#Declining Enrollment

[xtruss]

The Death of School 10! How Declining Enrollment Is Threatening The Future of American Public Education.

— By Alec MacGillis | August 26, 2024

The building that housed Rochester’s now shuttered School 10. Such closures “rend the community,” a professor of education said.Photographs by Joshua Rashaad McFadden for The New Yorker

In The Nineteen-Nineties, when Liberia descended into civil war, the Kpor family fled to Ivory Coast. A few years later, in 1999, they were approved for resettlement in the United States, and ended up in Rochester, New York. Janice Kpor, who was eleven at the time, jokingly wonders whether her elders were under the impression that they were moving to New York City. What she remembers most about their arrival is the trees: it was May, yet many were only just starting to bud. “It was, like, ‘Where are we?’ ” she said. “It was completely different.”

But the Kpors adapted and flourished. Janice lived with her father in an affordable-housing complex close to other family members, and she attended the city’s public schools before enrolling in St. John Fisher University, just outside the city, where she got a bachelor’s degree in sociology and African American studies. She found work as a social-service case manager and eventually started running a group home for disabled adults.

She also became highly involved in the schooling of her three children, whom she was raising with her partner, the father of the younger two, a truck driver from Ghana. Education had always been highly valued in her family: one of her grandmothers had been a principal in Liberia, and her mother, who remained there, is a teacher. Last fall, when school started, Kpor was the president of the parent-teacher organization at School 10, the Dr. Walter Cooper Academy, where her youngest child, Thomasena, was in kindergarten. Her middle child had also attended the school.

Kpor took pleasure in dropping by the school, a handsome two-story structure that was built in 1916 and underwent a full renovation and expansion several years ago. The school was in the Nineteenth Ward, in southwest Rochester, a predominantly Black, working- and middle-class neighborhood of century-old homes. The principal, Eva Thomas, oversaw a staff that prided itself on maintaining a warm environment for two hundred and ninety-nine students, from kindergarten through sixth grade, more than ninety per cent of whom were Black or Latino. Student art work filled the hallways, and parent participation was encouraged. School 10 dated only to 2009—the building had housed different programs before that—but it had strong ties to the neighborhood, owing partly to its namesake, a pioneering Black research scientist who, at the age of ninety-five, still made frequent visits to speak to students. “When parents chose to go to this particular school, it was because of the community that they have within our school, the culture that they have,” Kpor told me.

Because she was also engaged in citywide advocacy, through a group called the Parent Leadership Advisory Council, Kpor knew that the Rochester City School District faced major challenges. Enrollment had declined from nearly thirty-four thousand in 2003 to less than twenty-three thousand last year, the result of flight to the suburbs, falling birth rates, and the expansion of local charter schools, whose student population had grown from less than two thousand to nearly eight thousand during that time. Between 2020 and 2022, the district’s enrollment had dropped by more than ten per cent.

The situation in Rochester was a particularly acute example of a nationwide trend. Since the start of the coronavirus pandemic, public-school enrollment has declined by about a million students, and researchers attribute the drop to families switching to private schools—aided by an expansion of voucher programs in many red and purple states—and to homeschooling, which has seen especially strong growth. In addition, as of last year, an estimated fifty thousand students are unaccounted for—many of them are simply not in school.

During the pandemic, Rochester kept its schools closed to in-person instruction longer than any other district in New York besides Buffalo, and throughout the country some of the largest enrollment declines have come in districts that embraced remote learning. Some parents pulled their children out of public schools because they worried about the inadequacy of virtual learning; others did so, after the eventual return to school, because classroom behavior had deteriorated following the hiatus. In these places, a stark reality now looms: schools have far more space than they need, with higher costs for heating and cooling, building upkeep, and staffing than their enrollment justifies. During the pandemic, the federal government gave a hundred and ninety billion dollars to school districts, but that money is about to run dry. Even some relatively prosperous communities face large drops in enrollment: in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where enrollment has fallen by more than a thousand students since the fall of 2019, the city is planning to lay off some ninety teachers; Santa Clara, which is part of Silicon Valley, has seen a decrease of fourteen per cent in a decade.

On September 12, 2023, less than a week after the school year started, Rochester’s school board held what appeared to be a routine subcommittee meeting. The room was mostly empty as the district’s superintendent, Carmine Peluso, presented what the district called a “reconfiguration plan.”

A decade earlier, twenty-six hundred kindergarten students had enrolled in Rochester’s schools—roughly three-quarters of the children born in the city five years before. But in recent years, Peluso said, that proportion had sunk to about half.

Within ten years, Peluso said, ���if we continue on this trend and we don’t address this, we’re going to be at a district of under fourteen thousand students.” The fourth-largest city in New York, with a relatively stable population of about two hundred and ten thousand, was projecting that its school system would soon enroll only about a third of the city’s current school-age population.

Peluso then recommended that the Rochester school district close eleven of its forty-five schools at the end of the school year. Kpor, who was watching the meeting online, was taken aback. Five buildings would be shuttered altogether; the other six would be put to use by other schools in the district.

School 10 was among the second group. The school would cease to exist, and its building, with its new gymnasium-auditorium and its light-filled two-story atrium, would be turned over to a public Montessori school for pre-K through sixth grade, which had been sharing space with another school.

Kpor was stunned. The building was newly renovated. She had heard at a recent PTA meeting that its students’ over-all performance was improving. And now it was being shut down? “I was in disbelief,” she said. “It was a stab in the back.”

School Closures Are a Fact of Life in a country as dynamic as the United States. Cities boom, then bust or stagnate, leaving public infrastructure that is incommensurate with present needs. The brick elementary school where I attended kindergarten and first grade, in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, was closed in the early eighties, as the city’s population declined, and then was razed to make way for a shopping plaza.

Still, there is a pathos to a closed school that doesn’t apply to a shuttered courthouse or post office. The abandonment of a building once full of young voices is an indelible sign of the action having moved elsewhere. There is a tangible cost, too. Researchers have found that students whose schools have been closed often experience declines in attendance and achievement, and that they tend to be less likely to graduate from college or find employment. Closures tend to fall disproportionately on majority-Black schools, even beyond what would be expected on the basis of enrollment and performance data. In some cities, efforts to close underpopulated schools have become major political issues. In 2013, Chicago, facing a billion-dollar budget deficit and falling enrollment, closed forty-nine schools, the largest mass closure in the country’s history. After months of marches and protests, twelve thousand students and eleven hundred staff members were displaced.

Now, as a result of the nationwide decline in enrollment, many cities will have to engage in disruption at a previously unseen scale. “School closures are difficult events that rend the community, the fabric of the community,” Thomas Dee, a professor of education at Stanford, said. He has been collecting data on declining enrollment in partnership with the Associated Press. “The concern I have is that it’s going to be yet another layer of the educational harm of the pandemic.”

Janice Kpor knew that her family was, in a sense, part of the problem. Her oldest child, Virginia, had flourished in the early grades, so her school put her on an accelerated track, but it declined to move her up a grade, as Kpor had desired. Wanting her daughter to be sufficiently challenged, Kpor opted for the area’s Urban-Suburban program, in which students can apply to transfer to one of the many smaller school districts that surround Rochester; if a district is interested in a student, it offers the family a slot. The program began in 1965, and there are now about a thousand children enrolled. Virginia began attending school in Brockport, where she had access to more extracurricular activities.

Supporters call Urban-Suburban a step toward integration in a region where city schools are eighty-five per cent Black and Latino and suburban districts are heavily white. But critics see it as a way for suburban districts to draw some of the most engaged families out of the city’s schools; the selectiveness of the suburban districts helps explain why close to a quarter of the students remaining in the city system qualify for special-education services. (The local charter schools are also selective.) One suburban district, Rush-Henrietta, assured residents that it would weed out participants who brought “city issues” with them, as Justin Murphy, a reporter for the Rochester Democrat & Chronicle, wrote in his book, “Your Children Are Very Greatly in Danger,” a history of segregation in the city’s schools.

Kpor understood these concerns even as she watched Virginia thrive in the suburbs, then go on to attend the Rochester Institute of Technology. As Kpor saw it, each child’s situation was unique, and she tried to make decisions accordingly. “It’s where they’re at,” she said. “It’s not all or nothing for me.”

She enrolled her middle child, Steven, in School 10 for kindergarten and immediately liked the school, but stability was elusive. First, the school moved to temporary quarters for the renovation. Then came disagreements with a teacher who thought that her son’s behavioral issues stemmed from A.D.H.D. Then the pandemic arrived, and her son spent the final months of second grade and most of third on Zoom. For fourth grade, she decided to try Urban-Suburban again. He was accepted by Brockport, which sent a bus to pick him up every morning.

Other parents shared similar accounts with me of the aftermath of the pandemic closures. Ruthy Brown said that, after the reopening, her children’s school was rowdier than before, with more frequent fights and disturbances in the classroom; a charter school with uniforms suddenly seemed appealing. Isabel Rosa, too, moved her son to a charter school, because his classmates were “going bonkers” when they finally returned to in-person instruction. (She changed her mind after he was bullied by a charter-school security guard.) Carmen Torres, who works at a local advocacy organization, the Children’s Agenda, watched one of her client families get so frustrated by virtual instruction that they switched to homeschooling. “Enough is enough,” Torres recalled the mother saying. “My kids need to learn how to read.”

