die for good, and the humans couldn't risk the possibility that he'd be re-released as a triangle.

None of them could reveal anything.

And all of them knew it.

"Party," Bill said. Warming to the cover story, he went on: "This is my party uniform. A little anachronistic, but what can I say? There's nothing I like better than being the center of attention at a wild party!" He cast a sideways glance toward the Stan twins. "Until the fun police break it up."

Ford grumbled, "Partying wasn't the problem. You were going to burn down the town."

"You get so worked up over a little bonfire, sheesh." Bill rolled his eyes, leaned toward the waitress, and said, "These geek types, I tell you. Some people wouldn't recognize a good time if it appeared to them in a divine vision."

"Maybe if I ever had a divine vision..."

Bill shot Ford a dirty look. They quickly broke off their mutual glare, conscious of Dani curiously watching, and Bill breezily explained, "He had a bad trip and still blames me for it."

Dani laughed. "You're crazy! What's your real name, Toga Lady?"

Bill hesitated. "Guess!"

"What?"

"Guess! It's a game. You guess mine, I'll guess yours."

She looked down at her name tag. "I already told you my name's Dani."

"But did you tell me it's Danielle Miranda?"

Her eyebrows shot up.

Bill beamed. "I'll give you three guesses! While you're thinking about that, could we get a round of coffee, and... do you serve anything more toxic than mildly spoiled apple juice? No? Just coffee."

"And a chocolate shake," Mabel threw in.

Bill's eyes lit up. "Make that two."

Stan snapped, "I am not paying for you to get a chocolate shake." Bill sighed.

Once the waitress was gone, Bill said, "Trauma still disrupts humans' long-term memories, right? Have the locals forgotten my name yet?"

"Yeah, no, everyone remembers," Soos said. "I know two different Williams that got their names legally changed."

Bill groaned. "Great. Terrific! Fine. I don't even care. My last pseudonym was getting stale anyway, it's about time I find a new one. Do I look like a Silas?"

The others stared at him. Stan said, "What?"

"A Silas, do I look like my name could be Silas."

"Sure, that sounds stupid enough for you."

Bill shot Stan a dirty look. "Fine, you try. I've spent the last couple of days getting killed, tortured, drugged, beaten, and starved—"

"Whoa, wait," Soos said, "you've been what?"

—so all I'm coming up with is 'Not-Bill' and 'the letter A.' Somebody else think of something."

Stan let out a loud sigh. "Who cares? Bob."

"No."

"Will."

"No, and you sound stupid."

"Hey—!"

Ignoring Stan's irritation, Bill looked around the table. "Anyone else?"

The others at the table considered the question. Soos said, "Ferdinand. I think Ferdinand is way cool."

"Coming out of you, that's not the high recommendation you think it is, Questiony."

Soos winced. "Ouch."

"C'mon, give me something that sounds a little bit like me."

Dipper said, "Troy Angle?" Mabel laughed.

Bill didn't. "Troy again."

Ford ventured, "Xanthe?"

"Ha. Sure, just call me 'yellow hair,' why not. I like the direction you're thinking—"

Stan—whose barely-suppressed rage at this whole situation had been steadily building back up since Bill called him stupid—snapped, "Why are we looking for a name he'll like? Why does he get any say in this! I say we call him whatever he can pronounce through a mouthful of broken teeth! Because when I'm through with this sonovab—"

Bill blocked his view of Stan's threatening fist by holding up his menu. "But Stanley's got a point, I need a simple name. How many Americans know how to spell Ξανθή?"

"Get this stupid thing out of my—"

Mabel, who'd been mulling over the whole "yellow hair" idea, stood and slammed her hands on the table, interrupting the brewing argument. "GOLDILOCKS!"

Bill erupted into a peal of laughter that made the rest of the table flinch. His handcuffs clattered as he smacked his hands on the table and he leaned toward Mabel. "Yes yes YES! Perfect! Ha!" It was like a light switch had flipped on in Bill, re-energizing him, and suddenly he was brighter than he'd been since before his capture. "Funniest coincidence, I—well, forget it, you wouldn't get it." Eyes crinkling in genuine amusement, Bill said, "But I like you, kid. You're the one with the fun ideas!"

Mabel blinked in surprise, any pleasure at the unexpected compliment dampened by the knowledge that being liked by Bill was never a good thing. "Oh. Yep," she said flatly. "Fun's my thing."

Miffed, Dipper said, "Hey, I made a pun."

"I don't like puns."

Ford said, "If you'd please stop trying to win over my grand-niece with flattery..." but fell silent as Dani came back with drinks.

She passed coffee around, set a chocolate shake down for Mabel, set a second one down for Bill—"On the house"—and winked. "Is it Rumpelstiltskin?"

Bill cracked up again. "No, but give me three hours and a particle accelerator and I could teach you to spin straw into gold!"

"Worth a shot! Okay, is everyone ready to order?"

There was an awkward pause. Soos finally said, "Oh man, we all got to talking and completely forgot to look at the menu. Can you give us like five minutes?"

"Sure. Just wave when you're ready." 

The group steeled themselves to the task of picking a meal, which felt far too mundane for such a bizarre night. Dipper frowned at the paper kids' menu he'd been handed. "Hey, Soos. Can I look at your menu when you're done...?"

Wordlessly, Bill stole Dipper's menu and crayon box and slid over his adult menu.

"...Thanks."

Bill had already dumped out the crayons and started drawing triangles on the menu. "Don't mention it!"

By the time Dani returned, Bill had covered a quarter of the menu in tiny doodles of his own triangular face, reluctantly scratched them out after Soos pointed out he could get arrested for those, and covered half the rest in countless eyes. Soos ordered a burger, Stan ordered bacon and eggs, Ford ordered an omelet, Dipper ordered an omelet too not because Ford did but because it sounded good and maybe he wanted to try one okay that's all, Mabel ordered rainbow sprinkle chocolate pancakes, and Bill ordered a banana octopus pancake and a side of bacon "as floppy as you can make it" over Stan's objections to letting Bill get a side item.

"And raw bacon. Got it." Dani closed her notebook, gave Bill a considering look, and said, "Is it Blondie?"

"Ha! No! But you've been a good sport so I'll give you a hint! It's something in between your first two guesses."

"Huh..." Dani considered that a moment; then noticed Bill trying to pick up his shake with handcuffs on. "Do you... need help with those? I think the attached gas station's got bolt cutters."

Firmly, Ford said, "We've got bolt cutters at home." Bill gave Dani an apologetic shrug.

As soon as Dani was gone again, Ford leaned forward. "All right, Bill. If you're going to be in our house for who-knows-how-long, we need to establish some ground rules."

"Boy, do we ever," Bill said, with the confidence of somebody who assumed he'd have an equal say in deciding what the rules were.

Ford went on without acknowledging Bill. "For now, we can lock you back in the cellar—"

"Cellar's right under the gift shop," Stan pointed out. "I was thinking a storage closet. Just stuff him in there and pile a bunch of furniture in front of the door."

"You know, Stanley, I think that would be safer," Ford said, like he was trying to pretend he liked the idea based on safety rather than based on how satisfying it would be to make Bill as uncomfortable as possible. "Although I'm sure Bill knows he'll just be putting himself in danger if he makes enough noise to catch anyone's attention—so there's rule number one, no sounds. And once I've done some repairs, we can move him to the bunker..."

"No, I don't think so," Bill said. "I don't like that at all."

Coolly, Ford said, "Well, Bill, you're our prisoner, so we can do what we want, you don't get a say in it, and you don't have to like it. In fact, the more you dislike it, the more I think I do like it."

Stan laughed, elbowing Ford. "Took the words right out of my mouth."

Bill said, "But that's just the thing—I do get a say in it! I'm as worried as anyone else about what might happen if this body is killed. But there are fates worse than death. Like boredom, for instance! You know what I'm talking about, right?" He gave Mabel an appealing look.

She doggedly avoided making eye contact, slurping her shake.

Bill shrugged and returned his attention to Ford. "You know and I know you'll only keep me alive until you think of a way to kill me that I can't come back from—and that gives me an advantage. It means I've got nothing to lose. If I'm not living a life that's at least barely tolerable, then your only way to stop me from choosing death on my terms instead of your terms is by sticking me in an artificial coma." His smile stretched wider. "And are you really, really sure I don't know a way to kill myself in my sleep?"

Ford and Stan's scowls deepened the longer Bill spoke. Stan muttered to Ford, "It's not too late to take our chances killing him the old-fashioned way."

Ford shook his head. "What do you consider intolerable conditions."

"Being locked in a little cell with nowhere to stretch my legs, no entertainment, and no company. Abandon me in your bunker? I'll bash my skull in."

Bill declared this with such vehemence that it momentarily gave Ford pause; but he asked, "And if we lock you in the cellar?"

"Then I scream for help until someone calls the cops, and we all get to learn what they find more convincing: 'You've gotta believe me, this lady is secretly Bill Cipher in disguise,' or 'Help me, officer, these lunatics think I'm some kind of demon pyramid!'" Bill rolled his eyes. "I'm not asking for much. Just a little entertainment. Only enough to make this place more appealing than dying! A few rooms I can move freely in, the occasional conversation, a window or two I can look out of..."

"In other words," Ford said, "if we don't want you to do anything drastic, we need to give you a slight chance to escape."

"See, this is why you're the smart one!" Bill graced Ford with a brilliant smile. "And in return, you've bought yourselves time to look for a guaranteed way to finish me off. It'll be like a game: can you figure out how to get rid of me before I find a way out?"

"I stopped playing games with you a long time ago, Cipher."

Bill leaned across the table toward Ford, ignoring that he was at risk of shoving his elbow into Stan's chest and that the kids had started leaning over the table too as if they were prepared to lunge at Bill. "We never stopped playing. You just stopped having fun."

Their negotiations were interrupted by Dani's return. She distributed their meals, then said, "Okay, I've got two guesses. They're dumb, though."

"I'll allow it!"

"Rapunzel or Goldilocks."

"Hey, guess number four! Smart girl! Give her a nice tip, Stanley."

