Hit the jackpot.

[redheadmj-blog]

       “Oookay.  Why don’t you start from the beginning,               and we’ll work our way from there.  What happened?”

[redheadmj-blog]

habeas-oscorpus:

            her relief registers as the sweetest balm to his turbulent thoughts, the drⱥgging screɇch of his own innⱥrds twisting in on thɇmselves as they’re poisoned beyond belief dims to a point where for a brief fleeting moment; he can only hear sounds other than his own pain.    he focuses on her voice when she speaks, regrets it when it’s gone.     the pⱥin is back.            there’s scrɇeching in his head. most likely his own.

          he blinks back his own loss of lucidity. a complete blank shooting him back to the present. something’s different than when he lɇft. her face. her heartbeat. the tension in her shoulders and her limbs.     something wɇnt wrong, while he was gone.      there’s a shivering twitch in his brow, a creⱥse of mottled skin as he tries to discern what it could have been. leering green eyes glinting thought in the dark. seizing. stalled.

               and then her words start to come.

         he doesn’t like how they sound to his ears. strained and afrⱥid. emphasis not of excitement or wonder. the other kind. stammered and stuttered. expletive. confusion. fear. indignation. trepidation.      words he hⱥtɇs. his lip curls and pulls from his gums in disgust. not at her, but at this. this uglier turn in the ⱥtmosphere. his teeth grind together terribly and threaten to splinter all over again.

               but then he stops.       quite suddenly.

       and like a great, warm wave that washes over his senses       he shifts.    he smilɇs. broken wheels begin to turn and set all over again, a comfortable rhythm of discordant sounds and disjointed turns. he was fine with this. how was she supposed to realize? he’d gone through quite the transformation. how was she supposed to notice how much better he’d become?       it was a fair point.          he’d be more than hⱥppy to help her out.

                                 “whø ɇlse wøuld know ⱦhat wⱥs your møm’s nɇcklⱥce…“

              Mary Jane isn’t sure what’s worse: the unbearable silence or whatever he might actually have to say.  She’s already fallen deep into this rabbit hole; she might as well grab her answers on the way.  But a strange sense of foreboding falls upon the young woman as if some part of her knows finding out about this might be a mistake. There was just something about this, his motives, her sense of comfort, his voice...

                                               His words echo in her head.  Who else would know... Green eyes narrow, perplexed.  This wasn’t a subject that she would bring up casually; she rarely, if ever, spoke about her mother at all.  At first, it was because merely mentioning her would guarantee her father’s anger, but it became more than that.  It was like breathing back life inside of her—though Mary Jane knew she would never get her mother back.

                                 There was Gwen, of course, but there was another instance. More recent, more emotional and profound.  She wasn’t even sure why it was brought up at all, but an overwhelming feeling of comfort washed over her to talk about her mother to another soul who wouldn’t lash out, who would empathize, who knew what it was like to lose something—someone... without truly knowing what they had to begin with, if it was there at all...

                                            She inhales a breath and nearly dares to say his name.

                                                                        But it was impossible.  He wasn’t here. He was on a beach in Brazil.  This couldn’t be him...  Whatever could make all that noise, all that metal—but his voice...  Her eyes are suddenly burning.  She doesn’t know what to think.  Oh, god.  It can’t be...  She swallows as she reaches out, feeling for his hand, and ignoring the metal, she takes it in hers.  She wishes this wasn’t true, but she wants to understand.  She has to.  She has no choice.  “If you are... who you say you are, I have to see you... or I won’t believe it’s true.  I need to know it’s you.

                                      Please...  If you’re really—... Harry, you’ll do this for me.”

[katelynedits]

shailene woodley as beatrice “tris” prior in divergent (2014)

[redheadmj-blog]

             Yeah, no, I don’t think so—

[redheadmj-blog]

habeas-oscorpus:

                he’s too busy dropping down from the platform and ønto the tracks to respond to her exclamations, her wonder and confusion. wasn’t important. the fact that he’d found her møm’s necklace was. so every drip of energy, every conscious thought not mangled and stretched by the blistɇring pains that shoot through his wholy body at second-split intervals, was spent on that point.   