But, when it came time to enroll Thomasena, Kpor resolved to stick with the district, and she was so hopeful about her daughter’s future at School 10 that she took the prospect of its closure with great umbrage. She and other parents struggled to understand the decision. One of the reasons School 10 was chosen to close was that it was in receivership—a designation for public schools rated in the bottom five per cent in the state, among Peluso’s criteria for closure—but Kpor knew that the receivership was due not only to low test scores but also to the school’s high rate of absenteeism, which was, she believed, because the school roster was outdated, filled with students who were no longer there. According to a board member, the state had also placed School 10 on a list of dangerous schools, partly owing to an incident in which a student had been found with a pocketknife.

Making matters worse, for Kpor, was that the building was going to be turned over to another program, School 53, the Montessori school. It would be one thing for School 10 to be shut down because the district needed to cut costs. But the building had just been renovated at great expense, an investment intended for School 10, and now those students and teachers were being evicted to make room for others. “It was more of an insult,” Kpor said, “because now you have this place and all these kids and a whole bunch of new kids in the same building, so what is the logic of, quote-unquote, closing the school?”

The awkwardness of this was not lost on the parents of School 53. The school had a slightly higher proportion of white families and a lower one of economically disadvantaged students than School 10, and it was expected to draw additional white families once it moved to its new building. “The perception is that you’ve got the kids at this protected, special school—you can see the difference between what they get and what we get,” Robert Rodgers, a parent at School 53, told me. “If I was a parent at School 10, I would be livid.”

After Peluso announced the plan, the district held two public forums, followed by sessions at the targeted schools. The School 10 auditorium was packed for its session, and Kpor lined up at the microphone to speak. She asked Peluso if Thomasena and her classmates would get priority for placement in School 53, so that they could stay in the building. “I do not want her to go to any other school,” she said. “Every time we think we’re doing something right for our kids, someone comes in and dictates to us that our choices are not valid.” Kpor was encouraged to hear Peluso say that School 10 kids would get priority.

Janice Kpor, whose youngest child had just started at School 10 when the city announced its closure.

On October 19th, five weeks after the announcement, the school board met to vote on the closures. During the public-comment period, a teacher from School 2 pleaded with the board to let its students enroll at the school that would be replacing it. A teacher from School 106 asked that the vote be delayed until after board members visited every school, including hers, which was engaged in a yearlong special project geared toward the coming total solar eclipse, so that they could get a more visceral sense of the school’s value. The principal of School 29, Joseph Baldino, asked that the school’s many students with autism-spectrum disorder be kept together, along with their teachers, during the reassignment. “They’re unique, they’re beautiful, and they don’t do real well with change,” he said. Chrissy Miller, a parent at the school, said of her son, “He loves his staff . . . he loves his teachers, and he wants everybody to stay together as one.”

In the end, the closures passed, five to two.

In September, 2020, as many public schools in Democratic-leaning states started the new academic year with remote learning, I asked Randi Weingarten, the president of the American Federation of Teachers, whether she worried about the long-term effects on public education. What if too many families left the system in favor of homeschooling or private schools—many of which had reopened—and didn’t come back? She wasn’t concerned about such hypotheticals. “At the end of the day, kids need to be together in community,” she said.

The news from a growing number of districts suggests that the institution of public schooling has indeed suffered a lasting blow, even in cities that are better funded than Rochester. In Seattle, parents anticipate the closure of twenty elementary schools. The state of Ohio has witnessed a major expansion of private-school vouchers; in Columbus, a task force is recommending the closure of nine schools.

In Rochester, the continuing effects of the pandemic weighed heavily on some. Camille Simmons, who joined the school board in 2021, told me, “A lot of children felt the result of those decisions.” She went on, “There were a lot of entities at play, there were so many conversations going on. I think we should have brought children back much sooner.”

Adam Urbanski, the longtime president of the Rochester teachers’ union, said that the union had believed schools should not reopen until the district could guarantee high air quality, and it had not been able to. “When I reflect back on it, I know that I erred on the side of safety, and I do not regret the position that we took,” he said.

But Rebecca Hetherington, the owner of a small embroidery company and the former head of the Parent Leadership Advisory Council, the group Kpor was part of, feared that the district would soon lack the critical mass to remain viable. “I am concerned there is a tipping point and we’re past it,” she said. Rachel Barnhart, a former TV news reporter who attended city schools and now serves in the county legislature, agreed. “It’s like you’re watching institutions decline in real time,” she told me. “Anchors of the community are disappearing.” School districts have long aspired to imbue their communities with certain shared values and learning standards, but such commonality now seemed inconceivable.

By the spring of 2024, parents at the eleven targeted schools were too busy trying to figure out where their children would be going in the fall to worry about the long term. A mother at School 39, Rachel Dixon, who lived so close to the school that she could carry her kindergartner there, was on the wait list for School 52 but had been assigned to School 50. She wasn’t even sure where that was. Chrissy Miller was upset that School 29’s students with autism were being more broadly dispersed than promised; she worried that her son’s assigned school wasn’t equipped for students with special needs. Many of her fellow School 29 parents were now considering homeschooling or moving, she said, and added, “We don’t have trust in the district at all.” It was easy to envision how the closures could compound the problem, leading to even fewer students and even more closures.

Thomasena had been assigned to School 45, which was close to her family’s home but less convenient for Kpor than School 10, which was closer to her work. Kpor wondered how many other families were in similar situations, with assignments that didn’t take into account the specific context of their lives. “All of this plays into why kids are not going to school,” she said. “You’re placing kids in locations that don’t meet the families’ needs.”

She had taken Peluso’s word that students from School 10 would be given priority at the Montessori school taking its place, and she was disappointed to learn that Thomasena was thirtieth on the wait list there. It was also unclear to her which branch of the central office was handling placement appeals. “It’s all a jumble, and no one really knows how things work,” she said.

On March 26th, as families were dealing with the overhaul, Peluso announced that he was leaving the district to become the superintendent of the Churchville-Chili district, in the suburbs. The district was far smaller than Rochester, with some thirty-eight hundred students, more than seventy per cent of them white, but the job paid nearly as much. “It’s one of the hardest decisions I’ve had,” Peluso said at a news conference. “There’s a lot of commitment I’ve had to this district.” Rodgers, the School 53 parent, told me, “This hurts. It’s another situation where the suburbs are taking something from the city.”

Parents and district staff tried to make sense of Peluso’s departure. Some people speculated that he had grown tired of the treatment he was receiving from certain board members. Other people wondered if he simply wanted a less challenging district. Peluso told me, “It was the best decision for me and my family.”

In Late June, I returned to Rochester for the final days of the school year. I stayed at School 31 Lofts, a hotel in a former schoolhouse that was built in 1919. (The Web site advertises “WhimsyHistorySerenity.”) An empty hallway was still marked with a “Fallout Shelter” sign. I stayed in a room that, judging from its size and location, might have been a faculty lounge.

One afternoon, I met with Demario Strickland, a deputy superintendent who’d been named interim superintendent while the school board searched for a permanent replacement for Peluso. Strickland, a genial thirty-nine-year-old Buffalo native who moved to Rochester last year, was the seventh superintendent of the district since 2016. He told me that he was not surprised the closures had prompted such protests. “School closures are traumatic in itself,” he said.

But he defended the district against several of the criticisms I had heard from parents. School 10 had been improving, he said, but still fell short on some metrics. “Even though they met demonstrable progress, we still had to look at proficiency, and we still had to look at receivership,” he said. And, he added, School 53 had limited slots available, so the district had made no promises to parents of School 10 about having priority.

Still, he said, the district could perhaps have been more empathetic in its approach. “This process has taught me that, in a sense, people don’t care about the money,” he said. “When you make these decisions, you really have to think about the heart. That’s something we could have done a little more. It makes sense—we’re wasting money, throwing money away, we have all these vacancies, that makes sense to us. But our families don’t care about that. Our families want their school to stay open—they don’t want to do away with it.”

At the end of the academic year, Rochester closed eleven of its forty-five schools, including School 39.

I asked him whether he worried that the district’s enrollment decline might continue until the system could no longer sustain itself, as Hetherington and Barnhart feared. “I try not to get scared about the future,” he said.

On the second-to-last day of the school year, I went to School 10 to join Kpor at the end-of-year ceremony for Thomasena’s kindergarten class. She and her fourteen classmates sang songs, demonstrated spelling on the whiteboard, and rose one by one to say what they had liked best about kindergarten. “Education and learning,” Thomasena, a tall girl with her front teeth just coming in, said. “When it’s the weekend,” one boy said, to the laughter of parents.

It was not hard to see why Kpor and other parents were sorry to leave the school, with its gleaming new tile work and hardwood-composite hallway floorboards. A few weeks earlier, the latest assessment results had shown improvement for School 10, putting it close to citywide averages. “All of us are going to be going to different places, but I hope one day that I get to see you again,” the class’s teacher, Karen Lewis, said.