Stan grumbled, "Stop trying to spend my money."

Dani laughed. "You're joking!"

"No, really! Goldilocks!"

"No, no way. You're totally lying."

Studying her face to gauge how much of her skepticism was sincere, Bill amended himself, "Okay, okay, you're right—first name Goldie, last name Locke. Funny though, right?"

"I didn't think I'd get it. Goldilocks the Toga Lady. Ha! You guys enjoy your meals."

Once she was out of hearing range, Bill muttered, "Tabitha, I should have gone with Tabitha. That's a way more believable human name than Goldilocks. I could pull off a Tabitha."

Ford cleared his throat to catch Bill's attention. "All right, Bill, here's your situation. You're trapped within a small geographical radius and surrounded by enemies. You have no money, no identification, and no connections. The last time we saw you, you were pleading for rescue through a book—"

"'Pleading' is so pejorative! I was offering mutually beneficial deals, but you were too busy taping judgmental selfies in my book to—"

"—SO, wherever you came here from, you clearly can't go back there. And if you still have any powers at all, they're obviously dampened or we'd be dead by now. Your options are limited even if you do escape—so before you try, think how much less latitude we'll give you once we catch you."

"Sounds like somebody's about to agree to my terms."

Ford glanced at Stan, to see if he wanted to voice any objections; then Soos, as the current owner of the shack; then the kids, with a silent apology for what this would mean for their summer; and when no one protested, Ford said, "You'll stay in the main shack. You can go anywhere that isn't closed behind a door—that means the kitchen, the living room, the R&D room, and the attic. You don't get to enter any room behind a door without supervision. You don't get access to tools, poisons, or anything you could potentially use as a weapon. No phone, no computer, no borrowing anybody's cellular phones. I suppose there's no harm in letting you use the TV." He glanced around at the family. "Does that all sound agreeable?"

Nobody was thrilled with it, but nobody protested.

Bill said, "Question."

"What."

"How will disputes over what to watch on TV be resolved."

"Everybody in the house gets priority over you."

"You're being petty. We can't even vote on TV selections?"

"Fine, let's vote. Who's in favor of being petty and never letting Bill choose what to watch?"

Everyone but Bill raised a hand.

Bill laughed. "Okay, I walked into that! But I want books."

"Fine. You can have books."

"And writing materials."

"Under supervision only."

"Sheesh, paranoid. Okay. And a radio."

Ford considered that.

"Come on, you don't think I could get into trouble with a radio."

"You can use the record player."

"Nobody uses records anymore. I want a CD player."

"Fine. You can borrow a CD player."

"Fine." Satisfied, Bill picked up the maple syrup bottle and poured way too much on his pancakes.

Mabel cast a quick, envious glance at Bill's banana octopus. It had chocolate chip eyes and was way cuter than she'd expected.

Bill caught her glance, gave her sugary pile of sprinkles and chocolate an equally covetous look, and said, "Want to go half and half?"

She shoved her plate over. "Like you wouldn't believe!"

Dipper hissed, "Mabel," and Mabel flinched, guiltily glancing toward Ford to see if the Head Bill Cipher Expert had any objections to the pancake swap. Ford grimaced, but said nothing. Mabel had already agreed, Ford couldn't think of anything Bill could have done to an untampered-with plate of pancakes, and if Ford objected on principle he'd just end up making himself look like the bad guy—which he had a sneaking suspicion Bill would immediately pounce on.

Meanwhile, Bill certainly hadn't waited to see if Ford approved. He mercilessly sawed his mushy cephalopod in half, the swap was made before anyone could protest Mabel sharing her bounty of sugar with the worst person in the universe, and Bill gleefully added more maple syrup to his new source of sweet sensory overload. He scooped up a forkful of pancakes, stuck it in his eye, then jerked his head back at the pain and stared in confusion. He tried the other eye before he remembered his mouth.

Mabel played with the banana peel tentacles on her half-octopus. At Dipper's grimace, she said, "It's fine, he'll be fine! Octopuses grow back if you cut them in half."

Soos had worked through his burger like popcorn at a movie while he watched Ford and Bill's hostage negotiations. Now that the important decisions had been made and Soos was down to fries, he said, "So, how do we keep Bill out of all the other rooms? Am I gonna have to put locks on every door tomorrow? Because if we just say 'don't go there,' Bill will be like, 'okay,' and then do it anyway, you know?"

"Yeah, Stanford, how are you gonna keep me out of your rooms?" Bill was twirling a piece of bacon around his fork like spaghetti. "I hear I'm pretty sneaky." He stuck the fork in his eye again, flinched, and gave it a disappointed look.

"Well—" Ford glanced around to ensure no one was nearby, leaned closer to Bill, and lowered his voice. "I've actually got a clever idea about that."

Instantly intrigued, Bill leaned in closer. "Oh, do you?"

Like he was inviting Bill in to hear a secret, Ford reached past Stan to put a hand on Bill's shoulder—and said, "Amnesia Limina—"

"You—!" Bill tried to jerk out of Ford's grip, but was blocked by a wall of Soos. Soos caught on and grabbed Bill's wrists before he could shove Ford's hand away.

"—Stupidi Digiti—"

"I hate you."

"—Occultus Locus."

A bright red light flashed between Ford's fingers. Bill's eye twitched. He jerked out of Soos's grip and shrugged off Ford's hand. "When did you learn how to play dirty?"

Dipper had watched with such fascination that he hadn't even noticed a chunk of omelet fall off his fork into his lap. "Whoa, what was that?"

"A curse," Ford said. "Cast it on a door, and no one who interacts with it will know how to open it. Cast it on a person, however—and they'll forget how to open any door or window. We don't have to worry about locking Bill in if he doesn't know how to use a doorknob, do we?"

Bill asked, "What's a doorknob?"

Stan cracked up. Ford grinned at Dipper and gestured at Bill. See?

"Seriously, what's a doorknob? I know every word in the English language, I'd know if 'doorknob' was a word. Is it a wart? A kind of fungus?" Bill sighed irritably. "Where did you come up with that! I thought you forgot that curse years ago."

"I haven't forgotten anything you taught me," Ford said, clearly offended at the suggestion.

"No? Then why'd you waste all that time installing a retinal scanner on your lab door?" As it dawned on Bill that he no longer understood what retinal scanners had to do with the function of doors, he muttered to himself, "Why did he install a retinal scanner."

"I'm not a fool, I knew if I'd cursed the door you would have removed the curse as soon as you possessed me."

Bill laughed. "You idiot! Don't you know the curse can't be lifted by anyone but the person who placed it?"

"It. Can't?" Ford sat there, experiencing the unfamiliar sensation of being the student called on in class who'd read the wrong pages instead of the assignment, even though in his heart he was sure Bill must not have taught him that part of the spell. "What if that person dies?"

"Responsibility for the curse passes to the next of kin! Lucky for you, or this fork would already be in your throat—although I haven't completely ruled that out. Maybe one of your family will be more reasonable about the situation than you."

The rest of the table loudly assured Bill that they would not be more reasonable. Ford gestured toward them. "I don't think so. None of us are foolish enough to fall for your tricks anymore. You aren't going anywhere until we say so."

Bill ignored the rest of the table, gaze fixed on Ford. "Don't be so sure, Stanford Pines. You aren't the first cocky mortal to hold me and you won't be the last! I'll get out of here, and when I do—oh-ho-ho, I'll make you regret every single timeyou ever thought of crossing me."

Ford raised a brow. "I 'won't be the last'?" Stan laughed again, elbowing Ford. Bill cringed, face heating up.

The kids grinned. "Wow, Bill," Dipper said. "Pretty big of you to admit what a loser you are."

Bill rounded furiously on Dipper. "I'll show you a loser—" He lunged across the table toward him.

"Hey!"

"Get over here, you—"

"Everything good so far?" Dani asked.

The table froze. Bill had a fist curled in Dipper's vest, Soos had an arm around Bill's chest, Stan had his hands around Bill's throat, Ford was pointing a knife at Bill's face, and Mabel was prepared to bite Bill's wrist.

Bill slowly let go of Dipper. He gave Dani a thumbs up. "Everything tastes fantastic!"

"Great!" Dani moved on.

The guys slowly let go of Bill and sat back. Mabel gently bit Bill's arm to ensure he knew she meant business.

He didn't even acknowledge her. He'd fixed his glower on Ford again; and when Ford met his look, Bill pursed his lips and spat a thick, milkshaky wad of phlegm onto Ford's omelet.

Stan rounded on Bill so fast he kneed the table. "You little—!"

Ford put a hand on Stan's shoulder to stop him from making a scene. Calmly, he cut around the chunk of soiled omelet, scooped it up, and dropped it in Bill's milkshake.

A crooked smile broke through Bill's scowl. "You know—" he hooked a finger around his milkshake glass and tugged it closer, "this is the most fun I've had in a very long time." He squeezed one eye shut and made direct, defiant eye contact with Ford as he drank the shake.

Mabel and Dipper exchanged a look and cringed in disgust.

####

When they left, in lieu of the extra tip Bill had wanted Stan to give the waitress, he turned over his paper menu and drew a map to an eighty-year-old buried cache of stolen jewelry just a fifteen minute walk from the diner.

He'd finished his milkshake, egg and all.

####

(if you enjoyed, I'd love a comment! Thanks!)

