#we used to work in the same building in college!!

[charmwasjess]

My tiny mountain town is a blue dot swallowed up in a sea of red. Our statistically-irrelevant town went for Harris. The larger counties around us all went for Trump. Here’s what this election looked like in the southeastern Appalachian on the front lines of that cultural divide: 

Outright unprosecuted voter intimidation: in the few blocks walk from my house to downtown, I can see a prop skeleton dressed as a Harris supporter hanging from a noose, and Harris yard signs slashed with a knife, others just ripped down to the cardboard.

Gerrymandering - years ago, these little-known poorer districts were redrawn around population centers in ways that give likely Republican strongholds more weight, particularly in rural areas like mine. Republican lawmakers literally have opened prisons in rural counties in my state to artificially inflate population numbers with people who can’t vote due to their felon status to tip the scales.  

Of course, the Electoral college, where US votes are decided by weight of a state’s respective collective population and importance rather than just the counted individuals votes

I’m not making excuses. I echo the rest of the world’s collective disgust and horror about the outcome. I am literally sick with my country. People will die because of this. People who don’t live here, people who didn’t get a choice or stake in the US elections, and who probably wish they’d never heard of the place. And people in my own community. 

Yet it is so easy to picture this election as the ultimate triumph of laziness and inattention, particularly in “ignorant hillbilly” places like where I live, which generally go for Trump without any fight - at least not one that shows up on an election night map. But the Republican right has been working for decades to put the legal, economic, and societal pressures that lead to this in place here. 

We fought hard. Grassroots campaigners, our organizers of LGBTQIA+ groups, leaders in our communities who showed up despite the fact that it put a target on their backs if shit went bad. Teachers fighting Republican-led mandates of ignorance and racism to choke out any thinking that might interfere with their political goals for their ideal voter base. Librarians who get death threats for having kid’s books dealing with gender or queerness in the public libraries. 

These are not imagined examples, these are things that happen to real people I know in my tiny blue community. And the violent, right-wing party, the party that promised to make this second Trump term one of revenge and retribution, knows who those people are too. 

The Charlottesville “Ignite the Right” attack happened in my backyard. I had friends on that street when a self-described neo nazi drove into a crowd and killed Heather Heyer and injured 35 others. Trump was president when it happened; he called the alt-right who invaded Charlottesville with guns and armor and torches that day “good people.” 

I have no faith in my party now. It feels like we’re still trying to play a game we lost years ago, while the other side is busy winning a new game, one where they get to make up all the rules. 

I realize that there are greater global trends at play - incumbents being ousted, a swing to the right, post-pandemic economic scrambles - larger issues than the difficulties of voter suppression in my rural American communities. I'm not in a great mindset to consider them this week. I've been politically active since I was old enough to vote, and it feels like we always build so much momentum and then slam facefirst into this fucking invisible wall.

Honestly? I’m so tired and depressed and anxious, I feel like I can barely function right now. At the same time, I’m disgusted by my own despair and whining. What gives me the right to stop trying now, when so many people across the globe are facing the same anger and exhaustion? When so many people are in more active danger, with less options than I have?

Anyway, I wanted to write something out about the election, maybe just to let go of the words and get them out of me. I'm a queer politically active liberal in a Republican-dominated rural space. Next week, I'll read all the posts about hard work and hope and building support networks. This week, I just need a fucking minute on the floor.

[mightyflamethrower]

Democratic strategist and CNN contributor Julie Roginsky said Thursday on CNN’s “Newsroom” that her party cannot speak to “normal people,” stating that it was “not the party of common sense.”

Roginsky said, “You know, I’m going to speak some hard truths to my friends in the Democratic Party. This is not Joe Biden’s fault. It’s not Kamala Harris fault. It’s not Barack Obama’s fault. It is the fault of the Democratic Party in not knowing how to communicate effectively to voters. We are not the party of common sense, which is the message that voters sent to us. For a number of reasons, for a number of reasons, we don’t know how to speak to voters.

When we address Latinos — and language, and language has meaning — we address Latino voters. as Latinx, for instance, because that’s the politically correct thing to do, it makes them think that we don’t even live on the same planet as they do.

When we are too afraid to say that, ‘Hey, college kids, if you’re trashing a campus of Columbia University because you aren’t happy about some sort of policy and you’re taking over a university and you’re trashing it and preventing other students from learning that that is unacceptable.’ But we’re so worried about alienating one or another cohort in our coalition that we don’t know what to say.”

She continued, “When normal people look at that and say, ‘Wait a second, I send my kids to college so they can learn, not so that they can burn buildings and trash lawns,’ right? And so on and so forth. When we put pronouns after names and say she/her, as opposed to saying, you know what, if I call you by the wrong pronoun, call me out, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again,” but stop with the virtue signaling and just speak to people like they’re normal. There’s nothing I’m going to say to Shermichael, that I’m not going to say to you, that I’m not going to say to somebody else. I speak the same language to everybody. But that’s not what Democrats do. We constantly try to parse out different ways of speaking to different cohorts because our focus groups or our polling shows that so-and-so appeals to such and such. That’s not how normal people think. It’s not common sense. And we need to start being the party of common sense again.”

Sounds like a few dems got the message. If you think a man can go home at noon, switch from boxers to panties, and come back to work as a real women most people, especially men, are going to think you are nucking futz. They certainly aren't going to vote for you.

[geneticcatalyst]

I would like you to know that I adore your top 5 lab equipment post. I first read it and my immediate reaction was “this motherfucker gets me (affectionately).” I was thinking about the post again last night during my shift (I work in veterinary medicine but I was a biology major for school) and I literally started ranting about how fucking awesome micropipettes are. I think my coworkers think I’m a little insane, but what is new.

Personally, the only thing I would change on the top 5 lab equipment would be the spectrophotometer bc I have not used that much at all. My replacement for that one for top 5 would be electrophoresis gel, but that’s just from my experience.

Sorry for the random message, but I want you to know how much that post delights me

- With love, a fellow scientist

oh!! we are siblings in arms!! yes yes yes big pipette feelings here. like I said my background was in a research lab where I did a lot of gel electrophoresis and I still love and miss it, I'm actually jealous you get to do it on the regular! Ive since gone corporate and work in a very high throughput production genotyping lab where we rely mostly on digital PCR so the spectro/fluorometry was a nod to both PCR readers and the good old fashioned Nanodrop (my beloved). so yes You Get Me and you're so valid for liking gels and also its awesome that you work in vet med! I'm in ag but I've always vibed with veterinary people y'all are cool.

[the-starlight-papers]

I’m so tired of my physics lab group because it’s me and then a bunch of guys who went to the same Christian high school in the same town as my university and they just talk about guns all the time.

Today one guy was telling a story about his cousin who’s in Communications so the professors are more liberal so she has to deal with them “talking about pronouns and crap.” Same guy has a sticker on his phone that says “I support FREE SPEECH not ~POLITICAL CORRECTNESS~”

Of course they were all talking about the Citadel shooting in Nashville too and how the shooter was trans.

@the-starlight-papers

[heavenbarnes]

I wanna make it (so badly)

Art Donaldson x Fem Reader

Warnings/Contains: reader is AFAB with she/her pronouns, swearing, inappropriate employer/employee relationship, dry-humping, a lot of heavy petting, implied age gap, effective-infidelity (reader tested, tashi approved), oral sex (f!receiving), art is a bit of a pervert and mega-pathetic (endearing), references to religion (worship).

Word Count: 5.8k

i white knuckled the steering wheel on the way home from this film thinking about art donaldson- this is, essentially, an ode to that

Youth tennis lessons, $20/h, call for details

Finding work was hard, keeping work was harder.

Cleaning, baby-sitting, pet-sitting, pet-walking. There was virtually nothing you hadn't tried.

Odd jobs, odd hours, and the occasional odd employer.

You'd played tennis for the last couple years of college. Nothing remotely competitive but you and your friends had looked cute in the skirts and they'd give you whole hours out of class to play.

You were above average with a good arm and better patience.

Another odd job to add to your growing list.

You'd been particular about where you'd posted the ads, the neighbourhoods you'd chosen. Only the ones with manicured lawns and white picket fences.

Tacking the paper to boards in upmarket cafes, fancy supermarkets, ladies-only gyms.

The kind of people that want their kids playing tennis and could find their way to increase your pay- if you did well.

You always did very well.

So your little car looked a little out of place in this neighbourhood, fingers holding the scribbled post-it note with the address. Your scrawling handwriting detailing the "Donaldson's" were enquiring within.

Pulling up outside the house, you had a quiet inkling that you might've been out of your depth. Whoever owned this house deserved more than an above-average-ex-college-student that only learnt the sport to spend time with friends.

But they'd requested you, you'd have to let them come to that conclusion on your own.

Your knuckles only hit the door once before it was being swung open by someone that looked destined to be a security guard, like he'd come out the womb with his future decided.

What the fuck had you gotten yourself into?

He'd left you in the "formal lounge" to sit smack-bang in the centre of a couch that wouldn't even fit in the lobby of your apartment building- let alone the apartment itself.

As you admired a painting on the wall that you'd only ever seen in books, high heels on the stone floors made you jump in your seat.