Kpor was still waiting to find out if she had moved up on the list for School 53. I asked if she might have Thomasena apply for Urban-Suburban, like her siblings, and she said she was hoping it would work out in the district. “I still have faith,” she said. Outside, I met a parent who was worried about how her daughter would fare at her new school after having been at School 10 with the same special-needs classmates and teacher for the past three years. “The school has been amazing,” she said.

The Next Day, I attended a school-wide Rites of Achievement ceremony in the gym. Parents cheered as students received awards for Dr. Walter Cooper Character Traits—Responsibility, Integrity, Compassion, Leadership, Perseverance, and Courage. (Thomasena won for Courage.) Thomas, the principal, called up the school’s entire staff, name by name. The shrieks from the assembled children for their favorite teachers and aides indicated the hold that even a school officially deemed subpar can have on its students and families: this had been their home, a hundred and eighty days a year, for as long as seven years.

Walter Cooper himself was there, watching from a thronelike chair with gilt edges. Eventually, he addressed the children for the last time, recounting his upbringing with a father who had received no formal schooling, a mother who preached the value of education, and six siblings, all but one of whom had gone to college. “The rule was we had to have a library card at seven. We didn’t have a lot in this community, but we had books,” he said. “There are always things in the street for you, but there is much more in books. . . . The guiding thesis is: books will set you free.”

The children sang a final song: “I am a Cooper kid, a Dr. Walter Cooper kid, I am, I am / I stand up for what’s right, even when the world is wrong.” Sylvia Cooksey, a retired administrator who is also a pastor, gave the final speech. “No matter where you go, where you end up, you are taking part of this school with you,” she said. “You are taking Dr. Walter Cooper with you. We’re going to hear all over Rochester, ‘That child is from School 10.’ ”

After the assembly, I asked Cooper what he made of the closure. “It’s tragic,” he said. “It points to the fundamental instability in the future of the schools. Children need stability, and they aren’t getting it in terms of the educational process.”

Wanda Zawadzki, a physical-education teacher who had worked at the school for eight years and received some of the loudest shrieks from the kids, stood looking forlorn. She recalled the time a class had persuaded the city to tear down an abandoned house across the street, and the time a boy had brought her smartphone to her after she dropped it outside. “My other school, that phone would have been gone,” she said. “It’s the integrity here.” Like many teachers at the targeted schools, she was still waiting for her transfer assignment. “This was supposed to be my last home,” she said.

And then it was dismissal time. It was school tradition to have the staff come out at the end of every school year and wave at the departing buses as they did two ceremonial loops around the block. Speakers blared music from the back of a pickup, and the teachers danced and waved. “We love you,” Principal Thomas called out.

It was quieter over at School 29, the school with many special-needs kids. The children were gone, and one teacher, Latoya Crockton-Brown, walked alone to her car. She had spent nineteen years at the school, which will be closing completely. “We’re not doing well at all,” she said, of herself and her colleagues. “This was a family school. It’s very disheartening. Even the children cried today.”

She was wearing a T-shirt that read “Forever School 29 / 1965 to Now.” The school had done a lot in recent days to aid the transition—bringing in a snow-cone truck and a cotton-candy machine, hosting a school dance. “One girl said she feels like she’s never going to make friends like she had here,” Crockton-Brown said. “But we have to move on. We have no other choice.” ♦

— This Article is a Collaboration Between The New Yorker and ProPublica. ProPublica is a Nonprofit Newsroom that Investigates Abuses of Power. Published in the Print Edition of the September 2, 2024, Issue, with the Headline “The Last Day.”

[akechi-if-he-slayed]

there are many things i think my school district could improve on but i will always be eternally grateful that they left ao3 unblocked. How else could i have created the tender memory of my ap bio teacher letting me into his classroom bc i always got to school stupid early and it was freezing outside so i’d sit at my triangular whiteboard desk at 7:50 in the morning reading a 100k+ highly explicit shuake fic before school even started .

[thepoisonroom]

insane to be working in education and they tell you every single year that they're gonna cut the budget and lay people off and "consolidate workloads" and then get mad when you suggest they pay admins less instead of making the rest of us do more work for the same pay

[fangwhoria]

my school is sending out the most sniveling evil emails trying to turn the student body and parents against the protesters while not mentioning why theyre doing this or the fact that they will leave if their demands are met never underestimate how fucking cartoonishly evil people with even the smallest bit of power will be

[smol-blue-bird]

my undergraduate university is currently embroiled in a passive-aggressive argument with the local newspaper over something involving enrollment figures, and I have never been so entertained

[pangur-and-grim]

a lot of you probably knows Belphie's story, but I'll summarize just in case.

Devon Rex cats are better for people with allergies (less shed fur + less Fel d1 protein in their saliva), so on February 16, 2024, I went the breeder route and put down a deposit. before Belphie even opened his eyes, he was mine!

every Friday, the breeder sent me a new photo. I had a broken leg, and was basically rotting in bed at that point, so it was the best part of my week. then, at 12 weeks old, I BROUGHT HIM HOME!

at first, he was so alive! like a wind-up monkey that never shut off. he dangled from the wall-hangings, savaged my feet as I walked, and used my elderly cats as jumping poles to do cool acrobatics over. but all this gradually faded.

first, he stopped playing. then he stopped climbing. then he stopped moving much at all. my vet ran tests on him and found multiple pathogens (calcivrius + mycoplasma), but the medication didn't help - he kept declining.

on September 17th, I woke up to find him swollen like a balloon. we finally had an answer: he had Feline infectious Peritonitis, aka FIP. before 2017, this would've been a death sentence. he would've kept bloating until he drowned in his own fluids. and before 2024, I would've been forced to inject him with black market drugs. but thankfully, South Tower Animal Hospital in Fergus, Ontario was doing a study on the oral medication! we drove two hours, enrolled him, and left with the GS-441524 pills.

and he went from those photos above.....to this:

I thought Belphie would die as a kitten. I'd accepted that he would never grow up. but now he gets to LIVE!

and all for the low cost of $7,553.....ahhhahaha........god.

that + a recent home disaster has wiped out my savings, but I still need to pay for Belphie's medication. to remain in this study, I need to do bloodwork monthly until Feb 2025, and he'll need daily pills until March 2025.

I've put a risograph print + enamel pin set up at greerstothers.shop. I hate asking for help, but if you'd like to support Belphie's continued treatment, please consider checking them out!

[wausaupilot]

Wausau School District budget deficit could soar higher

Declining enrollment, state revenue limits and other challenges could push the Wausau School District's multi-million dollar deficit even further, officials acknowledge.

Damakant Jayshi Declining enrollment, state revenue limits and other challenges could push the Wausau School District’s multi-million dollar deficit even further, officials acknowledge. Though a look at district budgets over the past three years show deficits as a recurring theme, the amount skyrocketed from about $1.53 million in 2020-2021 to an estimated $3.5 million for the upcoming school…

[wutbju]

Have you googled "Bob Jones University" lately? What are most people googling about BJU?

[kokokoula]

you fall first, but he falls harder

a/n: i can only write fluff, so please trust me that it's fluff. there's like, one usage of 'she', timeskip spoilers, and a bit of language. it's my longest fic yet (which isn't saying much), no beta we die like daichi

you don't know that tsukishima kei knows about your crush on him. it's so damn obvious, how you turn red so easily when he's around. unfortunately for you, though, he doesn't reciprocate, nor does he bother confronting you about it. you are his closest friend other than yamaguchi, and as much as he hates to admit it, he doesn't want to lose you as one. it's so tedious, anyways.

---

"it's our last year in karasuno, do you have anything planned?" you ask as you lay on the floor of tsukishima's room. you're supposed to be studying, since it was what you came over to do with kei and tadashi, but you gave up somewhere halfway in geography.

"it is my last year, but who knows about you? you've been slacking so much, you'd probably have to repeat a year. and could you get up?" he sighs and nudges your side with his foot.

"asshole," you mutter, cheeks growing red. if you know that he just dodged your question, you don't do anything about it. "just you wait, i'll enroll into kyoto university and make you eat your words, beanpole."

"sure." his reply drips with sarcasm, but he doesn't doubt that you can make it far. there's a knock at the door.

"sorry for being late!"

"tadashi!!"

---

kei knows you can read him like an open book. you can tell he's having a bad day just by a conversation with him through text. he also knows that when he says that he doesn't want to talk, you immediately ring his phone.

the first time it happened, he had tried to decline your calls, or just ignore them entirely, but you're insistent. eventually he picked up, filled with pure irritation at that point.

"could you--"

"i'm heading over. i promise i won't push for any details. i'll even get strawberry shortcake on the way." you immediately stated. he paused to mull it over.

"fine, but if the cake sucks, i'm kicking you out." it's safe to say that the cake was good enough to make this a habit, so much so that tsukshima doesn't even know why you still call him to let him know you're coming over. the both of you know you will no matter what.

so here you are, sitting on his bedroom floor with him and eating desserts in silence, save for the music playing softly from his computer.