[fearandhatred]

Good omens, “feather”, for the writing ask meme! -goodoldfashionednightingale

bestie!!! thank u for this lovely word, have some post-final fifteen crowley pov angst

our minds don't work like human minds; it's not a fact that's hard for anyone to comprehend. the humans know it too, they write it in their stories. but our minds aren't separate entities from theirs altogether, just… different. for example, our minds can store more information than all mortals in the world combined and then some, both in breadth and depth. we have faster cognitive abilities, recognition that comes faster than the shortest unit of time humanly invented. we can replay memories in our heads as vividly as they happened.

it takes a thousand years to forget.

i'll plead guilty to some of it: even as the years passed, years and then decades, even when the image of your face behind my eyelids started to grow spots of mould and permanent sunlight—even then, i thought you'd return. it wasn't unlike you to change your mind, not unlike you to come back to me. and so when i finally had the sense that maybe i should be preserving some things of you, all the photos turned to ash under my touch. that was a hundred years in.

i found your feather in a drawer, a month after you left. i don't know why it was there, why you kept it, but a hundred years in, i was grateful. you'd taken the polaroid with you. in memory of me, perhaps. maybe you thought i wouldn't want or need it. or maybe you weren't thinking of what i wanted or needed at all, because two hundred years after you left, you were still gone.

i don't know when exactly it dawned on me that when you said you were leaving, you meant it. every time i try to remember, i remember an earlier time. five hundred years in, two hundred, twenty years, six months, a week. sometimes i think i'd known the moment you said it.

it's a february afternoon, with biting wind and rain that felt like snow, when i finally lose you. it's cold all the time now. the whole street is gone, bare land with not even a shadow where the bookshop used to be. trees don't bloom like they used to, and i've lost you. i'd never paid attention before to how a memory looked in my head; i'd never wanted to keep a memory as pristinely clean and spotless as it was before, until you left. but after all the papers disintegrated in my hands—the photos of you, the drawings of me—i started to take notice.

it wasn't all that dissimilar to how movies looked back then, when we watched them together: the memories started to flicker and pale, black spots like dust flecks in front of projector lights. then they lost all sound and colour, your speech wordless and mouth moving like a mute ventriloquist's puppet. and then they got blurry, smoothened, the lines of your face ironed out until you were featureless.

when i try to think of you now, the film strips jam and shred in the reel, and the screen remains black. all i have now are the words i used to describe you with in my head, ones i no longer remember the truth of—that and this yellowing feather, once a shade of white your wings might have been.

[thus-spoke-lo]

I headcanon that Crocodile is a little bit like that Arrested Development meme, the "What could one banana cost, $10?" one--nothing is too good or too expensive for his pretty pet.

Crocodile sits at his massive wooden desk, the one you picked out for him with its ornate carvings and gold accents, and quietly reads a newspaper. Until, as it often his, his peace is shattered by the sound of his darling marching down the hallway to his great, cavernous office.

You burst through the doors, almost as if on cue.

He glances up from his paper, setting it down on his desk with a sigh and a smile. You stand before him, your hands upon on your hips, a huffy pout on your lips, your eyebrows knitted in a scowl. He tries not to chuckle, but a soft one escapes him as he gazes upon the vision that is his fiery love.

"What is it, doll?" he asks, resting his chin in his hand.

"This!" You toss a dress--or what's left of one--before him, and it lands with a soft plop. The piece of glimmering gold material is ripped to shreds, sequins barely hanging on by frayed threads, beads clattering to the floor as they roll off the surface of the desk. "Look what you did to my pretty dress, you ruined it! Now what am I supposed to wear to the gala tonight, hm?"

He grinned as he idly lit a cigar and clenched it between his teeth, listening to the sound of your shoe tapping impatiently on the tile floor. "Well what was I supposed to do, sweetheart? You just looked so gorgeous when you tried it on for me. Was I not supposed to take you right then and there?"

You feel a heat rising in your cheeks, remembering your earlier dalliance, as his eyes filled with fire at the sight of you in your pretty gold dress, the one he had custom-made just for you, and he promptly felt the need to ruin you utterly and completely--dress included. "Well, yes, but maybe let me take the dress off first, next time, love."

"I'm sorry, pet," he say with a wink that makes you flutter. "Who needs a dress for the gala anyway? Just wear that fur jacket I bought you, and your heels. That's all you need anyway."

You raise your eyebrows as your ears burn hot, and a sudden spark ignites in you. "You really want everyone's eyes on me like that?"

He pauses, and gives you a sly smile. "I suppose you're right, as usual. Tell you what"--he pulls his wallet out of his desk, rifles through it, and tosses a large wad of cash on the smooth wooden surface--"why don't you go buy yourself a new dress. What could a new one cost, 50,000 beris?"

"Uhhh," you stall as you slowly grab the cash, deciding whether or not to mention that the dress he destroyed wasn't even half as much. "I think more like 75,000, actually."

"Of course, my mistake, sweetheart." He hands you another stack without even so much as second thought. "Now go get yourself all made up and I'll see you tonight for the gala, hm?"

"You got it, love," you say as you strut out of the room, swinging your hips in just the way he liked. "I'll make you look the luckiest man in town."

"Already am, doll," he shouts after you, admiration radiating in his voice.

You smile as you close his door behind you, counting the impressive stack of cash--you did need a new necklace and new shoes to go with that dress, after all.

[charonean]

I’m reading back over one of my papers I’d submitted about a year ago, on how memes can function as propaganda. I had focused on the Bernie Sanders “I am once again asking” meme for it, and had to use several examples, so I had gone online and looked up some funny/popular ones. However, I also had to showcase a “failed” example, so I’d gone on here and simply looked up the meme and found one with few notes, and in the paper I just tear it to shreds. I am so sorry average tumblr user who I actually had to cite in an academic paper for critiquing your meme. I relate to it, even if it never got more than 20 notes. 

[iobartach]

@itsybitsypeterparker asked; sender takes an injury meant for receiver

blood, blood, gallons of the stuff ! meme

It all happened within the space of a few minutes, turning what had been a handled situation into complete turmoil. Standing off to the side, he had unwisely made the decision to lower his guard, divert the entirety of his attention into focusing on the gadget that sat strapped to his wrist. Searching for the coordinates that would open a portal back to the Society, he had not given any thought to the concerning stirrings of noise that had begun to fill the air, originating from the last known location of the anomaly the pair had brought down. A variant of the Lizard whose gradual rousing proved that, despite the bruising each Spider had rented upon his body, they were still capable of revealing a reservoir of strength previously left untapped.

Rising anew with a vile hiss and wicked lashing of tail, O'Hara, hearing his name, whips his head around in time to witness the massive reptilian surge towards him, teeth filled maw snapping wildly as it goes to strike, claws grasping outwards...

Only to be thwarted in their path, all motion halted by a blur of movement, by a body that had recklessly inserted itself between the collision of creatures. With a new unexpected target found, the Lizard's claws score the smaller Spider's side, shredding the fabric of his suit like paper as the anomaly snarled victoriously. With digits dipped in crimson, the reptilian, pinning its beady eyed gaze on the just caught spider, perhaps to make another pass at its downed foe, but would not get chance, as...

Energised by the sight of Parker's sacrifice, O'Hara breaks into a sprint, his attention, and rage, finding a new object to latch onto in their arisen foe as he rushes to reach Parker's side. The moment in which he gets there is marked by a stunning response, as in retaliation, Miguel hurls a curled fist at the Lizard, knocking loose a few blade-like teeth as he buries his knuckles in the other's maw, exerting his strength just enough in the hopes of punching the transformed doctor downwards instead of further away. He had leant quickly from his earlier mistake.

As a result of his punch, the reptilian collapses beneath him, squirming and thrashing with heinous life. The fist that had dealt the blow now opened up, allowing taloned tips to unfurl and sink into the scaly anomaly's head despite its screams, employing his might to keep them pinned beneath him.

"Parker!" The call emerged from his throat as a snarl, indicative of the fury that was currently coursing through his veins. "Answer me! Are you all right?!"

[zealctry]

@cainiine ( Aba ) said: ❛ i’m your mind giving you someone to talk to. ❜ ( meme. )

it’s a dirty little bar, the sort of hole in the wall that you cling to when you want to crawl away from your problems. the sort you’d never bring your friends to ( at least, not for a good time, unless it was at their expense; but then. . .  those wouldn’t be your friends, now would they? ).  it’s not exactly clean, and it’s certainly not reputable ( wouldn’t dream of confessing you’d spent your night here, into the wee hours, drinking yourself stupid ). not if you had any shred of dignity left to you. but the alcohol’s cheap and they don’t ask too many questions, turn a blind eye to much. operate in such blissful ignorance that it is obviously counterfeited ( as HE would say – money talks ; in here? it screeches and orders the very fabric of reality. as long as you don’t have too much of it, else you risk finding your throat cut. )

the clientele is hardly palatable to most people. but it suits Hidan fine, when he wants to unwind. he always chooses a place as far away from the entrance as possible, a distant viewpoint from which he can indulge in surveying the scenery before him. puppets and all. there're a couple of regulars whose habits he knows like the back of his hand, now ( who operate like clockwork in chasing their vices ), but there is always the odd variable here and there, making it worth his time. making it interesting. there’s one thing that Hidan has learned from this habit of people-watching ( a rarely indulged habit, as his skin often itches to do rather than to sit still long enough to SEE ) – it’s that everyone is guilty of something. and that oftentimes, people are neither angels nor demons. just pieces of paper, blown in the wind. aimless, with little direction – their only goal being to find a goal worth having, snapping a few necks in the process ( often their own ), before ruining any chances as they have it in their grasp. self-sabotage at its finest ( or maybe that just speaks to the patrons here. half of them drowning themselves in bottles. )

Hidan clicks his tongue at the thought, and momentarily diverts himself from its finer intricacies by reaching for the open beerbottle on his table. spinning it around on its axis, the gesture lazy, taking in the label with unseeing eyes ( just blotches of colour ). the sight that greets him when he raises his gaze again. . . . that gives him pause. in a way few things have done, over the past week. ( past week? month, maybe. )

the man looks ( eerie, as if liquid shadows had frozen into a humanoid form, suddenly there )  expensive, Hidan thinks, even as his eyes rake over that black suit. therefore, he is strikingly out of place. as if someone had mixed up their chess pieces and mistakenly placed the black queen onto the wrong side of the board, admist white pawns and a single bishop. it's an interesting study in contrasts. Hidan doesn’t deign to kick off his boots from the opposite chair, but he does pluck out the earbud from his left ear, regaining access to his full auditory range.

HA! how you like that !? ( ah! ) you gonna like THAT, da ra ra da ta . . . .

a figment of your imagination, the man offers as explanation, and Hidan . . .. ( laughs ) ‘s mouth curls into an amused little smirk. behind closed lips, his tongue runs the length of his teeth, pausing upon the edge of a canine. call it instinct.