The most beautiful woman you might ever see in your life appeared before you and said your name in a way that had you standing from your seat.

Your face faltered just enough that you hoped she didn't notice. There was something about her that told you she noticed everything.

Fuck me, that's Tashi Duncan.

If you know a thing about tennis (or even just watched the news) you know exactly who this woman is. You remember her more from your childhood but you remember her all the same.

The woman that once held the world by the balls.

She apologised for her husband's absence, that he was busy. It wasn't lost on you that the "husband" she casually referred to was Art Donaldson, US Open champion.

The Donaldson's.

Ah fuck.

Tashi went on the explain that they were wanting to begin lessons for their daughter Lily. You assumed this was the one you could hear running circles around the informal lounge.

"With all due respect, am I not the least qualified person in this home for that?"

You watched a perfectly formed cheekbone lift in what was nearly a smile. Strangely enough, something in the pit of your chest was dying to make her do that again.

There was something about her that demanded to be impressed.

You were no exception to the rule.

"My husband and I have seen some of your matches, we liked what we saw."

How? Your 'matches'- if you can even call them that, were nothing of note. You don't even think faculty bothered to watch them. You weren't quite sure why they'd even recorded them.

A silly part of you began to wonder how they'd even got a hold of them- until you remembered who they were.

The Hermes and Peitho of tennis.

"You did? I always thought of myself as more of a casual player."

"And that's what we liked, we know better than anyone how brutal tennis can become. We want someone to help Lily enjoy the game."

Oh, okay then.

You'd made a quasi-college-career out of purely enjoying the game. You were sure you could foster the same spirit for the six-year-old performing the entire 'Encanto' soundtrack in the other room.

Tashi laid down a tight schedule, Monday to Friday, 3pm to 6pm. You would teach Lily the wonders of the game on the court behind their home.

Their home you'd come to find out was a luxury rental when you'd complemented Tashi on another of the art pieces that'd apparently come with the place.

You'd also come to find out they typically live in hotel rooms, but they'd settled in this area for the time being as Art had a good thing going with a regular playing schedule and a sporting-goods deal.

You nodded along like you could begin to understand a life like that.

As she showed you back to your car (the one you suddenly felt humiliated for her to see you own), she called your name one last time from the doorway.

"You undersell yourself, we'll give you eighty an hour."

She left you choking on your tongue with one foot in the car and the other on an Italian cobblestone.

You were never going to walk or sit another dog again.

Lily was going to win her first Grand Slam by ten if that's what they'd pay you.

As your peeled your car from their turn-around area, you watched a Jeep Wrangler slow as it passed you. You couldn't see through the tint but you just knew it was him.

And you knew he was watching you.

-

The minute you'd told your roommate the situation you'd come into, she'd called bullshit.

A few texts from Tashi's now saved icon and a weird little photo you'd taken from inside the guest bathroom, it'd been enough to convince her.

"Fucking hell, are you God's favourite or something?"

You'd argue you were quite the opposite, she of all people should know. She'd seen some of the states you'd come home in after your other random jobs.

Felt good to be the winner.

Even just once.

In the air of some girlish fascination, she brought up a Youtube video of "Tashi Duncan Career Highlights" courtesy of "tennisguy779."

You'd protested it, rolling your eyes while feigning disinterest. No use, the minute you caught her out the corner of your eye- you were captivated.

It was entirely possible to imagine she hovered above the court, like there was a greater force placing her exactly where she needed to be, exactly when she needed.

It was even easier to believe she was just that good.

As you watched her play, listened to the sounds the game could draw from her- you wondered if this was how she and Art had felt.

Had they curled up in their informal lounge like you were right now? Had Tashi studied your every move meticulously like you assume? Had Art passed comment on your form? Did he think you were any good?

Tennisguy779's lineup changed quickly to "Art Donaldson Career Highlights" and you felt your chest constrict. An inexplicable feeling washed over you.

Like you'd been caught with God's forbidden fruit.

Your roommate had tried to question why you'd effectively flown off the couch, only to be met with a muttered 'goodnight' as you shut the bedroom door behind you.

Thin walls meant you drifted off to sleep that night with the rhythmic sounds of Art, grunting his way through an ATP Challenger.

It was no surprise you dreamt of him.

-

The Donaldson's tennis court was down a steep set of stairs, set back into an oasis of lush greenery.

Perfect for a 6-year-old's first lessons.

You didn't know if it was the grand balcony that overlooked the court or the fact a well-manicured Tashi stood atop it, but you felt positively observed.

Lily was in the midst of showing you how she could do a cartwheel (she couldn't) when the voice in the back of your head started echoing a promise of $80/h.

"Alright, lets channel some of that into your elbow."

Give a six-year-old a racquet half the size of her and she's going to blow effective chunks, but at least she has the spirit. Maybe it's her energy, maybe it has been a while since you've been on the court-

The kid's running you ragged.

Coupled with her height, you're spending more time bent over than you are up straight and it's all going to your head. All you can hope is Tashi isn't up there watching you stumble after the ball.

But you're sure there are eyes on your back.

Lily is a quick learner and you work out a tradeoff of one tennis skill for one spinning heel kick (mandatory that you watch).

Roll on 6pm and she's dog-tired, however, she's managed to hit the ball at least twice. Surely that's earned your keep. She lays star-fished on the turf and murmurs something about a piggyback.

You know you're about to earn your keep.

By the top of the staircase, you're more than happy to hand over a Lily-shaped-sack-of-potatoes to Tashi's mother. As you emerge from behind an ornate gargoyle, your suspicions proved correct.

Art Donaldson had been watching your every move.

Left alone on the balcony with him, you're acutely aware of the fact he's standing between you and your exit, and he's just had a full show of you bent over and flitting about his tennis court.

That and you still haven't said so much as 'hello' to the man.

You dwell on it for a moment and then there's that feeling back in the pit of your stomach, like any minute you'll be caught with fruit in hand- in throat.

The Original Sin.

Luckily, Art made the decision for you, crossing the space to shake your hand. If he noticed the way your hand trembled, he didn't seem to mind.

"It's nice to finally meet you."

You wished you had more to say to him, or maybe something more intelligent. Something better than a quiet "and you."

He was the better conversationalist, thankfully. Head motioning to the court, he looked down his nose at you when he spoke.

It should've felt condescending. It didn't.

"How did she go out there?"

"Yeah, really good- not a Disney character I can't name now."

He laughed.

Really laughed, like the joke was better than it was.

Like there was a preening little flutter inside you that said "do it again!"

You shrugged your shoulders like making him happy came naturally as you squinted up at him, as if he was the sun.

"You were watching? You must've seen her picking it up?"

Because he was the expert. Because he is the champion.

He hummed as he nodded, eyes skywards like there might've been something more important behind the clouds.

"Must've been distracted."

Within an instant- his eyes flickered to your own and you were sure he watched them change. He must've seen something he liked, the corner of his lip quirked up before he spoke again.

"Come on, I'll sort your payment and then we'll let you get home."

And for whatever reason, his hand fit perfectly in the small of your back as he lead you inside.

-

And how quickly did you become a strange piece of furniture in the Donaldson's home- in their life?

An ottoman for Tashi to rest her tired feet on.

An abstract piece on the wall for Art to admire when he passes it.

A projection of constellations across the ceiling to keep Lily bright behind the eyes.

At least you belonged- there was no doubt that this was where you belonged.

That wasn't to say your tennis skill had improved any, lesson after lesson you still couldn't wrap your head around why they'd even signed you on, let alone kept you.

"Ok, don't watch that one either- maybe just do what I say and not what I do."

You hadn't nailed a single one, at this point you couldn't blame Lily for skipping around pretending her racquet was a horse.

Wasn't like she'd be learning anything if she was paying attention.

"Ok, here we go just- ok right, when your parents ask how today went, please be kind."

"Your elbow is too low."

It was a miracle you didn't scream.

Art entered the court with a swagger that you could only assume struck fear when he was your opponent.

Right now it struck pure embarrassment and Lily wasn't helping.

"Daddy, she didn't hit a single one!"

"Alright, I don't think daddy needs to know that-"

"Daddy knows, daddy's been watching."

Daddy really needs to stop calling himself that.

Lily and her racquet took off for another tour of The Grand National as Art approached you with quiet determination.

It was like waiting for impact, his eyes never wavered off his daughter as he made towards you. At the last moment, he snapped his attention in your direction- with a smile that should've felt condescending.

It wasn't.

"If your elbow is too low you lose topspin and power."

If you deserved the $80/h you were earning, you might've known that.

As Art stepped up to you, the turn of the planets on their axis slowed down and it could've been entirely possible to believe it was only you two.

And Lily upon her trusty steed.

The gallops of her tennis shoes thinned out as Art placed one hand around your elbow, lifting it higher. His other hand held your waist as he pulled your back flush to his chest.

"Lily, go find grandma."

Then it really was just you two.

Your heart hammered against the shell of your ribcage, blood rushing around your ears as you felt Art's chin perch at your shoulder.

"If your elbow is high enough," His hand lifted it up and you let it stay there. "And your hip is turned."

He didn't have to say it with the gravel in his voice, but he did. He didn't have to hold your hips as he moved them, but he did. He didn't have to stay without so much of an inch between the two of you, but he did.

