#philip watson

[inevitablemoment]

Us Against The World

A Spider-Man (Raimi trilogy) fic

Mary Jane Watson didn't want to be a big sister at first. To her, it would just be one more screaming voice in a too-small house. But then, Josie was born. And from the moment she held her for the first time, she swore that she would do whatever she could to keep her safe. For the first seven years of Josie's life, Mary Jane has been able to protect her sister from the worst of their father's abuse and pick up their mother's slack, with assistance from the Parkers next door. Josie especially seems to take to Mr. and Mrs. Parker's nephew, Peter, who has been hopelessly pining for Mary Jane ever since they were six. And now, she's finally fulfilling the promise that she made to herself to get Josie out of that goddamn house. If only it could be as easy as that.

2,442 words | Rated Teen and Up Audiences | Warnings for canonical child abuse/neglect, character character deaths, and canon-typical violence

[hellomystraightlacedfriend]

Amazing Spider-Man #292

[side-shuffling-hyperfixations]

Eye of The Beholder

Summary: Five times Peter wished he could tell MJ she was beautiful, plus one time he did. (Raimi Spider-Man)

I.

There wasn’t a lot Peter understood about life right now. He didn’t understand why his parents hadn’t come back to pick him up yet, why Aunt May and Uncle Ben had slowly but surely been moving all of his clothes and toys and things into their spare bedroom here. They had started calling it his room now, like he didn’t have his own bedroom at home with Mama and Papa.

He didn’t understand.

(Or maybe it just felt too big and scary for him to face.)

When he saw the moving truck, he had imagined for some reason that it was the rest of his stuff being delivered to his room here. It caught him off guard when it drove past him to park in front of the house next door; maybe that was why he was completely unprepared for what came next.

Another car followed in the truck’s wake, the backdoor swinging open as soon as it was at the curb, and Peter was so startled by what emerged that his toy robots slipped through his fingers. A girl—a really, really pretty girl who had started glowing as soon as she was in the sun. Her red hair looked like it was about to catch fire, folds of her fluffy white dress spun dizzily around even whiter skin and her eyes were the exact same shade of blue as the sky today.

Was that where she came from? Had she driven down from Heaven to visit their neighborhood? She looked just like one of the porcelain cherub figurines that Mama used to display on the bookshelf!

“Aunt May!” Peter gasped, scrambling across the driveway to tug on her hand as she finished putting recyclables in the bin. “Aunt May, is that an angel?”

Following his wide-eyed gaze, May chuckled in surprise. “Oh! Well, I don’t know, sweetheart! Why don’t you go over there and ask her?”

He might have done just that if her mother and father hadn’t picked that moment to come out of the front seats. Little heart flip-flopping in his stomach, made nervous by the man’s size and the woman’s irritated expression, Peter opted to hide behind Aunt May’s leg.

~

II.

Peter would learn later, when she introduced herself in front of the first grade class, that her name was just as pretty as she was. Mary Jane. He had never known someone with two first names before; that made her even more special.

Their classmates knew it too; it was no wonder they all wanted to be her friend. Peter spent the better part of recess trying to muster his courage to ask her if she wanted him to push her on the swing but one of the other boys shoved him into the sandbox and got to her first.

After blowing grains of sand from his glasses, Peter could at least watch her have fun. She was wearing another fluffy dress, blue like her eyes. None of the other girls looked as good as she did in fluffy dresses.

The teachers must have noticed the same thing because later that year, they made her Cinderella in the school play. Sandwiched between his aunt and uncle in the audience, Peter rocked as he watched her scenes with the terrible stepsisters.

They were just playing pretend but that didn’t prevent him from feeling hot and sick when they pushed her around and called her ugly. It was unfair. It was wrong. She was pretty even when she was wearing the servant outfit one of the moms had put together with towels and garbage bags.

She wouldn’t be in rags forever. When she donned her sparkly princess costume for the ball, Peter stared for a solid five seconds—then he startled both himself and his guardians by promptly bursting into tears.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Aunt May whispered but he was too overwhelmed to answer. People in the nearby seats were peering over at him, which only made him sob harder, so Uncle Ben scooped him up and took him to the back of the theater.

When the play ended they spotted Mary Jane in the foyer. “The star of the show!” Ben noted, propping Peter on his hip so he could see. “Do you want to say hi, Petey? You can tell her she did a good job.”

It would’ve been tempting but he was too wrung out from crying to find words. Sniffling, he tucked his face into Ben’s shoulder until she left.

~

III.

This was the year Peter was going to make a change, definitely, for sure this time.

