veryjanewatson

[veryjanewatson]

Hi, I’m sorry to nudge again and I know that everyone is struggling and that no one has any extra money to spare but if you could please please just share the link.

I have a place to land, and even a job lined up. I just need to get there. It’s looking like I could do it for about 2k-4k to get where I need to go. That’s it. That’s all that’s keeping me from homelessness.

And I really want to hope that I matter enough that people are willing to just help me share a link. Please.

[veryjanewatson]

This is honestly the most MJ answer she could've given.

[veryjanewatson]

“Wasson.” His assistant’s name was slurred on his currently quite clumsy tongue. Normally a weapon of both bluntness and sophistication, it was as incapacitated as the rest of him right now. The culprit, the cause, was clear to anyone with the most rudimentary of deductive sense: the large and empty bottle on the small carved table beside him which had only just recently contained something both potent enough to sedate a gorilla (or Shaw, same thing) and expensive enough to fund several college grants.  Shaw often had a glass in his hand in public, but when he was going to actually be drunk, he drank alone, enclosing himself somewhere comfortable that he wouldn’t be interrupted. Such as the cozy, plush sitting room he was in now, opulent and ornate while also almost claustrophobic compared to most of the Club’s spaces. It was very dimly lit as well, with only just enough antique lighting here and there to allow him to see the bottle, at least until his vision blurred. A more Freudian person might even call it womblike, but it was unlikely that was what Shaw was seeking to return to, considering he had, in all likelihood, not come from a womb so much as sprung fully-formed from a briefcase like Athena rising from Zeus’s broken brow, ready conquer the corporate world from his first breath. But from Julius Caesar to Genghis Khan, even the greatest of conquerors needed. . .much as he hated the word. . .a break. And he did not wish to be seen on his, did not want his weakness and repose beholden by anyone. Not even his highly competent assistant; he had not called for her, and not expected her entry. In a more sober state, he’d have sent her away. But with his mind dimmed, the typical sharpness of his countenance dulled, and he instead regarded her, outlined in the comparatively bright doorway. The gears in his brain seemed to be trying to whirr, but they were jammed, halted to a crawl. Whatever he wanted to say to her next, it took several moments for him to remember. He gestured to her with two fingers to come in, come to him. If she did, he’d speak, leaning his elbow on the chair’s arm and the side of his unshaven face on the curled knuckles of the attached hand, his gaze uncharacteristically relaxed, “Wasson. . .you’ve wor...been woring....been worin....working for me how long?” Again, a Freudian might have said that was a very significant slip, but in fact, it was just a very ordinary difficulty with diction while drunk.  Shaw was a creature of great carnality, but also great professionalism---he didn’t fuck the staff, unless fucking him was explicitly what they’d been hired for. And that was NOT what “Wasson” was here for. Had he checked out her hot little body many times? Yes, of course, he just didn’t say or do anything externally. But that wasn’t want he was doing now. No, his expression was shifting to something far stranger for the likes of him than lust.  He looked. . .sad. He lifted his opposite hand, and touched the back of it, very lightly, to MJ’s cheek, while lifting his own from his hand so that he could tilt his face up more directly at her.  “You have a boyfrien’, don you?” The words were a little jumbled, but very comprehensible. He brought his hand down from her face, and grasped it around her hand. His other hand joined them, her small white paw sandwiched for a long moment between his larger, tanner, hirsute ones, his palms calloused and his veins prominent under the hair. He looked at the stack a long time. He was thinking about assistants he had before, or rather, on in particular. One who had been on the very, very short list of people he trusted. And about redheads he’d had before, or rather, on in particular. One who had been on the very, very short list of people he had cared about. And how both had betrayed him.  It is the nature of animals, when they are sick or wounded, to instinctively hide this. Shaw was no exception. He did not announce these thoughts. He could not have had them seduced or threatened out of him had anyone cared to try. Not even in this weakened state where he allowed himself to think them in the first place. He released her, leaned back, and rested his head again against his hand. “Be good to him.” And then he closed his eyes.

[veryjanewatson]

THIS IS SO FUCKING FUNNY THEY’RE SO DRAMATIC 

[veryjanewatson]

Starting to think Peter and MJ should've gotten married later than what they did by apprehension from MJ's part, because who else but Peter Parker would get with the one woman that doesn't wanna get married after two years

[veryjanewatson]

REBLOG IF ITS OKAY TO TALK TO YOU.

Please.