                   his boots hit the hard surface of the inter-track grooves with a sonorous clʉnk, his corpse twisting around to hone in on the identified, highlighted string of metal jewellery. an absent web of thought fans out into non-sequiturs and red herring priorities. he wondɇrs how it got down here, off the platform and into the tracks. kicked, perhaps. metal showed scuff marks and grime from abøve ground, not the fault of mary jane. she took care of the things precious to her. a shoe then, or several, heedless in a crowd as it was kicked underfoot. skids and slips right off the edge.

           tʉmbles between the tracks, where she cannøt find it.

        deft steel fingertips reach out to the shimmering link of the necklace, cʉrl in slightly in a rare moment of hesitation. looks like it’s caught on a bølt in this track.     not a problem. without even a second’s thought for consequences, he grabs the side-rail with his hand and begins to pull it out towards him. the ɇntire metal structure creaks and groans under his carefully applied pressure, bending to his whim as he reveals an angle from which he can perfectly pluck the piece from its tangled abøde.

            he lɇaves the track as is, hopping back up onto the platform in an agile little motion. his lumbering support-aided figure crunches and paces back to her, hand outstretched, palm facing upward with the curled item of jewellery tʉcked in a circle in the centre. her happiness and exuberant relief is a balm on his sɇnses, and as he comes to a stop in front of her and offers the heirløom back, it takes only a brief second for his mind to tick and words to steadily spill from disɇase-ravaged lips.

                         “i’m right in frønt of yøu…                 it’s mɇ, mⱥry jane.“ 

                  And this is the part when things start to get a little less fanciful and a little more what-the-hell-am-I-doing.  Or rather, what-the-hell-is-he-doing.  Mary Jane has no idea, but from the strange sounds of metal being tossed here or screeching there is enough to unsettle her a tad.  He did say he found her mother’s necklace, but was he trying to tear this place apart?

                                                         Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to stick around. Maybe it was better to leave.  That is the smart idea, the rational and normal idea.  And this guy could really be a psychopath, right?  (He wasn’t even answering when she called to him.)  But it’s not like he hurt her, and if he really found her necklace, he would be going through all this trouble for nothing.  Ugh.  Of course.  Of course you would develop Stockholm Syndrome for guy you haven’t seen or know if he’s crazy.  Mary Jane might actually have a murderous, underground murderer, and unfortunately for her, this guy doesn't have the voice of an angel or the face of Ramin Karimloo (as far as she knows) to even the odds.  The redhead sighs and wonders what BFF Gwen Stacy would do in her situation.  But Gwendy was smart.  She wouldn’t even be in this situation, damn it.  Cue mental groan.

                         Take it from Mary Jane to make her life more complicated.  And weird.

                                                     But any reservations she might have had are doused the instant she hears the familiar chime of her mother’s necklace, appearing to dangle... in front of her.  A hand stretches out to reach for it, and upon feeling the familiar chain, a sigh of relief escapes her as she presses the trinket to her heart.  It doesn’t matter that it’s dirty; she’s just so glad it’s still here.  “You really found it...,” the redhead whispered.  Now she really has to give him a hug.

                                                                         Her head lifts up slowly though, confused when her mystery man finally does decide to speak up.  But his words are the last thing she ever expects to hear.  Mary Jane.  He called her Mary Jane.  And all the reservations she had start pouring back.  “I never told you my name...”  And that voice. It’s different, but...  There is something about that voice...

                                       “W—Who are you?  Who the hell are you?”

[redheadmj-blog]

lew-d:

                 Yeah. You either make it here or crash and burn, huh?

[Darcy sips at her own drink as she listens to Mary Jane talk. She can totally relate to what the other girl’s saying. It makes a small smile tug at the corner of her lips.]

             NYU, huh? You an actress?

                     I get what you mean about your friend though. I was with mine in London and then we went our separate ways for a while… It’s weird now, you know? She’s got this great job at Oscorp and she’s doing so many big, important things… she’s got a whole new life here. It’s hard to see where I’m gonna fit myself into it. But- [she waves a hand as if to literally clear her sadness from the air around her] it’ll work itself out.

               And for the record, British guys are very, very hot.

            Well, I try to stay cup half-full, y’know?

                                [Sometimes the glamour fades faster for some than for others, but out of all the places Mary Jane had been to, this was the one that felt most like home.]