( his pale head tilts to the side. )

              “ are you? ” he asks, running a finger over the rim of the bottleneck, the gesture nearly obscene, but then he brings the beer to his lips. cool liquid travels down his throat. he can barely taste it. ( it’s a contemplation that isn’t one. a question that isn’t one. ) whether things were about to turn good or ugly, Hidan meets them with gaze at half-mast. ( still, it’s lucid and sharp, if one knows where to look. )  “ ...I’ve seen better. ”

a jest. ( there’s a kernel of truth to it, though.)

           “ do my mental fabrications wet their throat as they talk, or are they here just to give me a lecture? ”

[windy-trickster]

Bold ask meme with ChiChi?

nail biting | throat clearing | lying | interrupting | chewing the ends of pens | smoking | swearing | knuckle cracking | thumb sucking | muttering under their breath | talking to themselves | nose picking | binge drinking | oversleeping | snacking between meals | skipping meals | picking at skin | impulse buying | talking with their mouth full | humming/singing to themselves | chewing gum | leg jiggling | foot tapping | hair twirling | whistling | eye rolling | licking lips | sniffing | squinting | rubbing hands together | jaw clenching | gesturing while talking | putting feet up on tables | tucking hair behind ears | chewing lips | crossing arms over chest | putting hands on hips | rubbing the back or their neck | being late | procrastinating | doodling | shredding paper | peeling off bottle labels | forgetfulness | running hands through hair | overreacting | teeth grinding | nostril flaring | slouching | pacing | drumming fingers | fist clenching | pinching bridge of nose | rubbing temples | rolling shoulders

[winderlylandchime]

I am so so sorry for your loss. Losing a pet is such a hard thing to deal with because they really are family. Me and my brother as well (he genuinely teared up when he called me on FaceTime after I sent him your reply) are sending you guys lots of love. I’m glad that Emmett had such a beautiful long life with you guys and got to experience so much love from you.

My brother is also saying thanks for the book recommendations, he actually already owned one of them that he got for his birthday, so he got excited that you guys had similar taste in books.

And just to let you know a little story that made the entire family and a bar laugh (apparently the story got shared on a stage by one of his girls but he refuses to tell if that’s true (it is)) My brother went on a check up (for his wrist bc his doctor wanted to see the test results they did and to see his wrist how his movement is) and he accidentally mixed up his wrist check up with his after surgery follow ups that he is supposed to have with a different doctor next week… and um.. well, you see, his scar from surgery is pretty huge.. and it goes diagonally across half of his chest/stomach and down his leg/thigh… so for his check up he usually was asked to take his pants off… i hope you see where this is going… the doctor told him to sit on that table/bed they have in their office and excused himself for a minute and then came back to my brother in his underwear sitting on that table and swinging his feet like a child (i wish you could see how he reenacted it on FaceTime obviously clothed!!) and the doctor walked in and went ‘ummmm….usually for a wrist check up you don’t have to get half naked but um…i guess’ and my brother just stared at him like that pikachu meme. He did also learn during this check up that the doctors here (where im at) wrote ‘the young gentleman has occupied his free time with a tv show while he is on a strict bed rest’ so this will haunt him forever, not that he minds it

Hello dear sweet anon. Thank you (and your brother) so much for your lovely thoughts about my beloved Em. Our pets are family that never talk back, never argue, never do anything wrong (well there was the time that Emmett opened a drawer and pulled all the socks out and the other time he shredded an entire roll of toilet paper), they are so easy to love and grieving them is so uncomplicated.

HE GOT UNDRESSED FOR A WRIST CHECK UP! Omg. The doctor probably realized (after the fact) that your brother was so used to getting undressed. I have a fear of getting too naked for doctors’ appointments so I wind up listing like every article of clothing before they leave - bra? socks? underpants?

The young gentleman has occupied his free time with a tv show while he is on strict bed rest. WOW. Let me tell you, mental health clinicians (not sure about medical doctors) develop ways of charting things so that other clinicians can understand but because the chart belongs to the patient, we don’t want to write anything damaging. “Had a hard time identifying a focus for the appointment” is really “didn’t know what the fuck she wanted from therapy” or “struggled with the concept of mindfulness” means “refused to even consider a benign suggestion.” And my favorite “took notes in session” which really means “this person is getting an A+ in therapy, something which is possible to achieve and normal to want.” The fact that the TV is mentioned is a big honking flag to any other doctor that your brother is obsessed. He should be proud. I bet no other patients have a note like that in their chart. This is different from “yeah, doc, I’m rewatching the office while I recover” - I promise you that doesn’t make it into the chart.

I’m so glad your brother and I have similar tastes in books. I would ask for suggestions but I am currently drowning in books I want to read. (But actually, if he has any suggestions, lmk)

[timeofjuly]

Ooh I would love to hear about any or all of these for Quinn and mc! 🧐💤💯

🧐 FACE WITH MONOCLE — is your oc more logical or emotional?

I actually don’t know about this one! I think Quinn, in many respects, is exactingly logical and practical. Ruthless in her introspection and assessment of others, but she’s logical for emotional reasons? I’m not sure if that trumps the logical aspect lol. 

In terms of MC, I’m also not sure. I'd probably say emotional - most of her decisions stem from that.

💤 SLEEPING SIGN — is your oc a light sleeper or a heavy sleeper? how are their sleeping habits?

Quinn is an okay sleeper, probably erring on the side of light. She has occasional bouts of insomnia and wakes up several times in the night. She’ll also work late into the night or wake up at 3am with an amazing idea and just… stay up. She does like a sleep-in though! 

MC could sleep anywhere. She falls asleep super easily and won’t wake up much throughout the night. She can also go quite awhile without sleep - sleep deprivation takes a little longer to set in. 

💯 HUNDRED POINTS SYMBOL — share three random facts about your oc that others may not know.

Quinn: 

Quinn is the youngest of three. She has an older brother and sister and their names are Jason and Ivy.

Quinn is named after Quinn Fabray, but her name also means wise or intelligent.

Quinn, in my original plans, was a patience soul. You can still see remnants of this in the earlier chapters.  

MC: 

MC's mother is a retired pro tennis player and her father is a nurse. Her mother retired when MC was four after a career-ending shoulder injury. Before this, the family was pretty well-off, but in chasing treatment for this injury they burnt through most of their money. This is why they end up living in Brookside - they both grew up there and it's all they can afford.  

Coming off the back of this, MC played a LOT of sports as a kid. Mom was hoping that something would stick, but alas, MC was not a sport prodigy.

MC collects tea! This stems from a throwaway line in chapter 1 - she has this ridiculous collection that takes up 70% of her cupboard space. 

You can find the ask meme here

[xamassed]

⟬ meme / @houseofvaricty ⟭

► Kiss me (Hawks to Himari)

It was the sound of his voice that turned her attention away from the stack of papers on her desk, but it took another second or two more for the request to register. And when it did, it was equal to tossing a wrench in a mess of running gears.

Her thoughts came to a screeching halt, her jaw dropped open and her round cheeks became the brightest, most vibrant shade of red.

"K—Kiss?" She thought it might have been a mistake, that she misheard because hyperfocusing on her work tended to do that. The look she was given and the silence that followed, it became abundantly clear that he hadn't misspoken.

He had asked for a kiss, but now she had to wrap her mind around why — after she satiated the need to comply. Himari wasn't bold in any sense of the word, but it was hard to deny the command when it came from him.

That crooked smirk and the way he propped his cheek against his fist didn't help. In fact, it only made him look twice as charming and twice as hard to resist.

Aha, but there was a way to lessen her own embarrassment! He had only asked for a kiss, the request vague enough that she could mold it in her favor. He was an awful tease, but there was a small chance she could wiggle her way out of this with a single shred of dignity.

"You're awful, you know that?" Said with a stubborn huff. She hoped appearing reluctant and embarrassed might save her, but she still became three shades redder when she leaned over her desk and pressed her lips to his cheek, just shy of the mark beside his eye.

"There. . ."

[anxiouspotatorants]

AU where Rory and Brad stay in touch. Rory gets Broadway tickets to see him perform and be in his element. She starts out going by herself, but at some point she lets it slip to Paris that they stay in touch and has to bring her along on her next theatre trip. Hilarity ensues.

AU where Rory and Dave became proper friends. They have each other’s emails and complain about university-work to each other. Sometimes it becomes a competition about who has the biggest and most terrible workload, other times it’s arguing about who goes to the best school, sometimes it’s sending each other early 2000s memes to help each other cope. And Dave asking for updates about Lane because of course.

AU where Doyle becomes this weird «big brother»-type for Rory. He’ll rip her work to shreds without remourse but have an assistant spit in the coffee of anyone who badmouths her. He doesn’t go into an actual «fight me»-mode, but finds creative ways to make it known that one does not f*ck with Rory on his watch. No one can shit on her but him (and Paris, obviously). And any time he and Paris are on rocky road, he fights to keep Rory in the ‘separation’.

AU where Glenn and Rory become office besties at the paper. Glenn barges into Rory’s study sessions and they talk for hours about hopeless romance and the ethics of biographical works about living people and the best place to get coffee on campus. He’s still awkward and mopey and bad at picking up girls, but Rory finds that he’s also a great listener and an honest critic and a loving friend.

AU where Marty doesn’t have a crush on Rory. People around them keep insisting they’re going to get together and it makes them super-uncomfortable. But they have a heart to heart and realize their relationship is strictly platonic. They get to be proper friends throughout, with movie marathons and gossip and banter and emotional bonding and fights that have nothing to do with romance.

AU where Rory gets to have male friends. Not «lessons who knock her down a peg». Not «nice guys waiting for their shot». Not «my boyfriend’s friends» or «my friend’s boyfriend». Not flimsy aquaintances or «Sassy Gay Best Friends TM» (although LGBT+ friends are more than welcome). Actual close male friends.