"you're gonna get in trouble with your parents when they realise you snuck out." he remarks. you shrug your shoulders, stuffing the remaining taiyaki in your mouth.

"i know."

"don't talk with your mouth full." you roll your eyes with a furious blush. somehow, you being here with him becomes sweeter than the strawberry shortcake.

---

you were there when tsukishima made the decision to go professional with volleyball.

his last match as karasuno's middle blocker had ended. his body was sore all over, but somehow the freak duo managed to convince him and yamaguchi to play one more match back at school, just the four of them with yachi. but even with landing third in nationals and a final intimate match with his teammates, he still somehow felt so unsatisfied.

the walk home with you was silent. he was grateful you didn't say anything. he couldn't handle any more questions about how he was feeling when he himself was unsure. it was when you two stepped outside the convenience store after getting ice cream did he come to the conclusion that he never wants to have a last match.

"i'm not going to give up on volleyball after graduation." he announced out of the blue. you were caught off guard for a bit, before grinning at him. "i expected that."

"why?"

"you call hinata and kageyama freaks for being so insane about volleyball, but you don't even realise that you're just as equally crazy about it as them." you said it so nonchalantly as you eat your ice cream, like you're stating a fact. now it was his turn to be taken off guard. he took a while to let it settle in before chuckling softly.

he should have known that you know him better than he does himself.

---

it's graduation day. tsukishima and kageyama are stuck with their four teary-eyed friends by their side. kei awkwardly pats your head, not knowing how to comfort you. you laugh at his feeble attempt, your rosy cheeks burning red. have you always been this cute? in the midst of all the bittersweet interactions, you get distracted by something on your phone, and let out a gasp.

"what is it, (name)?" yamaguchi asks. you're trembling slightly, and tsukishima grows worried.

"i, uh, got into kyoto university," you say in disbelief. "i actually got in!" everyone congratulates you, but you only care about one thing.

"tsukki, remember that day i told you i'd make you eat your words?" he hums in acknowledgement. you shove the acceptance email in his face, but he can only focus on how proud you look with that shit-eating smirk. "what do you have to say now, beanpole?"

he smiles. that's my best friend right there.

"nothing."

---

you were gone before the new year, and kei was handling your absence well until semester started. he had believed it'd be fine, you were only across the country, not across the world. plus, you promised you would call as often as you could.

but he doesn't sees you in his classes anymore, and you don't come over when he's having a bad day. he got himself strawberry shortcake to lighten his mood like it usually does, but he only feels hollow. it doesn't help that since he's going pro, his volleyball training is almost everyday now, and with your commitments, he rarely gets to call you anymore. it hurts like hell inside.

"hey tsukki, you've been off recently. is everything ok?" tadashi calls him one day.

"i'm fine, yamaguchi." kei lies. tadashi isn't convinced.

"does it have something to do with (name) being in kyoto?"

"why would you say that?" he answered too quickly for his liking.

"well, you bring (name) up quite a bit, and when you realise she isn't there, you get all quiet and snappy." tsukishima is about to retort back, but then it hits him.

oh shit, he's in love.

---

the day you finally return back to miyagi to visit, tsukishima waits at the station with yamaguchi. kei's eyes are constantly searching the crowd and flickering to his watch every so often.

"tsukki, relax, she'll be here soon." he ignores tadashi's reassurance.

tsukishima kei is a composed man, always able to think before he acts. but when he catches sight of you, he runs. before you can register anything, he hugs you, gripping onto you like a lifeline, like he will die if he lets go of you.

"tsukki--"

"gosh, i missed you so much, you idiot." he knows you could have easily lost feelings for him when you were away.

"wha--"

"i've suffered so much because of your stupid, dumb ass." he doesn't care.

"wait--"

"i like you, so go out with me before you have to head back to kyoto." you're back, and he's scared to lose you again. every second you stay quiet, the louder his heart beats in his ears.

"really?" you finally say, your voice barely over a whisper.

"yea." another pause.

"guess i'm yours then, beanpole."

bonus:

"you know, i knew about your crush back in high school."

"what the heck?"

"you didn't necessarily hide it well."

"then i'll have you know that yamaguchi told me everything that had happened when i've been gone."

"...fuck."

[vultbae]

hot boy delivery ✩

college!art donaldson x female reader

↳ summary: Tashi's handsome alleged boyfriend knocks on your door and asks for her since she's your roommate. But she's not there, so you'll borrow him for tonight.

↳ warnings: smut (minors dni), tipsy sex, mentions of cheating but isn't, porn with plot, mean!reader at the beginning.

↳ notes: yall know the drill english is not my first language! so sorry if anything doesn’t make sense

word count: 5.7k

Stanford isn't what you would call a party school; there isn't an endless rage circuit or binge drinking regarding students –or at least the ones you know. So when you decided to enroll in college, you knew any unpleasant symptoms like headaches or fatigue would be caused by academic all-nighters and no hangovers as you believed years ago. It was a deal-breaker, but it was Stanford at the end of the day.

Your parents had enough funds to bring to the table independence privileges most college students don't have, for example, living off-campus."¿Why would I decline this unusual offer?" you thought at the time, giving in to the advantageous idea of complete autonomy and no supervision—you had seen places around the Palo Alto area, cozier and more stylish than any archaic-looking dorm room Stanford had to offer for a few thousand dollars a year —six to seven, to be exact.

Somehow, you had ended up on the shithole you had been attempting to dodge for so long. Your best friend, Diana, had gaslighted you into believing that coexisting in the same place with other young people is one of those stimulating aspects of attending college. Heck, rowdy dorm parties, popping Plan B's, snorting coke from someone's fake boobs!

Bullshit. Diana had gotten into Stanford, too, and all of your thrilling anticipations of rooming with her vanished when she had to rescind her offer due to the scarcity of financial aid. She ended up committing to Virginia State University. At the other fucking end of the United States.

You had promised Diana to go above and beyond to fulfill those wild ideas about college. Guess what? Now, you were forced to live in a rusty dorm without your extravagant Palo Alto apartment, your best friend, and rooming with a weirdo.

And, of course, you still hadn't snorted coke out of anyone's fake boobs.

"Oh my god," you breathe out with a sigh of annoyance. You let the back of your head fall over the headboard of your bed as your hands reach up to rub your tired-looking eyes; your laptop is lying on your lap, screening the article you have to read for some core course. It's almost seven o'clock, and you are about to surrender and take a twelve-hour nap. 

You can't, though. Your eyes roam around and descend on your roommate's side: empty, noiseless, as if there wasn't someone there two hours ago. The apathy in your facial expression is prominent as you notice the cluttered desk, bed blankets hanging off, and wrinkled clothes over the floor. "How disgusting," you think, shaking your head and facing your laptop again, pushing it off your legs this time.

Your roommate was indeed something else. After swallowing against your will the miserable fact that you wouldn't room with Diana, your parents had already paid for Stanford on-campus housing, and it is what it is. A month before moving to California, you had seen the name of your designated roommate for the freshman year, Tashi Duncan.

You are not confident about the sort of woman Tashi is. Although you had been cordial and accommodating with her —even though you didn't want a roommate, she is not what you would call a friend. Tashi is a tennis player, apparently a very talented one, since many people around campus ridiculously fangirl over her  —but you don't know if it's because of her model-like physical complexion or her sports talent. Well, it's not like you care. But despite sharing a dorm room, Tashi's interactions with you are minimal and curt, and conversations with her are typically one-sided. She rises early and evaporates for the rest of the day.

Doubtful, you pick up your Nokia from the nightstand and quickly text her, "Wya?" to feel responsible –she has never done it, though. Since you live in an on-campus residence, entry isn't monitored until eight p.m. during the week, and you already know she won't arrive by that time. She probably won't arrive at all.

The anxious chewing on the bottom of your lip ceases when your phone vibrates with the "I'm staying at Art's x" message popping on the screen. A mix of relief, bliss, and sovereignty surges from your body's core. You don't know who Art is, but you've heard Tashi talk about him a couple of times, so you assume he is her boyfriend, sneaky link, or whatever freaky shit she would be up to. You briefly contemplate the text, instantly replying, "take care :)" and waiting for her not to respond.

You sit there, stunned for a hot minute, considering the countless activities you could do now that you are —and will remain—all alone. Mild daylight peers through the opened curtains, although it's getting dark. Your head slightly turns to the two-lite slider window between both beds, revealing the distinctive greens of the trees that reach your view—a typical Stanford campus panorama. 

The bedroom is ample; the floor is covered with cheap deep blue carpeting, and the walls have been sealed with a matte layer of pearl white. Your mural side is preciously decorated: polaroids, stickers, and decorative leds shimmering in a warm yellow tone adequate for winter, while Tashi's side is... three posters: two from random tennis players and a large Spider-man one. "What are we, ten-year-olds?" you murmur, eyes rolling back, exasperated as you sit in the sight of the oversized picture.

You really can't get what is so amusing about Tashi.

Your phone rings suddenly, and you sense your muscles twitch at the unexpected ringtone clashing against the lifeless four walls. A big "Diana" is written in black letters, blaring at you, which is a good sign of an enjoyable night. With no second thoughts, you pick up.