                    Yeah.  Mostly I stick to uni theatre, but maybe I’ll branch out, try for small of those small gigs.  Can’t hurt, right?

                                                [It’s a little tough; Mary Jane’s still not used to the criticism.  One bad word, and it’s like her father insulting her all over again.  But the mention of Oscorp perks her up a bit.]  Oh, yeah?  [She would have said more but the subject’s quickly brushed off and Mary Jane catches the signal.]  Hey, c’mon.  She probably needs you more than you know...  [She likes to believe Gwen needed her too, anyway.  But it's still kind of disheartening... being the one left behind.]

                                        Mm-hm.  That girl better bring one home for me.

[mjwatson-daily]

Amazing Spider-Man (Vol. 1) #59 Writer: Stan Lee, Pencils: John Romita, Don Heck

[redheadmj-blog]

its-princess-freakin-powerful:

Really? You’ve never… well were all around and stuff. You’ve probably noticed how hated we are sometimes, but hey, people hate what they don’t understand. [She imaged that’s how her parents would put it, followed by a maniacal laugh].

[She beamed at the compliant]. You’re like, the first to say that EVER. People have called me ‘Incredible’ before, though. 

    [Yeah, ‘incredibly annoying’].

              People can be jerks and they shouldn’t be.  They’re living in an age where hating like that just shouldn’t slide.  [Mary Jane’s not sure why she felt so strongly, but she felt empathetic for this girl and her people.]  Who you are, and what you are?  It matters, but I think what matters more is what you do about it.

                                 [She blinks, surprised.]  Really?  C'mon, you’re a kid who could beat baddies and lift cars.  You’re more incredible than me.

                    [The most she could probably do is fix said car.]

[redheadmj-blog]

habeas-oscorpus:

          ħer fingers brush against disjointed plates of military-grade armor, cold steel and metals stiff and unrelenting under the slight pressure of what he knew was an ⱥmiable gesture. He doesn’t move. He watches her for a time, wondering idly whether she has finally recognized him as      himself.   Her tone is full with the glint of life, despite the emptiness in her laughter. It should be a haunting noise, something that rings discomfort and concern…

              but how could he feel it. in her presence there is nothing except his solⱥce. her voice rings with the same spring it had before, her hɇartbeat stronger than the pulsing thrum of electrical impulses bleeding through his temples and into his head. her motions speak of her sense of self, vibrant on carefully constructed foundations. cⱥrved out and built by her own hand.      mesmerizing, and he finds himself willingly transfixed. a warmth begins to bud at the centre of his chest, a barely visible gleam that peaks out through the cracks of his ⱥrmor…

                    but he’s still thinking of what she had told him. hɇr Møthɇr’s necklace.         he knows it. he knows what that it is. and, he knows how important it is to her. imperⱥtive begins to turn quite naturally in his head.    he could find it. he will find it. hɇ knows for a fact he will find it. 

           desire becomes conviction becomes decision becomes action. he begins to turn, heɇdless of how she had responded to the touch of what had most certainly not been layers of civilian clothing. he’s too busy thinking. thinking in the way that brings the colors and scⱥnners to his vision. that pinprick in his øptic nerve putting itself to use while the room sweeps with his new method of sight.

                  the type of metⱥl. the consistency. the number of joints.    all facts he knows, put in and digested by his thoughts and the computer’s thoughts tøgether.        thɇre.   

                        he begins to move, no concern for stealth or concealment leading to the heavy thunk of one metal-tipped stɇp after another, the whirring and clicking of multiple and many steel joints as he walks.

                                                                 “føʉnd iⱦ.“

              Recognition briefly flickers across the woman’s face, fingers making contact before fleeing away.  Is that… metal?  She can’t even fathom what this guy might be wearing, but any more thought about it trickles away as she feels the air whoosh past her.  "Hey, where are you…?” Mary Jane asks to what might have been thin air.  He’s moving, but where?  And why?  The clicking sound of metal cutting through the silence is gripping and the darkness certainly doesn’t help.

                                           Her hand that clutches her phone hovers at a button, but she hesitates and puts it away; she doesn’t want to blind him.  But what does she really know about him?  Random hero and man of mystery-slash-potential axe murderer?  (Did they even have those in New York?)  For all Mary Jane knew, he could have just left her behind.  And that was the funny thing: she somehow knew he didn’t.  There was no explanation, nothing more than a gut feeling and more powerful than a hunch.