Every time the Valentine’s Day class party rolled around, Peter swore that he would tell Mary Jane he liked her—and every time it seemed to get harder and harder. In second grade he’d misplaced her card when Flash Thompson knocked the craft box out of his hands. In third grade he’d accidentally handed it to Kathryn Caine, who had made a big show of disgust about getting a valentine from “puny Peter.”

Across the classroom MJ had given him a sympathetic look and a mouthed “Just ignore her.” Hunching his shoulders, he had mumbled back, “She sucks,” and MJ rolled her eyes in a “Don’t I know it” fashion. That had loosened some of the knots in his stomach.

This year everyone else would get the generic valentines that Aunt May helped him pick at the drugstore (although Harry would get the funniest one) and Mary Jane would receive something special, hand drawn. Peter barely slept, slaving over his colored pencils. He was proudest of how he’d captured her smile, the way it made her cheeks all pink. Now what to write with it?

Roses are red, violets are—Too cliché.

Your hair is red, your eyes are blue—Well, duh.

Slumping, he gave the picture another bleary onceover. What did he like most about her? Her kindness, compassion, her bubbly cheer, her perseverance, her bold stance against bullies, her sweet, strong voice, her dancing, the shining swirls of red and gold…

He wasn’t good at verbalizing his feelings. He had to make it simple and to the point.

You are my sunshine. Be my Valentine too?

The next morning, sleep deprivation and nerves had Peter shaking in his sneakers. He had folded MJ’s drawing to the same size as the rest of the cards so it wouldn’t be too obtrusive or obvious when he slipped it into her box. Harry snickered at the pun on his valentine, which warmed Peter’s clammy cold just a little until the big moment came.

The way MJ’s face lit up was everything Peter hoped for. She was beautiful, she was radiant, she was…glancing around like she didn’t know who to thank.

He’d forgotten to sign it.

~

IV.

There were many things Peter had grown to detest about Mr. Philip Watson. Aunt May and Uncle Ben were always telling him that he should look for the good in people but as far as Peter knew, the only remotely decent thing Mr. Watson had ever done was moving his family to this neighborhood. If it weren’t for that, he never would have known Mary Jane but everything else about Philip made it difficult to be grateful, much less compassionate.

Mr. Watson seemed hell-bent on making others suffer, especially MJ. He made it as dramatic and shameful and as public as he could without lifting himself off the couch; he always made sure his voice carried beyond the confines of their house so all of the people down the block would understand how ungrateful and pathetic and stupid his daughter was growing up to be.

He was a bully. Was there no safe space for Peter and MJ to be themselves without bullies around to tear them down?

“This is what you’ve been wasting my money on, you little brat? Well, allow me to be the first man to give you an honest critique: there’s never gonna be enough makeup to salvage whatever you’ve got going on there! You’re just like your mother, all flash and no substance. You may as well wipe all that cake off your face and take it to the nearest Goodwill.” His snide laughter spilled through the nearest wall to grate on Peter’s ears. “Aww, don’t start crying now, babycakes! You’ll ruin your mascara!”

If Peter were a bully, he might march outside, find the nearest hefty rock and hurl it through Philip Watson’s window. As it was, he could only look forlornly on as MJ slammed her bedroom door and sagged into her desk chair, burying her smeared face in her hands.

This morning the other girls were peppering her with eager questions about her eyeshadow. Flash Thompson had wolf-whistled at her, Harry had clicked his tongue, and Peter, as usual, had blushed and ducked down before she noticed him staring.

There was a pebble on his windowsill. He could flick it at MJ’s window, wave her over and assure her vehemently that everyone else loved her…that he loved her.

No. He suspected what she needed for now was privacy.

~

V.

There wasn’t a lot Peter understood about life right now. He didn’t understand why his body had changed so drastically overnight. It was the worst sleep he’d had in his life and yet somehow it had kickstarted puberty in full force? Not that he was complaining! It was the first time he didn’t get painfully winded when sprinting after the bus, the first time in his life that he didn’t need to wear his glasses (the first time his tormentors wouldn’t get a chance to shatter them and cost Aunt May and Uncle Ben another fortune to replace them.)

The world felt sharper, full of more refined sensations, like he was looking at it through a cutting edge microscope—and beholding Mary Jane this close, held securely in the crook of his arm, which definitely wouldn’t have been strong enough to catch her a day ago…That was an experience.

“Hey, you have blue eyes,” she commented, slight surprise tugging at her lips. “I didn’t notice without your glasses. You just get contacts?”

The first thing that came to his mind was “Not as blue as yours,” which wasn’t even an answer to her question. The second was “Thanks,” which was also not a valid response, but give him a break. He was a little busy processing the fact that his arm was still around her waist and she was smiling at him. He couldn’t help but smile back like the love-struck idiot he was, heart fluttering in his throat.

