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vicvinegarandhughhoney · 4 months

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Jack goes head over heels for Spirit Week- Prompt: Fainting

Fandom: A.P. Bio

A blood drive at Whitlock for Spirit Week doesn't quite go to plan.

Read here or below the cut!

Back when Toledo, Ohio had seemed more like a temporary place of refuge where Jack licked his wounds from his Harvard disgrace, the idea of remaining there for not just one but two Spirit Weeks would have been scoffed at. Jack Griffin, ex-Harvard grad and professor, becoming any sort of ambassador for a high school in Toledo? No chance.

Life has a way of surprising you, though, and Jack’s surprise comes in the form of vibrant banners and Ram pins on his signature cardigans that he wouldn’t have been seen dead in before.

Strangest of all, it comes in the form of... a blood drive?

Mary, Stef, and Michelle are of course the perpetrators of this scheme- he’s only standing in this queue because they dragged him into it after them, chattering amongst themselves about how good the cookies are that they give you after the donation. Jack had closed his ears to that discussion, though, because even just the word ‘donation’ has him feeling a little lightheaded. Nope. This is not a good idea. How the hell has he been tricked into doing this, into giving away his precious lifeblood for a school in Ohio of all places?

It’s stupid. It’s ridiculous. Really, he has no reason to remain in this queue at all. If he’s super inconspicuous, maybe he can just slide his way out and-

“Hey, no weaselling your way out of this!” Mary chides, taking him by the arm just as he makes the first move to escape. “I know you’re severely lacking in school spirit, but come on, Jack. It’s for a good cause!”

Jack swallows, shrugging his shoulders in a way he hopes makes him look nonchalant- like his lack of school spirit actually is the reason for his antipathy.

“Hey, I’m... I’m doing my part already, right?” He gestures vaguely to the Ram pin, and Stef rolls her eyes.

“A pin ain’t helping any sick kids, Jack. This is about more than just Whitlock! It’s about the kids... and the cookies... mostly the kids.”

The other ladies nod in agreement, and Jack feels a little too much like the emblem on his chest. He’s fenced in here, unable to do anything but bleat out excuses and butt his horns, because if he tells them the truth- that he does not react well to giving blood- he’s done for. It’s goddamn embarrassing.

So, all he does is wait in the line, watching the three women in front of him step past the curtain one by one, heart hammering in his chest for the moment when he’s forced to take a step forward. He turns around- only a few other teachers are behind him, one being Dave, who gives him a creepy little wave.

Oh God. It’s either Dave or giving blood, and he doesn’t know which is worse.

“Alright, Jack, in you go.”

He turns, and Michelle is in front of him, Stef and Mary at either side of her. All three have tiny cotton balls taped against their forearms. Jack thinks he might be sick.

“Wow, does the thought of helping those kids upset you that much?” Stef teases, clearly noticing his hesitation. “Get in there, and we’ll follow you to make sure we have proof of your good deed. And to make sure you actually go through with it.”

Jack looks from her to the blue curtain in the nurses office. Back to Stef.

“Go on.” She says, giving him a little playful push. “We won’t judge you for your philanthropy too much, if that’s what you’re worried about, tough guy.”

It’s not what he’s worried about at all, actually. What he is worried about is the likelihood of him greening out over a single goddamn needle, which is, from past experience, pretty fucking high. So at last, when Stef tries to urge him even further forward, he turns around and gives up the ghost.

“Look, I... I don’t know whether this is such a good idea. I don’t... I’m not good with... with blood.”

Mary snorts. “You don’t have to look at it if you don’t want to, ya big baby. Just turn your head away.”

Jack rouges. Fuck. They’re not getting it at all.

“No, it’s not... it’s not that I don’t like the sight of blood, I just... my body doesn’t... I’m not good with giving blood. I get, like, reactions and shit. Reactions that I would rather not put up with, if I’m being completely honest with you.”

He sighs, averting his eyes as the tips of his ears redden too, expecting to at last be granted an ‘out’ (even if it does mean he’s laughed at for the rest of the day).

Instead, though-

“Yeah, yeah, enough with the excuses. Come on, get in there! We’re right behind you.”

And with that, before he can loose another sound of protest, he’s pushed forward on the tidal wave of his supposed friends in through the door and past the blue curtain, coming face to face with that dreaded chair and a sweetly-smiling nurse who has no idea what she’s about to get into.

“Hi there. Just take a seat for me, and get comfortable.”

Jack turns, but is met with a brick wall shaped like Mary, Stef, and Michelle. Beneath their unbelieving gaze, all he can do is slink away and sit down in the chair.

“Our friend here’s a little nervous.” Mary announces, causing Jack’s ears to tinge an even deeper shade of magenta than he thought possible. “Is it okay if we just stand here?”

The nurse, turned away as she fiddles with the tools (needleneedleneedleneedle), turns back to them briefly to flash a disarming smile.

“Oh, of course! No worries at all.” She focuses her attention on Jack, and he shrinks beneath it. He feels like a little kid again, sat in the doctor’s office while the nurse convinces him that he’s being overdramatic, that he’ll be fine. “I’ll be as quick as I can, alright?”

When she next swivels round, she’s holding the thing- a needle in one hand, a vial in the other. Jack blanches.

“Look, I just- I get reactions. I think maybe- I don’t know whether-“

The nurse gives him another gentle smile, one that he can tell is underpinned by the same disbelief in his claims that Mary, Stef, and Michelle all feel too. He’s a grown man, and that means he can’t be capable of fainting because of a needle, right? He doesn’t fit the profile for that kind of donor.

“It’ll be fine.” She tells him, already inching closer and-

He squeezes his eyes shut, because there’s nothing else he can do now. She’s wiping his arm, and she isn’t listening to a word of what he’s saying, and then he feels that tell-tale pinch of the needle. He barely flinches, because it isn’t the pain that scares him, and in fact his shoulders sag a little the moment it enters, a sign that the nurse interprets as relaxation.

“See? Not so bad.”

What she doesn’t know, of course, is that she’s witnessing a resigned acceptance, not relaxation. He knows now that he can’t stop what’s about to happen, and though it doesn’t make things any more bearable, there’s at least no point in trying to fight it anymore. His head is swimming a little already.

“There. All done. You can open your eyes now, I promise.”

He does. The ladies are all looking at him a little triumphantly.

“We were trying to tell you in the line that it wasn’t painful, but no, Harvard always knows best. Bet you feel silly now, huh? Hey, take a cookie.”

Jack offers Mary, the speaker, a weak smile. She’s not trying to be cruel, and really he might be okay this time anyway.

“We’re supposed to make you wait fifteen minutes, but you’ll be fine.” The nurse says. Jack wants to laugh at her.

Yeah, right.

“Come on, Jack.” Michelle beckons.

As he swings his legs over the side and stands up for the first time, he thinks for a moment that maybe his theatrics were a bit much. That perhaps his past experiences were all freak happenings, or that this time, by fluke, he’s escaped syncope after all.

The next few steps, however, dispel him of that notion instantly.

Oh shit. He’s fucked.

Within seconds, his vision is tunnelling, and he reaches out blindly for one of the women to cling onto. He lands on Stef, who laughs a little at his first clawing grasp, clearly thinking he’s playing it up as a joke even as pins and needles start to prickle at the back of his neck, weighing down the rest of his limbs.

“Yeah, very funny, Jack. What, you gonna pass out now?”

And ironically, that’s exactly what he does.

“Jack?... Jack?”

He’s floating and sinking at the same time, filled with an indescribable mixture of heaviness in his limbs and a lightness in his head. It’s almost like he’s drifting on the ocean, especially thanks to the voices which ebb and flow in his awareness. The only thing dispelling him of that notion, in fact, is the cold hard surface which he can feel his cheek is pressed up against. He’s certain it can’t be water.

“Okay, don’t panic- hey, can you get his shoulders? Perfect. And you? Yeah, just underneath his feet, thanks.”

The waves- no, not waves, though he can’t be sure what exactly they are- tickle his skin, and he feels himself slightly jostled beneath their tugging current.

“1...”

An ache makes itself known in his every limb.

“2...”

His mouth is uncomfortably dry.

“3.”

The tide surges upwards, and he’s carried with it, lurching nauseatingly away from the cool surface he was previously anchored to. Thankfully, it isn’t long before his sanctuary is replaced by another, and he’s lowered back down somewhere a little more comfortable. When he turns his head, shuddering, his nose brushes against a leather-like material.

A few more voices jumble in the haze that is his consciousness, but they appear directed towards each other rather than him so he lets himself sink against this new surface, tuning everything out.

Of course, though, he doesn’t exist unbothered for long.

“Jack... Hey, sweetheart, can I get you to open your eyes for me?... Jack?”

The voice isn’t one his mind latches onto as familiar. Well, it is familiar, but not as familiar as-

“Come on, Jack. Open your eyes for us, okay?”

He knows that one. Yes. Mary. Definitely.

A cool touch brushes against his forehead and he manages just enough strength to loose a low groan, one that rumbles in his chest and leaves him feeling breathless in spite of its brevity.

“That’s it, you’re alright. Easy now.”

Another touch, this time pressing firmly against his wrist.

“He’s doing okay.” The not-quite-familiar voice again. “Pulse is speeding up a little again.”

“Is that good?” Stef now.

“It is... could you open a window? Just to get some fresh air in here?”

Footsteps, then a faint click. A breeze tickles Jack’s cheek. At last, he inhales a breath deep enough to allow his eyes to open a crack.

Everything’s a little blurred at first, and the lights of the room make his head throb, but a few figures bob into view. One of them is the nurse from before (of course, that’s the not-quite-familiar voice), but her slightly apologetic smile is quickly swallowed up by the other faces that lurch into his eye line.

“Oh, thank God.” The blurred form with Stef’s voice sighs.

“We are so sorry.” Michelle this time.

Jack wants to formulate a response- something like an ‘I told you so’, because he’s remembering where he is again and it seems fitting given the situation- but his mouth feels tacky and all he can utter is another sickly sounding groan of disapproval, rolling his barely open eyes before they quickly flutter closed again.

“Jack? Jack?!”

He shudders, sniffing weakly. “Mm... m’here.”

A collective sigh of relief, followed by Mary’s voice.

“Okay. Just checking...” When she next speaks, it’s a little fainter, and he can tell she isn’t directing her words to him but instead to the nurse now standing somewhere else in the room. “Is it normal for him to be this pale?”

Some more clicking footsteps, then a noncommittal hum. “I’ll... I’ll go fetch something to get his blood sugar up.”

For the next few moments, he’s mostly undisturbed, drifting in and out of awareness while somebody cards through his hair. The hushed whispers of the women only break through occasionally.

“I thought he was just playing around with us. I didn’t think he was actually going to pass out.”

“Yeah, me neither... God, poor guy. Did you see him reach out for you?”

“Mhmm.”

It’s hard to focus in on anything, but from what he can tell, he’s being coddled from all angles right now. There are hands in his hair, one holding his- another one is brushing against his cheek, pinching lightly every so often as if to will the colour to bloom in his face again.

“Here we go.” He hadn’t heard the footsteps, but the nurse is apparently back. “See if you can get him to have some of that- slowly, though. Don’t want him to make himself sick.”

“Yeah, okay... Jack? Hey, we’ve got something for you.”

He swallows thickly. The thought of anything else but sleep right now is wholly unappealing. “Mm...”

“Jack?”

He curls in further on himself with a little shudder, and he hears another sigh.

“Alright, you don’t even need to open your eyes. Just have a small sip of this, please?”

Something rough and plastic swipes against his bottom lip- a straw. He barely has the energy to move, but opening his mouth is just about manageable. While the straw is held in place, he takes a languid sip, the dryness on his tongue thankfully disappearing beneath a gentle flood of... orange juice?

“Good job, Jack. That’s it. Nice and slow.”

After a few meagre sips, he pulls backwards, and whoever’s holding the juice box thankfully gets the hint. He really doesn’t want anything else.

Just as he’s about to drift off again, though, he’s interrupted.

“Jack...”

“Mmm...”

“I’m afraid we’re gonna have to get you set up somewhere else, okay? Believe it or not there are still a few people up for the blood drive after your spectacle.”

He opens one eye, barely resisting the urge to fall asleep. “Mm... Do I have to?”

“Move?” Mary answers.

Jack nods.

“Yeah... sorry, bud.”

“Oh... s’okay.”

Stef laughs a little, probably because he’s never so docile when he’s not on the verge of unconsciousness, but it’s tinged with fondness.

“Alright, Jack. Let’s get you onto that break room couch.”

There are few things Lynette gets to see in her job as a payroll officer that are actually interesting- usually, it’s the odd student fight in the hallways, or a gossipy email from Joyce about one of the parents. Today, however, things have been pretty damn boring, and her only consolation is that it’s lunchtime, which means she has a bit of a break from the humdrum to catch up with some of the teachers. They often have something good to say.

Plus, of course, it’s where she gets to spend a few minutes with her boyfriend, and she hasn’t heard from him all morning, which is... odd. Usually, they’re texting back and forth, even when he’s supposed to be teaching (not that Lynette explicitly endorses this).

She’s in the middle of pondering just why he might be radio silent when she wanders into the break room, and in an instant, her questions are answered for her. Although plenty more arise.