With one hand in the curve of your waist, he tossed the ball into the air with the other- then he whistled.

Like the obedient thing you didn't know you were, you raised the racquet and sent the ball flying through the air without even blinking.

As the streak of green hit the court and rolled away, you found yourself lying in wait, as if you were waiting for something- your next command?

"Good girl."

There it was.

Under the all consuming effect that Art Donaldson just seemed to have on people, you'd entirely forgotten you were in a position you could be 'caught' in. By his all consuming wife, of all people.

So, you should've moved.

Quite honestly you should've straightened up and cleared your throat and thanked him and told him it was time for you to go home.

You should've moved.

But Art wasn't moving. If anything he was staying purposefully still at your backside.

Obedient thing you seem to be.

"Show me that again?"

So,

You teach Lily the bare basics of tennis for three hours and receive $80 on the hour.

Then Art spends three hours of his spare time teaching you to perfect your swing- in a way that couldn't ever vaguely resemble professional.

A simple transactional arrangement.

Your tennis improves on a slow but sure basis and he gets the most off-court action he's seen since college.

Even if it is just heavy petting on astro-turf.

A hand under the hem of a tennis skirt. A pressing hip against your own. A deep breath as your hair brushes past him.

You figure Art will take what he can get.

And it's never enough to raise alarm. Sure, there's that fluttering in your chest that warns you might get 'caught' but you're never quite sure what one might 'catch' if they found you out.

It's undoubted who that 'one' is though.

The one who holds the cards- holds the throat, maybe.

Tashi, who's presence precedes her perhaps more than her reputation. Even when she isn't there, she's there.

So, when Art's hand lingers too long on the outside of your thigh and you think you can feel it verging into the territory that'll change everything- it's Tashi on your mind.

You're beginning to think your conscience sounds a lot like Tashi.

-

Who are you if not obedient to the Donaldson's?

Chasing Lily around a court.

Adhering to Tashi's every request.

Being Art's fantasy.

Being Art's.

Most of the time, anyway. Three hours a week.

Something to keep him bright behind the eyes, maybe. Something to keep him happy. Something to keep him-

Winning?

He tells you he plays better with you around. The way he says it makes you giggle, a girlish little noise that sort of just slips out. He serves the ball with his eyes on you and, sure enough, it lands smack where he wanted it too.

Everything where he wants it. When he wants it.

Shy and inconsequential touches and glances shared just between you.

Until, well- until they weren't.

"Would you like a coffee?"

Tashi's mother had taken Lily off to bed, leaving you and Art separated by an island. Kitchen island.

He braced both palms against it as he watched you watch the door, wondering if you should cut and run, wondering if someone else might come through it.

Talking yourself out of it. Whatever it might be.

"Yes please."

Even he looked surprised, brows raising an inch as he turned to the Nespresso machine. You took the moment to watch his back, the muscles moving under the cool-dry fabric of his shirt.

You spent all your time pretending not to notice him that actually allowing yourself the chance to study him made you lightheaded.

Had he always looked this captivating?

He broke your focus with a coffee cup, sliding it towards you as he rounded the bench. His eyes didn't even waver off you as he took a sip of his own.

It wasn't lost on you that he managed to tongue foam off the tip of his nose.

This was the longest you'd stuck around after a tennis lesson, longest you'd allowed yourself to be in his presence. You weren't quite sure how big this thing could get.

Your mouth was opening before your brain had decided it was a good idea.

"Mr. Donaldson-"

"Art."

"Uh, Art- I really appreciate the help you've been giving me- uh, you know- with tennis."

He placed his coffee mug down, nodding as he did it. "My pleasure."

Naturally.

That brain of yours was still firing off at a mile a minute. There was a very tiny voice right at the back that said it was up to you how this night would end- you had a choice to make.

Placing your coffee mug beside his, you scanned his face to find him already looking at you. Perhaps the choice was already set.

Maybe it was fate.

All he said was your name, it could've been the way he said it- but your whole body was losing the rigidity it'd formed when he first asked you to stay longer. When he'd made the choice.

Crossing the small gap between you two, Art was careful to keep one hand on the kitchen bench as the other hovered beside you. Not touching you,

Yet.

One step closer and the tip of Art's nose was touching yours. You think you might've been able to smell the coffee off his breath.

It thinned out- leaving you with his sweat. Musk. Art.

A sudden surge of morals overcame you, your voice broke out as a gasp.

"What about Mrs. Donaldson?"

"Actually, it's still Duncan."

You screamed.

Right in his face.

Tashi's voice made you jump out of your skin.

However, Art didn't move. As you turned your head to gauge the way his wife stalked across the kitchen, you felt his nose brush against your cheek.

Tashi retrieved a tall bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge, taking a poignant sip as her eyes flitted between the two of you.

What a fucking sight.

Her husband, eyes shut and face pressed pathetically to their daughter's tennis instructor- his hands itching to close around your waist.

You, young and bleary eyed looking utterly caught. Staring up at her like she might decide your fate.

It took all your strength to find your words.

"I’m not here to teach tennis, am I?”

“No, of course not. You’re frankly terrible at tennis.”

There's the Tashi you were expecting.

Her words should've stung, but they didn't. They couldn't, not when her husband was laying his hands against your back and rubbing soothing circles down the length of your spine.

Not when his lips were mouthing wet kisses along your cheek.

Not when she was right. Spade's a spade.

"Why am I here?"

She snorted, a real dissatisfactory sound- like she hoped you were smarter than that. She was halfway to her bedroom before she cut you loose.

"Careful, he makes that sound before he cums."

-

And he had, just like she'd said.

Art had cum in his shorts, pressed up against your thigh with his face still smushed against your own.

And you'd taken it, obedience in spades.

You'd stood there and let him hump your leg like a bad dog and you'd even pat his head and whispered kind words in his ear after the mess he'd made.

Then you slipped out the front door to your car and you'd pretended not to notice that there were two bedroom lights on upstairs.

You hadn't even divulged the freaky details to your roommate when you got home.

But the showerhead knew all about them.

Visions of Art on the clouds of steam- replayed in your head the sounds he'd made right in your ear.

How he'd whimpered your name when he splashed his boxers like a fucking teenager.

It was no surprise you dreamt of him.

You even showed up next day, valiantly. You didn't run for the hills or even straight to a tabloid about how weird the Donaldson's really were.

And maybe that's why you hadn't told your roommate either.

Because telling someone what Tashi allowed? What Art liked?

That'd mean you'd have to admit your dirty little secret.

You loved it.

When you showed up, something was different. No usual chatter in the house, no shoes by the front door. You checked out the front window to see what you'd missed when you arrived.

Tashi's car was gone.

"She's taken her mom and Lily to the ballet."

At least you didn't scream this time.

You were lucky your back was to him, lest he see the self-righteous little smile that broke when the words settled.

"Oh, ok."

"I'll see you on the court."

Oh, ok.

Lest he see the disappointment that took over.

Following him close behind, you didn't know why you were effectively surprised that he still wanted to continue with your lessons. You'd half expected- hoped, he'd bend you over the kitchen island.

Tennis was fun too, you guess.

Thinking about it, something that bold didn't seem the style of the man who'd nearly blacked out rubbing up on you. Beckoning you onto the tennis court with two fingers and a wry smile did, however.

You fell into your usual position, hip turned and elbow curved on your side of the court. You waited for him to appear behind you, chest melding into the curve of your back.

It never came.

Art took long strides towards the net, vaulting it in one smooth motion. He ended up parallel to you, waiting with a ball and racquet in either hand.

The smile had left his face, a rather blank expression taking over as he sized you up. And there was that fear- knowing what it felt like to be on the wrong side of him.

This was going to hurt.

From the moment he pressed the ball to the neck of his racquet, it was all over. Your feet were never in one place for more than a second, your arms burned above you, your head permanently on a swivel.

Art didn't look like he'd broken more than a sweat.

You knew he had, you could see it in the neck of his shirt. But he didn't look it.

He looked calm, he looked in control, he looked-

Like he was enjoying himself.

For every rally that you managed, you thought you saw an inkling of pride set in his features.

For every serve that you missed, you knew you saw unbridled lust.

Not a point scored in your favour, you hit the ball towards him one last time before you collapsed to the turf. Flat on your back, reminiscent of your first lesson here.

You watched the clouds shift over your head, listening to your pulse thick and fast in your ears. Just underneath it, you could hear footfalls approaching.

No hurry, but impending.

Soon, the sun above you was eclipsed by Art Donaldson. His golden hair shone with the halo of light behind it.

Now this was God's favourite.

"You can't be giving up this easily?"

Forcing a laugh, you threw your arm up and over your eyes. "Wanna bet?"

Turns out he did- turns out Art struggled to do anything but win.

Somehow, you found it within yourself to stand back up. This time it was only a practice, you weren't brave enough to face off against him another round.

This was more your speed.

The hand that wasn't holding your elbow was curving around your front, the pleats of your tennis skirt lifting over his fingers. You felt a warm hand slowly moving across the front of your underwear.

Two fingers migrated south, pressing against the seam of you- he must've felt the pure heat radiating beneath his fingertips.