Her face was so close that he could see every freckle dusted across her nose, the perfect crest of her brows, the little laugh lines around her eyes. She was wearing her favorite pink lipstick, Deep Rose Sheen, which made her mouth look fuller, and in lieu of any rational thoughts she was filling his head with the scent of strawberries. It wasn’t caustically over-applied or sickeningly sweet like the lotions and perfumes the other girls used, just enough to lure a guy in. If his legs hadn’t been newly toned, his knees might have been knocking.

What was her question again? She had asked him a question, right? Good grief, he couldn’t remember.

“Well,” she concluded at last, looking a little amused as she pulled away, “see you.”

Not as clearly as he saw her.

~ 

+I.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” Peter murmured, running his thumb back and forth over his wife’s face. He could feel her cheek go warm under his touch even before the soft pink blush had risen to the surface of her skin.

“Oh, I don’t know, it might have come up every once in a while. But feel free to remind me as often as you like,” she hummed, sky blue eyes half-lidded as she cracked a sleepy smile, and it was just as lovely even after he’d kissed away all of her lipstick (still that Deep Rose Sheen after all these years. She knew what they both liked.)

She didn’t need it anyway. No lipstick, smudged eyeshadow and hair mussed against the pillows and she still looked like an angel. He didn’t know how she did it or how he had come to deserve it but here she was, gracing him with her presence, loving him to pieces. If the city knew how easily their hero fell to pieces for her…but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Beautiful one I love,” he crooned softly, an echo of the song he had asked the dinner theater to dedicate to her earlier tonight. “Beautiful one I adore…Beautiful one, my soul must sing…”

His voice wasn’t really made for music like hers; even far beyond his teen years, it still had a tendency to crack at inopportune moments, but her smile widened at the words regardless and that was enough.

“You opened my eyes to your wonders anew. You captured my heart with this love, because nothing on earth is as beautiful as you…”

[donospl]

PODSUMOWANIE ROKU 2022 - Literatura

PODSUMOWANIE ROKU 2022 – Literatura

KSIĄŻKA ROKU 2022 Sylwia Chutnik „Tyłem do kierunku jazdy” Wydawnictwo Znak HONOROWY DYPLOM UZNANIA: Wojciech Orliński “Kopernik” – Wyd. Agora Annie Ernaux „Lata” – Wyd. Czarne Alicja Urbanik-Kopeć „Matrymonium” – Wyd. Czarne Anna Bikont “Cena” – Wyd. Czarne Piotr Bernardyn “Hongkong” – Wyd. Czarne Damon Galgut “Obietnica” – Wyd. Czarne Sandor Marai “Porwanie Europy” – Wyd.…

[sherlock-is-ace]

For a character that is not trying to be an adaptation of Sherlock Holmes, Benoit Blanc is the best modern Holmes.

They both hate rich people, don't deal well with men in power, have a soft spot for women who have been taken advantage of, useless with simple and silly things, get depressed when they don't have a case, gay.

[aparanoidbanana]

It Takes Two Pt 2 this. Trombone Champ Pt 2 that.

What about Part 2 of the Watson-Scott Personality Test from Spooky Week 2018.

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts

Today's prompt is: intimidation

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 9)

Summary: Rosie and Sherlock hunt the London streets for sweets a dark Halloween night. A meeting with one of Sherlock's enemies turns out to be the highlight of the expedition.

Nine Years Old

When I came upstairs, wearing my Halloween costume, Papa was attacking Dad’s neck with his silver fangs. (I know, it sounds way more dramatic than it was.) Dad giggled, which did not amuse Papa who was clearly trying to portray an intimidating vampire.

“Sorry, my love. It tickles,” Dad said mirthfully, aware that said vampire was displeased with his flawed reaction.

Papa removed the fangs and looked offended at them. It was time for me to intervene before those silvery teeth were used in an acid experiment.

“How do I look?” I asked, lifting my arms dramatically in the air for good measure.

My dress was bright red, just like my devil horns and my trident. Nana had provided me with black lipstick and the charcoal makeup around my eyes completed the spooky look.

Papa forgot all about the traitorous fangs and gave me a proud onceover.

“Hudders certainly hasn’t forgotten her skills as a makeup artist!” he exclaimed. “You look terrifying.”

Dad was instantly intrigued by this new information about Nana, then shook his head and chuckled.

“You two will scare every part of London you visit tonight,” he proclaimed.

“Obviously,” Papa said smugly. “Come my devilish girl; let the hunt for sweets begin!”