[ptergwen]

web of lies

take a leap. if you start to fall, the net will appear to catch you.

photographer!peter x journalist!reader || masterlist

w/c: 7.1k

warnings: swearing, one drinking mention, descriptions of anxiety, and angst if ya squint

summary: peter can’t stop holding your hands, betty and ned are the modern day bonnie and clyde, ned is a terrible guy in the chair, the osborn’s are up to something, and mj hates you all

a/n: y’all i’m super excited about this series like i haven’t had an idea i’ve really loved in months? so it’s good to be back !!! there are tons of things i have planned and i can’t wait to share them with all of you hehe i really hope you enjoy part one <3 happy reading

to be honest, which is what you do best, you’ve had a thing for peter parker your whole time at the daily bugle. you actually almost told him once.

a couple months ago, peter walked you home on a night you worked overtime. he’d came in last minute to leave some pictures on your boss’s desk. no one else but you was there, hunched at your computer in the dim office lighting. peter was pleasantly surprised to see you, yet concerned for your well-being. you had to put your finishing touches on a story.

he didn’t feel comfortable letting you travel alone at that hour. so, he went with you when you were ready. his company was more than welcomed. you told peter about your article while you two sat on the subway. he’d listened intently, your head resting on his shoulder and his arm around you. he made sure you got to your apartment building alright as well.

“hey, peter?” you’d asked, halfway up the steps. he was waiting until you were inside and safe to leave. “hm? you good?” he’d smiled sort of expectantly. “yeah. i... i wanted to say...”

your words got caught in your throat when he gave you the softest puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. you couldn’t do it. for some reason, you were too scared to confess how you felt. “thanks again for walking me home,” you’d settled on. he’d seemed disappointed that was what you wanted to tell him. nevertheless, he said not to worry about it before taking off.

that one moment perfectly captures it all; how yours and peter’s narrative plays itself out.

—

“we’ve got an update on hydra v. the people!”

“those freaky giraffes escaped the zoo... again.”

“shoot one more spitball and it’ll be your last.”

“does anyone have an aspirin?”

welcome to the daily bugle, where the chaos never ends and the calm never starts. you’ll find new york’s finest writers, publishers, and creatives of all kind right here. that would include you. you’re one of the top journalists in the whole building, according to mr. norman osborn. he’s the brilliant and slightly insane man who runs this place.

although it’s rare for someone in your field, you were hired straight out of college. norman read a few pieces you’d written and loved them so much that he offered you a job. full time, full benefits, no questions asked. there was something special about the way you wove your words together. your writing had its own voice. a strong voice, one the paper was severely lacking.

you’ve been with the bugle for just over a year now. it’s not the quiet, nine to five gig you were initially expecting it to be. you’re each very unique individuals in your office, and there’s never a dull moment because of it. your coworkers can be found hosting debates on the riskiest topics or tackling each other for blueberry muffins, and that’s just a regular tuesday. the place is stranger than strange. but, it’s become home.

thanks to mr. osborn being so accommodating, you actually settled in rather quickly. another big help has been the friends you’ve made. your first was michelle jones, who prefers to be called mj. she’s a fellow journalist with a wickedly dark humor that trickles into her writing. if you had to describe her in one word, it would be blunt. mj is as real as it gets, and also eternally loyal. she keeps her circle small, so you’re honored you get to be in it.

mj sits right next to you, which means you’re always talking through your days. that’s due in part to the way your office is set up. there aren’t any cubicles, tables and swirly chairs taking up their space instead. norman heard it was more progressive, probably from his son harry.

harry is about your age, only a couple of years older. he hangs around quite a lot, but doesn’t do much with his time besides that. according to norman, he’s still seeking out his passion. he’s banking on him finding a suitable career at the bugle. he’d like to pass this all on to harry some day, hopefully sooner than later. either way, you don’t mind having harry here. he’s super funny and friendly with everyone.

there’s also ned leeds, who’s an editor and reviews most of your pieces. he’s sweeter than candy, even when he’s ripping your grammar to shreds. on the rare occasions you’re not discussing breaking news, you two talk about movies. ned is a film buff and gives you the best recommendations. you’re convinced he was a critic in his past life.

last but so from least is peter parker. he only works for the bugle part time, since he’s still in school. you both graduated from your respective colleges the same year. peter wants to get his masters degree, though. he’s a photographer who’s aspiring to be a cinematographer. him and ned have their passion for the industry in common, and that’s what makes them such great friends.

you learned this and more from the times you and peter have partnered up on stories. he’s one of your best friends not only at the bugle, but in your entire life. the many long nights you’ve spent collaborating have brought you close to each other. they consist of drinking and deep talks, along with some actual work. he takes the pictures, you do the writing. you’ve been told you make a lovely pair.

peter says it himself, too. you’d like to believe he means it as more than coworkers. he’s so caring, and smart, and pure, and peter. yeah, you like him an awful lot. you can hardly stand the feeling of it sometimes.

the fact that you you haven’t come clean already is ridiculous.

“goddamn. not again,” you mutter out. “em, you better come look at this. it’s bad.” mj wheels over to you in her chair with a puzzled look. her eyes follow yours, landing on your computer. “leeds just sent this? to everyone?” she questions, your reply a short hum. you’re both staring daggers at the email your screen displays.

ned is responsible for assigning each journalist their own topics to cover. he’s been lacking a bit recently, having you write up think pieces on fluffy things. in other words, stuff that no one cares about. he asked you to compare oat milk and almond milk just last week. you’d hoped this week would be better, but here you are.

“this is ass. who does he think we are, buzzfeed?” mj scoffs at her own words. the daily bugle prides itself on being a reliable news source, on paper and tv. you’re starting to stoop down to the low level of your competitors. “he assigned me some tiktok dance trend. i’m not writing a single word about that app.” she sets her elbows down on the table, head in her hands.

“aw, why not? grandma mj isn’t down with the kids?” you tease and click out of the upsetting email. “i don’t write for kids,” mj deadpans. she pushes her glasses up on her nose. “what’d you get?” “the evolution of memes,” you gloomily reply. you’re surprised norman has been approving these topics. then again, ned is the head editor. he can do whatever he wants regardless of approval.

mj glares over at the kitchen, where betty brant currently resides. she’s making two hot chocolates instead of her usual one. “i blame her,” mj mumbles to you. your eyebrows furrow. “dude, what? betty is an angel. she doesn’t even work in editing.” betty is the bugle’s highest rated anchorwoman. her and her news team are on people’s televisions every night.

“no, but she has been spending a generous amount of time with leeds,” mj grumbles. she’s admittedly very nosy. the upside is that she tells you any juicy office drama there is. “my theory is betty’s making him give us crap stories so she can report the good ones.” she glances over at you to see what you think. “no way. that can’t be allowed... or legal,” you laugh back.

as if on cue, ned appears next to betty in the kitchen. he takes the extra hot coco that’s piled high with whipped cream. betty tucks a sheet of paper into his suit pocket and kisses his cheek, then he’s gone. you can only gasp as you watch this unfold. what has she done to poor, clueless ned?

“not such an angel anymore, huh?” mj smirks in satisfaction. “suddenly, she has red horns and a pitchfork,” you bitterly agree with your tongue in your cheek. betty waves to you two on her way back to broadcasting. mj gives her a fake nice finger wave, you ignoring her. “we can’t sit back and let this happen, em. we have to do something,” you decide. “let’s tell norman.”

uninterested, mj takes off her glasses and starts to clean them. “like he’ll believe us. yeah, golden girl betty brant is sabotaging the writer’s room,” she rewords her previous statement to put its stupidity in perspective. you throw your hands up. “she is, though! we literally watched it happen!” mj puts her freshly wiped glasses back on and sighs.

“i doubt norman would care, y/n. every newspaper to ever exist is corrupt somehow.” your pessimistic old pal has a point. however, you’re not so willing to accept it. “why can’t we be the first one that isn’t?” you offer a small smile. mj snickers, wheeling back to her own computer. “those are words of the innocent.” she’s already tapping her fingers across the keyboard.

“i thought you weren’t doing the tiktok piece,” you say under your breath. you’re slightly pissed mj turned you down, since she’s the reason you know about betty’s meddling. “i’m not,” mj answers sharply. “i’m gonna email quentin and ask if we can change our topics. happy?” quentin beck is another editor in the building. he’s not bad, but he is intimidating. no one typically goes to him as their first option.

“i’m thrilled,” you confirm and grin at mj to emphasize it. “thanks for stepping up. you’re forgiven.” “i didn’t realize i had to be sorry,” mj notes, this time in a playful manor. she shakes her head as she begins writing. “you and your morals.”

what you value most in your career is honesty, under any circumstances. of course, the other daily bugle writers are the same. norman strictly prohibits clickbait and crazy headlines because that isn’t real news. you leave that to companies like buzzfeed. you’re honest in the sense that you say whatever has to be said, what everyone else is too afraid to. you’ll speak your truth no matter who tries to stop you.

it didn’t used to be that way. there’s some childhood trauma that remains deep in the back of your mind. you’ve left that behind you now, having over a decade to cope with it. hey, they say the past is in the past. what’s important is your takeaway, that you would never let yourself or anyone else be silenced from there on out. never again.

quentin ends up giving you the okay to write different stories. he lets you and mj choose choose your own because he’s got “better things to do” and you’re “big girls.” what a peach he is. mj goes with how capitalism is continuing to provoke global warming. she has something to say about every major world issue, and you admire the hell out of her for it.

you’re a bit stuck when it’s time to write your article. it’s terribly ironic because you pushed for this. you aren’t too worried, though. the city is crawling with material, so you’ll find what you’re looking for eventually. lucky for you, some much needed inspiration comes skipping out of the elevator.

“morning, peter,” you hear liz greet him at the front desk. she’s your floor’s receptionist. her wisdom and patience keep this place going. “hi, liz. how’s it going?” he asks. “things have been quiet... mostly. can i do anything for you?” liz peers up at him. peter sports a shy smile. “uh, yeah. mr. osborn wanted to see me?” “right. hang on.” she nods, dialing his office phone number.

it’s endearing how peter calls him mr. osborn, seeing as the rest of you go with norman. he’s probably the politest guy you’ve ever met.

grinning, liz puts down the phone. “you can go in whenever you’re ready. good luck!” peter laughs nervously and turns to leave. “thanks, you too.” his face falls when he realizes his mistake. “wait, i- i didn’t mean to say that. that was stupid. you’re not-“ “it’s fine, peter,” liz reassures him. his anxiety makes him trip over his words sometimes. that, and he’s a bit dorky in general. you find it rather adorable.

you also wonder what exactly he needs good luck for. he’s not even supposed to be working today, so your curiosity as to what’s going on has been piqued.