 "¡Hey girl!" are the first words you hear from your best friend. 

You haven't seen her since the summer break –four months ago–and time hasn't been your ally in terms of missing your friends. Diana and you always intended to attend college together; nevertheless, you can't predict anything about college. Now, she resided in Virginia, while you did in California. 

"I've missed you so fucking much," you grin against the phone, talking with enthusiasm. You stand up to walk to the shared kitchen, "how's everything been in Virginia?"

Diana scoffs at your question. "Do you for real think I called you to talk about boring-ass Virginia?" she mockingly complains, sarcasm dripping out of her voice. "The real question is, how's everything been in Cali?" she adds, half screaming the last two words.

Your humorous facial expression morphs into a disgraceful one. "Well, mediocre if you take out the fact I live in this dorm. Otherwise, pretty shit."

"At least it's a Stanford dorm," Diana points out, giggling.

"Well, you are partly right," you answer, now supporting your arms over the kitchen table, "I just wish it was my dorm at least and not Tashi's, you know."

"Right, your roommate; what's the deal with her?" she asks.

¿What's your deal with her? If this were a frankness competition, you'd undoubtedly roast her without needing to lie. Sharing an apartment with an entitled asshole who thinks she owns the place makes it challenging.

"She's not my type," you let out, sighing. "I've been trying to talk to her for God knows how long, and she doesn't give a shit," you pause to breathe through your nose, trying to keep your cool. "Like, I can't understand. Do you know how many people would love to room with me?"

Diana's gasp nearly pierces your eardrum, "She's such a bitch!"

"Yes! She is," you interrupt her, squeaking out your words. "Also, she brings dudes or the same dude, I don't know, like at least twice a week. She doesn't even care if I'm sleeping; what if I throw water at them next time?" you inquire decisively, not caring if your words sound nonsensical.

"You do you, girl," your friend says, slightly chuckling, "I assume she is not there now, isn't she?" 

You hum. "She isn't. She is at some dude's place. So that means I have the dorm for myself."

"Don't you care if she is safe or something?" Diana queries, almost instantly biting back a groan in response to your silence. "Yes, I know she's an asshole, but at least you should know. Some guys nowadays are creeps."

"I do, I do..." you hastily assure, your voice tone appeasing your friend's worries. "I do know the guy's name is something like Art, and I could find out his last name if I scroll through our chat. I'm pretty sure it's her current boyfriend. I've heard her talk about him."

"My God, that girl has some real action!" she hollers; a burst of mocking laughter spills out of her lips. "What about you, though? I miss hearing hookup stories from your side. Don't waste your time; Stanford has hot ass guys!"

And she was right. The amount of handsome guys around campus was not minor.

"You know what?" you say, pointing at the air as if you were talking to Diana in person, "I'm not even going to reply to that comment. I've been so focused on-"

Your words are cut off by urgent, loud knocks coming from the main door, "The fuck?" you think. Your jaw clenches but abruptly loosens as you realize Tashi can't be here after her presumptive schedule; you don't expect anyone.

And also, there's a rainstorm outside. 

"Was that knocking on the door?" Diana asks, and your attention goes back to the call. You hum in response.

"Yeah, and I'm not expecting anyone." you reaffirm while your hand reaches out to your little notebook, where you keep all the emergency numbers. You sigh out a frustrated "fuck" when you realize you don't have the number of the security guard downstairs. "I should check through the peephole; it's probably a dumbass mistake anyway," you add, trying to sound unbothered.

¿Who the fuck would sneak into an all-student residence? For what, to steal? You haven't bought groceries for two weeks. It would be a shitty investment of skill.

And obviously, you curse yourself under your breath for being such an exaggerated bitch. But, seriously, who would visit you?  Not even the wildest of your friends would wander across campus at night with this weather.

"Call me when you do it. I have to do some homework now," Diana demands, and you are snappy to obey and hang up the phone. 

You stay still, eyes stuck on the main white door. A minute passes with absolute silence encircling you until you hear the identical frantic knocking again. Same tempo, everything.

"Goddamn, relax," you murmur to yourself.

 It takes a couple of steps forward for you to approach the door and a single step to the front to see through the small peephole.

Your eyes wince slightly at the sight of a boy you've never seen in your life standing outside. You even feel the need to comically scratch your head as you notice a short-arm cast dressing up his right arm; how bizarre. "¿Is this mother-fucker trying to rob me?" you talk to yourself, making sure he doesn't hear you. Obviously, he'd predict any regular person to open the door without a doubt –"Poor boy, he's wearing a cast."

"He's too hot to be a thief," your mind suggests. And yes, he is. If you are one hundred percent honest, he seems like he would study at Stanford. He looks kind of familiar, even. You can't clearly analyze his features due to the lack of lighting in the hallway, but when his head tilts to the side, a sharp shadow forms under his jawline, and his blonde curls bounce along with his moves. 

You text Diana again. "hot boy at my door x"

Although suspicion is gnawing at the back of your mind, you open the door. With a gentle twist of your wrist, you turn the knob clockwise and cautiously swing the door inward. The hinges creak softly, and the chilly air from the hallway rushes in, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your eyes narrow in recognition —and confusion—for a beat. A lightbulb suddenly flickers on in your mind.

"Hey..." the guy in front of you greets you softly and politely, his voice barely above a whisper.

You have seen his face around, but you can hardly remember his last name—Dawson, Davidson? Something like that.

"...Is Tashi around?" he asks, his voice carrying a note of desperation.

Your gaze rakes down his figure. He's wearing a Cardinal performance polo from Stanford and thin black polyester shorts, both soaked—presumably from the storm roaring outside. His chest rapidly rises and falls with each breath, and as if by carnal instinct, your eyes delineate the muscles of his abdomen tightening; the outline of his six-pack is visible through the soaking polo clinging to his torso. Tiny water beads accumulate along the strands of his blonde hair, glistening, growing heavier, and descending onto your doormat with soft plops.

He's hot as fuck, you think. Straight out of one of those cliché Teen People magazine covers. But it's not only his physique. Something about how he stands there, dripping wet, vulnerability mingling with his athletic build, piques your interest. It's sort of contradictory and sexy as fuck.

Your eyes drift down to your own outfit—pajama shorts and a crop top. It's not too practical, considering the chilliness from the residence hallway drives your nipples to react against the thin material of the top. His gaze falters for a second, lowering to your bare midriff, and you catch the way his cheeks redden. You hear how he chokes with his saliva.

But it’s bizarre, too. His functional—left—hand is grasping a large Smirnoff Ice bottle by its neck. Your features smooth out at the sight of the clear glass bottle containing one of your favorite low-alcohol cocktails.

It's a raw lure, just like the owner of the bottle.

But it's still bizarre. Because why is this hot-ass guy holding a delicious-ass drink standing outside of your dorm?

You pull your gaze away from the Smirnoff bottle. "Aren't you supposed to be hiding the booze?" you blurt out, raising a finger to point at the bottle.

Maybe your tone was too sardonic, or it was the uncaring disregard of the Tashi question because the blonde guy's face reddens in a deep shade of crimson —again—spreading rapidly from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. Aw, he's embarrassed. His eyesight shifts to the bottle, and he acts as if the bottle magically spawned in his left hand.

But you don't wanna spook the doll away.

You audibly clear your throat, trying to rectify your rudeness. "And no, Tashi's not here," you add, attempting to depict kindness and capture his attention again.

He stays silent. As the rosy hue of his cheeks vanishes, you can sense he's building up the courage to keep interrogating you. "Do you know where she is?" he timidly asks, gliding the bottle under his left arm as if trying to hide it now that his plans are ruined.

The guy's smoking hot but fricking awkward. It doesn't make sense. He's six feet tall, lean, handsome, and muscular; why is he acting all timid? He's standing past your doorframe, practically asking for clearance to trade words with you. It doesn't make sense.

"Yeah, she's staying with this Art guy. Maybe you know him," you say, gaze unconsciously disembarking again on the Smirnoff bottle.

The guy's eyebrows furrow and his blue eyes dart back and forth as if digging for an answer hidden in your dorm. His facial expression gradually shifts from puzzlement to realization and then to frustration.

"Son of a bitch..." he mutters under his breath, his voice laced with malice.

You raise an eyebrow, feigning amazement. "Sorry?"

It makes you wanna chuckle at the sudden, humorous switch in his expression.

He inhales sharply, his blue eyes scintillating with sadness and something deeper, perhaps a sense of betrayal? You don't know. "Are you sure Tashi's not here?" he questions again, the tone of his voice hardening. "I'm Art."

The prior flickering lightbulb turns into one illuminating your memory's dim corners. His facial features now have a name: Art Donaldson, another celebrated first-year tennis player. There aren't many Art's around, so the first time you heard his name —even before Tashi— falling out from one of your closest friends' lips on campus, you should've known it was him.

So if he’s Art, that means Tashi lied.

Shit. Tashi's cheating on this guy.

You hope he doesn't notice because you know a flicker of darkness is dancing across your eyes as the seed of an idea takes root in your mind.