Jack is curled up on the couch, heaped with blankets, and judging by his closed eyes, unfurrowed brow, and the way he doesn’t seem aware of Mary, Stef, and Michelle fussing over him, he’s out like a light. She knows he’s fond of naps, but as far as she knows, he’s never taken one in the break room where the women can latch onto his vulnerability. It’s not a good sign. The unnatural pallor of his cheeks doesn’t exactly bode well either.

“Oh God...” she murmurs, setting down her mug on the side and moving closer to the couch. “Please tell me it’s not the flu again.”

Her hand brushes lightly against his forehead as she crouches down, but her attempt to feel for fever comes back with promising results. Aside from being a little clammy, he doesn’t feel sick.

“It’s not.” Mary assures her quietly, still dragging her fingers through his hair every so often in a soothing motion. Perhaps it should make Lynette jealous, but she knows Jack’s friendship with the women well enough to understand that there’s nothing sexual in the touch.

“So...?”

Michelle smiles a little. “He, uh... he passed out. After giving blood.”

Lynette’s anxiety slips away entirely, and she can’t help but smile too. “Of course he did. And I bet you didn’t believe him when he told you he was going to.”

Stef frowns. “Wait, you know that he faints after blood donations?!”

“Uh, yeah. I’m his girlfriend, remember? I literally had to haul him off the floor after they asked for a blood test at his last doctor’s appointment. Happens like clockwork, bless him.”

She turns her attention back to her sleeping boyfriend, the hand she placed at his forehead moving down to stroke his cheek. Where usually he would lean in to press a kiss to her palm, today he doesn’t move a muscle. God, he really is exhausted.

“So he’s going to be okay, then?” Mary asks, a little tentatively.

Lynette smiles at her concern. “He’s going to be fine. Old man just needs a nap. And maybe a sugar cube.”

Michelle tilts her head. “A sugar cube? Like the things you give to horses?”

It’s at this moment that Jack decides to stir, smiling sleepily. “Neeighhhh...”

Lynette’s gaze flits to him, mirth lifting the corners of her own mouth as she strokes along the curve of his jaw again. “Ah. There we are. You awake, Secretariat?”

Jack only mumbles incoherently, the breath he exhales through his nostrils warming the skin of her hand, but it’s good enough for her. She leans in to press a kiss against his nose, just as he drifts back off again.

“Yeah... didn’t think so. Sleep well, hon.”

And, when she eventually has to return to her desk alongside the chattiest of gossips, she does so safe in the knowledge that Jack is being looked after. With Mary, Stef, and Michelle, he always is in the end.

***

#bad things happen bingo #fainting whump #ap bio #jack griffin #whump

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lila-rae · 1 year

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Haven't you seen what Michelle said about their marriage and How she is compromising 💀

Are you illiterate?

Marriage does take compromise that’s not a bad thing.

Sometimes marriage is 50-50 but like rarely. Sometimes it’s 30-70 some times it’s 90-10. It’s whatever situation works best in the moment. When I was in grad school our marriage was probably 20-80 with him doing most of the work. When he started traveling more it switched. When I got depressed so bad I just sat in our room and cried it was 0-100. It happens and being in a relationship means you have to be willing to ebb and flow. Not everything is going to be the roses. Marriage takes work and yes compromise. Stop acting like that’s a four letter word or when you get in a relationship you’re going to have a rude awakening real fast.

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no-where-new-hero · 7 months

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ask game: 18, 29, 32 (and I shall stop myself there...😂)

Keep sending more!! I love these asks :)))

18. Your least favorite book ever

The Maidens by John Michaelides. I'm probably misspelling his name but I don't fucking care. This entire book was a cardinal offense against literature. There are better reviews than I can get into on GR about how this book is shit, but it has also received a lot of 5-star reviews, which makes me fear for reading comprehension because I'm not sure what's redeeming about this (maybe its pacing. At least that meant I spent less time on this piece of trash).

Basically, it's a "thriller" masquerading as a "portrait of women's psychology" masquerading as dark academia. In short, our MC is a group psychologist but in the way that the main character of a poorly written movie trying to create a "smart" female character. She's supposedly good at human nature, yet chronically fails at creating boundaries for her job and for coping with her own mental health following the death of her husband. Suddenly, she hears from a young relative of hers (i've forgotten the connection) that this relative's friend was murdered at her college. The main suspect is a Julian Morrow from Secret History type figure that *all* the girls in the department have formed a cult around, thus earning the name "the maidens." He's also a main suspect in the sense that a movie villain is: he's so "obviously" a villain that you immediately know he's not the killer. MC does some bad sleuthing, which includes somehow becoming the love interest to both the fake villain and a nice anemic grad student whose purpose I don't recall, and the twist ending comes after like 200 pages of red herrings.

If this book had been written well, I would have loved it. The reason I wanted to read it was from a hope that it might explore the group mentality in a school setting, how female students navigate gender and power in academia, whose lives are deemed less valuable. None of these things were actually dealt with in any depth, sincerity, or understanding of female psychology. All the "maidens" characters were depicted as kind of guy-crazy or snooty. The murderer falls into the crazy woman killer stereotype (again motivated by a man). The MC becomes an amateur detective because she's a psychologist, but since there was so little psychology in the actual murder, she doesn't uncover anything really vital? She watches two students have sex in the woods, which was described so horribly that I've been left scarred for life. She becomes the love object of two men in a way that shouldn't have even been connected to the plot. There was such a male gaze through the whole book, and what felt even more insulting was the author's attempt to be "feminist" and emulate female writers like Dorothy L Sayers and Agatha Christie. A book with not a single female character could be more progressive than this.

Yeah if you can't tell I still get in rages about this.

29. Your favourite YA novel

Very good question since I hardly read what people consider YA lol (ignoring a lot of the books from the 80s and 90s that have just been shelved in YA because there's nowhere else to put it, like DWJ novels).

I guess I'd say in terms of what has been published recently, VE Schwab's Monsters of Verity duology! I prefer her urban fantasy generally to her high fantasy, and this world felt like a really well-made Netflix drama. I really want to reread those books soon.

32. Your favourite nonfiction novel

Ignoring the semantic inaccuracy of "nonfiction novel," I'm going to interpret this as CNF/memoir. Which I actually don't read a lot of, either! But I'm currently in the middle of Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zaumer and really enjoying it. It's kind of rare to know I'm the direct target audience of a book (biracial Korean-American 20-something), and I'm really curious to read reviews of it later.

#blake's asks #blake's last braincell #immortal poets society

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vitruvianmanbara · 3 months

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hi i would like to read more philosophy but i don’t know where to start do you have some tips? also would like to read more queer theory, is it ok to start with the more popular texts and authors like judith butler?

Hi! Philosophy is such a broad discipline, I think the answer to this question depends on your personal interests and goals, as well as your learning preferences & time constraints. Are you interested in the historical traditions of philosophy broadly (i.e. the western canon), or is there a particular philosophical problem or question you'd like to learn more about? I'll give some general tips, but feel free to follow up with specifics if you'd like and I'll do my best to give more tailored advice :)

The most important things imo are to 1) follow your interests, and 2) try to adhere to chronology as closely as possible. This will give you the structure you need to explore without getting too overwhelmed.

Podcasts are a good place to start figuring out the specifics of what you're interested in, the only one I tune in to from time to time is Philosophy Bites - it can be a bit dry but it does a good job of giving short overviews on a broad range of topics

The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy is a resource I used a lot through undergrad and grad school and continue to use today, it's denser than Wikipedia but goes more in depth and is extremely well-sourced. It's a great starting point for both general topics, particular questions & problems and specific philosophers you might be interested in

Many of the philosophy courses I took assigned readers, compilations of relevant texts that are already organized in a sensible order. These are also great resource, but they can be pricey - fortunately they can also be found on sites like zlibrary or for a better price via Thriftbooks! Check out the Compilations section on this post for some ideas - I can vouch for the philosophy of mind and philosophy of science ones :)

For queer theory specifically, I'd recommend checking out a reader or broad overview before jumping right into the foundational texts - you'll need some sort of historical and theoretical context for the ideas being presented & the quirks of the language being used before jumping right in. It's been a really long time since I've deeply read any queer theory tbh, but here's what I would recommend to you:

Check out this section on the SEP's article on Homosexuality, titled Queer Theory and the Social Construction of Sexuality for an overview of the origins, basic concepts, key thinkers, and criticisms of queer theory

Check out the SEP pages for the key thinkers - Michel Foucault, Eve Sedgwick, Judith Butler, etc. - to get a baseline understanding of their philosophical background and body of work

Judith Butler's work can be a bit dense, it might be helpful to look up & read any interviews they've done where they discuss their work in more accessible language before diving into any of their work

I'd definitely recommend finding a primer for Foucault, I've heard good things about Johanna Oksala's How to Read Foucault

Other than that, remember that it's fine to not read everything in its entirety, especially when you're first getting acquainted with some of these authors, texts, and ideas. You can always take a step back from an article to fill in the gaps in your knowledge or answer other questions that might arise, and then revisit that work later.

Hope this helps! If anyone has additional recommendations feel free to chime in of course :)

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thirst2 · 8 months

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I had a dream last night; I don't think it took took place in high school (the location is hard to place) though a lot of people I was friends with in high school were there. I was walking past and Chelsea and Michelle were sitting there, with a few people behind them (I want to say Victoria was sitting behind them? And a few other people; I don't remember. From the people listed so far, maybe all band kids).

The funny thing is, it doesn't – entirely – make sense; Michelle and Chelsea didn't tend to hang out together (from what I remember, at least; it's been a while!). It'd make sense in the context of a band event, maybe, but I don't think this was one; just people hanging out in a location that I'd happenned to be walking past.

Of course, – as with dreams – that isn't the point. I hung out with Michelle and Victoria and, (unfortunately, in retrospect) less often, with Chelsea; this was my friend group in high school and so my brain put them all together.

I can't remember what was said but I started talking with Chelsea and Michelle; I think just joking band and forth, with Michelle, and Chelsea telling me about something that had happenned to her and me, largely, active listenning.

Again, 'can't remember the details but something in Chelsea's retelling caused both Michelle and I to keep laughing; it was't even necessarily a joke, just a mild frustration at the situation and the laughing was the laughter that occurs out of it being relatable; "wow, yeah; heh, – geez – that does sound annoying," or "why would they do that or would that happen‽"

And it was…warm; it felt safe and settled in, the way a home does; nostalgic, I'm sure, but also like chicken soup; nourishing.

Much of this dream is clearly pulling its inspiration from high school (even if it didn't realize it), from the people involved to just bumping into people you know from walking around the premises, but the reason I still, obviously, remembered it, this morning, is because it was that feeling of sitting with people you love spending time with, that you just feel utterly comfortable with, and…just listening to them talk or riffing off the jokes they're doing? Because, hey, they're really amazing people and pretty much any activity they're a part of is a joy to experience.

I've said before (I think…?) that the plan, after grad. school, was to repool my spoons and start responding more to the people who reached out to me towards the end of college, when my spoons went into debt, until then; reestablish the friendships I had spent so much time and effort cultivating. (Spoiler Alert:) That didn't happen but part of me wonders how much all of this was just…going to happen, anyway.

I mean, it wouldn't've been as bad, let's be real; I had a lot people who still wanted to keep contact with me and actively reached out to me: my lapsing is the obvious culprit of those scenarios. I wish I had been well off enough to respond to those who'd reached out to me because they were undergoing their own depressions, for the first time, and (for whatever reason) felt I was someone they could trust with that, to help them through it; but I haven't been well, for years, and I think the tragedy of it was that it was never going to go any other way.

But, even (maybe especially) without knowing that, I think I expected to keep the interactions like that dream to remain, at least, semi attached? Maybe, because I really don't experience friendship decay, I saw those types of interactions easily continuing (if I'd had spoons…) well into the future.

But, like…later life – rarely – has the same structure that high schools does. Unless you move to where your friends are (which, to be fully fair, a good chunk of them were/are in the city I live) and, like, are constantly out (a city is far larger than a high school's property…), it's going to be pretty dang hard to maintain those types of interactions, that sense of organic community I had.

Which, of course, may not've mattered; life is change and the process of keeping in touch, after grad. school, may've resulted in slowly acclimating to a new form of interaction which would serve just as well and this just seems foregone to be lost, now, because I never established the new way of doing things (because I never kept up those friendships).

'Lot to think about; most of it depressing.

I dunno; not a lot of new info. here (though I forget how much of the thoughts in my head I ever write down – my frequency in that department has dramatically dropped, since grad. school – so probably good to write this down, just to be safe).

I think something new, that isn't captured by that dream unless you're experiencing it from my head, is that (beyond all being from high school and Band) the through line all those people have were that they were people who I could sit down with and…not feel like I was bothering them? Or, rather, that my company would be genuinely wanted. Feeling like I'm doing something wrong but not, for the life of me, being able to pinpoint what was a commonality (until, funnily, high school, and then resumed, after that) and, even in college, there were friends whom, in the beginning, I think I made feel uneasy (some of which I only realized a decade later so, you know, fun) and I think the only reason they became comfortable around me is that whatever uneasiness I may've induced never…went anywhere? Like, the yellow flags that got raised never became anything else (and I was friends with many of their friends) so those apprehensions were eventually let go. I can't quite blame anyone for being uneasy about me (though it is a feeling I genuinely have no interest in inducing in others) but there really wasn't any of that in high school (or, if there was, not a degree I noticed); for whatever reason, I managed to do socializing well for then (and only then) and so those interactions often had a level of comfort and safety about them. I could stop and joke and be myself and that was, generally, receptive; I provided something to their lives as much as they provided to mine. I dunno; it's a lot of words when the summation of the situation is just, "You stopped interacting with those people so they moved on and, really, your actions could have produced a different outcome."