“um, i’m gonna go now. bye!” peter rushes off, his face tinted pink from the embarrassing encounter. you’re hoping he’ll stop and talk with you for a little while, but he heads straight to norman’s office. your whole body deflates at that. mj notices from her peripherals.

“what’s the matter? missing your hubby?” she coos, her words dripping in sarcasm. “no,” you lie. “i’m... i don’t know what to write about.” ok, there’s some truth. mj gives you a couple pats on the shoulder. “ask parker for help. you two work... well together. don’t you?” this must be the zillionth time you’ve heard that.

“we do,” you murmur and glance at norman’s closed door. peter is hidden behind it. “i just don’t wanna bug him. he has finals soon, and whatever norman is putting him up to. it’s my job, anyway.” mj pokes your arm. “those sound like excuses to me,” she concludes, still jabbing at you childishly. “you really just don’t wanna tell him you like-“

“can you keep it down?” you hiss, yanking your arm back. “he’s literally right over there.” peter stands up and shakes norman’s hand. you catch it through the blinds on his window. “y/n, you were drooling over his mere presence only minutes ago,” mj prefaces, a smile pulling at her lips. “you can handle three little words. i like you, that’s it. spit it out already.”

you’ll never admit this to mj, but she’s right. you lost your momentum after your first failed attempt to say the three little words. you’re still not sure what stopped you. you’d shared the details of that faithful night with her, and she’s been pushing you to try again since.

the door to norman’s office opens, and out walks peter. he’s beaming after their conversation, which seems like a good sign. harry passes peter on his way in to pay his dad a visit. he claps him on the shoulder, peter happily accepting before continuing his stride back into the main office. it takes a moment to register that he’s coming towards you.

you quickly set your focus back on your computer so he doesn’t think you’ve been watching him. even though, you definitely have.

“y/n!” peter calls your name. he’s on the opposite side of your table, in front of you. “peter!” you match his tone. “i was just dropping by. i thought i’d say hey while i’m here.” he’s still grinning. “what’re you doing?” he looks cute as ever in an oversized and cream colored sweater. his curls are slicked back with a tad too much product, cheeks rosy. you gaze up at him when he rests his arms on the table.

“pretending to be productive,” mj answers for you, pressing her lips together. peter cocks his head to the side. “pretending?” “ignore her. she’s being a shit stirrer today,” you explain. “like every other day,” he jokes, earning a laugh from you. mj just tuts and keeps writing. “talk about me like i’m not here,” she mumbles to herself, then gets back into her article.

“anyways, i thought you didn’t work today?” you ask to take the attention off yourself. also, because you’re curious. “oh! get this.” peter perks up even more, if that’s possible. he has energy like no other. “you know alex in broadcasting? betty’s camera guy?” “what about him?” you wonder. “he called in sick earlier this morning, with the flu or something.” he’s oddly excited to announce this. that prompts you to make a funny face.

biting back another smile, peter elaborates. “mr. osborn needed someone to fill in for him, so he picked me. i’ll be here all week.” it makes sense, since peter knows how to work a camera and does so wonderfully. you give him a celebratory push at his chest. “peter, that’s amazing! this is the perfect way to transition from pictures to film, right?” he’s nearing his finals at school, which consist of more movie-like projects. the news will be great practice.

then, he’s off to hollywood. you’ll put that out of your mind for now.

“exactly! i think it’ll be a good place to start. the pay isn’t bad either.” peter wiggles his eyebrows at you, you giggling once again. you do a lot of that when he’s around. that’s going to be more often now. “plus, i get to see you. everyone wins.” he squeezes your hand that was just on him. your heart begins to thump. “except alex,” you challenge, playing with his fingers. “but, for real. i’m happy you get to do this and that we’ll be spending more time together.”

“thanks, y/n/n. me too.” peter grins and leans over, taking a peek at your computer screen. there’s a blank word document on it. “you never told me what you’re up to,” he chuckles. “guess mj was right... nothing.” “i’m always right,” she chimes in from next to you. you look between the two of them with a scowl. “i haven’t found my story yet. i don’t know, this never happens.” peter nods as you share your dilemma. “no good ideas are coming to me,” you murmur.

“they will. you have a way of attracting things.” he licks his lower lip, your heart completely stopping this time. “well, i gotta go set up for rise and shine with betty brant.” he waves his hand like he’s presenting his words. that’s what betty calls her morning news segment. “be careful with her. she’s being really sketchy these days,” you warn peter, mj grunting in agreement.

confused, peter purses his lips. “really? ned says she’s a sweetheart. they’ve been going out for a while.” mj pops her head up and adjusts her glasses. “did ned also tell you she’s bribing him to give her all of our scoops?” she’s asking rhetorically because she already knows the answer. of course he didn’t. “it’s one thing to not like her. you’re just making things up now,” peter huffs.

mj kicks your foot under the table. “i told you no one would believe us. not even peter gullible parker.” “it’s benjamin,” he corrects her. “whatever,” she brushes it off, resuming her work.

peter does tend to be sort of naive, to only see the good in things when there’s plenty of bad. you’re the same in that way, unless you hang around mj for too long.

“is that true? betty’s stealing your stories?” peter turns to you and asks. you gesture to your screen. “i don’t have one, so you do the math.” he hums sympathetically. he’ll listen to you, never mj. “i’m sorry. thanks for telling me, y/n. i’ll watch out for her.” he bends his fingers to look like goggles, putting them around his eyes. you sigh lightheartedly.

“are you twenty two years old or twelve?” mj remarks, but not without a comeback from peter. “you’re, like, eighty five. worry about that.” they’ve had this type of banter for as long as you’ve known them. it’s equal parts amusing and exhausting. “don’t be late on your first day.” you snap peter out of it with a knowing smile. he returns it.

“i hope something crazy happens so you can write about it.” he’s walking backwards now, towards the elevator. “see you later, pete,” is all you say back, yet another laugh threatening to escape you. “see you. bye, michelle,” peter says just to bug her. “it’s mj,” she groans without looking up. he shrugs. “not so fun, is it?”

after peter is gone, you try to get back into work. or rather, you try to start your work. what he said about you having a way of attracting things keeps ringing in your head. was he flirting? no, he couldn’t have been. peter parker doesn’t flirt. words aren’t his strong suit, and you have countless memories that prove this to be true. earlier with liz, for example.

you’re probably reading way into this. peter was simply doing what any good friend would do and gave you advice.

it’s late in the afternoon when anything worth mentioning happens again. peter is still with betty, as far as you know. they’re probably preparing for the nighttime news now. all you’ve done since seeing him is nibble on snacks and bug mj, who’s almost done with her story despite your distractions. this is really bad, considering your deadline to submit is at the end of today.

you’ve never missed a deadline.

mj emails her work to quentin while you repeatedly bang your head on the table. she hits send before deciding to entertain you. “whatcha doing over there?” she cautiously prompts, powering off her computer. “trying to get an idea. i’m desperate, if you couldn’t tell.” your voice is muffled. “i could.” mj grabs your shoulders and pulls you back so you’re sitting up. you childishly pout.

“y/n, the only thing that’s gonna give you is brain damage,” mj says sternly, then softens her tone. “why don’t you ask for an extension? norman gives me them all the time.” whining, you slump down in your chair again. “yeah, but you’re you! we do things differently, have different expectations put on us.” she’s back to cold mj after you say that. “alright. at least i did something today besides pine over that little-“

mj’s insult for peter is interrupted by harry. “ladies, what’s shaking?” he comes up to you two with a the hint of smirk on his face. you manage a nod to acknowledge him. “oh, hey... harry,” mj unenthusiastically replies. she’s the one person who isn’t really a fan of him. “not much. y/n was just having a tantrum.” “she was not,” you dismiss her. “it’s work stuff. you know your dad.”

harry clicks his tongue in a teasing way. “yep, the grind never stops in this joint. boss man is...” he does the sign for cuckoo with his finger. you laugh a little at that. “in a good way,” you add on. mj only watches you two, blinking blankly. harry gives you a definitive pat on the back. “before i forget, he wants to see you.” that gets mj talking. “norman?” she questions. “your dad?” you choke out at the same time.

“who else? he said you two have to talk.” harry flashes you a weary smile. “have fun in there, old sport.” you’re too busy biting the skin off your bottom lip to respond. “mhm... she will,” mj speaks on your behalf. even she sounds worried. saluting you both, harry leaves to go pester your other colleagues. you’re completely and totally fucked.

“that’s it for me!” you grin sarcastically, freaked out by harry. “i’m fired, aren’t i? i’m definitely about to get fired, and it’s all because-“ “relax!” mj cuts off your rambling. she reaches down and grasps at your wrists. “get it together, y/l/n. you’re the best we have, okay? you aren’t going anywhere.” your grin becomes a frown. “then why does norman wanna talk to me? and, why don’t i have a story?”

mj always has the answers, but this time is the execption. she lets out a breath. “i don’t know. you’ll go find out and tell me what happens.” there’s no use protesting. you’re going to have to face whatever you’re about to at some point. “ok,” you give in, defeated. “i’ll be back soon, i hope.”

the walk to norman’s office feels like a walk of shame. mj can do nothing but sit back and observe it. if this ends the way you think it will, you’ll be collecting your things and won’t ever return. norman is a kind man, and he’s usually pretty understanding. he doesn’t mind the workplace shenanigans as long as you get your job done. unfortunately, you haven’t today.

you hear your boss’s booming voice when you approach his door. inhaling deep, you knock on it, and the room goes silent. “come in,” norman responds after a few seconds. mustering up a smile, you open the door to be met with your doom. “hi, am i interrupting something?” you check. “not at all! you’re just the person i wanted to see. sit, sit,” he beckons you over. he’s not using his angry voice, so maybe you’re in the clear. you enter the room as told.

you’re shocked to see a terrified peter is already in one of the chairs. he visibly relaxes a bit now that you’re here. what the hell is happening? whatever you were expecting, this was the last thing.

taking the armchair next to peter, you sit facing norman’s desk. you nudge his arm to get his attention. his big brown eyes lock with yours. “what’s going on?” you whisper. “no idea,” peter whispers back. the two of you turn to norman again when he claps his hands. he’s plopped down into his cushy leather seat.