                          She knew she wasn’t going to be left behind, and it was that peculiar sense of calm that surprised and perplexed the redhead more than the errie shifts of metal or his lack of socialization skills.  It should have bothered her or scared her shitless.  This could have been psychopath or a New York costumed villain or a masked genius in his underground lair.  And yet, there she was, waiting in the darkness for him, completely in faith.  Of course, it would help if the guy talked a little more…  “You’re still there, right?  What are you…”

                                                           Found it, he had said.  “You found…”  Her hopeful heart skips a beat.  “You found it?!  My mother’s necklace?  But I…—I looked for it, I-I didn’t even tell you what it looked like…”

                                           She looks around, arms outstretched as she searches through the darkness.  Could he really have gotten that far?  He was just next to her only moments ago, but from what she had glipsed earlier, he didn’t seem that tall…  “If you’re really telling the truth, guy, I could hug you right now!  But I don’t even know where you are…"  Kissing the guy seemed a little too much for a stranger or a hypothetical psychopath.  But right now she settled for the guy being her hero.

                                                           "I don’t even know your name…”

[redheadmj-blog]

lew-d:

                Ugh, bless you. You’re a saint.

        [Darcy reaches for her own coffee - without the added kick she’d given Mary Jane’s - and takes a sip. She shrugs at the other girl’s question. It’s not actually one she’s been asked all that much. She’s still not sure quite how to answer it.]

                I needed a place to go after graduation, and home wasn’t an option. My best friend is living and working out here, so… I thought it’d be as good a place as any to try to get my shit together.

              New York seems to be that fixer-upper place, huh?

                                          [She nods, understanding completely.  If Mary Jane never moved to New York, she probably wouldn’t be who she is today.  Something about the place… really makes you want to find out what makes you… well, you.]

                         I moved here with my dad a little while back, study at NYU…  My best friendwas here, but now a million miles aware surrounded by hot British guys.  Talk about luck!  [She laughs and sips her drink.]

[amaryiiis]

Shailene Woodley in black throughout the years (2012-2015)

[redheadmj-blog]

habeas-oscorpus:

            ᵽerhaps the reaction hadn’t been a surprising one. at least, he doesn’t flinch in the slightest at the motions taken at his appearance. the tone of her vøice, stuttering and breaking.     the dissonance is ᵽaramount. he feels no gʉilt nor responsibility for her trepidation. he’s not going to do anything, so why would she be scared. everything’s gøod. ᵽerfect.      there is no reason for her to be frightened.

                so everything slots into a place of ‘normal’ in his whirring faltering excuse for cognition. normal posture. normal tone. normal words. nøt thrɇatening, curious. inquiring. it’s familiar to him in a way he thinks he knows, perhaps this is how he would have talked to her another time. back when he wⱥs–      but he’s better than that now. without the nervousness, without the shy hesitations; fear of rɇjection and ridicule drownɇd in a well of sky towering conviction and sense of sɇlf.

              hɇ wⱥs nøt ħɨm.

        and he woʉld never ᵽretend tø be.

                 he was something nɇw. something ƀɇtⱦer. the improvement designed and desired in sleepless nights and lucid, substance-induced wanderings through his own head. here to provide all the solutions, here to fix all the problems in his life. to fix everything. to fix pain, to fix fear, to fix anxiety, to fix depression, to fix dependence, to fix wɇakness, to fix humility, to fix inhibition, to fix doubt, to fix himself. all the brøken little bits of himself.

                     he wouldn’t mind letting Mary Jane knowing how much he’d changed for the better.

                                            “ɨ knøw. whⱥt arɇ yoʉ loøking før.“

                "What am I..."  Mary Jane's voice falters, eyes widening slightly as the question registers in her mind.  She expected at best lecture or at worst an attempted assault.  This, however, is unanticipated, welcomed or not she hadn't quite figured out.  He... actually wanted to help her...?  In sheer disbelief, the redhead stares for a moment in the darkness in front of her, searching for the man in front of her, tlight on her phone having long shut off.