I need to gut-kick my executive dysfunction and text Caroline.

#About Me #Friends #School #Social #Dreams

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leiakenobi · 3 years

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A Very Lovely Woman

Fandom: Scenes From a Marriage (2021) Pairing: Jonathan/F!Reader Rating: Mature Word Count: 8.3k Summary: When you return to campus after a number of years to talk to the current grad students in your old department, you end up reconnecting with an old professor. Warnings: Light smut (protected p in v) so 18+ only pls. Also warnings for angst and pontificating about Michel Foucault. A/N: While she was reading this fic, @marvelousmermaid said, “I want to take you out for a drink.. you need it,” so y’know. Maybe gird your loins.

Cross-posted to AO3 here!

——

Jonathan reenters your life with no particular fanfare, save for the fact that he steps into the room late—nearly 15 minutes after you’ve begun your career talk with the department that you used to call home.

He makes as little of his own arrival as possible, easing the door shut until it makes only the slightest click in the jamb, and he’s quick to grab the first open seat that he can reach. Hardly anyone seems fazed by the entrance.

But just for a moment, your eyes linger. And when he meets your gaze, he smiles.

When your advisor called you a few months ago and explained that the school has been encouraging departments to bring back alumni to tell current students about possible applications for their degrees, you were skeptical at first… Not least of which because, quite frankly, you haven’t really done much with yours. Few people know that as well as your advisor, with whom you’ve maintained a reasonable amount of contact since graduating.

And you’ve leaned on him more than once when feeling self-conscious about the fact that your degree is little more than a piece of paper.

“I think the students deserve to learn that that’s not failure,” he’d said gently.

You didn’t say yes right away.

But you said yes.

It’s not until now, as you’re back on campus, that you really start to believe in the utility of your presence, because more than one student listens to you with an expression of earnest relief. They ask questions and you are honest about the job market in a way that you don’t trust the faculty to be, not really. No matter how well-intentioned their optimism.

And hey. You were told to be honest.

You allow yourself precisely three glances at Jonathan after that first look, and each time, you become increasingly certain that he’s delighted by that honesty. Because perhaps he just sits with his elbow on his desk and his chin in his hand, but there’s a pleased sort of quirk to his lips, and it’s bigger each time.

Say more, that smirk seems to beg of you.

No, not seems—it does beg of you. It’s the same expression he wore in seminars so spectacularly often, although what you always strove for was a smile with teeth. Those were rare.

He gave you those true smiles most often during office hours, and when you met with him alone for final papers, and you felt a rush each time.

You feel a rush now, until you tell yourself that you will not look anymore.

It’s easy enough, because again: you’re there for the students, so connecting with them is your top priority. Both from the front of the room and in one-on-one conversation afterward, as many folks loiter in the classroom and spill out into the hall.

Just because the students are your priority, though…

There’s a nonchalance and a certainty with which he eventually enters into conversation, nearly twenty minutes after your talkends and you start getting name after name and story after story thrown at you by the students who, again. Are so remarkablyrelieved to hear from you.

“I’m glad to see the two of you connecting,” Jonathan says, about you and a young man named Andrew who’s only a semester away from facing the real world. “Drew and I have been talking a lot about alternative career paths now that he’s decided the world of academia isn’t for him, and it’s reminded me a lot of more than one conversation you and I had, back in the day.”

Drew looks between you and Jonathan in surprise and delight. “Were you one of Jonathan’s students?”

“Oh, no, he wasn’t tenured in time for that,” you answer, pursing your lips to hold back a smirk. It’s more difficult when you see the way he rolls his eyes. “But he put up with me for a few seminars and agreed to sit on my diss committee for some reason, too.”

“For some reason…” Jonathan echoes. “Drew, do you want to remind our guest about my rule about self-deprecation?”

“Don’t fuckin’ do it.” Drew recounts the mantra with the fatigue of someone who would very much like to employ the occasional self-deprecation, thank you very much, but he also offers you a smile that reaffirms what you already know to be true: he appreciates Jonathan for keeping him on the right track.

You laugh softly and amend, “I guess I was alright.”

Evidently still too self-deprecating, because Jonathan rolls his eyes once again. “You were a very lovely woman. I imagine you still are, even if you haven’t really kept me in the loop.”

And you don’t think he means anything by it, not really, but the statement makes your breath catch in your throat because like most of the faculty, he told you he’d like updates on your life, if you chose to share with him. Unlike most of the faculty, you wanted to share with him.

But whenever you went to fire off an email, or a text, it had always felt strange. No matter how good your rapport, your conversations had always fundamentally been about work—yours or his or both. You’d struggled to imagine what a friendship between you could feasibly look like.

Now, he looks at you with so much warmth and no resentment and you wish you’d tried.

You also feel abruptly self-conscious as you realize just how drastically his arrival has shifted the tone of the conversation; how quickly you forgot about the student who’s still standing there.

“What about Andrew?” you ask, turning to look his way as you invoke him. “Is he a joy to have in class?”

It’s a small, nearly useless sort of joke, but it does its job: you are no longer the topic of conversation. Your history with Jonathan is no longer the topic of conversation.

Just because you’re not talking about it, though, doesn’t mean you’ve cast thoughts of it aside. How could you, when you find yourself wondering for the first time in years what your history with Jonathan even is?

“Shit,” Drew blurts ten minutes later when his eyes settle on the clock over your shoulder. “I gotta run or I’ll have to wait an hour for the next bus.”

He double-checks that he’s got your correct email so that he can stay in touch for any follow-up questions, and then in a flurry, you and Jonathan are left all alone, all other attendees of your talk long-since gone.

Jonathan’s gaze falls upon you, into you, rendering you seen in a way that leaves you temporarily speechless. (Just as it used to.) “Do you have anywhere to be, or would you maybe have time for a drink? To get me back in the loop.”

Your initial plan for the evening was, in fact, to get dinner and drinks with your advisor, but he’d had to bail last-minute to help his daughter through some sort of crisis. So the night does stretch before you, entirely free. But Jonathan has left copious room to turn the invitation down, and you consider it, for just an instant.

“A drink would be nice.”

----

You remembered the way you always longed to impress Jonathan enough to make him smile over your work, or your contributions in class, but you forgot how much it meant to make him laugh.

Because you sit down with your first drinks at the small brewery near campus, and you tell him about your few years of wandering aimlessly through the workforce before finding the place that worked best for you. About concluding that it wasn’t a dream job, but perhaps there’s no such thing as a job that truly won’t disappoint you.

He laughs and grimaces in turn through the ups and downs of your story, kind-hearted and affectionate and oh is it contagious. You suspect it’s the surprise that always seems to make his features ignite with pleasure—it creates sparks, sparks that stir something in you.

It’s after one of those laughs that he leans his elbow on the bar, digging the heel of his hand into his temple. A softer smile lingers, even though the laughter fades. “I remember teaching was still your dream job when you first got here.”

Although you know he must not intend it to, this particular bout of nostalgia hurts. Those aspirations feel like a lifetime ago, but yes, you remember too: you remember getting assigned to TA for one of Jonathan’s classes that first semester, and you remember the eagerness with which he actually put you in front of the classroom.

Not all the faculty will give their TAs class sessions, the older students had warned you. They might just want you to grade, but definitely ask them if you can teach.

But Jonathan didn’t even have to be convinced; he offered.

“Luckily I figured out pretty quickly that teaching wasn’t for me.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Which is a shame.”

“Why’s that?”

“In case you haven’t noticed…” Jonathan leans a little closer and raises his eyebrows, suddenly conspiratorial. “A lot of professors aren’t really made for teaching. I’m not, honestly. And that’s not me being self-deprecating!” he laughs, pointing at you to cut you off before you can dare to suggest as much. “I got into this for research. I’ve tried to learn a little bit about pedagogy over the years, but I’m not going to win any teaching awards any time soon and I don’t deserve to. But you…”

Jonathan pauses to take another drink of his beer, and the anticipation stretches before you, unending.

“You were always great at the front of the class. You knew the right questions to ask and you let silence hang over the room better than almost anyone in the department. It was like a superpower.”

Back when you were here, Jonathan had been complimentary of your teaching, but he’d never said anything so effusive. Try as you might, though, you struggle to even imagine how you could thank him for such a sentiment.

So instead of thanking him, you also settle your elbow on the bar and lean in. “So I’m wasting my superpower?”

“I never said it was your only superpower.”

----

During your last year in the program, your advisor received an endowed professorship—a fancy title that serves little purpose outside of the bureaucracy of academia. But he was celebrated at a small, fancy ceremony, and an even smaller, fancier dinner. You and his other advisee at the time were the only students invited.

That was the first time you let yourself get tipsy in front of any members of the faculty. You’d already defended your dissertation, were as close as could be to existing beside them as equals…

It’s uncanny, how much this feels like that evening. Because on that evening, too, Jonathan held your gaze with a peculiar sort of tenderness, arguing in favor of Lacan (fucking hell, please no, you’d groaned) for so long that it felt as though it was more for the sake of prolonging the argument than anything else.

Well, it’s Foucault this time. A more complex sort of argument than in favor versus opposed, but no less vigorous.

All those years ago, it was your advisor who wrenched you toward truth when he pulled his chair up beside Jonathan and clapped his hand on his shoulder. “It’s a shame Mira couldn’t make it tonight.”

But this time it’s Jonathan that knocks the wind out of you.

“I might be up for one more drink, but I should check in with Mira first.”

You think you could count on your fingers the number of times he’s said her name to you. You think that’s lower than it should be. You’ve always thought it had to be low.

And just as on that other tipsy night, meant to be warm and bubbly and bright, you tell yourself that you think nothing about the fact that he keeps that part of himself out of your conversations.

“Please do.”

Jonathan pockets his phone as soon as he gets the approval, triggering that near-breathtaking switch whereby his attention is suddenly fixed entirely upon you. “Alright, I think we’d just landed on… repression, isn’t that right?”

You nod and you think, carefully, because the words you want to say feel so very delicate. “Maybe it’s because of the shitty things about academia that I felt like I still couldn’t say to those kids, but I guess I’m just thinking a lot about how loud silence can be. And the types of power that silence upholds.”

“Sure.” Jonathan also gives this a beat of silence, allowing the words to sink in. “Obviously it’ll always benefit the people and institutions in power the most, but I will say I’ve always felt like Foucault should have been more realistic about the fact that it can genuinely protect the people without power, too.”

If you weren’t tipsy, you’re not sure whether you’d have been able to say what comes out of your mouth next. “Maybe so, but trust me, Jonathan—it wasn’t the students I was protecting when I pulled a few punches this afternoon.”

He gives you a smile—one with teeth. “Touché.”

----

You remember well when Jonathan first gave you his phone number—you’d taken on the task of picking up a visiting scholar from the airport, and Jonathan, chair of the lecture committee at the time, wanted you to be able to call him if anything went awry.

(Good thing he did, because the visitor’s plane was nearly an hour late and she hadn’t been able to get in touch with anyone in the department to let them know.)

Again, though: you haven’t used it since graduating. Not once.

“Do you still have my number?” he asks as you step outside together so he can see you to your Uber. When you nod, he smiles kindly. “You should use it sometime. If you want.”

“I suppose I do still have to explain all the other reasons you’re wrong about Foucault and power.” You start grinning, wide, at the way he throws his head back and laughs. “Maybe pull out some actual citations next time.”

He murmurs, “I look forward to it,” leaning in at the same moment to press a whisper of a kiss to your cheek. Even though his lips just glance over your cheekbone, it’s enough that his beard scrapes at your skin, making your heart pound just a little too hard while you tell yourself it’s nothing. It feels tender and warm and all you really need do is turn your head just so--

“Thank Mira for me. For letting you out for the evening,” you say instead.

For the entire car ride home, you tell yourself – insist to yourself – that your request didn’t stupefy Jonathan, freezing his smile in place until your driver arrived. Because if it was even remotely a shock to him for you to refer to his wife, you shouldn’t call.

But when Jonathan hears from you again a little under a month later, you’d be lying to yourself if you said that you’re convinced.

----

You don’t see him often, but you see him some. Just the occasional lunch, or coffee. Drinks don’t happen again, not for a long time.

(Certainly not because of the way he pressed his mouth to your cheek and then stared at you like you’d slapped him just because you said Mira’s name.)

There are also the texts, though, sporadic at first with the occasional link to an article or question about a new movie or television show that’s just surfaced in the public consciousness. Nothing that’s really meant to provoke a long dialogue. But the more you see him – the more you reconnect – the more frequent your texting becomes.

Never heavy subjects.

But oh, the two of you manage to make most little things into a drawn-out discourse anyway.

You’re taken aback when you suddenly realize that you hear from Jonathan more frequently than you hear from your advisor. And then from plenty of your friends, besides.

Even so, it feels strange to imagine calling him a friend too.

Would he call you a friend? When so much of his world is conspicuously absent from your conversations. (An increasingly conspicuous sort of absent.) Not just because Mira, but also--

“It was Ava’s birthday yesterday,” he tells you one afternoon.