“so,” he begins, gaze flicking from peter to you. “you kids know why you’re here?” “is it because i missed my deadline?” you blurt out. you’re once again a nervous wreck. peter doesn’t speak, just winces. “not that. although, i did hear from ned that you turned down his assignment.” norman flicks at a post-it on his desk. “i asked quentin for one instead. me and mj,” you explain, peter’s eyes going wide.

“you talked to quentin? that guy’s bad news,” he murmurs to you. “how so?” norman questions, since it’s his employee. “he- he, um,” peter clears his throat before answering, “he’s super critical, you know? hates all my pictures.” “i love your pictures,” you assure him, the corners of his lips turning up. “your style is so cool. yeah, though. quentin’s pretty bitter.”

considering this, norman drums his fingers on the desk. “i’ll look into that. but, that isn’t why you’re here. i’m letting you off the hook this time.” your whole demeanor changes and a huge weight lifts off of you. “really? you are?” “i have a scoop of my own that i want you to cover,” he continues, peter bumping your knee happily. a toothy grin takes over your face.

“since peter will be sticking around for a while, i want him to join you.” norman waits a beat in case you have any questions. it’s been a minute since you last worked together. peter laughs in disbelief. “you want me to take over for alex and do this?” norman nods proudly. “y/n will need the extra hands, if you have them.” “yes, sir. i do,” peter immediately confirms. “my last class is next thursday, so i have the time.”

“wait, so you’re almost done? that’s awesome!” you bump peter’s knee this time. “yup, all that’s left is finals... and studying.” he mindlessly takes your hand, lacing your fingers together. you’re enjoying his gentle touches. “thank you so much, norman. seriously, i appreciate this a lot,” you tell him and mean it. “hey, no problem,” he chuckles at your eagerness. you grip peter’s hand tighter.

“what’s the story?” “ah, yes. the most important part,” norman starts, peter sharing an excited look with you. “how familiar are you two with spider-man?” his excitement fades at the question posed. it’s unbeknownst to you, caught up in the moment. “uh, same as everyone else, i guess,” you casually reply. “how come?” “he’s your subject.” norman points at you both. “you’re gonna study him over these next few months.”

peter’s hand goes limp in yours, and he gulps hard, throat feeling dry. “you mean, like, an exposé?” “no, no. there will be no exposing,” norman clarifies. “i’m sure he wears the mask for a reason.” that settles peter only slightly. you’re not sure why he’s so tense all of a sudden. “what’s our aim here, then?” you steer the conversation.

“see what new york’s favorite hero gets up to every day, how his life is beyond the crime fighting,” norman further describes your task. peter exhales a shaky breath, shifting away from you in his seat. the golden sun hits his face and reveals a bead of sweat dripping down it. you stare at his figure in worry. “you okay, peter?” “fine. i’m just... hot,” he murmurs back. his sweater does look pretty heavy, so you concede.

getting back to norman’s story, you grimace at the idea. “do you really think people will want to read that? for lack of a better term, it sounds kind of...” you pause. “basic.” “i thought the same thing at first,” he surprisingly agrees with you. “harry pitched the idea to me this morning. you won’t believe it! the other night, he caught spider-man hanging outside his window.”

“harry... harry saw him?” peter squeaks out. he uses the wool material that feels like it’s swallowing him to dab at his forehead. “he stopped on his balcony. must have been pretty late, the kid’s a night owl,” norman says about his son. your face lights up as you listen to him. “he took some shots of spidey in action, when he swung off. i saw a few. they were pretty great.” he’s grinning at his son’s success.

“maybe he’ll get into photography with you, pete,” norman suggests. peter gives him a weak smile in return. “we’d be happy to have him.” he usually has a lot more to say about his career than that. his behavior is starting to genuinely concern you. “anyway,” norman gets back on topic, “it got me thinking. how much do we really know about this guy? we’re supposed to blindly put our trust in him?”

you’re beginning to see the appeal now. you’ve written your share of pieces on the avengers and their methods, tackling the same questions norman just asked you. spider-man shouldn’t be overlooked, especially when he operates so close to your home. this could be another revolutionary superhero story in the making. and, you get to bring peter along for the ride.

“you know what? this has a lot of potential,” you smile at norman, then peter. he has his phone in his lap, fingers flying across the screen. it must be something important. you’ll discuss with norman while he takes care of that. “we could make it a weekly thing, about spider-man’s adventures. find out what we can about the man behind the mask...” peter shoots up in his seat. “without taking it off,” you finish, putting his mind at ease.

“see, i knew you were gonna love it! it was a blessing in disguise, you missing that deadline.” norman bangs his fist on the table with a hearty laugh. “what do you say, peter? you still in?” peter slips his phone back in his pocket. his tongue pokes out to wet his lips. “oh, of course. i can’t wait to work with you, y/n/n,” he speaks in a monotone voice, adding on, “again.”

something is definitely bothering him, and it isn’t the weather.

“i gotta go. betty needs me upstairs, so,” peter moves to get up, his body stiff. you assume that’s who he was texting. “thank you again, mr. osborn.” he’s rushing out of the room just like that, until you call after him. “um, don’t you wanna set a time to meet up? so we can get started?” you reasonably ask. “i... i really gotta go. find me later,” peter tells you, giving you both a tight lipped smile and running off.

“the dynamic duo is back!” norman announces to you. you’re disappointed you can’t share that sentiment with peter.

he’s absolutely booking it down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the next elevator. this is bad. this is a nightmare.

peter went from having one of his best days in a while to the worst in not even a full round of work. today started off fine, and got better when norman promoted him. it got way better when you came along. he saw your smile that makes his insides tingle, heard your laugh that’s the prettiest sound to grace his ears, held your hand that he never wants let go.

things went a bit downhill after that. betty was pushy and yelled at him a lot, demanding he only film her good angles for the segment. you and mj weren’t wrong when you told him to be careful.

later on when he saw you again, everything was okay. he was physically shaking as brad told him mr. osborn requested to see him. brad is mr. osborn’s assistant. a try-hard for sure, but good at his job. why did mr. osborn call him in? did betty complain already?

they’d been sitting in mostly silence, save for small talk until you came knocking on the door. simply being next to you was enough to ground peter and his racing thoughts. it was enough, then it wasn’t.

the whole day had gone to shit after he found out you were going to be writing stories about his alter ego. not only that, but he was helping. during the pitch, he’d texted ned to meet him in the bathroom. he was really anxious and needed a friend who understood why.

ned accidentally found out peter is spider-man last year. it’s a long story that involves peter hiding from some bad guys in the building and ned shrieking so loud the lights flickered. they’re cool now that peter talked things through with him. his secret has been kept, from what he knows.

pushing open the men’s bathroom door, peter is a mixture of sweat and ragged breaths. he’s panting from his fast descent down the staircase. he takes in his disheveled appearance using one of the mirrors. his styled hair is now damp and undone, hands trembling and palms sweaty, chest heaving. here’s his daily reminder that anxiety is not cute. as if he didn’t know.

his stupid, gigantic freaking sweater is only making things worse. it’s suffocating him. no one else is in here, so peter pulls it over his head and tosses it to the ground. he’s got a t-shirt on underneath that happens to be black. what a convenient day for him to wear the hottest material there is.

peter splashes his face with some cold water next to try and cool himself down. that doesn’t do much for him. his face still feels like it’s on fire, but now it’s wet. he takes his hands through his mop of curls, backing away from the sink.

“fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck,” peter repeats to himself. he’s silent for a moment, then rage overcomes him. he kicks open a bathroom stall. “shit! i can’t do this. what am i supposed to-“

the door creeks open, so peter shuts up in case it isn’t ned. it thankfully is, and he wears a deep frown at the sight of his best friend. “dude, what happened? you look...” “terrible. i know,” peter finishes for him. he tugs at his locks in another attempt to tame them. ned approaches him carefully. “you’re not, like, dying... are you? because betty was telling me you have to-“ “of course you were with betty,” peter exhales in frustration. “no, ned. i’m not dying.”

in ned’s defense, the text he received was very alarming. all peter wrote was, ‘EMERGENCY. SOS.’

“i mean, yeah. it was my break.” ned sits on the ledge by the window, close to peter. “you do the same with y/n.” the mention of your name upsets peter all over again. he hides his face in his hands as ned watches. “if you’re not dying, then what’s the problem?” ned finally asks. “me and y/n...” peter removes his hands from his face, meeting ned’s worried eyes. “mr. osborn wants us to do a project together.”

“uh, peter? you’ve been saying how much you miss her forever, dude! you’re not excited?” ned snorts at him. he means well, but he has no clue what he’s talking about. “no. it’s supposed to be about spider-man,” peter answers angrily. this isn’t the support he was hoping for. realizing the severity of the situation, ned gets serious.

“oh... but, you’re still doing it?” he questions. “i didn’t have a choice,” peter scoffs out. “i can’t let either of them down.” “you’ll expose yourself!” ned escalates things further. “it’s not like that. we’re gonna follow spider-man around and post updates on him,” peter says, technically in the third person. he’s given an are you insane? look from ned.

“you are spider-man! and, no offense, but you’re not so good at hiding it,” ned refers to himself finding out. “how are you gonna be in two places at once?” damnit, peter hadn’t thought about that yet. he can’t be taking pictures of spider-man and swinging from building to building simultaneously. “i- i’ll figure it out,” peter stammers, unconvincingly.

ned looks him over in a disapproving way. “jeez. you’re really putting your life on the line for this girl-“ “woman,” peter interjects, not loving ned’s attitude towards you. “have some respect.” unfazed, ned gets up from the windowsill. “speaking of women, remember betty? you’re still on the clock,” he changes the subject. peter nearly forgot he has to go film her segment.