***

It was unfortunate that we ran into Philip Anderson on our round collecting all kinds of sweets from friendly Londoners. Then again, it had all been a tiny bit monotonous. Papa behaved, not a single deduction left his mouth, and my bucket was filled three quarters full. It was more sweets than I could consume in a fortnight, so we decided to return home, and that’s when we bumped into one of Papa’s least favourite people.

I had only met him a couple of times when I visited Molly at Barts and at the NSY’s Christmas party. (The children friendly version.) 

Anderson was escorting his two children, who stood in a rather long queue outside a house decorated with pumpkins, skeletons, spider webs and orange fairy lights. Michael Jackson’s Thriller boomed from hidden speakers.

I had made up my mind about the man long ago, and everything I had deduced proved to be right. He was an idiot. And rash. The latter became quite clear when he spoke, instantly regretting it once the question was uttered, if his pained expression was anything to go by.

“What…are you doing here, Freak? All dressed up…uhm…like…”

“Ah, Anderson. Such lucid speech. A rarity that,” Papa purred, but the steal in his voice was unmistakable. 

“What did you just call him?” I asked through clenched teeth.

He had the decency to blush. I’ll give him that. His next move was not…how shall I put it…a wise one. He crouched down in front of me, trying, but failing spectacularly, at backpedalling.

“Listen…little girl. It was nothing. Just…well…I guess you’ve heard about pet names?” he stuttered with that whining voice of his, clearly taking me for as big an idiot as himself.

“Now, you listen to me,” I said sternly, my arms akimbo. “That is NOT a pet name, but a swear word. The next time you feel tempted to use it, I want you to reconsider it for just a second.”

My voice was barely a whisper, but I was fastidious with my pronunciation so that even hecould understand the meaning of my warning. Anderson’s eyes went wide with surprise, and I knew my next move would do the innocent harm I intended.

I lifted my right foot, twirled to the left, hitting Anderson’s left calf. I completed the movement and with a quick flick of my ankle I managed to flip his feet in the air, so he lost his balance and landed on his bum. 

The look of confusion when he found himself half-lying on the pavement, is forever engraved in my mind, not to mention securely saved on Papa’s mobile.

Also available on AO3

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at @a-victorian-girl

Further tags in the replies for obvious and annoying reasons...

[murphywilling]

Philip calling Benoit by his last name... is something that means so much to me

[inexpressiblybeautiful]

Hey guys! I made a meme. (Also posted in r/Sherlock)

[fluffishere]

[notalexhorne]

Remember at the beginning of series 7 when James Acaster asked if they were the stupidest panel yet?

No. S7 were chaos, but 5 were across the board terminally stupid. I love all of them and it’s one of my favourite series, but it has to be said, every single one of them could have been the useless one on any other series. The whole series has the energy of six idiot children being left alone outside unsupervised, because even Alex had his moments in this regard. At one point in ep7 during the coconut task, he stomps on a fire extinguisher and then gets surprised that the damn thing explodes.

But aside from Nish, they all kind of just kind of flapped about, bumblefucking their way through and largely relying on everyone else fucking up just as much as their own performance. There are so many zeroes and disqualifications in this series that even by the last episode it really was anyone's game (aside from Nish, who was just there).

The whole panel spent the entire studio record rolling over in peals of laughter, and were probably responsible for the current rule of not reacting to tasks before playback. The amount of telegraphing they did was delightful, Mark and Aisling especially just dying in their seats whenever tasks were announced.

This was the series where Bob Mortimer walked into the room, and his first question upon seeing a strange woman was to ask if the task was to physically assault her. The one where the best plan to get a coconut the farthest from the house was to give it to Alex and put him on a bike (a plan which still failed, because the actual plan was the mail it to fucking Fiji). The one where Mark, Sally, and Aisling all got zero points on their own solo tasks, and where a tie break was decided by asking the audience who should win because neither Bob nor Sally completed the damn thing anyway (and then going against what said audience member decided).

I love series 7 for being chaotic and mental, but James can rest safely knowing that his panel is not the stupidest panel the show has seen. I think that title still, to this day, belongs to series 5, and they may hold onto that title for a while yet. I love all of them but my god there was something wrong with that group.

[portraitsunset]

✶ Punch-Drunk Love (2002) Dir. Paul Thomas Anderson

[howdoyouwhiskit]

Once again adding to lists of my posts technically from tiktok but I’m cross posting here.

Can you tell I have a lot of fictional character anger? /s

[philhoffman]

Emily Watson, Paul Thomas Anderson, Adam Sandler, and Philip Seymour Hoffman at the 55th Cannes Film Festival for the premiere of Punch-Drunk Love, May 19, 2002

[courseyoulovemeyoudontknowme]

Separate Lies (2005, Julian Fellowes)

17/08/2024