You’re halfway through lunch and it comes almost out of nowhere, and it takes you more than a few seconds to even place who Ava is because the last time you heard her name was when you were still a student.

“Was it really?” And you have a few friends who are parents, so you know all of the right questions to ask and you feel mostly equipped to ask them, but it’s… Here you are, trying to pretend that you’re not struggling to figure out what to make of him mentioning his daughter.

(Ostensibly, there’s nothing to it.)

He nods slowly. “Mhm. She’s been all about space recently, and I can’t even tell you how long I spent researching the right presents. Things were so much easier when she was young enough that we could steer her toward interests that we already knew and understood.”

“You say that like you don’t love researching,” you point out with a smirk. Jonathan rolls his eyes bashfully, his gaze falling toward his food as you add, “I was going to say, though, she must be getting so big. I only ever saw her when you brought her to the department picnic right after she was born.”

Jonathan’s mouth drops open in surprise, though it doesn’t feel anywhere near as weighted as the way you stunned him the first night. Even so… He looks strangely sad as he murmurs, “I remember that. It was the only actual outing we really had for a long time.”

Perhaps it’s his inflection, or the sad look in his eye, but you feel the burden of something else, something that’s making Jonathan ache over the simple act of bringing his daughter to a department event. But you’ve got no idea what, and you know with absolute certainty that you can’t ask.

Not because you feel it would be rude… (And it probably would be rude.) You just can’t shake the feeling that he would tell you the answer.

You’re not sure if you want to hear it.

But Ava is fair game in conversation after that. And he does talk about her—not often, but some.

----

It’s fairly late one evening when you send Jonathan a link to an article that made you think of him—nearly late enough that you hold off on sending it until the next morning. Instead, you include an apology: hope this doesn’t wake you up.

You don’t wake him up. Instead, he responds almost at once with, Don’t worry, I was struck by a bout of insomnia anyway.

Should that be all there is to it?

Part of you says yes.

That’s not the part of you that feels just a little bit too pleased when he follows up a few minutes later, commenting on the details of the article already. And there, as an addendum, he thanks you. I think I’d have been stuck in a cycle of playing Scrabble against myself for at least another hour if you hadn’t sent me this, he says.

Now you know more definitively: you should say you’re welcome and wish him a goodnight.

Instead you ask, Is Words with Friends still a thing? Knowing very well that it is.

Time slips away quickly after that. First because the two of you start playing, and go back and forth with such rapidity that you move from the first game to the next faster than you’ve ever progressed through a game of Scrabble before, but then because you make a move and, seconds later, your phone rings.

“‘Chutzpah’? Really?”

His voice is low and creaky, and while it might convey some ire over your good play, you don’t think you’re reading into it by hearing some affection there, too. You also can’t help the affection that shines through in your own reply: “Says the one who managed to hoard the Q, U, and X necessary to make ‘quixotic’ over a triple word score.”

“Right, but that was helping me toward a win. Nothing objectionable about that.”

“You’re such an ass,” you mutter. As you say this, his next play comes through, only making you more exasperated. “An ass who just reused that damn X to make ‘jukebox’ too? Why did I think this would be a good idea?”

Jonathan chuckles. “Beats me.”

You stay on the line for a long, long time, even though neither of you talk much as you play. As you finally drift off around 3 AM, you get the sense that it’s worse that you didn’t talk than it would have been if you did. Something about the different weight of companionship that you found in that silence.

In the moment, holding your pillow tight at 3 in the morning, you lack the heart to feel shame for that companionship.

----

You have a half-day at work, and your advisor has the afternoon free of classes, so you meet him at the coffee shop right near campus for one of your sporadic catch-ups. It’s friendly and pleasant and you’re genuinely not thinking of Jonathan until he steps through the door, at which point you abruptly remember that right near campus means convenient for the whole department—not just your advisor.

And it would be an exaggeration, to say that you feel shame when your advisor spots Jonathan and beckons him over.

But you haven’t bothered to share with your advisor that you and Jonathan reconnected when you gave your talk to the department, and it’d be difficult to claim that it wasn’t at least a little bit on purpose as you see him realizing it, when Jonathan thanks you for the book you lent him the last time you got together.

Looking between you two, he knows.

What it is that he knows, you’re not sure you could say.

“It’s a shame about Mira,” he says, after Jonathan has smiled and waved and gone on his way.

You’re so taken aback that you don’t even try to conceal your surprise. “What about Mira?”

“Oh.” You’ve known your advisor for years and years, so you’re intimately familiar with the expression he wears when he’s struggling to work out a puzzle. But you’ve never been the puzzle before, or at least part of it. You can’t say you like it. “She left. At least two months ago, now.”

You hum softly. “I didn’t know.” Then, belatedly and with less feeling than you’d like to be able to muster: “That’s really sad.”

----

So here’s the thing.

It’s never occurred to you--

That is to say, you haven’t even allowed yourself to imagine--

You’d assumed that, in the grand scheme of things, Jonathan was happy. You received each lingering look, each late-night text, and each comment that even vaguely read as flirting, and you let them fade away because none of that mattered. You wouldn’t let it matter, not when you’ve cherished his friendship more with each passing moment and you’ve felt him cherishing it, too.

Does it matter now? When he didn’t even tell you that Mira left, even though you’ve seen and spoken with him a few times over the past month.

Rather than wrestling with the question in any real depth, you text him, I hope you’re doing alright.

You send it the next day, as though somehow it won’t implicate your advisor as the person who spilled the beans, but when Jonathan answers a short while later, he doesn’t even feign obliviousness. That man can’t keep any secrets, can he?

It’s quite some time before you reply, and not for lack of trying. Just… You find yourself typing and deleting the same response over and over again: I think he figured I already knew. The truth of it is clear – he wouldn’t see Jonathan’s family fracturing as his gossip to share – but what that truth means… Well, that’s been nagging at you for the past day, in among everything else that’s on your mind.

I think he just trusts me, you tell Jonathan at last.

Jonathan doesn’t answer for a long, long time.

I understand the inclination. Then, in close succession: I am doing alright. Mostly just don’t know what to do with myself when she has Ava.

Let me know if you ever need a distraction?

Will do.

----

Does it matter now?

As he texts you over the following weeks, making you smile and laugh and making your pulse race, you think the answer is yes.

----

“Is that offer for distraction still on the table?”

You are abruptly glad for the fact that he can’t see you in this moment, because your jaw drops as you glance around your kitchen, almost delirious in your surprise. There’s hardly even been build-up in the conversation; just the pleasantries and a quick little here’s what I’ve been up to from you both.

Now this, leaving you to wonder precisely what it means.

“Why, what’s up?”

“Ava’s been missing her mom a lot on the weekdays versus weekends schedule, so we’re switching it up and trying a week at a time with each of us. Tomorrow is the first Sunday that Mira won’t be dropping her off and I’m already feeling shitty about it.”

Honestly, you can hear it—the defeat and disappointment in his voice.

So you say, “You’re welcome to come over for dinner tomorrow. Would that be enough of a distraction?”

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to go to unnecessary trouble,” he rushes to say.

But you, in turn, are talking over him before he’s quite finished. “It’s no trouble at all, honestly. Besides, it’s been a while since we actually got to hang out.”

“Yeah, it has,” Jonathan agrees softly. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.”

“Then dinner sounds perfect.”

----

Jonathan steps into your apartment, and you think it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him looking even remotely out of his element. At school, or out in public, he’s always carried himself with such certainty. Not an imposing presence, precisely – and you’ve encountered plenty of men in academia who work very hard to be imposing – but he appears, at all times, to be completely self-possessed.

Right now, though, you’d almost dare to call him flustered.

Which isn’t to say…

It’s supposed to just be dinner, and you believe wholeheartedly that you both go into the evening with those expectations. From the way he seems to be quite pointedly standing with a respectful amount of distance between you as you finish things up in the kitchen before eating, and from his earnest attempt to carry on light-hearted conversation about his upcoming week of classes.

Yes, you think he’s genuinely just lost over not being in his daughter’s company when he’s grown accustomed to having her on Sunday nights.

But fuck is that endearing.

For a long, long time, Jonathan picks at the food on his plate, and you let him, patiently chatting about the movies you most recently watched at each other’s suggestion. It’s only when he’s gone a good 20 minutes without taking another bite that you nod at his plate and ask, “You about finished?”

Jonathan looks down at his food as though just remembering that it exists. “Shit, I… honestly think so, yeah. I swear I don’t mean it as an affront to your cooking, I just--”

“It’s okay,” you say kindly.

He hesitates when he meets your gaze again, taking in your gentle smile. After a few long moments – moments when you are reminded for the first time all evening just how rich and intense simple eye contact with him can be – the corners of his lips curl up, too. “Alright. Thank you, though. I mean that. I think this was exactly what I needed.”

Exactly what you needed too, you think, though you’re at a loss for how to say so. So instead you just say, “Any time, Jonathan.”

Another long silence passes between you before he clears his throat and rises to his feet. “Well, the least you can do is let me help you get all this cleaned up.” You don’t even have a chance to try to argue with him before he rushes to grab your own cleared plate, laughing all the while. “This isn’t a fight you’re going to win. Just tell me where everything needs to go.”

You feign exasperation as you follow him back to the kitchen with the leftovers, but as much as you might not approve of him feeling obligated to make use of himself, there’s something pleasant about directing Jonathan toward your little compost bin and then arguing over who will wash the dirty pots and pans until finally he wears you down to, “I’ll wash and you dry.”

Something pleasant.

You know precisely what’s pleasant about it.

“Honestly, I throw these things into the dishwasher half the time after I use them,” you confess, as though you’ve revealed something incredibly controversial as you run a rag over the inside of the first pot that he turns over to you. “I know you’re not supposed to, but… my dishes aren’t that high-quality anyway, so I’m not convinced it even matters.”

“No, with these I don’t think it would.”

“Hey.” You swat the rag lightly against Jonathan’s arm, your breath catching at the way he laughs. “You just essentially called my pots crappy.”

Jonathan scoffs. “Not crappy. Just ‘won’t be completely ruined by a dishwasher’ quality.”

“And you’re an expert?”

He holds out another cleaned pot for you, but when you move to take it from him, he maintains his grip until you meet his eye. With one brow raised, he tells you, “I’ve always liked making food, so I know my cookware.”

The assertion – I know my cookware – might come off as ridiculous if, again, you didn’t mostly think it endearing. Charming, even. And now, with you standing there and still not really trying to claim that pot even though you can feel that Jonathan’s grip has slackened, there’s a sudden, palpable sense that if you don’t open your mouth and say something soon--

“So what I’m hearing is I should have had you make dinner,” you retort.

You may have spoken up, but you find that you’re suddenly incapable of moving a muscle. Or breathing. Or much of anything.

“Maybe next time.”

Jonathan’s eyes flicker down toward the pot being held between you, and then, with the utmost focus, he looks back up, gaze tracing over your features. There are those eyes, looking deep into you for the millionth time, but you’re not sure whether you’ve ever felt so conflicted about wanting him to.

Knowing what he’ll see if he looks too closely.

It’s enough to make your heart stop.

If you had to guess, you’d say that you’re the one that technically relinquishes your grip on the pot first. But that hardly seems to matter, not when Jonathan still moves faster: his hands are on you and his mouth is pressed against yours a split second before the dish clatters against the tile floor between you.

Vaguely, you hear Jonathan kick the pot aside so that he can truly move into your space, and perhaps it’s just the overwhelming feeling of everything – the smell and taste of him so overpowering, the edge of the counter digging into your back while he clutches you so tight – but the sound prompts you to giggle—into his mouth at first, except then Jonathan pulls himself away just long enough to kiss your neck instead, and fuck the gentle burn of his beard is better than anything you could have imagined.

“That’s definitely gonna ruin the pot,” you breathe.

He grins – with teeth – against your skin. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

Completely without intending to, you whimper—over the sound of his voice, low and a little gruff, or over the way he nibbles at your neck, though you couldn’t say which.

(It’s probably both.)

Gradually, Jonathan kisses his way back to your lips, and you can’t resist the urge to coax him along; you reach up and tangle your fingers in his curls, breathlessly tugging him in for another sloppy, hungry kiss. This time you press your tongue into his mouth at once, and Jonathan reacts eagerly, grinding against you and making you spectacularly aware of his burgeoning arousal.

You’d be lying, if you said you hadn’t thought about this, including more than one fantasy on sleepless nights eons ago, when you were his TA and would have liked nothing more than to tuck away into his office and let him take you right there on his desk.

More than one fantasy, too, since you reconnected, even if bursting with a guilt you’ve hardly let yourself feel and process because something about it has felt more real this time around. It’s felt dangerous to acknowledge or think about by the light of day, and as Jonathan smooths his hand over your hip before shifting to cup your ass, you know that this – the tangibility of it – is why.

With your free hand – the one not curled into his perfect hair – you begin to fumble to untuck his shirt, and Jonathan groans into your mouth before breaking the kiss and pressing his forehead against yours.

“I’d really like to fuck you, sweetheart.”

The words come out soft and tender, as though he’s disclosing a long-suppressed secret.

(Which, you suppose, he might be.)

You have gotten your hand tucked under his shirt, and you find yourself grazing your fingertips absent-mindedly over his bare skin. His muscles are surprisingly taut across his belly, and the light dusting of hair on his skin leaves you with your heart in your throat as you clarify, “Now?”