                                            A hand creeps up, fingers brushing against her collarbone.  "My mother's necklace.  I dropped it this morning," she begins, only to stop short.  This is silly.  She feels silly and stupid.  She won't find it.  It's gone.  Just like her mother.  "—But it's probably not here anymore...  I already looked."  She exhales as her lips press into a sad smile.  "Just... had to give it a shot, you know?  No regrets."

                            Her laugh is hollow.

                                      But there are regrets.

                                                                And Mary Jane's not quite sure why she's even telling him this, her mystery man shrouded in shadow.  She chalks it up to being emotional moments ago, but a brief instant she almost allows herself the fanciful thought of feeling like Christine Daaé, blindly entrusting herself to the Angel of Music.  Of course, she doesn't let those thoughts carry that far; as charismatic as the Phantom is, he's still a murderer.  She won't romanticize that or a complete stranger.  To feel so comfortable around someone who she hasn't even seen and has barely uttered a word should have been unsettling.  But Mary Jane guesses she's just glad someone cares.

                                   So she shakes her head and laughs more earnestly than before, reaching out to pat him on the arm: her own little way of saying 'Thank you.'

                                                     "We should just go..."

[redheadmj-blog]

habeas-oscorpus:

               Ⱦhe darkness hides nøthing from him.

        he knows that heⱥrtbeat. that figure and shape, the sound of her breath against the air. and her vøiȼe. and the weight of her footfalls as they push the platform beneath her worn boots. he lurks beneath the edge of the other side of the plⱥtform, slinking and slithering under the lip of it. just out of sight, but close enough to curl his fingers around the edge and pull himself up for a stolen glance of his would-be quⱥrry. a flash of confirmation for what he already knows. rɇd.  løvely.

          a husking rumble scratches his throat as he slips beneath the shade of the platform edge again, creeping along it until he reaches a line of cables strung up against the wall at the ɇdge. clambers up that wall using those coated power lines until he’s in the rafters, a soft ‘clunk’ of metal on metⱥl as his boøts meet the ceiling framework. but perhaps quite mistakeable for a machinery fault, or a rat in the wrong place.   a little ‘bump’ in the night…

              he follows her motions, the small gleam of her phone in the silence and black veil. easy to see her.      he wonders what she’s doing. what she would be doing down here. looking for something.     it’s cleⱥr that she’s looking for something. lost.   it’d be important to her, or she wouldn’t even be down here…     he knows a few things it could be.

         but curiosity and impatience eats his thoughts alive, carcasses left to the whim of impulse as his bødy begins to move without thought. instinct pushing every nerve every will. and it is with that will that he quietly drops his ⱥrtificially bulked lithe form from the rafters right behind her. specifically right as she begins to turn around, presumably.to direct herself towards the way out of here. he is now unintentionally bløcking that route.         and he couldn’t be standing more than a mere two feet away from hɇr. 

                                            ħe cⱥn’t hɇlp but smilɇ.                         

                                           “wħⱥt arɇ yøʉ đøinǥ ħɇre.“

              The realization hits her like a trainwreck.  Was this how she was going to say goodbye?  For good?  Family was never the easiest thing for Mary Jane.  Memories that should have been like any of child, full of warmth and happiness, were doused with kerosene.  Always a furious father.  Always a crying mother.  Shouting matches, furniture thrown, empty bottles lining up on her father's table, cluttered with crumbled papers, stacks of papers, failures, each and every one... her mother, always telling her to smile, fixing the sleeves of her blouse so the bruises didn't show.

                                                The only good memories were the ones that didn't last.  And then it was just her father, just living under his whims, his tantrums, his alcohol, his petty sneers and jeers, his constant dissatisfaction, his hand swinging towards her face.  She, the figurative and literal punching bag and everything wrong with his life.  A nightmare.

                                  New York changed that.  Gwen.  Peter.  Harry...  But she could never forget; it was a self-inflicted punishment.  But now she could strip all that away... couldn't she?  Didn't she deserve this, for once in her life?  If it was really gone, then there's no choice.  She can't stand here and contemplate.  Or become a hapless victim.

                         Speak of the devil.

                                                              A shuffle of her boots twist against the ground as she turns to find a figure in front of her, shrouded and imposing.  Air fills her lungs with a gasp, her heart pitter-pattering as clumsy fingers nearly drop her phone.  The light only catches instances of the other: his stature and (what appeared to be) dark and clunky clothing.  She can't see his face—and she can't just use her phone to blind him.  Was it a worker?  Excuses run wild in her run.  She shouldn't be here, she shouldn't be here.  The last thing Mary Jane wants is trouble.