[veryjanewatson]

private , indie,  selective   ＭＡＹＤＡＹ  ＰＡＲＫＥＲ ，  ＳＰＩＤＥＲ  －  ＷＯＭＡＮ ｢ you  don’t  know  my  family  and  you  don’t  know  my  pain    ｣   of  marvel  comics  earth  982  &&  616. heavily  headcanon  based  with  mcu  influences. ｗｅｂｂｅｄ   ｂｙ   ÁＩＲＥ  ,  mid-20s  ,  she/  they.  Ａ  ＳＴＵＤＹ  ＯＮ: grief  ,  loss  of  innocent  ,  survivors  guilt  ,  ptsd  &  darkness  within

[veryjanewatson]

Spider-Man by Dike Ruan

[veryjanewatson]

[veryjanewatson]

@avengingspiderman 𝒔 𝑒 𝑛 𝑡 : 👫 [ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ˣ ]

4 𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝑅𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑝 𝗈𝖿 :

❥ 𝕄 𝑎 𝑟 𝑦 𝕁 𝑎 𝑛 𝑒 𝕎 𝑎 𝑡 𝑠 𝑜 𝑛 ✰ ᑭ є т є я ᑭ α я к є я

they share a toothbrush. only one of them

knows that. guess which one doesn't know ?

. ˚ · . * ✵. · * ⋆ .

peter still likes the crust cut off from the

sandwiches made with a dense bread. mj is so

cool about doing it, but even cooler when she

doesn't say anything about it to anyone.

. ˚ ✧ · . · * ⋆ * .

mj was once invited to host snl's holiday

show. as a favor to her peter came to cameo as

spider- man; in the skit they sang ' silent night '

to a giant family of spiders.

. ˚ · . * * · ✦ ⋆ * .

she wishes she knew how to say in the right

way, at the time when he needed it said - just

how much she misses gwen too.

[veryjanewatson]

[veryjanewatson]

Daydream Nation (2010)

[veryjanewatson]

c o n t i n u e d : [ x ]

Barnes wasn't entirely wrong saying that she didn't seem like the sort of girl to get mixed up with that sort of thing. Unfortunately 'that sort of thing' was somehow exactly the thing that road sidelong in her life. Mary Jane had very little interest in shit-streaks like Caesar Cicero, infamous for being one of Silvermane's Maggia Thugs of Choice; Cicero was also a local vape enthusiast and, most notably, a fucking asshole. However Circero's interests toward MJ had, in point of fact, very little to do with her at all and more focused on her aggressive and sleuth-like curiosity surrounding the events involving the recent arrest of police chief; George Stacy.

[ And even more specifically the external hard drive that an informant whose identity was known only to Matt Murdock agreed to meet her late that night to hand over the hard drive. She was so certain no one followed her. ]

If it was the very last thing on earth that she and Peter did, it was going to be clearing Gwen's father. Peter always inclined to feel he owed everyone more than anyone expected, and because they loved Gwen more than most people gave them credit for, because even if MJ and Peter didn't love each other in a way that could romantically bind them, they were and still are family. Gwen would always be apart of that family. So no, the old soldier wasn't wrong thinking she was the type to avoid Maggia thugs so caked in vape smoke they smelled like a goddamn pancake breakfast from a hundred yards away, but for Gwen Stacy, even a Gwen Stacy cold in her grave - Mary Jane would be and do anything. With all that said - what Mary Jane would have been, if not for the very immediate actions of James Barnes, is very dead. The Silvermane Maggia always did snipe behind Caesar's back what a complete shit-show he was when it came to small firearms and close quarter fighting; getting so enraged his aim was all over.

The bullet went through the side of her arm, nothing to pull out, but leaving a fairly meaty gash that would absolutely require some suturing. Conversely, MJ had been vehement against going to the hospital. Too much attention, she was too noticeable, either through people's familiarity with her very bad and b-budget movies (and probably not her quite good and vastly better funded theater and Broadway work) or (what was more likely) the public's awareness of her association to Spider-Man; an association that's almost cost the girl her life more times than she, and even more so Peter, would care to think about. Mary Jane compromised with Bucky, warmed more than she could realize in the adrenaline of the moment over his blind compassion, because what she found she loved most of all is that she was entirely unrecognizeable to him. It was the first time such a thing had happened to her in, well- years. Admittedly, on her end, she didn't feel it was all that big of a compromise, because while he didn't know her, Mary Jane very well knew him. Never would MJ have agreed to go off with a strange man from an alley she met off of Canal Street had she not known him, but the reality was she'd known him most of her life. Most who attended elementary school in America would as they all grew up to know Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes as the closest comrade and friend to Captain America. [ And very much unrelated to anything at all was that on a four grade history test she got the question wrong asking what Sergeant Barnes' nickname was; Mary Jane, after three very lazy seconds of thought, scribbled in the 'Bucket'. ]