Jonathan nods wordlessly.

But that doesn’t feel like quite enough, not when… that is to say, after it’s only been…

“Are you sure?”

Slowly, he leans away from you so that he can get a better look at you.

(Don’t look at his lips, plump from your kisses and particularly red in one spot where you’re only just now realizing you must have bitten a little too hard, not that you think he minds.)

Whatever it is that Jonathan sees, it makes him smirk as he gazes into your heart. “If you are.”

Your heart pounds in your ears while you try to even imagine what that means—try to discern what it is that the two of you are sure of.

Extracting your hand from beneath Jonathan’s shirt, you intertwine your fingers with his and lead him toward your bedroom.

The two of you haven’t even crossed the threshold before his hands and mouth are on you again, holding you from behind and grinning as each of his kisses makes you giggle. Now that the tension between you has come to a head, he seems completely unwilling to stop touching you for an instant, and you can’t help feeling deeply invigorated because, well.

You’d imagined that Jonathan would be just this way. Desperately tactile in his hunger for you.

He’s tactile enough that he can’t even bring himself to relinquish his grip on you when you halt at the foot of the bed with the intention of stripping—but you’ve only managed to fumble out of your pants when he practically growls, “That can wait, let me kiss you some more.”

Stilling with your hands on his belt, you look up and raise your eyebrows. “What happened to wanting to fuck me?”

As soon as you ask, you realize that his answer might just end you.

Jonathan’s smirk is back, as devastating as ever. “Kissing is one of the best parts of fucking.”

Oh.

You tell him, “Show me,” and he does.

He asks you, eyes shining, to lie down, one of his knees slotting comfortably between your legs when he crawls over you. (So comfortably that you can nearly feel Jonathan against your core.)

And when he slowly, tenderly lowers his head to kiss you again, you cannot help the way you reflexively shift to press against him, nothing but your thin panties separating your heat from the coarse fabric of his trousers.

“Why rush things…” Jonathan asks softly, between kisses. “When I can taste you and touch you and watch you get so damn needy for me after wanting this for so long?”

You whimper, which turns into a moan when his mouth finds yours again and he leans just a little bit closer, grinding his thigh against your crotch. The sensation is so exhilarating, Jonathan above you and around you and pressing his tongue inside of you and one of his hands gripping yours so damn tight, so that you only vaguely wonder what does ‘this’ mean.

Then Jonathan nibbles on your lip and you couldn’t care less.

You have no idea how long the two of you make out, with the taste of Jonathan so splendid and the feel of his body flush against you to keep you feeling warm and safe. He can’t seem to stop kissing your neck, rubbing your skin a little more raw each time, and you feel like you might burst out of your skin when he finally helps you out of your shirt so that he can kiss along your sternum, suck and bite all over your breasts and stomach until, yeah. You’re rendered a needy, trembling mess.

Needy and trembling until he presses his lips to yours again, in playful kisses that say not quite yet, sweetheart.

Gradually, you coax him out of his shirt, and then his pants, relishing the soft groan he exhales into your mouth when his cock is freed from the tight fabric.

Until, finally, Jonathan pulls away to glance over your face and you use the moment to push him down onto the bed, following him in one fluid motion until you are on top of him. For an instant, he blinks up at you, completely stupefied.

“I’m really happy,” you tell him softly.

Jonathan’s eyes widen, and he licks his lips before smiling. You feel yourself grow just a little bit lighter when he gently caresses your cheek. “I’m really glad.”

“But I’d like you inside me now.”

Your nonchalance makes him grin. A cheesy, wonderful grin. “Tell me you’ve got some condoms in the drawer over there.”

Maybe you’d imagined what this would be like. Maybe pictured yourself with him, underneath him, so frequently that it’s begun to feel almost like truth.

As you slowly lower yourself onto his cock, it is so very different to anything you’d anticipated, in ways you don’t think you could even articulate. You suspect, though, that it comes down to one primary thing: you’re not sure whether you’ve ever felt quite so powerful, or whether you’ll ever feel this way again.

Jonathan grips your neck tight and pulls you into a kiss while you carefully move over him, familiarizing yourself with the heady feeling of him inside of you. His tongue traces inside your mouth, languid and almost sweet, and it’ll be a bit yet before you come.

But you are already undone.

----

It’s early – early enough that sunlight has only just begun to filter through the blinds in your bedroom – and for very confusing moment, the only thing you understand for certain is that a phone is ringing on the side of your bed, and it’s sure as fuck not yours.

The covers shift over you, a creaky voice says, “Hello?” and the previous evening rushes over you with startling clarity.

What a wonderful image.

You roll onto your side so that you can look at Jonathan, who’s leaning on his elbow just high enough off his pillow that you have to peer up at him. He glances at you over his shoulder, offering up a soft smile as he says, “Ava, darling, good morning.” A pause. “Yes, honey, I’m so happy to hear from you. Has something happened?” Another pause, shorter this time, during which he visibly wilts over-- “Of course I miss you, Ava. So much.”

Though you hadn’t completely forgotten that that was, ostensibly, why he’d come to see you in the first place, it feels strange to be reminded like this, now. Because he’s been just slightly out of reach for so long, but now all you need do is reach out to touch Jonathan’s soft, bare skin or press a kiss to his jaw.

Over the sadness in his voice – sadness at missing his daughter – you do reach out, smoothing your hand along his bicep in what you hope will be received as comfort in your half-awake states. From the way he puts his hand over yours and holds it loosely, you think he understands.

For a minute or two, you surmise that Ava eagerly tells him about the events of her weekend, and Jonathan reacts graciously, chuckling and ooing and ahing in all the right places, asking a few little follow-up questions that show just how closely he was listening. And then his hand leaves yours to comb through his hair. “Yeah, you can… you can put your mom on the phone, that’s fine. Don’t be afraid to call again if you want to talk before I see you this weekend, alright? … I love you bunches, too.”

You’re so incredibly charmed.

And you try, you really try, not to take it personally a split second later when he relinquishes his grip on your hand. The covers shift over you again as he climbs out of bed and it’s not personal. It’s not.

“No, I’m not at home,” he says softly. You watch him slowly but pointedly move around your bed and toward the bedroom door. “Yes, I know, I’m sorry that I worried her, if I’d known that I wasn’t going to be at the house I’d have warned you--” From the way he falls silent and throws his head back in frustration, you think she must have interrupted him.

Right before he clears out into the hallway, Jonathan looks back and grimaces, mouthing, I’ll be right back.

Then he’s gone, and it’s just his disembodied voice in the hall: “I don’t think it’s fair for you to get all high and mighty about this. … Why does it matter who-- Yes, fine, it is. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Did Mira ask him what you think she asked him?

It never actually occurred to you before this moment that as a side effect of your friendship with Jonathan being what it was… maybe it became something of a sore spot. Maybe you have become someone about whom Mira would ask, Is she the reason you’re not at home?

You don’t know quite what that means, or quite why it hurts.

But once Jonathan reappears in your doorway, fatigued and sighing, “I’m so fucking sorry, I wouldn’t have picked up except--”

“Except Ava. I know.”

Once that happens, you sink into the warmth of him again. He climbs back into bed with you and mumbles, “Good morning,” into your neck, and the comfort you feel with him there is insurmountable.

You fuck once more before getting ready for your day, Jonathan moving over you with an exquisite steadiness as he sucks a hickey into the spot right below where your shoulder blade meets your clavicle.

(Only after breathing, “Can I leave a little mark, sweetheart?”)

After quietly aching for him for so long, it’s uncanny, the way you’re craving him again almost the moment he’s not inside you anymore. You ache as the two of you shower, and dress, and as you take him to the little shop near your place where you pick up coffee each morning before work. You ache when he presses a whisper of a kiss to your cheek and asks, “Can I see you again, next time I don’t have Ava?”

“For more distraction?” you tease.

Jonathan scoffs, giving you one last lingering kiss rather than replying.

----

Very little changes about the way you talk and text, which you think is only an indication of what neither of you have been saying for a while.

The next two weeks stretch before you, unending, until he texts, I think I owe you that cooked dinner.

Jonathan brings you into his home, where he feeds you and where a brief detour into his library to look over his books turns into another debate which turns into you, pressed against the shelves while he kisses you hungrily and makes you fall apart around his fingers.

Two more weeks and he’s back at your place again, and you think nothing could be better than this.

Until you’re out after work, picking up a book that he recommended to you, and you look across the store just in time to spot him with his little girl at the entrance to the children’s section.

There are pictures of her around his home, so you’d seen her on the walls on your visit even if her absence in the house was palpable. But she’s gotten bigger since those happy family photos were taken and plastered around. Not big enough, though, that she seems too embarrassed to hold Jonathan’s hand—because she does, clutching a few of his fingers for dear life.

It is sweet and wonderful but you’ve got no damn clue what to do. Would he want you to say hello? You’re not sure you want to deal with it in this moment if the answer is no.

His eyes land on you, and the answer is not no. He beckons you over and you are glad.

“Ava, can I introduce you to a friend of mine?” he asks, as you get close enough to hear one another without having to raise your voices.

She meets your eye and smiles.

----

Can I see you a little later in the week? I have a last minute project for work that’s probably gonna take all weekend.

Jonathan is, as ever, understanding. No problem. When he follows that up with, But I’ll miss you, you can just picture his eyes. Soft and earnest, sending a wave of his own sadness deep into your gut.

----

At first, it’s difficult to tell for certain why you feel like something is different.

That last-minute project ends up stretching across much of the week, making you tired and less talkative with everyone, so it’s easy to write off the fact that Jonathan is just another person you’re not really hearing from. After all, you tell him, right at the beginning of the week, just how busy it looks like it’s going to be, so it very well could be that he’s trying not to burden you. You tell yourself that it’s about your busy life, not about him.

But the days pass and you notice, more and more, that his answers to your texts are shorter, too. A few times he doesn’t answer at all.

Fuck, you think.

You think it over and over, intermittently, between telling yourself any number of excuses.

Saturday night alright? you ask at last.

It’s difficult to make excuses when he replies, nearly an hour later. I can’t do Saturday night, but maybe we could get coffee in the afternoon?

Heart pounding in your throat, you say, Okay.

----

“Mira wants to come home.”

One thing you will say in his favor—Jonathan doesn’t leave you wondering. After you collect your drinks from the counter and find a secluded table on the edge of the coffee shop’s patio seating, he doesn’t really bother with social niceties.

That is the only good thing you can really bring yourself to say. Mostly because you find yourself immediately annoyed at his choice to frame it around what Mira wants.

“And what do you want?”

Jonathan holds your gaze, hesitating over his next words. “I want to not hurt either of you.”

You look into his eyes, and the irritating thing is that you do believe him. Or at least, you believe him in the sense that you believe he’s convinced himself that that’s his first priority.

(His gaze is still penetrating and you’ve never hated the feeling of him looking into your soul like you do right now.)

“That doesn’t really answer my question, Jonathan.”

“No, you’re right. It doesn’t.”

He still doesn’t answer it, not for a few long seconds during which you know – both of you know – how much it already reveals, that he’s struggling to be honest. Because look: if the answer was that he wanted you, his next words after Mira wants to come home should have been one of two things.

I told her no.

Or.

I thought about it, and I’m going to tell her no.

Instead, your fate hangs in the air between you, inevitable but unspoken.

You are going to wait for him to speak it.

“I told her I needed the week to think it over, and I think I want her to come home, too.”

Running your mind over so many moments with him – a whole whirlwind of moments through which he nestled himself so firmly into your life that it’s difficult to imagine him gone – you tell him softly, “I think I knew that, a little bit.”

Jonathan laughs softly, an uncomfortable sort of chuckle as he rubs at his eyes beneath his glasses. “I really am sorry. You’re… a very lovely woman.”

It’s the last thing you want to hear, but honestly, the last thing you want to do right now is pick a fight with him. You have trouble imagining that you’re ever going to see him again, so there seems little reason to instigate an argument.

“I’m sure she’s a lovely woman, too.”

——

interested in my other fics or my taglist form? you can find them on my masterlist here

taglist: @abelslittlebunny @aellynera @alwritey-aphrodite @amneris21 @bdavishiddlesbatch @be-the-spark-flyboy @brandyllyn @card-counter @fantasmicbelle6y6 @foxilayde @hayley-the-comet @huxdameron @hyperfixatingmenever @iflostreturntobudcooper @jitterbugs927 @knivesareout @lostgirlheather @louderrthanthunderr @marvelousmermaid @one-hell-of-a-disappointment @poedameronloverx @princessxkenobi @rosiefridayrogersunday @salome-c @santiagogarcia @starryeyedstories @yourbucky084

#jonathan x reader #jonathan levy x reader #jonathan (scenes from a marriage) x you #jonathan (scenes from a marriage)#scenes from a marriage #fanfic #my fic #created

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leupagus · 3 years

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Henry at 9 vs Henry at 19

I was tweeting about this and I figured a post would be a better idea, since more people who actually give a shit about Ted Lasso are on here - basically I’m more and more thinking that “Ted Lasso” did a real disservice to Ted’s characterization by making his son so young.

Because we’re meant to sympathize with Ted being away from his son, stranded to a certain extent in England while his family is in Kansas. And I do, a LOT; the scenes where we see Ted struggling to keep a connection with Henry are heartbreaking, and I 100% teared up during the Christmas ep where Ted’s isolation was made so plain. It is a legitimately sad thing!