                                          "Oh, god.  I am so sorry.  I, I was just looking for something—"  Her words stammer out.  "B-But I'm leaving right now—"

[shailenewoodleydaily]

she’s a dream subject

[mjwatson]

Ultimate Mary Jane Watson

[redheadmj-blog]

habeas-oscorpus:

          It’s terribly, wonderfully cold down here.

       A stopgap solution to an unfortunate setback. Harry’s efforts to strip him of his teeth had been terribly thought out, predictⱥbly. Of course that stupid boy hadn’t thought to recall the beacons set between the signal receivers drillɇd inⱦo hƗs tɆmⱣles, and the pulsing limb beat he felt resound from the glider at all times. The great piece of machinery had been dismantled according to official instructions: no damⱥge, simply separated.

        Tracking them down was no trouble. Retrieving them, moreso. Though the use of søMeØne Ɇlsɇ’s old safehouses as storage facilities had proved unexpectedly fruitful. The few weapons he’d retrieved had been from those caches meant for another before him; but perhaps it was no coincidence that the bombs slotted into the deep grooves just as his own had, or that the vile sharp pronged blades had fit right into their usual home along his right thigh.  

                       (dⱥdđɏ had always been so ǥɇnɇɍøʉs)

              But he only has one of six piɇces. A handful to last him a war. And there will be a war. His war. The long-awaited symphony of retribution that had sung discordant desire into his head through muted whispers for     for–      since.           his brɇath comes in stilted faltering gasps and shivering clʉtches, poison spewing into his veins in sharp thick bʉrsts.    he’s almost there. he’s close. when he gets the last of the monstrous fragments, puts his machine back together…

                  sⱦɇps.

     Someone else is down here. a subway platform that should have been closed off from the public since this afternoon for work and fixture. a guard then. a thiɇf?    or someone who simply misplaced something down here…       they are misguided to delve down here. until he returns his mechanical avian beast to her former glory, this is how he moves around the city. in the dɇep, dark and quiet depths of New York’s subway system.              this wørld is now his dømain.         whoso dⱥres to trespass such hⱥlløwed ground   ?

                 Damn it.  "You've got to be kidding me..."

                         Sneaking into a subway platform cleared off for repairs might not have been the brightest idea Mary Jane Watson had come up with.  Already was she dismayed that out of all the platforms that had to get closed off, it had to be hers, resigning her to the eventual a-million-more-detour-stops-on her way home.

                                   But before she contends with that fate, she has to find it.

                                                                      A trinket from her mother.

                                                         Lousy punks and lousy crowds.  She feels like an idiot searching the darkness with the light of her phone, but she would never have lost her necklace if those jerks on her last stop this morning weren't proverbally boosting testosterone egos and deliberately shoving into the next pretty face they could find to cop a feel.  Heeled boots clicking against the rough floor stop abruptly as she presses a button for the screen light again (lousy timer).

                                 Squatting, she sighs and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear as she tries to combat her frustration.  Mary Jane thought luck was on her side when her stop had been the last one before the platform was supposedly shut down, but it occurs to her now that her mother's airloom could be long gone.  Stolen, tossed to the nearest pawn shop, or just swept aside by a custodian.  Maybe one of those jerks stole it for some sick satisfaction.  Her stomach turns as the thought.  And now she's sitting in the creepy-ass, dark platform searching for... well, nothing.  Great.  Just great, Mary Jane.

                                                                                 For a split-second, she feels like one of those girls in the horror flicks she likes to watch for laughs.  Any moment now, she's suppoesd to hear some sound in the tunnel or something will come up behind her, vanishing as she turns about before settling for a shocking entrance overpowered by shrill strings.  But what might have scared the typical person instead brings Mary Jane a morsel of relief.  She's already let go of so much of her past to move on.  Maybe this had to happen; otherwise, she never would really let go of her...  She stands up and dusts off her knees.  "Guess it's really gone..."  Back to the light now, huh...?

[shailenedwoodleyfan]

Shailene Woodley as Mary Jane Watson in The Amazing Spider-Man 2