A part of her imagines for a moment of floating backward in time to tell her ten year old self that one day Bucket Barnes was going to have to stitch her upper arm meat, because of a scenario of 'fuck around and find out' gone chaotic, and adding for irrelevance’s sake that he's a lot gentler than his broody black and whites in her textbook would suggest. That same kid spoke out through the years when she hissed in pain and swallowed a whimper, “--we sure are, since you're gonna' be Jesus and take the wheel of this situation.” She pushed out air meant to sound like a laugh, but due in part to how breathless she felt from the adrenaline crash it was the best attempt MJ had to signal she was trying very poorly at humor. Subsequently, her plummeting adrenaline was causing her to have small body shakes; nothing severe and more likely a hit to her pride as MJ never felt like she could quite escape her distressed damsel scenarios. Such was a life of the physically powerless human running adjacent to the city's heroes and their criminal counterparts. In truth, this situation didn't leave her embittered to being thrust into danger as a tool of leverage, but rather something she did of her own choosing. Even her savior had done so, not for who she was or who she knew, but because he saw her at risk and so he acted. Very, very rarely was she able to just enjoy heroism for exactly what it was. It was good to be reminded.

“No, that's not usually how I spend my Saturday nights, but I guess that's on me for not picking better company? Or at least knowing the company my company is keeping.” Her little nose scrunched at the wording, not really intending to sound so Seussical.

The gleam of that metal hand drew her eye like a cat's to errant movements; she heard Peter reference it with fascination in their idle conversations about various super powered individuals and their abilities. Unclear on the right social pleasantries with cybernetic appendages, MJ threw her wild and vividly green eyes to anywhere else in his incredibly minimalist (sparsely furnished?) apartment. “Jane,” unsure of why she was so quick to hand him a name that she never gave over to anyone else. Initial reasoning said she did it because she's trying to be incognito, but deeper logic undoes initial reasoning by informing her that it's moot since it'll only be a statistically short amount of time before media or people familiar in Bucky's life alert him to otherwise. MJ's actual truth was that so much did she love the uniqueness in this moment, she felt an impulse to make herself unique inside of it. [ And universal truth muttered at the farthest back of her mind; “--he do be very handsome up close, though.” ] “People call me Jane,” she said like a fucking liar.

.

@soviet-ghost-story

[veryjanewatson]

Okay, breathe, MJ. Then find transport.

[veryjanewatson]

MARYJXPETERP

[veryjanewatson]

@avengingspiderman s a i d : [ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 ] : ❝ one muse gives the other oral which has them arching off the bed in ecstacy ❞

nsfw below

A wisp of her breath escaped her throat when Peter nuzzled his face between her thighs, drifting to her core by and by. There was a coarseness to his jawline from his unshaven end-of-day stubble, though she hardly minded that familiar tickle of roughness. Peter's lips, followed in wicked haste by his tongue, was where her love struck fire; it made her cry out, almost in uncharacteristic astonishment, this gratitude at being touched so exquisitely, but so precisely. That strange feeling of gratitude lended to wanton kind of hunger. She felt Peter tease that hunger with a unruly rhythm from his tongue, those deep plunges it took inside of her and his slow extraction outward. Ribbon-thin fingers twined themselves into the dusky gold spikes of her lover's hair. mary jane crushed her eyes closed and in bursts of colors she thought of the word “thrum,”; a cross between a throb and hum. The harder her eyes closed, the more abstract her thoughts became. Here she saw a flame trying to catch; she had heard it even. there was something she was after, something she was trying to achieve, and there was always the danger that she’d miss it, wouldn’t find it, or even find herself unable to grab hold of it. There came the horrific moment when she feared she'd lose it, that it wouldn't won’t work, that she very specifically was unworkable, and all that could make a person feel very desperate for that flame to burst into a fire, burning white hot. At the same time, she wanted to stay in this place of desperation where her thoughts careening in the abstract brought the visions of Peter, his hands, his hands on her but inside of a different memory, his lips in motion doing their sinful pas-de-deux between her legs, shining with her own wetness. She gets lost inside the watercolor pools of imagery in her mind, barely aware of the curvature of her back off the mattress, the warmth in her belly spreading until what she feared she'd never reach is screaming to her every bodily inch.

[veryjanewatson]

friendly reminder that even if i take ages to reply, i still want to roleplay with you