But I’m always distracted from this plotline by the fact that... well, by every conceivable standard, Ted’s a shitty absentee father for no real reason, other than “the show would end if Ted went home.” But IRL? I don’t care how many fucking cookies Ted bakes, I would hate him on sight for choosing a (very well-paying, to be sure) job over being present in his son’s life for years at a time.

I know there are tons of parents who have to leave their children behind for better prospects, for money and a home that will give those kids their best chance. But Ted had a very nice job in Wichita, one that would likely take him back even with him quitting the year previous because holy shit he got them to the championships his first year. He has no real reason other than money to stay at Richmond after that first half-season; and from what’s implied in the second season, he doesn’t go home at all once Richmond starts up again, nor does Henry and Michelle come to visit him. That sucks! Ten months of just... not being around for your kid sucks!

Plus, I do find it kind of weird that Ted and Michelle have their first child in their mid-to-late 30s, when it’s implied that they’ve been together since college (or possibly grad school). I was raised in the Midwest — in the outskirts of a mid-sized city, with most of my friends being from the towns surrounding — and not a one of them started having kids later than mid-20s. For a couple who’ve been together that long, fifteen years into the marriage is a bizarre time to decide to try for kids.

Which is why I really wish that they’d gone the more realistic route and had Henry be in his late teens or even early 20s — the same age as a lot of Ted’s students back in Wichita and a good chunk of his players in Richmond. Because then you would’ve been able to give Ted those same worries about being a good father, being absent from his son’s life, but in the context that makes Ted’s move to the UK actually defensible — Henry would be in college, or starting his first adult job (or both!) and generally expected to have less parental involvement in his day-to-day.

Plus, it frankly would be way more interesting. Henry’s character now is just a blank slate; we know he likes Legos and that’s kind of... it. He doesn’t seem to be reacting at all to the divorce or to Ted’s absence; but a 20-year-old son whose parents have split after God knows how long watching them drift apart? That would be a REALLY interesting character, even if we only saw him as often as we see the 9-year-old Henry. He’d have opinions about how Ted is handling his new job, about his baking, about how cool Rebecca is, about how his dad should never try to drive in England, etc. It would be a relationship instead of a prop.

Anyway now I want to write an AU where everything’s the same except 19-year-old Henry is doing his study abroad year in London and trying to get his dad a date because Mom’s already engaged to a very nice lady from Lawrence and Dad really needs to stop losing the divorce this embarrassingly.

#look I get that Sudeikis didn't want to make the character look too 'old' by giving him an adult kid #but... he's 45!#HENRY'S AGE DOESN'T MAKE SENSE!!!#anyway thank you for coming to my... wait for it #...#Ted Talk #believe mothereffers

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keepthisholykiss · 1 year

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Gender, Sexuality, and Language Survey

What’s up friends it’s your neighborhood literary weirdo here to ask for you to fill out yet another survey.

This time around is for a project I am required to do for the linguistics branch of my degree. Of course, being the type of researcher I am, I decided it had to be something on this topic! The content of this survey is on gender, sexuality, and language we use to describe those things. Anyone of any gender or sexuality is encouraged to fill out the survey. I’d appreciate as many responses as I can get, this will help me a lot with this project! The survey will remain up until March 1, 2023.

Content Warning: Some language in the survey may have been historically perceived as offensive. Please proceed based on your own comfort level.

Here is yet another link to the survey, please fill it out!

#lgbtq #research #survey #gender #university #michelle does grad school

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venustransiens · 1 year

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Spring Break Week

Currently Reviewing: Lesbian Decadence by Nicole Albert and Mary A Robinson by Patricia Rigg

Spring Break was when I had intended to re-review all texts prior to finishing my Literature Review section. However I, say it with me folks, did not do that! I didn’t do anything at all. I sat around, dreamed of the days I will no longer be doing my thesis work, and played some Stardew Valley.

I’m now back at it and reviewing two books at the moment. My Literature Review is due in about two weeks and sometime before then I will keep at my text reviews.

From here on out I am not putting any pressure on myself. Whatever I get done I get done, as long as the whole thing is tied up with a bow by graduation then I don’t care. I need a break from academia like... a million weeks ago. I’m so long overdue for some sort of mental break from this stuff. But I cannot get to that break until after I finish this degree. So to whoever is reading this and continuing to follow I will hopefully just be providing more chill entries and updates.

#michelle does grad school

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grandhotelabyss · 3 years

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As a generalist-dilettante, I somewhat agree, though being a generalist (as opposed to a specialist) doesn’t require having what Girard has, which is one totalizing theory. I just can’t quite get as Girard-pilled as everyone else now seems to be, though I tried. Maybe it’s because everybody’s (apparently) converting to Catholicism these days, whereas I was raised that way and don’t find the basic concept all that novel. His big idea seems half a truism and half a wild exaggeration to me. As Elif Batuman, reflecting on grad school at Girard central, wrote in The Possessed:

Furthermore, the entire Girardian enterprise began to strike me as hypocritical. If Girard was right about the human condition, the only appropriate course of action was to stop what we were doing, all of us, right now. If novels were really about what he said they were about, then their production should cease. All we really needed was one novel, and we would all read it and realize, like St. Augustine, that the basic premises of literary narrative—love and ambition—could bring only misery. Renouncing our desires, we would give ourselves up to spiritual contemplation.

But Girard is an authentic hedgehog in Berlin’s sense:

The title is a reference to a fragment attributed to the Ancient Greek poet Archilochus: πόλλ' οἶδ' ἀλώπηξ, ἀλλ' ἐχῖνος ἓν μέγα (“a fox knows many things, but a hedgehog knows one big thing”). In Erasmus’s Adagia from 1500, the expression is recorded as Multa novit vulpes, verum echinus unum magnum. (The fable of The Fox and the Cat embodies the same idea.)

Berlin expands upon this idea to divide writers and thinkers into two categories: hedgehogs, who view the world through the lens of a single defining idea (examples given include Plato, Lucretius, Dante Alighieri, Blaise Pascal, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Friedrich Nietzsche, Henrik Ibsen, Marcel Proust and Fernand Braudel), and foxes, who draw on a wide variety of experiences and for whom the world cannot be boiled down to a single idea (examples given include Herodotus, Aristotle, Desiderius Erasmus, William Shakespeare, Michel de Montaigne, Molière, Johann Wolfgang Goethe, Aleksandr Pushkin, Honoré de Balzac, James Joyce and Philip Warren Anderson).

Turning to Leo Tolstoy, Berlin contends that at first glance, Tolstoy escapes definition into one of the two groups. He postulates that while Tolstoy's talents are those of a fox, his beliefs are that one ought to be a hedgehog and so Tolstoy's own voluminous assessments of his own work are misleading.

This is a fun parlor game, as Berlin intended, and any given figure will be closer either to the hedgehog or fox ends of the spectrum, but almost every major writer, artist, and thinker can, it seems to me, be evaluated as Berlin evaluates Tolstoy.

Greatness may even be nothing more or less than the ability to transcend, to synthesize, this polarity. Shakespeare’s panoply of characters and metaphors, Joyce’s endless dispersion of styles—do they not gather into an emergent world and worldview so that everyone knows what you mean when you say “Shakespearean” or “Joycean”? And similarly, aren’t Dante’s and Hegel’s total visions as powerful as they are precisely because they allow those visionaries to find a place for everything, all the variety, in the universe? To be great, the fox must become half a hedgehog, the hedgehog half a fox. Spenser—a fox who thought he was a hedgehog if ever there was one—wrote of “eterne in mutabilitie.”

But then I haven’t read Berlin’s essay since I read War and Peace itself, almost two decades ago. I know I should revisit War and Peace, but there’s always another book of 1000 or more pages to read for the first time. I’m reading The Faerie Queene now, if you couldn’t tell. That’s why I haven’t updated my main site in a month. Expect some Spenser-posting by the weekend there, though.

In postscript: I have never found a satisfactory explanation of the fox-hedgehog metaphor’s literal level. In what sense does a real-life fox know many little things, while a real-life hedgehog knows one big thing? Aesop’s fable doesn’t clarify the question. Is it because the proverbially sly fox has many feints and tactics while the hedgehog has just the one defense? But this doesn’t account for little vs. big knowledge, nor would I say it pertains to knowledge per se at all. Please feel free to send an answer!

#rené girard #isaiah berlin #leo tolstoy #literature #literary criticism #philosophy

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forasecondtherewedwon · 3 years

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With Zero Power

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E Word Count: 3382

For @spiderman-homecomeme, with the following prompts:

winter power outage

holiday smut

“I can think of one way to warm you up.”

Summary: Peter and MJ return from skating to find their apartment not quite how they left it. Between the warm fuzzies of the evening they've spent together and the holidays right around the corner, it isn't hard to find a little romance in the situation.

“I’m not saying it wasn’t beautiful,” MJ insists, “but think how much lighting a tree that size costs. With the number of homeless slowly starving in this city? With the number of children below the poverty line who are going to school in this weather—” The arm she waves is instantly layered in thick, wet snowflakes that glisten as they pass beneath a streetlight. “—without winter coats and boots?”

“With the number of college students trying to make rent with only their girlfriend to live with because their three previous roommates staged a mutiny and forced the couple out because the volume of their nighttime activities was, quote, ‘obnoxiously loud and unprecedentedly lengthy’?”

She sighs in exasperation.

“I’m making a point.”

“I agree with your point,” Peter says. “Completely. I already told May I’m volunteering with her all next weekend, and I’ll call Pepper tomorrow to see where she’s committed Stark Industries’ holiday donations.”

“And ask her to triple the amount.”

“I can suggest it,” he laughs, “but I’m not her financial advisor.”

“Mmm you should be though,” MJ says, shifting from holding his gloved hand to pulling his arm around her. “You’re so sexy when you’re redistributing the amassed wealth of a late billionaire.”

There are icy crystals glimmering in her eyelashes. She’s beautiful. He could walk the borough with her all night, live in a loop where they’ve always just disembarked from a late bus, disoriented to step from its stark light into the soft glow of the snow on sidewalks that aren’t cleared with the same diligence as they are in Manhattan, around Rockefeller Center, where they’ve spent the evening skating. That would be a nice life—tonight, with her, forever.

Peter halts them for a moment and wraps his other arm around her too, pulling his girlfriend in to kiss her. He sways them as he does it, smiling against her mouth, her cold nose pressed into his cheek.

“Did you have a good time though?” he asks. MJ nods and her face rubs against his.

“My rental skates were a little tight, but I did wear two pairs of socks, so it’s kinda my fault.”

He has a new pair of skates for her, exactly the right size, but they’re wrapped in red paper featuring dogs with candy cane antlers, waiting to be snuck beneath her tiny artificial tree on Christmas morning. A totally outrageous gift—figure skates in immaculate white leather, like she wears in the pictures he’s seen of her at childhood skating lessons—but he hates it when all his money goes to rent. This might finally be the gift to make her cry. He’s cracked the bottle that stores his girlfriend’s tenderest feelings before, making her eyes shine the winter he knit her a terrible, uneven scarf (she’s wearing it now), and he’s certain the skates will be the thing she really loves. She’ll cry with joy, she’ll say they’re too much, he’ll carry her from the little tree to bed and keep her there until she’s begging for more instead of less. The thought makes Peter grin now.

“Take a bath when we get home. Your feet will feel better.”

“They’d feel better if you carried me,” MJ suggests slyly.

But she screeches when he jerks her against him and, in the relative darkness of their street, looses a web, swinging them both into the air. They pretend it’s still a secret how much she’s grown to love the sensation of sailing through the night with him. What Peter is far from secretive about is how much he loves the way she clings to him, trying not to feel too guilty when he remembers he should attribute some portion of her grip to the time he dropped her. Ah well, it’s in the past. His girlfriend’s laughing shakily as he lands them on the roof of their building and crawls deftly down the wall to the fire escape.

“Cute,” she says, shivering with the aftereffects of cold winter air whipping around her face. The tone is both complimentary and accusatory. “But we have to climb down now, unless…”

MJ’s eyes narrow.

“I… might’ve left the window unlocked?” he asks, because asking implies someone else has the answer, that there is a buck to be passed, as much as he would simultaneously like to hang on to any spare bucks during this expensive season.

“Peter, you can’t do that. You know break-ins are more frequent during the holidays.”

“Yeah,” he allows, edging the window open, “but who’s gonna climb up to the twenty-second floor to try to get through our window?”

He dives inside, then helps her through. The proof that she had a good time tonight is that she lets the window thing drop. Peter shuts and locks the window as loudly as possible behind them.

“Didn’t we leave a light on?” she asks.

“I’m not—”

“When I say that,” MJ cuts him off, dropping her voice to a hiss, “I mean I know I left a light on.”

Instantly, he’s stepping around her, keeping his arm out to hold her behind him. She has a bad habit of going rogue in dangerous situations. More likely than not, she’d grab a kitchen knife and end up stabbing him by accident as they checked every room for intruders. Safer for him to lead.

But it’s not a break-in.

“It’s cold in here,” he realizes.

As they moved through the small number of rooms that make up their hideously overpriced apartment, they left the lights off. Now, MJ smacks at the closest wall switch. Nothing happens.