A smirk curls your lips as you relish the scrumptious irony. "Oh, you're Art? The one Tashi talks about all the time?" you say, voice dribbling with mockery.

He doesn't respond; he just looks at you with those piercing blue eyes. But then he speaks, "Yeah, I guess..."

You seize the moment, reaching out and stealing the bottle of Smirnoff from beneath his arm. "Well, I guess I'll take this," you say, twisting the cap open and taking a long sip. "You won't need it, right?."

You know exactly what chord you want to strike.

Art's jaw tightens, his face a mix of irritation and helplessness, but he doesn't oppose. You can see his struggle and even sense how his mind races to make sense of the situation. He was expecting Tashi, who was not his girlfriend yet, but he had arranged this to get to know her better. Instead, he's faced with you—an unexpectedly attractive challenge.

And, of course, he wanted it. There was the initial shock at finding you instead of Tashi, but an undeniable attraction stirred something profound within him —a foreign sensation he hadn't felt before. And he's by no means a virgin or a "lame-ass," as Patrick would call him from time to time. Art knows how to have fun. But he's used to the upstarting idea that women must be salivating over merely hearing his name. That's why he obsessed over Tashi Duncan; she is dominant.

But of course, fucking Patrick had to take her tonight.

You lower the bottle, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. "Or maybe you shouldn't go back to the rain," you say with a shrug, "you could come inside in case Tashi comes back, and I'd think about sharing the Smirnoff with you."

He hesitates.

You step aside, holding the door open wider. "You don't wanna go back to the rain, don't you?" you add with a mischievous grin.

For a heartbeat, he stands there, his resolve wavering. Then, with a resigned sigh, he steps forward, crossing the threshold into your college dorm like a lost puppy.

You close the door behind him, drawn to let out a scream when he's not looking after how things were interestingly evolving. The room grows warmer for Art and you, the atmosphere thick with tension and unspoken intentions from both sides. You take another sip of the Smirnoff, savoring the lemony taste. 

"Make yourself comfortable," you express, gesturing to the modest common area where the kitchen is. Art follows your lead, his movements stiff from the water and his arm cast.

He's about to push back the strap of his black Adidas duffel bag to roll it down his right arm —cause he was holding THAT and the Smirnoff bottle, when he turns to you and, contemplating his words, he speaks, "Do you think I can use your shower?"

"You would do it anyways if Tashi was here instead of me, so..."

Art takes that as a yes.

-

The bottle of Smirnoff sits nearly empty on the wooden night table beside your bed. Although you had explained earlier to Art that Smirnoff ice was "inoffensive alcohol," it hadn't failed to cultivate an effect of tipsiness in both of your warm bodies. Art's initial awkwardness had been disbanded by the bitterness of the alcohol coursing through his veins. And your mean facade had shifted into a more loquacious, sarcastic, and bold one.

The common area had grown colder. In one instance of exorbitant bravery, you offered to move to your room— Art had said yes way too fast. The space was cozier and filled with your personal touches.

Art is sitting on your bed, the back of his head supported against the wall, while you lie on your stomach beside him, propped up on your elbows, attentively hearing as he converses about another obscene anecdote of his. The dim yellow lighting from the led lights from your side of the wall casts a soft glow over both of you, making you equally horny and exhausted —the calming sound of the rainstorm outside didn't help.

Art had changed into a grey T-shirt with "Stanford Tennis" printed across the chest. His strawberry blonde hair is nearly dry and slightly tousled...

The rich, warm sound of Art laughing fills the room and clocks you out of the trance. "...I swear, I walk in and see Tashi doing some nasty, weird thing to him. The next morning was hell for him. I couldn't believe he was into that type of shit."

"God, was she pegging him?" you giggle, covering your eyes with the palms of your hands.

Art chuckles, shaking his head. "You don't want me to get more explicit."

You pout playfully. "Don't be an asshole. Tell me." 

Art raises an eyebrow, intrigued, half-smirking. "Why are you so interested? Are you going through abstinence?"

The truth is yes but against your will. The bad thing is that you can't filter the information spilling out of your mouth whenever you drink.

"Depends. Are you gonna bully me if I say yes?" you ask, looking up at him with a teasing glint in your eyes.

The rhetorical question prompts Art to tilt his head, confused. "I'm not a playboy myself. And also..." he slightly lifts his right arm with the cast, alluding to it. "After my injury, I can't do much."

Your thoughts started tumbling over each other in a chaotic mess. You started picturing too many scenarios where Art would still be able to fuck with the arm cast on. The amount of vivid, fleeting mental scenarios internally summoning the attention you couldn't provide right now makes you feel physically ill and euphoric.

"That is not true."

He giggles again, a sound that causes your heart to flutter despite your mind warning you about potential word vomiting. "Well, I can't even jerk it off. Is that enough for you?"  

"Not really. There's plenty of stuff you can still do. Ask someone to give you a blowjob or something," You suggest, way more convinced of your comment than you should. 

Art’s natural smirk fades as he processes your sentence, his eyes squinting as if he's about to test something. He's holding back a chuckle, "That's a wild thing to say to someone you met two hours ago." 

You roll your eyes in feigned annoyance, "Don't tell me you are one of those people who think sex is taboo."

"Hey, no, I'm not." He raises his left hand in front of you, palm open and facing outward. "Asking someone to suck my dick is just gonna give me a fat restraining order."

At this point, the notion of reality has altered for you. Not much, but to the extent things that would commonly make you pause and reconsider your life choices now seemed perfectly reasonable, even hilarious. "Asking this guy I just met to fuck me? Awesome!" You think. You feel an overwhelming sense of camaraderie, a genuine tie to Art, fueled by the shared silliness of the circumstances and nasty anecdotes of this so-called Patrick. 

"Oh, please..."  You wave your hand carelessly as if waving away his absurd comment. "Who would put a restraining order over that?"

"What would you do if someone asked you to suck their dick?" 

But, before replying, you push yourself up onto your knees. The bed creaks softly as you shift, and you slide your legs out from under you, moving to sit cross-legged on the bed. 

"So?" he insists as you finish changing your position.

"Oh my god. Well, it depends on who's asking." 

Your last words hang in the air between you and Art, electrifying and charged with suggestive tension. Predisposing yourself to Art's potential lack of boldness, you let the tipsiness strip away your remaining self-respect. "If you asked me, I wouldn't say no," you add.

Your words cut through the alcohol-induced haze like a sharp blade, leaving Art momentarily sober. It's difficult for him to think properly. It feels like a thick fog full of thoughts and bitter rememberings encircles him, but you cannot see it. 

He helplessly daydreams about the scenario where this is Tashi instead of you, tossing salacious remarks at him and attending to whatever crap he chooses to say. But it isn't. He doesn't know you properly; he hasn't seen your serve or even how you hold a tennis racquet. And you haven't seen much from him either.

Patrick doesn't know about you either. His Patrick, with the captivating smile and the big-dick aura. The one that has been setting him up with women forever, as if he couldn't do it on his own. 

That's how he realizes the attraction towards you —even if purely carnal, is authentic and unpretentious. It's not polluted with anything else. You aren't flirting with him because you eventually want to mess around with Patrick. 

There's bone-deep curiousness humming through Art's veins, but he won't fuck up the first time a gorgeous girl wants to fuck him.

"Then I guess I should ask you," Art states, attempting to maintain his voice steady as his heart plummets.

You lean in closer, your faces now inches apart. The dim glow of the led lights casts a golden hue over your skin, making the moment feel even more surreal for Art. “Good, 'cause I have wanted to do you since you knocked on my door." 

The familiar aching warmth starts to pool at the bottom of your abdomen as Art's lips attack yours, parting them with easiness; you kiss him fiercely, savoring a mixture of Smirnoff Ice and spearmint. Art kisses you like he's starved of it; he slips his tongue inside like he has been patiently deferring his devilish invasive thoughts. He is, damn, a wonderful kisser. Flawlessly proportional: immodest, licking into your mouth, so sexually arousing, at the same time so tender, holding you close with such courtesy it makes you want to scream.

With the strength of his left hand, he draws your body closer to his, deepening his mouth as much as possible on yours. The contact makes your stomach jolt, tardily falling into account you are blending Art's masculine scent with yours. Art's upper-body muscles harden at the ecstasy, and the subtle contour of the veins on his arm arises on his skin, popping out as he possessively grasps your waist.

Between wet kisses, his mouth quakes as he lets out a hushed chuckle, "Wait, is it true... what you said?" he mutters into your mouth and raises your chin, taking a pair of hot seconds to look at you straight in the eye.

You relish the sensation of his fingers racing down your waist and descending on your hips, gently squeezing; your hands are holding onto the nape of his neck, caressing his skin. You kiss him again and roll his bottom lip between your teeth, "I've never wanted to fuck anyone so bad," you husk into his ear, words purring as you teasingly lick his ear lobe, lowering the wet kisses until you end up licking down his throat. You trail soft, open-mouthed kisses down his skin; your nails scratch lightly over his back, folding at the sensation of his warmness capturing yours.

Art swears he's about to pass out.