“i’ll head up to her now,” peter gives in. he scoops up his discarded sweater, not bothering to check his appearance again. ned follows behind him to the door. “we wrote her script together, you know,” he gladly informs peter, who already knows from you. “not really a flex,” peter mumbles his response. “peter, lighten up.” ned hits at his shoulder. the two of them exit the bathroom.

“you’ll figure this out later. i can always help.” he shoots him a sugary sweet smile. “thanks, ned. for talking with me and everything.” peter doesn’t smile back. they do a quick bro handshake, then they’re going their separate ways. “have a good show, dude!” ned yells back, to which he doesn’t get a response. peter doesn’t have it in him.

he allows himself to take the elevator back up to broadcasting. he’s so drained from the several anxiety attacks he endured. while peter waists for the elevator, he contemplates all the issues he’d better solve. it’s a relief to hear it ding because it brings him back to earth. that doesn’t last long because both you and betty are there when the door opens.

you’d each had the same idea, to find peter. unlike betty, your intentions were good. you asked liz if she saw peter leave. she told you he went downstairs, so you did also. betty was already in the elevator when it got to your stop. she was looking for him because, you guessed it, he had to record the news. the small space was filled with tension as you and betty occupied it.

“perfect. we’re going right back up,” betty beams, motioning for peter with her index finger. “hop in!” “coming,” peter does as told, going to stand between you and betty. she presses the button for your floor and theirs. the doors close. “pete?” you speak up, voice soft. “you kinda ran off earlier. i thought you were with betty.” “clearly, he wasn’t,” betty sneers.

you’re less concerned with her and more with peter. the sweater he looked so huggable in is now folded in his arms, his face splotchy and jaw clenched. he must have gotten triggered by something back in norman’s office.

“are you sure you’re okay? you... you can talk to me about it.” you take a step closer to peter, your doe eyes searching for his. he meets them with a tiny smile. at least, it’s real this time. “i’ll be fine, y/n/n. ‘s nice that you came to check on me, though.” “don’t mention it.” your arms loop around his neck and bring him into a hug. peter hugs you back by your middle, chin resting on your shoulder, breathing out in relief.

you keep your hands on his shoulders when you pull back. his stay on your sides, a lopsided grin now crossing his features. “spider-man...” you quirk an eyebrow. “how are you feeling about that?” “should be cool,” peter somehow maintains himself. “i’m mostly looking forward to doing it with you.”

listening in, betty joins the conversation. “what’s happening with spider-man? anything i should know?” her hand reaches into her bag and emerges with a notepad. does she ever think of her own content? “she’s nothing if not persistent,” you grumble to peter. chuckling, he pulls you into his chest. if he didn’t hold you back, you would’ve pounced on her.

“we’re gonna do a piece on him,” peter tells her. “you can’t copy or steal this one because it’s already been approved,” you contribute, smiling smugly as peter holds you tighter. betty is taken aback. “are you accusing me of stealing? who said i-“ “ned ratted on you... sorry,” peter says in a sing song voice. squealing, you jump away from him. “he did? we were right?”

“mj’s never wrong,” he reiterates. “mj knew about this? oh my god, i can’t believe her!” betty stomps her foot. “we got you on candid camera.” you make a clicking noise with your mouth. peter mimes taking a picture to back you up. “alright, alright. i won’t do it again,” betty mumbles, turning away from you two in annoyance.

“finally!” you hold up your hand for a high five, which peter gives you. “we really do make the best team,” he hums. your fingers intertwine with peter’s, and he lays his palm flat against yours. he prays extremely hard you don’t notice that it’s sweaty. you do, but you couldn’t care less.

“i was wondering when you’d wanna start our... research?” peter asks you, his lip between his teeth. “you were saying something earlier. maybe we could make a schedule.” “how elaborate of us that would be,” you tease. that earns a breathy laugh from peter. with a knowing smile, you put your free hand back on his shoulder.

“what are you doing tonight?”

-

peter parker taglist

@saturnpeter @tpwk-grande @itstaskeen @missyouhollnd @becicamina @dummiesshort @zspideyy @watchitimreadinghere @my-patronus-is-mabel-pines @dpaccione @karispotters11 @theofficialzivadavid @thehumanistsdiary @kelieah @aayaissaa @petersgroupie @annab-nana @tayyx @swtltlmrvlgrl @magicalxdaydream @haoluvver @kjune113 @captainamirica @marvel-dork98 @emmastarz @killingbxys @viriditie @misshale21 @veryholland @liliswifts @tommydarlings @rebelemilu @peterspideysense @cr-uelsummer @dreamy-clousds @quaksonhehe @quxxnxfhxll @blackbat2020 @babyblue19 @falconxbarnes @zachary-s @dirtytissuebox @dracoswhore007 @heavenlyholland @thsquad @etheralholland @dhtomholland @awh-lilies @tomshufflepuff @multifamdomfan12

-

if i forgot you please lmk!

[whumpurr]

😱- what’s your greatest fear? Has whumper ever used it against you?

🧟- how much control does whumper have over you?

👑- do you think whumper spoils you?

for Sawdust?

Who the 'whumper' is, is up to you

😱- what’s your greatest fear? Has whumper ever used it against you?

"I dunno if I have one," He mutters. His brain helpfully supplied images of the other dogs ripping him apart, his body being shredded like paper under claws and teeth. It was frightening, sure, but Sawdust didn't think that it was his greatest fear. "I think I'm scared the m- most of being bad. Being a w-worthless, bad pet. My old master told me I was bad whenever I d-didn't behave... I think Master Adrien thinks I'm bad b-but he doesn't t-t-tell me..."

🧟- how much control does whumper have over you?

"I don't know if there's any- anything Master could tell me to do that I wouldn't do... Good pets listen to their masters."

👑- do you think whumper spoils you?

"M-Master Adrien does!" Sawdust says, "He gives me t-toys and a r-r-room it- pets don't- pets shouldn't have those things!"

--

ask meme here!

[friendzonefrog]

FriendzoneFrog's 'Formal' Writeblr Intro

Hi!

You can call me Friend or Frog (she/her). I'm a young adult from the US. When I say 'friendzone,' I don't mean it in an incel way, but rather in an "I'm the comedic relief friend character irl and I own it" way <3

What I write:

I don’t ever stick to one thing, but my main niche is dialogue. I have sooo many hypothetical scripts for graphic novels, video games, animation, webseries, stage shows, etc. Basically I’m really into the idea of putting words on paper and then bringing them to life in another way :)

Favorite genres:

Crime and suspense thrillers

Horror

Mystery and whodunnits

Superhero (especially ragtag groups with wacky powers)

Spy/espionage

Dark comedy and satire

I play around with other genres, too!

My projects:

📁Shreds of Integrity

M (17+) Crime/Drama. A story focusing on agents and former agents of an FBI crime analysis unit, as they grapple with the weight of the job, its aftershocks, and its imbalance with personal life. Tags: #shreds of integrity Intro post Playlist Moodboard Character meme (Tens But tag game) STS character asks (sleeping habits) Picrew challenge - Madeleine

🖥️ ERR0R!

T (14+) Sci-Fi/Superhero. Seven strangers evade a tech lab's evil plot involving shady clinical trials, experiments gone wrong, and a supercomputer with the power to take control of the universe. No pressure! Tags: #wip: ERR0R! Intro post Character intros Plalylist Moodboard (under construction) Character meme (Tens But tag game)

😱Morbid Curiosity

M (17+) Horror/Thriller. Anthology series spanning several subgenres of horror, highlighting the weird, the paranormal, the terror in the mundane, and those who can't help but go looking for answers. 🎪 #1 Funfair Paranormal ▸ A college photojournalist visits the site of an abandoned amusement park harboring dark secrets and horrors unknown. 🌾 #2 Backroad Blues Southern Gothic ▸ A big storm's brewing in Uncertain, Texas, home to a population of 80 citizens devoted to preserving the town's rich history... however gruesome it may be. 🏰 #3 The Fall of Strömberg Gothic/Macabre ▸ In 1520, a banquet was set ablaze, killing a family of Swedish nobles, along with their guests. Since that night, nobody has entered the castle ruins and lived to tell the tale. [Might become a standalone outside the anthology tbh!] 🛒 #4 Night Shift Slasher ▸ Retail employees on the night shift usually have to fight to stay awake... but tonight they must fight to stay alive, as an unseen killer attempts to pick them off one by one.

Tags: #wip: Morbid Curiosity #wip: Funfair #backroad blues #the fall of strömberg #wip: Night Shift Intro and masterpost

✨Ms. Praline & the Evening Star

G (all ages) Adventure / Fantasy. As a child, Mae Praline wished upon a star that she could fly. Twenty-two years later, she awakens to find a strange airship on her front lawn, and a mysterious letter addressed to her.

Tags: #ms. praline & the evening star Intro postMoodboard (under construction)

I'm excited to share more about these stories, as well as others I'm dreaming up. I’m always happy to chat about my projects, chat about YOUR projects, answer asks, participate in tag games, etc.! I’ll also share writing tips and prompts when I can.

I have the type of social anxiety where I'm not too good at initiating conversation, but I do try my best, because I enjoy chatting! Feel free to hit me up at any time! (But please keep in mind that, as a personal policy, I am not comfortable privately messaging anyone under the age of 18.)

What I'm into besides writing (and other content you might see) :

Nothing

Messing around on Canva (GRAPHIC DESIGN SIDEBLOG)

Musical theatre and singing

Photography

Commentating/critiquing movies (follow me on letterboxd!)

Video games (follow me on backloggd!)

Board games

Comics (anything Hawkeye, I’m there.)

Attempting to teach myself ukulele and banjo

Making earrings :3

Hatewatching CW shows then accidentally becoming hooked

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CREDITS:

Computer, frog dividers- @ animatedglittergraphics-n-more

Ghost divider- @ racingairplanes

FBI divider- @ firefly-graphics