“Aw, come on,” Peter begs the overhead light. He tries a lamp. Click-click, click-click. Nothin’. “Man!”

“Fucking Rockefeller Christmas tree,” his girlfriend accuses, though it’s not possible that even an energy-suck of that size could drain their building, way out in Queens. “I’m not having a bath now. I’ll be freezing when I get out.”

“Ok. Let’s get some candles first.” Peter starts to walk away from her, down the hall. “MJ, where are the candles?”

With his enhanced vision, he can see her well enough to catch the eyeroll. Fair.

By the time they have a dozen candles lit, it smells like every holiday scent at once. Vanilla smudges cloyingly across the sharper sweetness of candied orange peel, the heaviness of pine battles the richness of milk chocolate, and the cinnamon that seems to have been included in every candle is giving Peter a headache until they agree to space their light sources out. The room is darker with the candles far apart, but the smell is bearable. He also doesn’t mind how the flames catch in MJ’s eyes when she blinks, how a streak of gold will dart across her throat when she turns her head to watch him watching her.

Peter’s mouth is dry when he stammers out, “Y-you look incredible,” like they’re sixteen again and he’s got his gaze fixed on her legs because it’s 90° and she very reasonably wore shorts to school.

“How I feel is cold,” she admits with a small smile. She stirs under the blanket that’s draped across both of them. He strokes her shoulder over her wool cardigan. “I really was looking forward to that bath.”

And because the way she says it sounds nothing like how a person might casually look forward to anything, Peter swells a little in his jeans and shifts his legs closer to hers.

“Were you?” he asks.

MJ’s gaze goes from his mouth to his eyes as she smirks subtly. She knows she’s got him. When does she not have him? The complaints of their former roommates were undeniably valid. It’s a miracle he and MJ accomplished enough in undergrad to even get accepted into grad school. If she hadn’t been the responsible one, he would’ve been pretty damn content to spend those four years in bed with her.

Innocently, she rests her head on his shoulder. He swallows thickly.

“Mhmm. I was looking forward to getting out of my cold clothes. I was looking forward to grabbing a big, thick—” She grips his thigh suddenly. “—towel from the closet to wrap myself in when I was done. I was looking forward to using my cranberry bodywash in the tub. That one smells really good, right?”

Peter nods because forming a sentence in this moment is beyond him.

“And it foams up really well,” MJ continues, tilting her face, passing her lips lightly across his earlobe. He’s hard. He’s so fucking hard so quickly. “So, I was looking forward to popping those bubbles when I ran my hands all over my body to work it in.”

“Fuck,” Peter groans. He digs his fingers into her waist, through the sweater, blood pulsing in his groin.

She shrugs, abruptly nonchalant.

“Mostly, I was just looking forward to being warm.”

“I can think of one way to warm you up,” he pledges.

Trust me, he mentally urges. Right now. Trust me like you trusted me to keep you on your feet on the rink when your legs wouldn’t remember how to skate right away.

“Good, because I need you.”

“Say it again?” Peter requests, hand on the back of her head as she raises it from his shoulder.

“I need you, Peter.”

MJ’s hand jumps from his thigh straight into his lap and squeezes him through his jeans. He crushes their mouths together, the two of them breathing in hot pants like they can warm each other that way. Making to move over her, he’s pushed back instead, winded from more than the shove as his girlfriend straddles him with the practiced efficiency of a quickie before Spidey patrol or as an incentive between study breaks. When she rolls her hips against his… shit, she might observe Christmas on the 25th, but the friction of her grinding on his dick is the only Christmas he’ll ever need to celebrate. He plunges both hands deep into her hair to seal their mouths together and slumps into the couch, offering maximum opportunity for her to rock that beloved place between her legs along his erection. He’s already feeling warmer.

“No,” she yelps when he tries to push her sweater off. She snatches it back on and pulls the blanket up over her shoulders. “I’m still cold.”

“Ok. Let’s work on that.”

Peter tilts his chin up in invitation and repositions his hands on MJ’s ass. When she kisses him in a slow brush, he begins forcing her back and forth over his lap. He groans into her mouth to feel her angle her hips just right and shiver. Not letting her back down, he grips her and drags her across his erection repeatedly, until she can’t kiss him anymore, until her forehead’s pressed hard to his and she’s hissing his name. The oscillation of her hips in his hands is hypnotic, even with his eyes closed. He’s groaning and trying to hold back, having a hard time concentrating on an idea of what to do next to get his girlfriend off before he reaches that point himself. He wants her warm skin against his when he sinks inside her, not a sudden gush in his jeans.

Still grinding, MJ sits up straighter. She doesn’t take her sweater off, but she pulls down the front of the camisole she wears under it and tucks the material below her bared breasts. Peter’s happy to enjoy the visual while he rubs her over his dick, but she grips the back of his neck and compels his head forward.

“What do you want exactly?” he teases. “I’m a little confused.”

Eye narrowed down at him as she pants, MJ plucks one of his hands from her ass and guides it up to her face. It fucks him up pretty good when she folds down all but two of his fingers, sliding those into her mouth; she sucks with that almost-angry gaze locked on him before bringing his wet fingers down to circle her nipple.

“Ok, ok,” Peter says desperately.

“Just helping.”

A laugh pops out of his mouth, but then he touches his lips to her breast, kissing lightly as she sways. Her hand twitches on the back of his neck. Ok, he thinks again, pulling her nipple between his teeth. MJ moans blissfully and heat floods both Peter’s face and his groin. He jerks roughly against her and clutches her body close when she comes, cradling his face to her chest. There’s still something of the briskness of their walk home to her smell as he inhales against her skin, but also wool and the smoke that’s clung to her after lighting the candles. Her scent is rich. He feels rich, with his arms wrapped around her.

She shimmies her shoulders and the blanket drops. When she slips out of her sweater, Peter rushes to tear his hoodie (and the t-shirt caught up with it) off. MJ halts him in the act of flinging them away; right, candles. Gotta aim for a spot where he won’t start a fire. He unbuttons and unzips his jeans as quickly as he can, gasping in relief at the sudden extra room for the erection bulging beneath his boxers. His plan, as he hooks his thumbs into his waistband, is to yank his clothes down only as far as necessary, then guide MJ back on top of him as soon as she’s out of her sweatpants and pick up where they left off with her first orgasm. But, bottomless, his girlfriend settles on his lap before he’s ready. She shuffles forward, rubbing herself against him, making his boxers damp. Peter closes his eyes as they roll back. His hands skim blindly up her arms to fiddle with the slipping straps of the camisole she still wears—if the way it’s clinging to her from only below her breasts to her navel can be called ‘wearing’.

She kisses his cheek.

“Peter.”

He opens his eyes and watches her tilt her head to speak quietly near his ear. Candlelight seeps over and through her hair. He kisses where it pools on her naked shoulder and her soft breaths form words.

“I want you to bend me over.”

Peter turns his head and groans into MJ’s neck.

Running her fingers through his hair, she asks, “Is that a yes?”

“’Chelle, you say, ‘jump,’ I ask, ‘how high?’” he promises.

He whips a condom out of his pocket. She draws back and smirks at him, eyebrows raised.

“And how did that get in there?”

“I might’ve grabbed it while I was looking for the matches.” When his girlfriend continues to stare at him, he adds, “It’s dark! You were lighting candles! I dunno, MJ, it seemed kinda romantic. Why are you still looking at me like that?”

“You’re cute when you babble.”

“Stop talking,” Peter interprets with a sheepish smile. “Got it.”

She climbs off of him and stuffs the blanket into the corner of the couch while he stands and whisks his jeans and boxers down his legs. He almost trips peeling his socks off because MJ waggles her bare ass at him very unfairly.

“Come on, I’m getting cold.”

“I’m—” he starts, struggling with the condom. “I am… I’m going as fast as… there!”

Peter bounds onto the couch and catches MJ’s face in his hand, kissing her lovingly. Then desperately. Then sloppily pulling away to sneak a hand under the back of her top and press her down until her elbows rest on the arm of the couch. Taking a deep breath, he strokes his other hand from the back of her neck all the way to her ass. This is kinda hot with her shirt still on. He’s glad that, for as much as they discuss and debate things like the misuse of municipal funds on holiday decorations, they’re still in their hasty days. Still young, still eager. He grips himself and flexes his fingers as he traces the head of his dick through MJ’s arousal.

“Getting cold,” she repeats.

“Spider-Man is here to help, ma’am,” he jokes, pushing inside her.

Fuck. Peter works his hips gently forward and back, building up to plunging deeper the same way he tiptoes out into the water when they visit the beach too early in the year. But this isn’t like the chilly springtime ocean because she’s warm as she takes him—so, so warm.

“Uh, MJ? Baby? Sweetheart? I thought you said you were cold,” he grits out.

She presses back against him as he finally thrusts all the way in.

“I always keep the home fires burning for you.”

“Well, that was raunchy. You’ve been living with me too long.”

“How could I ever move out with perks like a December power outage?”

Grinning, Peter begins a loose swing of his hips, gazing down MJ’s back at the shadows and light sliding over the rounded edges of her neck, her shoulder blade, her ear as she tips her head to let her hair hang to the side. When her low moans start, he repositions his knees on the couch cushions and digs in with his toes. The wet smack of driving into her is loud in their little sanctuary. He takes her by the hips as she bows her head to her crossed forearms, moving faster, gliding in and out with more grace than he has when navigating an ice rink with skate blades on his feet. MJ spreads her legs wider and drops her head even lower. She is graceful, with the steep slope of her back that Peter can’t resist pressing a hand to. At his touch, she bends even further and he chokes on an already raspy inhalation.

“Faster, Peter,” she requests.

Not loud, not demanding. She knows he can hear her because he’s always listening for her voice. It coaxes him onward from beneath the urgent slap of his thrusts.

He hunches over her, wrapping one arm around her waist as they buck together, his other hand diving between her legs. She’s soaked and her hips are jumping in time with his, so it’s hard to keep his fingers on her swollen clit. Suddenly, MJ has her hand over his, directing his fingers. Reality grows hazy as pleasure creeps into his thighs and trickles invisibly down his stomach, like the phantom touch of his girlfriend beneath him. Peter squints against the light of their candles and so much feeling, flicking his fingers over the sensitive nub that has MJ’s legs quivering. He kisses her spine and scrapes the edge of her camisole with his teeth. She’s shaking too hard to thrust back. Groaning, Peter bucks in a quick burst, holding her body up as she threatens to slump flat.

“You warm yet?” he huffs. “Show me you’re warm.”

“Peter… almost.”

Abruptly, he sits back on his heels, hauling MJ with him. Sweating now, Peter bounces her on his lap. His hands squeeze the smooth skin of her hips. She gasps before moaning deeply and reaching up to wrap an arm behind his neck, arching against him.

“God,” he mutters, looking down over her shoulder to watch the jiggle of her breasts and the tension of her stomach, “I already want you again.”

Because of his words, or his hands, or his cock slamming up into her, she climaxes, clenching around him and stuttering over his name. Peter buries his nose in her hair to avoid the overpowering scent of the candles as his senses sharpen to the finest point; he’s learned this only happens when he’s lost in either the pain of a grave injury or the satisfaction of releasing into MJ. He pulses, hips snapping, hugging her against his chest, flushed with warmth from the top of his ears to where his toes grip the couch.

“Bath?” Peter pants in her ear, dick still twitching inside her. “I swear I won’t let you get cold.”

Just like that, the overhead light and the lamp on the end table blink on. Huh. Power’s back.

“Or maybe you don’t need me to,” he says.

MJ turns her head and kisses the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t be stupid. I’ll grab the candles. You hit the lights.”

#promptmas #my writing #spideychelle #spideychelle fanfiction #peter parker #peter x mj #peter x michelle #peter parker x michelle jones #michelle jones

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abcd-adventures · 4 years

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Would you rather travel to the past or travel to the future? Why? Who do you admire? Why? Who do you want to meet? What kind of student were you in the past? What are your favorite things to do while camping? Do you ever go camping with your family? Would you rather have a chance to travel everywhere you wanted in the United States or outside of the United States? Why? Where would you travel if money and time weren't factors? Do you like zoos, safari parks, or farms? Why or why not?

More awesome questions! I LOVE seeing these in my inbox--sorry that I’m slow to answer sometimes! Ahh, life with a toddler, but I promise I will get to all of them, and I’m so grateful for the thoughtful asks! <3

In theory, time travel is SO COOL. I think I mentioned that we’re currently watching DARK as a family--it’s intense, but it’s good. However, when I really put any thought into time travel (assuming it was definitely a thing and something I would ever have the chance to do), I wouldn’t want to do it. There were definitely times in my past that were difficult, but looking back I can clearly see how they shaped the person that I am and it was for the better, so I wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that growth. I mean, I have my issues, but I genuinely like who I am. And, I wouldn’t want to go to the future because I’m ok not knowing what is to come. In fact, I prefer it. I put a decent amount of thought into my decisions in life, and I wouldn’t want to suddenly start second-guessing them or over-analyzing them a crazy amount either trying to ensure or change the future I saw. Now, if I could just travel back in a little bubble and witness certain major historical events to learn what they were really like but without actually seeing any of my own past or influencing anything--I would totally be down for that!