You swing one leg over his lap, carefully straddling him. Art wastes no time, lining his hips with yours, pressing and grinding, compelling your body to feel small in his presence; the mean grip of his hand drops to the end of your back, slowly running down your sides to cup your ass over your pajama shorts, slowly plunging his fingers on your skin. Quick, discreet moans slip out of your mouth, each one driving Art to his edge. The hardness of his cock pushes against your pussy, making you gasp between kisses. 

Your cheeks prick with heat as you hear a clap sound, a slap against someone's skin: your skin. Art spanked your ass rough, and you could anticipate the red handprint remaining in your butt for a couple of hours. His hand smacks again, grasping the over-sensitive plush of your ass at the end, making your muscle throb, "Art!" you whimper, squirming.

"Don't be too loud," he whispers against your neck, demanding.

Art's lips trail down your jawline; his breath catches in his throat every time the aroma of you transits to his chest. You tilt your head back to grant him better access, and your vision goes fuzzy as you discern Art's teeth sucking and biting on your neck, "...d-don't mark my neck," you add between whimpers, piercing his eardrum in the most sensual way imaginable.

"Can I mark this, then?" he snaps back, his right-hand cupping one of your tits over the material. The lustfulness creeping through your body evolves into dizziness, changing how your heart palpitates.

You overtake him and take your crop top swiftly without wanting to see him making extra effort. You audibly gasp when he determines to bury his face between your tits, his thumb and pointing finger skillfully rubbing and then rolling your nipples between his fingertips. 

You are so fucking overwhelmed. Art realizes, and with a wicked smirk plastered on his face, he gives a low coo, "You are so sensitive-"

"Shut the fuck up," you cuss softly, thrusting your chest out, slightly arching your back at the filling sensation. A slimy coverage of saliva grows over your left nipple; Art's mouth works over your bud, flicking with his tongue, making you impossibly wet, "Art, please, I need-"

"Need what?" he glances up at you, neglecting your nipples coated in spit, the cool breeze clashing against your skin and prickling your dermis with goosebumps. 

You pant under your breath as his fingers play with the waistband of your shorts. You grab his hand and put it away, "I'll take care of you."

Your gaze descends to admire the outline of his cock, pushing against the thin fabric of his shorts.  "Let me taste you," you beg, tracing a finger down his chest and reaching the waistband of his shorts.

"Pretty convenient since I can't do much, huh?" Art suppresses a laugh. 

You don't say much. You come off his lap to drag him to the end of the bed, feet touching the carpeted ground. As you sink lower, you unconsciously smile at the things you will tell Diana tomorrow. 

You squat down on your feet, your hands positioned on Art's thighs, supporting your body in case you lose balance. You palm his clothed dick, rubbing your fingertips against the slim layer of clothing, anticipating how much you'll be able to fit in your mouth; you shoot Art an incredulous look, enjoying his heavy-lidded, lustful grimace. 

Your fingers hook around the waistband of those goddamn shorts, sliding them down, along with his underwear. In one fluid motion, his cock springs free with his reddening, glistening tip slapping against his stomach. 

You think this is the perfect situation to overpraise him. You assume these guys love it. Tennis players with a big ego —and a big dick.

"You are so big, Donaldson," you praise, prolonging the word so seductively and not breaking eye contact with the blonde guy. You admire him, captivated by how his Adam's apple twitches; he gulps.

Your fingers wrap around his length, gripping his base, starting to stroke, gingerly moving from base to tip, stopping to rub his swollen tip and spread pre-cum along his shaft, simulating lube. His muscles tremble at the touch, yanking at your hair. You dart your tongue out, flattening it, licking his cock up and down, kitten-licking his thick tip and sweeping your lips across it, loudly slurping the shiny, gooey substance leaking from his dick. Art's torso feels deficient in oxygen as you lock eyes with him, simultaneously stroking his cock mercilessly, sucking on his head; his lungs ache for air.

You bob your head slightly, and your mouth opens wide, taking him further and increasing your pace. Your mouth is warm and wet; he can't wait to stretch other holes if you feel exceptionally good like this. 

"How does it feel?" you take a look at Art's journey, who has his head thrown back. You want him so bad to praise you back. When his head returns to its place, you meet eyes with him and give a tantalizing squeeze to his cock, eager for more reaction. His fingers jump to run through his hair, exasperated.

You don't —and can't know that Art is holding it back already. He's been holding it back since the moment you straddled him, and he could feel the warm wetness of your pussy over his throbbing dick. 

In desperation, he pushes your head, positioning your lips straight over his dick, "Please, princess," you obey and put it inside your mouth again.

He lets out a groan when his tip hits the back of your throat, making you gag. You try to relax and breathe through your nose, allowing him to hit it constantly, deep-throating his length, drooling over his cock, swallowing around him. He strains his hips forward, tugs your hair, and essentially fucks your throat without requiring you to do anything but suck and be good for him.

His breathing becomes erratic, and you feel the muscles of his legs unconsciously twitching. He's close.

When his hand on your hair pushes you up, you resist and stay there for longer, anxiously waiting for his cum to hit your throat. With a rough jerk of his hips, you finally taste his sperm filling your mouth. You swallow it.

"Shit," Art mutters, hyperventilating and staring at you with heavy-lidded eyes. "You just made me reconsider if I'm still precocious."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Or maybe I give good head?" 

After catching his breath, his eyes fall over your figure. There's something so amusing about you, and it's definitely not the remaining mix of cum and spit over the corners of your mouth.

It's just you.

The rain continues to fall outside, a steady rhythm that matches the pulse of his heartbeat. It wasn't the post-nut clarity that made him philosophical, but he can genuinely feel that the only thing that matters is how amazing he has felt around you.

Art breaks the silence. "Let me take you out tomorrow night." 

-

[sunflowermp4]

not even 48 hours into the semester and the Horrors have already begun

[the-tyler-as-in-skyler]

have we ever considered that part of the reason gojo didn’t notice geto’s mental decline wasn’t just due to him taking more solo missions but also because he was trying to take care of megumi and tsumiki in the spare time that he did have?

he definitely had to do some negotiating to get the zenin to give up megumi, even if it was just pointing hollow purple at them and saying “try me” and even if he wasn’t seeing them everyday or taking them to school he did still have to take over anything that their parents would have handled; groceries, bills, school enrollment, possibly even parent-teacher meetings since there was no one else to go for them

[j2hoes]

Foreign Exchanges. (Anthony Vaughn x Reader.)

Summary: Moving school in the middle of the year is never easy. Let alone from an entirely different country. Despite Y/N trying to garner the least amount of attention possible, she still manages to catch the eye of a certain brunette.

Word Count: 1.5k

Gif Not Mine . Requests are open!

Warnings: Mature language.

A/N: My first Ant fic and I’m debating making this a series but you’ll have to let me know what you think! Anyway just a short one to start us off but there’ll be more soon. Don’t forget requests are open!

“I’d like you all to offer a warm welcome to our new student Y/N Y/L/N, she’s moved here all the way from the UK! So let’s show her some of that Hartley spirit.” The teacher, who introduced herself as Jojo, announces to the class. All of them staring at me with blank stares. “Go ahead and say a few words.”

She nudges my shoulder gently before I can decline the offer. Encouraging smile on her face. There are no smiles from my classmates however, only bored faces who couldn’t be less interested in my arrival. For which I’m grateful. I’d seen this school on the news prior to my enrolment, I know these students are brutal. I mean, a sex map? Dad wasn’t too happy about sending me here though he didn’t really have a choice, no other schools were admitting students this late into the term.

“Um hi, I’m Y/N. It’s good to be here I guess.”

“Does anybody have any questions for Y/N?” Jojo offers, attempting to find a way for the class to get to me.

Numerous hands raise and I let out a groan internally. It’s bad enough that I’m stood at the front of the classroom like a new shiny toy but to now be subject to whatever ridiculous questions these teens can come up with is a new form of torture. One that I am really not looking forward to.

Jojo points to her first student, allowing them to be the first to ask. “Why don’t you have a proper British accent?” The girl seems genuinely curious, eyes focused on me as she combs her fingers through her orange hair. Stickers adorn her face along with colourful eyeshadow to match her bright outfit. She has a gentle aura surrounding her, which makes me relieved as I realise her question wasn’t meant in malice and more so pure interest. Maybe these kids won’t be so bad?

“Um, I think the accent you’re think of is the Queen’s English. There isn’t many people that talk like that really, maybe a few down south but I grew up in the North East. None of us talk posh.” I tell her, watching as she seems to take notes as I speak.

“Thank you Quinni, Spider what about you?” Jojo asks, pointing to the tall blonde that is hunched over at the back of the class.

His eyes flicker up to me, giving me the once over though he doesn’t seem too impressed by my presence.

“Yeah, what is it with you and all the other poms having bad teeth?” The boy pipes up, I notice the two boys next to him laugh. Though the one in the baggy outfit makes eye contact with me and a flash of guilt appears on his face.