Turning your head even an inch, you found the curve of his nose pressing into your cheek.

"I didn't give up."

He hummed, the vibration rolled across your shoulders.

"Mmm, you didn't."

The hand sans-racquet dropped between your thighs to press his palm into your cunt. It was Art who flexed your fingers and cupped it.

"Where's my prize?"

There was no trophy, no podium, no medal.

But there was Art between your legs, slinging a knee over each shoulder like he might've been the real winner.

You'd never been inside the 'changing shed' behind the court, of course it was nicer than your actual home.

Your head made contact with the hard wood behind you, bench digging into your ass as you felt a hot mouth moving against the seat of your underwear.

Running your fingers through his hair, your gripped the ends of it- tugging him closer until you felt the flat of his tongue through the thin fabric.

Needy fingers tugged the ruined garment down your thighs, tucking him into the pocket of his shorts. You knew all too well that you'd never see them again.

You were sure Art would be seeing a lot of them.

His tongue ran up the split, one long stroke before you felt the curve of his nose press to your clit. The ridge of it moved as his tongue retreated back to your entrance.

With everything he had.

Your eyes had been rolling back in your head as you arched your back, the moment you were able to find a semblance of control- your gaze fell before you.

Naturally, Art was already looking up at you. Two hands splayed across each side of your hips as he pulled back to wrap his lips around your clit.

You couldn't help the hazy little smile on your face as you watched his eyes.

Utterly devotional.

The more you tugged on his hair, the hungrier he seemed. Pulling from the root seemed to spur him on, seemed to tell him 'good job' and he was responsive.

His tongue flicked beneath your clit, pressing it to his upper lip as he brought two fingers to your entrance. He stroked a couple times, making your hips twitch against him, before he sunk in to the last knuckle.

Turns out Art had a style about him. One he brought to the tennis court and, seemingly, to the floor of his changing shed.

The style was calculated.

Every move he made was engineered to get something out of you- a reaction, a whimper, a twitch. He was doing what he did best.

Playing a game.

Art struggled to do anything but win.

"Fuck- Mr. Donaldson."

"Art."

Even muffled against your cunt, you were good at following his orders. Even more so when he was the decider of your imminent orgasm.

You threaded your fingers in the sides of his hair, pulling his face flush against you so you could ride his mouth. Taking every last thing from him you could.

It drew the most pathetic moan you'd ever heard, straight out of his chest and hit you straight at your core. The burning coil tight within your stomach was unraveling quickly.

You heard the murmurings of words, among the blood rushing in your ears. Easing up just enough, you let him pull back to speak.

"Tell me this feels good, please."

Your chest thumped, the sight of Art helpless between your legs was one thing. Hearing him beg?

You might black out.

"Art- you feel so fucking good," Dragging him right back where you needed him, the tip of his tongue drove against your clit. "You're gonna' make me cum."

He whined.

A heady drawn-out sound that quite literally sent you over the edge. Your hips lifted off the bench, the heel of your foot digging into his back and making his whine turn into a whimper.

Your orgasm broke you apart until it felt like white-hot flame licking up your sides. Of course, Art never relented, drinking in everything you could give him- literally.

The moment you felt the peak begin to subside, the urge was ramping right back up. Like he knew what he was doing, his eyes locked back onto yours as he sucked at your clit.

He was going for gold.

A quick second orgasm hit, seemingly out of nowhere. Your thighs clenched around Art's head, his hands coming to each of them.

You relaxed yourself a bit, feeling like it might be too much- until you felt him pressing your thighs even harder to either of his ears.

Oh, ok.

Art Donaldson knew what he liked.

You physically had to push him off you, watching him fall back on his outstretched palms as you let yourself breathe for what felt like the first time.

Wet eyes, wet chin, chest rising and falling like he'd run a marathon- Art sat sprawled out before you like he'd stumbled upon an alter (he had).

Breathless, you gestured towards him. Your hand dropped a little as your eyes fell between his legs, wordlessly offering a deal.

A deuce.

His cheeks flushed, more so than they already were. His eyes fell an infinitesimal amount before he spoke up.

"Uh- I already have."

Of course he had. He makes that sound before he cums.

Instead, you heard him shuffle back onto his knees as he all but crawled towards you. He draped his upper half into your lap, head resting against the soft cotton of your skirt.

Coming off the other side of a high, the reality of your situation began to settle for you. Why they'd really called you here- what purpose you really served.

All you could do was gently stroke a hand across Art's head, feeling him go limp against you. Boneless, but not spineless.

He must've known you were going to speak, he must've heard the intake of breath or just felt you shift. He cut you to the chase- beat you to the punchline.

Art nuzzled his face further into your lap as you felt him mumble against your thigh.

"I can't lose- you."

[prettycottagequeer]

ok maybe I'm a little late to this BUT I'm gonna do a to-do list motivation thingy because I've had the worst two weeks since I started college :)

SO these I should start on asap:

50 I make the snack I really want but I haven't had the motivation to make

100 I clean my dorm. another thing I've been meaning to do for a week

150 I do the presentation about mid-victorian fashion I've been putting off (due Monday)

200 I start memorizing the monologue that was due a week ago (now due Tuesday)

these can wait longer:

300 I spend time outside. It's so nice but I'm getting stuck scrolling because I feel like shit. vicious cycle ect

500 I start setting a better weekend routine (aka getting up before noon)

1k I start working out again. I was doing a routine to get more masc and build muscle and I liked it but life hit me like Crowley driving the Bentley and I've missed like 3 weeks

2k I buy my first binder. I've been coping with sports bras for almost a year now and I haven't been able to justify spending $50+ on a binder even though I know I'd love it and use it everyday.

Do I tag people? I don't know but I'm going to. @the-globe-theatre-maggot @weirdly-specific-but-ok @howmanyholesinswisscheese

here's just some context if you want to read, feel free to skip. some of this I've talked about in the maggot server, some I haven't, but I really just need a place for this to go that's out of my head. tw homophobia, transphobia, car crash(??)

How I Have Been Run Over By The Bentley Going 90 In Central London What Feels Like 50 Times In The Last Two Weeks

I'm going to college about 4 hours away from my parents, and it's been really nice. They.. suck, to say the least. transphobic/homophobic ect, super traditional conservative catholic, racist, all of it. so i tried to move somewhere where I wouldn't have to think about them and I could be myself and do what I can to be happy. March 1st was the start of my spring break, which meant going home because the dorms close. I was already not excited, but I was prepared. the problem with being away from home is I forget just how bad they are. My optimism gets the better of me and I think maybe this time they'll be better. so I decided to not hide my septum piercing.

that was a mistake. it starts a whole fight where they say we know you're trans, you're actually a girl and you always will be, we have the bones argument, they think I'm being influenced by demons or something (if only they knew about crowley) because I want to change my name, and they tell me that going on t will completely ruin my body and give me cancer and other things. They're also mad about my dyed hair, septum, and general style, and say I'm setting a terrible example for my (5) younger siblings and make it a point to tell me just how much of a disappointment I am. I think I'm pretty cute and fun but y'know, whatever. very fun time. I lie so much, don't give them any more details about my identity, and say I'm not planning to go on t to save my ass. which is all on instinct which makes me feel worse because if I'm really trans I should be able to stand up for that, right? maybe I'm faking the dysphoria.

the next morning I wake up really sick, and spend the rest of the week sick and feeling like shit because I'm home and back in the same place and situation I was a year ago that I thought I escaped. at one point I pretty much lose my voice but also kind of get gender euphoria from it. it's weird.

On Friday it's time for me to drive back 4 hours to school, and I make it about 3/4 of the way when google maps takes me on a random gravel road and I crash my car, really crash my car, like sideways-in-a-ditch-windows-broken-crawling-up-out-the-door crash it in the middle of nowhere. (I was fully paying attention to the road, it was raining and super slick) I call my parents because I have no one else to call and I sit in a Subway for 3 hours while they drive to get my car. when they get there they're (understandably) really mad, and they tell me that I'm not mature enough to be going to school so far away and I need to get my shit together and stop depending on them. which. is probably true. but made me feel even more stupid about the fact that I crashed my car. I get back to school and I'm still Very Sick with no energy or motivation to do anything. So I've spent the last week trying to get better and honestly to do anything. it hasn't really worked. I'm a lot better health-wise (Not emotionally), still sick but I have a lot of work due, so I really need a push to get started

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Everyday homeowners are human shields for Wall Street’s Internet of Shit slumlords

The American Dream, such as it is, used to be two dreams, one based on work and solidarity, the other on asset appreciation and disconnected individualism. We killed the first one.

As the New Deal gave way to the post-war social safety net, Americans discovered two paths to social mobility: they could join a union, and they could buy a home. Joining a union meant that your wages would rise with productivity, and that the democratic ideal that you were meant to approach once every two years at the ballot-box could follow you into the building you spent more waking hours in than any other: your jobsite.

Labor unions used their political power to win labor rights, so that even workers who weren't a union couldn't be arbitrarily fired, or maimed on the job with impunity, or harassed or abused. And while the labor movement was mired in the same racist legacy that every American institution brought forward out of genocide and slavery, where racialized people started unions of their own or demanded representation from the unions who nominally represented them, they thrived.