Hmmm, there are some people I interact with on this site that I would love to have the chance to actually meet in person! But, like famous people or historical figures or whatever. . .meh? Like, it would be cool, but I don’t have any kind of real interest in meeting them. *shrug* I guess because I always envision it in some kind of formal way, like, “OK, here’s your chance to meet this person--annnnd go interview them/have a photo op/etc.” If I met some awesome people in a totally organic, normal-person encounter and we were just two regular people talking, then I’m up for meeting lots of people. Does that make sense? I did meet Obama at a restaurant a few years ago; that was fun! But, sorry Obama, I would have been even MORE interested in meeting Michelle! Lol

In elementary, I was a super-involved student--curious, top of my class, friends with everyone. In middle school, because I lived in the country and the districting lines were weird for me, I went to a totally different middle school than everyone I knew and it was HARD. Puberty sucks anyway, but puberty when you went through as bad of an awkward stage as I did, with a bunch of strangers. . .it sucks even worse! My grades were not great; I ate my lunches alone in the bathroom, and I didn’t have any friends (except my best friends I’ve always had but they went to different schools, too). Before high school, I made some changes to my “look,” so all of a sudden people weren’t such dicks to me, so that aspect was easier. I loved certain classes and certain teachers, so I was an excellent student in some classes, but in others I just looked at the syllabus and did exactly as much as I had to in order to pass. I skipped a lot of school (often with my now husband). In college, I was in it for me. I wanted to be there; I loved what I was studying--ALL of it, even college algebra--and I maintained a 4.0 even while working and taking care of a toddler/preschooler. I imagine that grad school will be the same (minus the working part--until I get into my internship). I’m not obsessed with grades, but I am committed to working very hard on my assignments because I want to be the best social worker that I can be, and not to be a narcissist, but I’m not terrible at it (school or social work). ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

My favorite things to do while camping are hiking, cooking over the campfire, reading under the stars with a little camping light, and just enjoying the feeling of life slowing down. With my family growing up, we did tent camping. My husband does not sleep great in the best of circumstances, so he is not down for sleeping in a tent. Lol So, the “camping” that we do these days is in a cabin!

Hmmmmm, that’s a tough one! There’s plenty of places I’d love to see within the US, but I’d rather have unlimited access to other countries because I LOVE learning about other cultures and the worldviews and daily lives of people in places so different from where I come from. Our top travel destinations on our family “bucket list” are Scotland, Northern Ireland, Iceland, New Zealand, and Thailand. But, that’s a VERY short list (and mostly determined by my husband and C because they know I’ll go anywhere and they’re more picky). I would honestly go anywhere if time, money, AND the awfulness of airports and the actual traveling part of the experience weren’t a factor.

Depending on the care given to the animals and their conditions, yes. Our Austin Zoo is a “rescue zoo,” so in theory that should be a great thing! But, then, I read an article recently about some of the zookeepers’ experiences there and some of the treatment of the animals, and I was really upset. I won’t go into all of my feelings about nature and how humans have treated our world, etc. I live in a house in a city. I drive a car. I mean, I try to do my part to compost and buy responsibly raised food, limit my use of plastics, etc., but I contribute to the damage to our world like ALL of us do to some degree. That’s a whole long conversation with not enough answers that isn’t even an answer to the question you asked, so. . .yeah!

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purplesurveys · 3 years

Text

1111

Something a little bit random and silly for my 1111th, just because.

survey by joybucket

List three things you love that start with each letter.

A: Art and most forms of it; anchovies, in most cases; and Angela.

B: Burgers, Beyoncé, and buffets.

E: Escargot, the name Eloise, and elephants.

F: FISH, Friends, and some folk indie.

S: Sleeping, signing off work at the end of my shift, and all kinds of seafood.

T: I’m obsessed with tteokbokki; trying out new food; and table tennis.

Q: I like the quiet time I occasionally give myself; quail eggs, especially in the form of kwek-kwek; and quattro formaggi pizza.

R: Rainbows, the rain, and riding planes.

O: Old movies, the ocean, and Okinawa milk tea.

List a phrase including an adjective, noun, and verb for each letter. Examples: "angry artist anticipating", "rude rascals running", "dirty dogs dancing", or "empty elephants eloping." Have fun!

A: Adorable animals appearing.

F: Fabulous fingers frolicking.

C; Chummy classmates cooking.

S: Suspicious self salivating.

R: Rambunctious raccoon running.

T: Tired turnip tumbling.

Q; Questioning quail quipping.

J: Joyful joggers jamming.

I: Inquisitive igloos imagining.

L: Luxurious lemonade luminescing.

Z: Zesty zebras zoning out.

E: Ethereal eagles embracing.

List three different occupations starting with each letter.

O: Orthodontist, oceanographer, opthalmologist.

E: Engineer, equestrienne, elementary school teacher.

F: Firefighter, flight attendant, farmer.

S: Scientist, singer, seamstress.

T: Talent agent, tricycle driver, tennis player.

I: Illustrator, inspector, IT technician.

E: Economist, editor, electrician.

L: Lawyer, librarian, lifeguard.

A: Accountant, actor, architect.

Y: Yoga instructor, youth pastor, yogurt maker?? if that counts, lol. Otherwise I got nothing else.

List three adjectives that begin with each letter.

A: Affable, abrupt, adequate.

B: Broken, blunt, bleary.

C: Crazy, clear, clingy.

D: Daunting, delirious, dark.

E: Existential, enraged, exemplary.

F: Fantastic, far-flung, flavorful.

G: Ghastly, gentle, gigantic.

H: Harrowing, healthy, hopeful.

I: Intelligent, identical, impervious.

J: Jovial, jaded, joyous.

List three nouns that being with each letter.

K: Kangaroo, keychain, kiwi.

L: Lemonade the album, lemon the fruit, and Liz Lemon.

M: Mall, maple syrup, and mop.

N: Nightingale, nest, napkin.

O: Ogre, olive, orange.

P: Piano, panini, and pizza.

Q: Queen, quill, quilt.

List three verbs that begin with each letter.

R: Running, raking, reliving.

S: Singing, sailing, surfing.

T: Tricking, tossing, teeming.

U: Understanding, urging, unwrapping.

V: Villifying, venerating, vaccinating - get vaccinated, folks.

W: Wandering, washing, wriggling.

X: I don’t know if there are any and I can’t bother to look it up.

Y: Yawning, yelling, yearning.

Z: Zipping, ziplining, zapping.

List three...

girl's names you love: Olivia, Mia, Emma.

boy’s names you love: Mason, Jacob, Lucas.

girl’s names you dislike: Karen, and our local versions of Karen, Marites and Marivic.

boy’s names you dislike: Chad, times three.

things you hate about summer things you hate about winter things you hate about spring things you hate about fall things you love about spring things you love about winter things you love about fall things you love about summer Crossing these out because my Southeast Asian ass can’t relate, but if you do decide to take this survey feel free to un-strikethrough them!

things you miss from your past: Having more freedom to make mistakes; not having to worry about the future; and friends I’ve since lost.

people who have really hurt you in the past: Gabie, my mom, Marielle.

names of people you have had crushes on: Gabie, Andi from 5th grade...and that’s it, really.

names of people you have gone on a date with: Only Gabie. And I guess maybe Mike? Since he asked me to go with him to his ball as his date.

places you've been and would love to go again: Sagada, Jeju, Bali.

places you want to visit before you die: Morocco, Spain, Thailand.

items on your bucket list: See Times Square, live in a condo, plan a solo trip.

health conditions you have: Scoliosis, lactose intolerance, and very possible depression.

health conditions you've had in the past but don't anymore: Dehydration, UTI, and some kind of weird low-platelet-count thing that was just that, and never diagnosed as anything.

things you are allergic to: Possibly some types of grass, and maybe face masks. Idk how to confirm it really; I just know my skin gets irritated around them sometimes.

youtube channels you love to watch: Good Mythical Morning; the KBS YouTube channel mainly for clips of Return of Superman and 2 Days 1 Night; and Binging With Babish.

favorite drinks: Water, coffee, Long Island Iced Tea.

favorite foods: Sushi, chicken wings, pizza.

favorite desserts: Cheesecake, MACARONS, cupcakes.

favorite holidays: The only one I care for and get super excited about is my birthday, if that counts. Christmas is fine, but I only get the excitement for it on the actual day itself.

favorite colors: Pastel pink, white, maroon.

people you would like to meet: Ysa and Bea, my teammates at work. I’ve met them only once before, and I wish we can be allowed to report to the workplace physically soon so that I get to see them more often and strengthen my relationship (both working and personal) with them. I’d also love to be able to chat and chill with Hayley Williams even for just 30 seconds.

people you want to meet in Heaven: I don’t believe in that, but I’d love to have met my great-grandfather on my maternal grandfather’s side. Also, Audrey Hepburn and Princess Diana.

good names for a dog or cat: Depends on their personality.

reasons why you get up each morning and keep on living: Because I’ve been able to see myself get better, and why stop all the progress?; because I’d want to be able see if the future will get better; and because I’m afraid of what will happen to/who will look out for my dogs if I’m suddenly gone.

For each name, think of three people you know with that name, and list their occupations.

Amanda: I only know one Amanda, and she’s a friend of my ex’s younger sister. She’s only in senior year of high school. I know an Amandine which is close enough I suppose?? and she’s a dentistry student.

Sarah: She’s a media contact and I’m constantly in touch with; she’s the editor-in-chief of a local magazine. I think she’s the only Sarah I know.

Ashley: Also a media contact. I’m not sure about her title, though.

Beth: @bionic-beth is a teacher! :) But I don’t know any Beths in real life, I think.

Katie: Well I know Kate, and I’ll sometimes playfully call her Katie. She works in a government agency and she’s one of their PR people. The HR person who recruited me to come work at my current employer is a Kate, but I have never and have no plans to call her Katie.

Matt: That’s too foreign-sounding a name where I live.

Emily: Don’t know any Emilys, either.

Chris: Media contacts. They run blogs or news sites of their own.

Mike/Michael: The one Mike I know is currently a med student. Not sure if he’s working on the side - I think he is, since I saw him post about a job update on his Facebook a few months ago; but I can no longer remember what he does, or if he’s still doing it.

Jessica: I went to high school with a girl named Jessica but I don’t follow her on social media, so I have no clue what she’s up to now.

Becca/Bekah: Rita’s sister is a Becca. I think she is currently a grad student.

For each name, think of three people you know, and list one adjective to describe each person. (Skip if you don't know anyone with that name.)

Laura

Michelle: Hilarious.

Victoria: Strong.

Tessa: Friendly.

John

Claire: Influential; motherly.

Briana/Brianna: Bitch.

Vanessa

Brittany/Britney, etc.

Allison/Allie/Ally, etc: Kind.

Olivia

Jordan

Jo/Joe: Ambitious; pretty.

Corey/Kori

Sophie: Sweet; quiet.

Mitch/Mitchell: Tall.

Madison/Maddie/Maddi

Out of all the people you know or have met, list three...

redheads: Yeah, you’re not going to find them in most of Asia. West Asia and some parts of East Asia, probably, but definitely not for the rest.

tall people: Jo, Chesca, and Shaun.

people with really curly hair: I know Kleo has naturally curly hair from her Aeta roots, but it’s been straightened for a very long time now. I think Chesca also has curly hair, albeit slightly. There is also Liana.

sets of twins: My sister had two sets of twins in her high school batch, but I can no longer remember their names. I also had an English class with a pair of twins named Ardy and Thirdy.

of the cutest babies you've seen on social media: My workmate’s baby. My friend Jar has a super squishy niece/nephew pair of twins as well.

people you miss: Angela, Kate, my grandpa.

people with beautiful eyes: I can only think of my ex.

people with nice hair: God I have not been around people for so long, I can barely think of anyone for this.

people who are the same height as you: Aya, Hannah, Tina.

own one of the same clothing items as you: Angela since we went to the same high school and have several of the same school shirts; Laurice since we share a college org and we have our own trademark polo shirt; and my brother and I have our own pairs of Nike Cortez shoes.

make you laugh: Andi, Hans, and this girl I had a couple of history classes with, Rose.

List three celebrities who...

are the same height as you: Lady Gaga and AJ Lee are the only ones who are coming to mind. I wouldn’t call AJ a celebrity though.

have the same hair color as you: Mila Kunis, Kelly Rowland, Dita Von Teese.

look like you: Only based on comments I’ve gotten in the past and not because I necessarily claim these for myself, Lucy Hale, Anna Akana, and Kakie.

List three....

adjectives to describe you: Timid, stubborn, sensitive.

academic courses you enjoyed: Philippine social history, international relations, anthropology.

words you always forget how to spell: Rhythm, committee, accommodate.

things you wish you were better at: Singing, dancing, drawing.

things you are really good at: Writing, reading people, and knowing the best things to order at most restaurants hahahah.

jobs you'd like to have: Ideally, a lawyer or doctor. But realistically, I’d love to have a leadership position in the PR sphere.

jobs you've considered having: ^ Again, lawyer and doctor. Also a journalist or news anchor, back when I still thought I was passionate about journalism.

jobs you'd hate: Journalist, an LTO clerk, an assistant to an asshole celebrity.

things you miss: Being a student, many parts of the past, and deceased family members.

names your mom considered when naming you: Ariel, Kathleen, Katrina.

things people call you: Robyn, Byn, Bynbyn.

*Bonus*: what is your name? (first and middle)? I always feel like just sharing Robyn.

#survey #surveys

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