“I don’t have bad teeth actually. Nobody I know does and to be perfectly honest, that stereotype is deeply rooted in classism and while the UK faces a major cost of living and wealth gap crisis, I don’t think it’s funny to joke about things like that. Do you?” I retort, causing h the pink haired girl and her friend to applaud my mini speech. Both offering cheers.

“Okay any more questions that aren’t going to cause arguments?” Jojo asks, a few hands lowering as they don’t want to get in trouble. “Yes, Amerie?”

“Do you miss home?”

“Yeah, yeah I really miss it.” I start, thinking of everything that I had to leave behind. I know this was the best decision for my family, but I do hold a slight resentment towards being here. “Don’t get me wrong, Sydney’s great and all, but I miss my friends, my house, my pets, I even miss the shitty pub from down the street.”

“Thank you Y/N, I feel like we’ve got to know you a little bit more now, so feel free to take a seat and we’ll get started.”

The only open seat is next to the girl that Jojo called Amerie. Smiling as I take my place, I open my notebook and begin to doodle swirls and other patterns across the page. Focusing on that rather than the subject being taught. It’s some form of sex education by the sounds of it. However, it seems very outdated and heteronormative. Nothing worth listening to anyway.

Upon hearing the bell ring, I begin to pack away my things and watch as a few students mutter things towards Amerie. “Map bitch.” “Cunt.” and “Crazy bitch.” Just to name a few. I realise that may be the reason she had nobody sat next to her and figure it may be best to avoid her if I want to stay under everybody’s radar.

Finding my locker, I begin to turn the lock with great difficulty. Back home, the numbers simply connect and the door clicks open, that doesn’t seem to be the case here though. Fiddling with the dial, I hear the bell signal the beginning of the next class and I huff, annoyed that I’m having this much trouble with a stupid locker.

As the hallways clears out, I continue to twist and pull at the lock. Bag dumped on the floor as I try with all my strength to pry the door open. With no such luck, I throw a quick kick to the locker beneath mine, leaving a dent in the door slightly. Slumping with my back again the metal, I find myself face to face with the boy in the baggy outfit.

Not previously noticing how cute he was, dark hair hidden beneath a beanie, a couple of curls escaping. Boyish grin plastered across his face and piercing brown eyes staring directly at me. I won’t even try to deny that Australia has one up on the Uk in terms of boys, they’re just so much cuter over here.

“What did the locker do to you?” He jokes, taking the slip of paper with the locker code out of my hand.

“Bloody thing won’t open.” I mumble, stepping out of the way as he demonstrates how to open it with ease. My cheeks tinged pink as I fear my outburst may have been unnecessary.

“I thought you Brits were supposed to be good at containing your emotions anyway.” He leans against the locker beside mine, watching me as I stuff countless books into the small space. Normally this would make me uncomfortable, yet there’s there’s something about him that makes me feel warm and calm.

“Nah we love our fair share of violence.” I tell him, smiling as I do so, remembering the amount of fights that used to take place on my estate daily. Providing free entertainment for all the neighbours. “We’re polite, but piss us off and we’ll knock you into next week.”

He laughs, folding his arms across his chest as I close the locker door. His eyes gaze over me as I turn to face him properly. Noticing the small cross necklace hanging from his neck, I can’t help but imagine what it would look like against his bare skin.

“You religious?” I ask, nodding towards the chain.

“Nah, I’m Ant.” He brushes off my question and tucks the necklace beneath his shirt. Clearly a touchy subject that perhaps I shouldn’t have brought up. So instead I attempt to lighten the mood.

“Ant?” The word escapes my mouth as a slight giggle, unable to hide the amusement his name brings. “And your mate’s called Spider?”

“Yeah, stupid right?” He chuckles, playing with the straps of his bag. Almost as if he’s nervous. “We’ve been best mates our entire lives. My real name’s Anthony but nobody calls me that. Same with Spider, his name’s Spencer. Kids started to call us Ant and Spider when we were like six, guess it just stuck.”

“That’s cute.”

Picking up my bag, I throw it over my shoulder. Figuring I should probably head to my next class despite being extremely late already.

“Hey, about Spider.” Ant reaches for my arm, clearly sensing that I’m about to leave. “I just wanted to apologise, he can be a bit of a dick but he’s a nice guy deep down.”

My arm tingles where he’s touching it, feeling the slightest of move of his fingers. As though my nerves are on fire. Suddenly hypersensitive to any little movement he makes. I know I shouldn’t be feeling things this intensely, hell, I’ve just met the guy. Yet he sparks an excitement in me that I haven’t felt in a while.

“Honestly it’s sound. You don’t need to apologise.” I assure him, offering a smile, I see his shoulders relax. “I can handle a prick like him any day.”

“Yeah you certainly shot him down quick.”

As he removes his hand from my arm, I’m quick to begin walking away. Cheesy grin on my face as I recall the interaction in my head despite it only happening seconds ago. I feel dizzy with excitement, my feet feel like they’re walking on clouds and I almost miss the shout from behind me as I go to turn the corner.

“Hey, do you wanna get high?”

[froznwater]

post WT Alenaoh drabble

Alejandro wins World Tour and now not only does his family treat him poorly, but so does the rest of the world. Even Heather gets her bit of redemption after being "used by the evil Alejandro." But none of the shows fans like him. They can admit he was smart, yes, but ultimately someone able to play with that many peoples hearts is not a good person. Twitter trends with phrases like 'rigged', 'not my tdw', and 'slippery eel' for weeks after his victory. His phone number gets leaked, bombarded with hateful messages, and his car gets keyed during the ten minutes he takes to run into his local mall to pick up a gift for his mother on her birthday. Tiktok makes 'plot twist' edits of him. Where it begins with him, but ultimately switches to another of his precious peers after they "shut him down" and the entire concept is just one big fuck Alejandro party in the comments. Hundreds- thousands of greasy idiots belittling him for their enjoyment. He doesn't even post on Instagram anymore. Too pussy to entirely turn off the comments and let the world think they've won, he just buries the app deep in a folder and leaves it untouched. Eel. Fake. Bop. I'm doing it, are you? How many letters in Alejandro? Is that oil I see? Noah = 8.

Some people even show up at his house. His father hires bodyguards and demands the police to patrol the area, but blames Alejandro for all of it. This is all your fault. You were too careless. You should have done this. You shouldn't have done this. Look, this person figured you out. Why did you say this? That was dumb. Jose would have done better. He WON, didn't he? ...Didn't he? But college starts in two months, so he rides it out as much as he can. College sucks. Everyone stares, but no one approaches unless it's some dickhead-sexist loser clapping him on the back with enough gusto that really re-whacks the reality into him every time. He's met with "Aren't you that asshole that won Total Drama World Tour a couple months ago?" any time he tries to make some friends. None of the cast reach out. It stings, but Alejandro gets it. He's not wanted. Within three weeks, he's moves to the middle of fucking no where with his cat and enrolls in as many online classes that his new mediocre college will allow. - Noah, praised for his intelligence and funny one-liners over his course of 15 minutes of screen-time, is the fan-favourite. Officially. Voted through the after-season special reunion. Even though he never made it far. In the beginning it's vaguely funny, karmatic. Him. Noah. The unlike-able "schemer." Is the one that fans edit on tiktok and quote on Twitter. After a (short)while it's annoying. He can't get his coffee before class without posing(or declining to do so) for at least two instagram photos. He can't scroll Twitter without seeing someone referencing him in the replies. "Giving slippery eel." "It's all down here from here, honey."

Even his nickname for Owen is used to fatshame people everywhere. "Lunchbox." Is commented under anyone over 100 pounds. It puts a foul taste in Noah's mouth that makes him lock his phone and touch fucking grass every time. Tiktok clips of him go viral. So not only does a lot of America know him, most of it does, as well as other parts of the big wide world. It sucks. The studio won't let it die either. They sell merch of his face. Of his sweater vest with the inbuilt button-up. Of his face on a gay flag(which the fans use as confirmation in his sexuality after demanding so from him for months and getting no answer.(He isn't even gay.)) Of his last insult to Alejandro. And, really, who actually won that fight? Noah, bisexual gay icon, who signed away all his rights to merch pay-cut? Or the man and his million dollars that hasn't been seen or heard from in three months? With love and admiration comes hate. It's piling up more and more. And the more people blindly defend him the more people that come out with their "I'm going to be honest. I didn't care for Noah from Total Drama." And Noah can deal with hate. Honestly, he can deal with it better than he can with love and people genuinely liking him. But he's seen the pattern. He knows where this is going. He goes on a few interviews he never accepted before, gets a new phone number, deletes all his social media, applies to a new college with a student count of 2,000, and retires his red sweaters.

Fuck the internet.

- You'll never guess who he sees.

[i-am-aprl]

According to CNN, students across the political spectrum have been rejecting offers from Columbia University due to the school’s handling of on-campus protests. Admissions consultancies across the US have also reported high school students taking Columbia off of their college lists for next year. Columbia remains at the epicenter of student demonstrations, with over 100 students arrested and a return to online classes.

The university declined to officially comment to journalists on how the protests are impacting its fall enrollment.

How do you think current events will or should impact Columbia in the future? Has recent news from Columbia impacted your college list?