Then there were houses. On the one hand, owning your home insulated you from the petty tyranny of the landlord, the threat of eviction, rent hikes, indifferent or dangerous building maintenance, and all the other miseries that arise when you think of a building as your home and someone else thinks of it as an asset, and the board is tilted so that they win every argument.

But homeownership wasn't just sold as a way to get out from under scumbag landlords: it was primarily sold as a way to build intergenerational wealth. Your house wasn't just a place to live: it was an asset, and it appreciated.

And if the dividends of labor protection were unevenly distributed between white people and racial minorities, the dividends of home ownership were almost entirely hoarded by white families. Federal policies – redlining – combined with racist lending at the local level, meant that Black families and other racialized groups were stuck in tenancy, while white families build wealth thanks to federal subsidies:

https://web.archive.org/web/20170220005558/https://www.demos.org/sites/default/files/publications/Asset%20Value%20of%20Whiteness.pdf

Those were the two American dreams: a good job and your own home. We killed the first one, and the second one devoured us whole.

Without a strong labor movement, wages stagnated. Corporate power waxed, and with it, the power to pollute, to poison, to maim and to defraud. The labor movement wasn't strong enough to stop Reagan from killing free UC tuition when he was governor of California. It wasn't strong enough to hold back spiraling health care prices. It wasn't strong enough to block the business lobby from neutering antitrust and ushering in four decades of market concentration, market capture and corruption. Workers couldn't save their defined benefits pension and were railroaded into market-based 401(k)s, forcing them to play the stock casino against their bosses, ever the sucker at the poker table.

With stagnant wages and out of control medical, educational and end-of-life bills, homeownership – the thing you do as an individual, where your gain is someone else's loss – became the American secular religion. Your house wasn't just a place to sleep and keep your photo albums: if it appreciated enough, you might be able to liquidate it on your deathbed and pay off your eldercare, your healthcare, your kids' college debt, and leave enough left over for your kids' downpayments.

And so every American who had a home became the enemy of every American who didn't – including one another's children. Every home built threatened your own property values. The racist, batshit American school funding formula, which sees schools funded out of property taxes, meaning the richest kids get the best schools, turned out to be a great way to increase your property values.

Protections for tenants, meanwhile, threatened the entire American way of life – the American dream itself. Every protection a tenant got – protection from eviction or rent hikes, the legal right to a safe and well-maintained home – reduced the value of every home in town.

After all, the better a landlord has to treat their tenants, the less money a landlord can make from a rental property. The less money a landlord can make from a rental property, the less they'd bid on a house like yours if it went up for sale.

And since anyone planning to buy your house to live in it has to outbid a landlord who might want to rent it out, giving tenants any protection threatened everything – the one asset you owned, which was your plan a, b and c for paying off all that health, education, and assisted living debt:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/06/the-rents-too-damned-high/

Today, the house-as-asset scam is breathing its last. There are millions more people who need homes than there are homes available. Sure, homelessness is a fantastically complex problem, but you could address every aspect of it – addiction, mental illness, joblessness – and millions of people would still be homeless, because there aren't enough homes for them to live in:

https://headgum.com/factually-with-adam-conover/myths-about-homeless-people-with-dr-margot-kushel

70% of all inflation in 2024 came from the cost of housing; a quarter of that came from illegal collusive behavior by landlords to hike rents:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/up-to-a-quarter-of-rental-inflation

Wall Street landlords have raised gigantic war-chests and are buying up homes at a rate never before seen, converting every available single-family home in many cities from an owner-occupied home to a rental. Private equity and hedge fund landlords have elevated charging junk fees to an absurdist theater project: you pay a "convenience" charge for paying your rent in cash. But also for paying your rent by direct transfer. Oh, and also for paying in cash. When Wall Street is your landlord, your home is a slum, dangerously undermaintained, sometimes lethally so:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/08/wall-street-landlords/#the-new-slumlords

Capitalists hate capitalism. The best thing to sell is something your customer can't live without, and that no one else has for sale. That's why "the market" loves private prisons so much:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/02/captive-customers/#guillotine-watch

The vast sums Wall Street is putting into buying up all of America's available housing stock is a bet that they can establish regional monopolies over having a home, and charge all the market can bear.

That's the plan at Invitation Homes, a company that was just targeted by the FTC for a slate of eye-watering crimes against the tenants in the 80,000 single-family homes they've acquired:

https://www.ftc.gov/news-events/news/press-releases/2024/09/ftc-takes-action-against-invitation-homes-deceiving-renters-charging-junk-fees-withholding-security

Invitation Homes purchases homes as they come on the market, and they're also a leading customer of the "build-to-rent" housing industry, a fast-growing segment of new housing starts.

Writing about the FTC's enforcement action against Invitation Homes, Matt Soller brings in Starwood Capital Group, who manage Invitation Homes properties, and own 14,000 more homes in the sunbelt. Invitation and Starwood hate the anti-monopoly movement, and Barry Sternlicht, Starwood's billionaire CEO, really hates FTC Chair Lina Khan:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/monopoly-round-up-corporate-slumlords

The FTC complaint lays out a suite of just comically sleazy things ways that Invitation abuses its tenants, starting with false advertising. The company lists its houses at relatively low rents, then charges a large fee to apply to live there. When you pass the application process, you're told the rent is actually much higher, and if you walk away from the deal, you forfeit your application fee. That scam's netted Invitation $18m since 2019.

Stoller really hates junk fees, calling them "convenience fees without any convenience, service charges without any service performed." He lays out Invitation's long list of junk fees, which honestly sound like a list that Chatgpt would spit out if you prompted it for fifty junk fees that wouldn't pass the giggle-test: "utility management fees" "Lease Easy bundle fees," "air filter delivery fee," "smart home technology fees," etc etc.

"Smart home technology fee?" Yeah, Invitation's gone in hard for Internet of Shit smart home tech. The SVP who oversees Invitation's smart home fee program was ordered to "juice this hog" (you guys, juice doesn't come from hogs).

After decades of recruiting everyday American homeowners to demand anti-tenant policies that benefit giant corporations, American tenants have few rights on paper and even fewer in practice. That's left the door wide open for Invitation to abuse their tenants in a myriad of dismal and unimaginative ways: stealing their deposits, trashing their credit reports to retaliate against complaints, illegal evictions, busted appliances, mold, vermin, insects – the whole slumlord playbook.

As Stoller writes, there's a twist: "this landlord isn’t just a random slumlord, it’s one of the biggest Wall Street players in housing."

There are vast fortunes to be made in converting the human right to housing into an asset class, but those fortunes end up in the hands of a very small number of billionaires. On their own, they wouldn't have the political power to dismantle protections for tenants.

Realistically speaking, most kids who grew up in their parents' owner-occupied homes are going to end up tenants, thanks to undersupply and housing inflation. But those kids' parents have spent decades demanding policies to make their homes as valuable as possible – including mortgage tax breaks (but not rent tax breaks!), looser eviction laws, and less enforcement of what few protections tenants have.

Middle class homeowners are the useful idiots and human shields of the billionaires who are determined to force every American under 40 raise their kids in a rented slum full of spiders, ratshit and black mold, which will still cost 60% of their take-home salary.

That's why the FTC's action against Invitation Homes is such a big deal. And as Stoller points out, Chair Khan is really just implementing Kamala Harris's campaign promise to get Wall Street out of the landlord business.

Wall Street's raid on your bedroom and kitchen has inspired a generation of "finfluencer" copycats who buy and flip apartment buildings, sucking ever-larger amounts of cash out of them until they're unfit for human habitation, with mountains of rat-infested garbage ringing their crumbling walls:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/22/koteswar-jay-gajavelli/#if-you-ever-go-to-houston

Any future worth living in is going to get housing right. We need to stop thinking of housing as an asset and realize that it is, first and foremost, a human right. That's the premise of my 2023 solarpunk novel The Lost Cause, which just came out in paperback:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865946/thelostcause

You can't protect yourself from rising seas or rising healthcare bills through individual home-ownership. Solidarity – the kind of solidarity that once powered the union movement, and that is powering it again – is the only way to defeat the housing profiteers. The New Deal wasn't perfect, which is why whatever we do next has to be bigger, further reaching, and more inclusive than what FDR did almost a century ago.

The only minority that should be excluded from the next New Deal is billionaires.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/01/housing-is-a-human-right/#rentier-tech

Image: Sam Valadi (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/132084522@N05/17086570218/

Carlos Delgado (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wall_Street_-_New_York_Stock_Exchange.jpg

CC BY 2.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

[mountainsandmayhem]

BDSMaid - Chapter 1

Masterlist || AO3

Pairing: Millionaire Joel Miller x Female Reader Rating: 18+ Chapter Summary: To save money for law school, you accept a job at Maid Discretely; a high end, anonymous cleaning service. You aren’t supposed to know whose home you’re cleaning, but your curiosity is peaked by your first client, and when the two of you have a shocking and surprising run in, more than just your curiosity peaks.  CW: Author chooses not to use warnings in this chapter in order to avoid spoilers. While I never want to trigger anyone, you are solely responsible for the content you consume. AN: Oh boy, here we go! I'm in a straight PANIC getting ready to post this. I hope it meets all your expectations, I was not at all expecting that reaction to the teaser post. Love you all and thank you for all your support. Please share or comment, I have a praise kink LOL. Follow @mountainsandmayhem-updates and turn on notifications for future chapters. Dividers and support banners by @saradika-graphics. Thank you @mermaidgirl30, @littlevenicebitch69, @joelmillerisapunk and @burntheedges for being my little cheerleaders over this, ily!! Chapter Word Count: 4.4k

You stare down at the very intimidating legal document you have clasped in your clammy hands. There are so many big legal sounding words that seem to be mocking you with their importance. Somehow there are clauses that have sub clauses that are then further broken down into sub-subclauses. It feels heavy to be handed this on a Monday morning. Truthfully, this doesn’t seem like something a soon-to-be twenty-one year old woman who literally just graduated college, albeit a semester early, should be allowed to sign without parents and a lawyer present. 

This is just supposed to be a simple job working part time as a maid for your best friend's family’s cleaning company. A job where she promised easy money and part time hours that you set for yourself. The perfect opportunity for you to be able to save money AND set aside lots of study time for your upcoming LSAT rewrite. You passed it a few months ago and applied to a bunch of law schools, but you aren’t going to waste these next few months waiting around. You know how competitive law schools can be, so you’re preparing to be better just in case you don’t get in.

Your eyes scan words that your brain can’t seem to comprehend. The internal panic starts to bubble in your chest, someone who has law aspirations should know what these words mean.

This is just supposed to be easy. Cleaning. Vacuuming. Washing floors. Simple things. 

But now, as you sit in this shiny, fancy downtown office building looking at your full legal name typed beside a bunch of ‘initial here’ and ‘sign here’ lines on a nondisclosure agreement you’re starting to feel like this is anything but simple. 

“Our clientele is VERY exclusive,” your childhood best friend Jamie says. She looks very professional and grown up sitting behind her glass desk. Her long, toned legs are crossed, the slit along the side of her crisp, white pencil skirt showing off her tanned upper thigh. She’s paired her white skirt with a baby pink silky blouse that's perfectly tucked into the high waist of the skirt. Her long, dark silky hair is twisted into a jeweled claw clip. Even though you’re the same age she has an air of sophistication and grace, even with winged eyeliner, a matte pink lip, and a slender rose gold septum ring that sits tight to her little button nose. She almost screams old Hollywood in the middle of Austin, Texas. 

She continues, “You won’t know the names of the clients and they will never be home. If they do come home, leave immediately, and try your best not to be seen or heard. Then you can fill out in the company app what you did and didn’t manage to get done.” 

You put the paper down on her perfect desk so she can’t see your hands shaking. How can you work at that desk all day and not get a single fingerprint or smudge on it? There’s a very good chance that I am not cut out for this. This is fancy. And expensive. I’m neither of those things. 

“What am I gonna be walking in on at these houses, Jamie?” You ask, swallowing the fiberglass that’s suddenly prickling at your throat. 

Jamie shakes her head and laughs, saying your name through her melodic giggles. “Most likely nothing. We’ve never had an encounter or run in with a client. They pick times for cleaners to come when they aren’t home.” She leans back in her high backed chair and continues, “But the clients are big deals. Politicians. Judges. Athletes. The odd celebrity. They don’t want anyone in their home that will snoop or snap pictures. Hence the NDA.” 

“Well, why didn’t you start with that!” You laugh. “Jesus, I thought I’d be walking into like a virginal sacrifice or some shit!” 

“Well, there was that one time…” Your face drops and she immediately starts laughing again. “I’m kidding. Relax. Look, you’ll probably get three homes a week, each house will take six to eight hours. The hourly pay is twenty dollars plus whatever tip they’ll leave you in these black envelopes.” 

She puts a perfectly polished finger on a stack of black envelopes with a red ‘Maid Discretely’ logo on it and continues, “In my experience, the tips are around five hundred, completely tax free. This is a good gig! You’ll be in law school becoming smarter than all of us in no time. Fuck, you’ll be writing insane contracts like those before we know it.” 

She stands, one hand resting on the desk while the other slides the paper towards you with a closed pen. She drops the writing apparatus on top of it, the metal casing of the pen clanging loudly on her glass desk. You let out an exasperated sigh, dramatically clicking the pen before signing the NDA. Jamie claps her hands excitedly then snatches the contract away before you can rip it up and says, “Let’s get your uniform and supplies!”

She hands you a few fitted white polo style t-shirts, black dress pants, white Keds (that she scolds are for inside the houses only), a caddy full of high end cleaning supplies, a top of the line Dyson vacuum and everything else you’ll need.

She ends your meeting with instructions on how the company's scheduling and tracking app works. "Essentially, you set the days and times you’re available and it will populate for you. You’ll have addresses, dates and times, as well as tasks to be done, all nicely laid out for you. If a client likes you, they can request you for additional shifts, but for continuity purposes you should get the same couple houses that you’ll rotate through throughout the month."

You nod along, mostly surprised to hear the girl who did a keg stand just a few days ago sound so professional, using words like 'continuity purposes'.

The next day you have your first official shift. Tuesday from nine to three and you’re scheduled at a mansion in a neighborhood you’ve never heard of and you most definitely wouldn’t fit in to. Jamie is already waiting there for you when you pull up. She explained yesterday that she’d help you with the first one and then you are on your own after that. Well, not completely alone. Your iPhone is loaded full of smutty audio books, murder podcasts, and law books to listen to as you clean. 

Jamie was right, you think to yourself as you scroll to the latest romance novel you’ve downloaded and grab your AirPods, this is a good gig.

The house is absolutely massive, and you highly doubt you’ll be done in six hours. You gather all your stuff and head up to the house. Jamie shows you where the company supplied key box is and how to open it from the app. As you grab the key Jamie excitedly says, “This used to be my client. He always leaves a huge tip!”

You unlock the large front glass door and enter into a white marble foyer. The windows on the first floor are easily ten feet tall and allow in so much natural light. Gold and obsidian swirls in the marble reflect along the walls, dancing in the sunlight. To the left of the front door is a large open kitchen that might be bigger than your entire apartment. The marble of the expansive countertop is the same colour as the foyer. All the cabinetry is matte black with brushed gold handles. The kitchen opens into a lavish living room, a massive fireplace and TV sits on the far back left wall, encompassed by a very cozy looking white sectional. 

To the right of the front door, starting furthest away from where you stand in awe, is a door to a huge half bathroom, followed by a long table with a bowl for keys and mail, and then the door that leads to the garage. About fifty feet in front of you is a grand staircase that branches out to the left and right. Beyond the staircase you can see into the backyard. This is by far the nicest house you’ve ever been in.

As both you and Jamie slip into your keds she says, “Upstairs to the left are a few bedrooms and the office. I usually started there and then went to the right side where he has a huge entertainment area. Then I would clean down here since he doesn’t cook very often and it’s usually just a quick wipe down.”

Just as you start to panic over how you’re supposed to remember all this she nudges you and adds, “But that’s all in the app for you, most of the clients are very particular so they’ll lay out exactly what order you should be cleaning in, as well as any other extra things they need done.” 

She helps you carry all your stuff upstairs and then watches you work. Sure enough, the app says to start in the office so you do just that. Careful not to disturb the few piles of paperwork you dust the desk and shelves and then wipe down the windows and computer screen. You vacuum the hardwood and plush rug last and after Jamie gives you an approving nod, you move onto the next room.

You continue like that, going from room to room, your friend, and now boss, occasionally giving feedback or leaving to answer a phone call or respond to an email. The job is easy enough; repeating the same steps in each room over and over again. It’s the exact type of work you exceed at. You enjoy having clear sets of instructions and expectations, and a prioritized list where you can start at the top and work down. You’ve always excelled at following meticulous directions in school. Your life maybe not so much. When it comes to dating or your parents you aren’t one to do what you’re told.

When one o’clock rolls around you just have one bathroom upstairs and the already pristine downstairs to tend to, but Jamie coaxes you into taking your break, which is another thing you’re bad at. You were raised not to take breaks, taking a break or doing nothing means you're lazy. You should be working all the time, and pushing yourself to accomplish things. As a child you’d push and push yourself to be the best, honor roll ceremonies were the only time your dad would show up. He’d smile and brag about you to whoever was around.

“It’s important that you take all your supplies to your car with you when you eat your lunch. Never eat in their homes and never park on their driveways.” You nod and hoist all your stuff to the front step. “Make sure you lock up like you’re leaving too.” 

“How am I doing so far?” You ask as you lock the door, your stomach growling loudly as if it needs to prove to her how hard you’re working. You hadn’t realized how much of an appetite you’d gain just from cleaning. The few stale crackers and small can of tuna you managed to find in your cupboard this morning doesn’t seem like it’s going to be enough. 

“Really well! I actually think I might leave you to finish up. Don’t forget to take whatever he left for you out of the black envelope on the kitchen counter.” She doesn’t look up at you, her fingers tapping out an email on her shiny iphone screen. She doesn’t have her phone in a case and you can only imagine the level of self confidence you have to have to carry around an expensive item unprotected like that.

“Is it weird that there’s no pictures or anything of the family that lives here?” You say curiously as you both walk towards your parked vehicles. 

“No,” she says flatly. “I think it’s just one person here and that’s pretty normal for the houses you’ll be cleaning. Lots of them are rarely home or only home to sleep.” 

You gawk at the massive house from across the street as you throw all your supplies in the back of your used and rusted SUV. One person lives here. Alone. How is this possible? He’s clearly doing well for himself. Either he’s really lonely or a complete asshole. 

After you eat, you head back inside to finish up cleaning. The entire house looks like a show home. Not a single thing out of place. The kitchen seems staged, void of life aside from a tiny droplet of coffee on the countertop beside the Italian coffee maker, and a tiny brown stegosaurus toy that sits on top of it. Two minutes before the end of your shift you do a final sweep to make sure you haven’t left anything behind and then slip open the black envelope. Inside you find seven one hundred dollars and a note that just says ‘TY - JM’.

As you log your day in the company app you can’t believe you just made seven hundred freaking dollars to clean up after a man who makes no messes. You excitedly check your upcoming schedule and it looks like you’ll be back here in two more weeks. You could potentially be getting fourteen hundred dollars a month from this elusive “JM”. A man with no pictures or personal touches in his shiny white, black and gold mansion.

It’s been almost two weeks since your first clean at JM’s house. Your other clients were good tippers, usually between four to five hundred, but you’ve been looking forward to going back. You know you’re not supposed to know who the clients are, but you couldn’t help but google JM to try to figure out who he is and how he has so much money. In hindsight, you guess all your clients have money, but something about him has alerted your curiosity. He seems like smoke, or a ghost, in his own home. Your other clients had some sort of semblance of life in their houses. A dent in the pillow. An open newspaper on the kitchen table. A coffee cup dropped in the sink before they headed off to whatever fancy job they have to afford such a massive house. A toilet seat left up or a smudge of toothpaste on the mirror. 

But not JM. 

No, the only thing JM left was a tiny droplet of coffee. Coffee that was probably imported straight from Italy. You’re almost ashamed of the amount of times you’ve wondered about that stegosaurus toy. It seems so out of place in his house of clean lines and sterility. 

You’re just settling in to enjoy a Sunday night of sushi, rosé and Bridgerton with your roommate when your phone bings, a little red notification bubble popping up on the Maid Discretely app. You have an added shift request for JM tomorrow. Instead of one six hour shift on Tuesday you now have two six hour shifts. You accept the request and scroll through the tasks. He’s requested you to wipe the baseboards and lightswitches on the main floor, a deep scrub of every bathroom, as well as doing the inside of the fridge, stove and microwave. There are also instructions for washing the sheets in the main bedroom, and spraying down the patio furniture around the pool.

Only a millionaire in Texas would ask for his pool furniture to be cleaned in February. 

Shortly after you accept the shift you get a text from Jamie:

Saw you accepted the shift. The client asked for the normal clean on the first day, please. Extras the next day. Thanks.

The following morning you head to the large, bright mansion. Parking across the street and hauling all your stuff in. It feels a bit weird to be here on a Monday and you have a feeling you’ll be reminding yourself all day that it is indeed Monday and not Tuesday.

You get all your stuff together, change into your indoor company issued keds and head up the stairs. The pink and orange hues of the sunrise glitters off the white marble tiles, glints of gold and sparkling black reflecting off of it. You take a second to look down from the landing as you pop in your airpods. It really is a beautiful home, and it’s too bad that whoever lives here is either lonely or an asshole, but for a split second you let yourself pretend that you and JM just finished making love and he’s now in the kitchen making you an espresso or a latte with that insanely fancy coffee machine in the kitchen. You shake your head at yourself. You didn’t find anything when googling, which isn’t surprising since two letters aren’t much to go on, but this house seems to draw you in, like it’s calling to you. It’s strange, it’s almost like you have a crush on this house and you couldn’t help but make a whole persona for whoever lives here. Even with its clean lines and lack of life, something about it settles in your gut, it feels like home. 

You scroll your podcast app trying to pick what episode you want to listen to and head down the hall, you can’t seem to decide so you pocket your phone without starting anything and reach for the matte black handle of the office door. You’re expecting to see JM’s tidy office with a few stacks of paperwork in one corner, but the sight you find before you has all the blood rush from your head and your stomach dropping right out of your body. Your jaw drops and you freeze in utter shock and fear.  

Instead of the usual stacks of paper, there’s an icy blond haired woman tied to the desk. She’s completely naked and on her back with her legs spread wide. Her ankles are tied to the legs of the desk with a scratchy looking rope, her wrists wrapped in matching rope and resting above her head. Her nipples are almost purple underneath the clothespin attached to them. You freeze, just the lewd wet noises of her pussy being worked furiously by the mysterious, fully clothed JM. His deep, commanding, gravel filled voice reverberates through the office. “Little fuckin' slut. Gonna split you in two.”

The woman lets out an unashamed cry of pleasure. Your entire body seems to go numb as your caddy falls from your hand, crashing loudly against the hardwood flooring. His head whips to the side, the icy blonde woman letting out a scream and trying to cover herself up. Your hands cover your mouth and even though you can’t feel your legs you spin and run for the stairs.

“Fuck. Fuck. Wait,” JM calls after you.

One of your AirPods falls from your ear as you run, you’re tempted to stop and grab it but you need to get out of here. Jamie’s voice echoes through your skull, ‘try your hardest not to be seen or heard’. 

He catches up to you as you reach the front entryway, his strong hand pushing the door closed. You can feel the heat of his body against your back. You’re shaking - both from being terrified and embarrassed. You have so many thoughts running through your mind. This will get you fired, or worse, you could have just possibly lost the company a client. Fuck. You aren’t supposed to know who lives here and you certainly aren’t supposed to see them doing that. 

“Please wait,” he says softly behind you and the heat of his broad body sends a chill down your spine.

The blood is rushing through your ears as your heart pounds in your throat. You don’t like confrontation and even with the softness in his voice, you’re sure he’s about to scream at you. You feel sick, and when you replay the words he said to the woman upstairs, and the sound of her moan that made you drop your caddy you start to feel dizzy and nervous.

Your hand falls from the handle of the front door and the brick wall of a man behind you steps back. You spin slowly to face him but keep your eyes on the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, linking your fingers in front of you and focusing all your attention on the cuticle of your right thumb.

“No, please. This is my fault.” You trail your eyes from the floor to him. He's in perfectly pressed black dress pants paired with a white dress shirt. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms and he’s holding his hands up in front of himself as if to show you he isn’t armed or as a way to say 'you’re safe here'. 

You flick your eyes up to his face and he’s looking at you softly, the morning sunrise lighting up his tanned face and salt and pepper hair. JM is probably twice your age, but he is incredibly handsome. 

“I am so sorry. I must’a got my days mixed up when I booked you.” He says, a soft southern accent sneaking out. 

“I’m going to get fired,” you respond shakily.

“No,” he says stepping forward, you subsequently take a step back, pressing your body against the glass front door. Something about this man makes you nervous, but not in the same way women are trained to be nervous of strange men that are almost twice their size. “No. This is my fault. Please, let me explain. I jus’ gotta - well, can I go deal with…” his head cocks towards the stairs, “And then let me explain. Please?” 

You look at him, his handsome face all soft and apologetic. His dark brown and amber eyes dance around your face and without realizing you're even doing it, you nod your head. 

“Thank you,” he drops his hands at his side, visibly relaxing at your decision not to run. “Sit at the island for me. I’ll be back.” 

He watches you as you pad over to the island. The tall bar chair squeaks on the tile floor as you pull it out. He peels his eyes from you and heads upstairs. When you sit you have to stop from moaning out, the pressure of your body weight there sends a wave of rolling pleasure through you.

What the fuck? 

It’s a dull, throbbing ache followed by a small gush of thick wetness. Did you mistake a feeling of arousal for dizziness and nervousness upstairs? Were you turned on by what you just witnessed? 

Certainly not. There’s no way! He was, well, he wasn’t being nice to that woman. 

Soon you hear footsteps coming down the stairs and towards the foyer, his body blocks her from your view as they talk at the front door. They speak in hushed voices, all you’re able to make out is her saying thank you followed by the sound of a soft kiss and then she’s gone. 

She thanked him? It seems like he should be thanking her. 

He wanders into the kitchen and your throat goes impossibly dry. As if he can read your every need, he grabs a glass from the cabinet, puts it under the water dispenser on his fridge door and then slides the glass across the large island to you. You have to lift off the chair to reach it, whispering a thank you before taking a sip. 

JM leans against the countertop beside the fridge and watches you take a long drink. You put the glass down with a quiet clink and then fold your hands in your lap. His eye contact is intense, not in a creepy way, it’s almost like he’s assessing you. You find it hard to look at him so you avert your gaze to the glass. 

He clears his throat gently before he starts. “I jus’ want to say how sorry I am. You didn’t consent to seein’ any of that and I can’t imagine how awful that was for you.” His voice is so calm and soft. 

You flick your eyes up to him, “No, this is my fault. I am not suppose-“

JM shakes his head and holds up one hand, signaling you to stop. “No. This was me. I got my days mixed up. Meant to book ya for next week. This ain’t on you. This was my mistake. If it’s ok for me to ask, what’s your name?” 

You mumble your name into your glass and down the rest of your water. You figure you’re probably fired either way so who cares if he knows who you are. His face ticks up slightly, almost like he’s proud of you for drinking, and says your name back to you. 

“I ain’t gonna say anythin’ to your boss and I understand if you want to leave for the day. I’ll pay ya either way. I also understand if you say somethin’ to them and I can’t be a client anymore. It was unacceptable for me to be doin’ that when you’re supposed to be here. There ain’t any other way to word it. I was inappropriate and wrong.” He steps forward and holds his hand out so you slide the glass across to him. 

He refills it and puts it back for you to grab. “No,” you say, your voice cracking. After clearing your throat you continue, “No, I appreciate your apology but I’m not going to say anything.” 

He watches you again as you drain the glass, the same look of pride flashes across his eyes, “I’ll - umm - I’ll be in my office. You can uh,” he runs a hand through his scruff, “You just do whatever you need. I’ll stay outta your way.” 

He disappears before you can say anything else. You head up the stairs after a few minutes to find your cleaning caddy sitting in the hall with everything placed neatly where it belongs. His office door is closed and you can hear the deep rumble of his voice while he’s on a call. You grab your things, head into the master bedroom and begin cleaning. 

A few hours later while you’re sitting in your car eating lunch, the garage door opens and JM goes whipping past you in the sexiest blacked out sports car you’ve ever seen. He doesn’t even look over you as he speeds by. Your heart sinks, it's unexplainable but being in that house with him there, even after what you witnessed, felt more comfortable than being alone. JM must have some sort of magic touch, how you went from nervous and embarrassed to calm and comforted with just the look on his face and few words is beyond you.

After wiping down the kitchen you are all done for the day. You grab the black and red envelope off the kitchen counter and open it, peering in nervously. There’s a piece of matte black paper on top. You slide it out gently, the paper feels expensive between your fingers. As you unfold it you reveal a shiny black JMK logo at the top. In neat gold lettering is his writing.

‘Please know how sorry I am. Your consent is more important than anything. I broke that. Just hope I didn't break your trust. -Joel Miller.’

At the bottom of the envelope are ten crisp one hundred dollar bills. 

Next Chapter

[shanastoryteller]

when i was in second grade my teacher asked the class, “what weighs more - a thousand pounds of rocks or a thousand pound of feathers?”

he asked everyone who thought that a thousand pounds of rocks to raise their hands

then he asked everyone who thought that a thousand pounds of feathers raised more to raise their hands

there was this kid, kyle, who didn’t raise his hand for either. i remember looking at kyle in confusion, because he always participated during math, and the teacher asked him, “why didn’t you raise your hand?” 

and he answered, “neither is heavier. they weigh they same - they’re both a thousand pounds.” 

kyle was a smart kid

the teacher goes “exactly! the rest of you weren’t actively thinking about the question.” 

when i was in the second year of my first adult job after college, we did a series team building exercise with my whole department and they were conducted by this outside consultant that did this for a living. 

she put us into two groups and gave each group a different colored bag of puzzle pieces and put us on opposite sides of the room and started the timer. we were racing to complete the puzzle first, but we realized we were missing several pieces and had pieces we couldn’t make fit. the other group realized the same and it turns out we had to swap pieces to complete our puzzles, or work together, as she put it. 

“i never told you that you couldn’t work together,” she said smugly. “you decided that because you were in different groups, that meant you were competing.” 

and i was seven years old again, being tricked 

i understand what these people were trying to do. but. 

my teacher asks me a question giving me two options. why would i assume there’s a third? shouldn’t i trust my teacher if he tells me that there are two options, that one of them is correct? in any other situation, going “neither” to a question would be considered backtalk, and get you in trouble

we did not naturally come from two different groups and refuse to work together - we were put there, artificially, and then given a task that we had no reason to believe we needed to do together. and then when we saw there was a need, we did! what was proven here, exactly?

if you set someone up to fail, and then they do, considering that failure a commentary on the human condition is just self serving

these instances teach important lessons, but not necessarily the ones i think they wanted to

question authority

make sure you’re not being set up for failure by people who have a vested interest in that failure 

“active reading” and “working together” are fine enough lessons, i guess, but the most important one is this:

don’t get got

[solxamber]

Roommate Rumble || Vil Schoenheit

You and Vil end up as roommates due to administrative error. Unstoppable force (Vil's perfectionism) meets immovable object (your chaos). It ends up working out perfectly.

and they were roommates!!!!

You’re sitting in the most soul-crushing waiting room imaginable—stale air, uncomfortable plastic chairs, and the smell of desperation. You’re waiting for the housing office to process your late application, which, in hindsight, you should’ve done weeks ago, but hey, it’s college. Time isn’t real here.

Between borderline disastrous drinking sessions, last-minute assignments, and your general vibe of chaos, the fact that you’ve even made it this far is kind of a miracle. But now, thanks to your masterclass in procrastination, you’re about to get assigned a random housemate for the year. At this point, you’re too mentally checked out to care who it is. As long as they don’t steal your ramen, it’ll be fine… probably.

The door swings open, and in walks the most absurdly pretty man you’ve ever seen. Like, this dude looks like he stepped straight off the cover of a magazine. And not just any magazine—like, one of those high-fashion ones where people look all ethereal and judgmental at the same time.

You try not to stare, but it’s impossible. He’s got this aura about him, as if he’s too good for this building, this situation, this plane of existence. He walks up to the front desk, where the housing clerk is, predictably, typing at the speed of a snail.

“I’m here to check the status of my application,” the guy says, his voice smooth but with a distinct undercurrent of annoyance.

The clerk squints at her computer, clicks around a bit, then frowns. “Uh… what was your name again?”

The guy rolls his eyes, but still answers with the grace of a runway model, “Vil Schoenheit.”

You nearly choke. Vil Schoenheit? Isn’t that, like, some kind of celebrity? You’re pretty sure you’ve seen him on billboards for fancy skincare products or something. Now you’re really trying not to stare.

“Uh… huh,” the clerk says, now looking vaguely uncomfortable. “It seems… we may have, um, misplaced your form.”

Vil stares at her, and you can practically feel the temperature in the room drop by several degrees. “Misplaced?” he repeats, his tone icy. “You lost my form?”

“W-Well, not lost,” she stammers, “more like, uh, temporarily… not found.”

Vil’s eyes narrow, and you have to hand it to him—he makes passive-aggressive sound like an art form. “And how, exactly, do you plan to rectify this?”

The clerk clicks around desperately on her computer again, clearly wishing she was anywhere else. “Well, um, we’re going to have to randomly assign you a housemate. Since we don’t have time to redo the whole process… y-you’ll just have to— Oh, wait!” She pauses, glancing between you and Vil. “You both applied at the same time, so you can just… be housemates! Problem solved!”

There’s a beat of absolute silence as you and Vil both process this. You glance at him, and he glances back, slowly looking you up and down with the precision of someone scanning for flaws in a diamond.

Finally, he sighs, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “Acceptable.”

You blink, unsure whether you should feel insulted or… flattered? He says it with the same tone you’d use to describe a pair of shoes that don’t quite match your outfit, but are passable in a pinch.

You don’t even get the chance to respond because, let’s be real, your brain is still trying to catch up. Did Vil Schoenheit just say you were “acceptable” as a housemate?

Honestly, though, you shrug it off. If you’re being real, as long as he stays in his room and you stay in yours, who cares if you’re housemates with a guy who looks like he bathes in designer moisturizer?

“Great!” the clerk chirps, relieved to have avoided death by model glare. “You’re all set, then! Enjoy your semester!”

You glance at Vil one more time, who’s already looking like he regrets every life choice that led him here. Meanwhile, you’re just hoping he doesn’t judge you for eating pizza rolls at 3 AM.

It's three days into this whole housemate arrangement with Vil, and honestly, it’s not bad. You’ve barely even crossed each other’s paths, which works out perfectly. He does his thing, you do your thing—totally peaceful.

You stumble out of bed one morning, still half-asleep, grab the first set of clothes you can find on the floor (you’re 90% sure these jeans don’t belong to you), and zombie-walk your way to the kitchen. You’re already 15 minutes late to class, but who cares? Time isn’t real, and neither is your motivation.

As you shuffle in, you spot Vil at the counter. He’s sitting there, back straight, eating what looks like a perfect, Instagram-worthy breakfast. It’s all eggs and avocado toast and some kind of smoothie that’s probably made from fruits you’ve never even heard of. He’s impeccably dressed, even though it’s like 7 AM, and you can’t help but be mildly impressed. The guy is a full-time student, works as a model and actor, and still manages to look like he just walked off a red carpet.

Meanwhile, you’re over here in a mismatched hoodie and some band T-shirt from high school, hair resembling a rat’s nest, and the sheer determination of a person who’s willing to eat raw cereal to survive.

You try to be polite, offering Vil a smile. Or at least, what you think is a smile. It’s probably more of a grimace, to be honest. You’re running on fumes, and it shows.

Vil glances at you, eyes narrowing like he’s silently assessing every poor life choice you’ve made up to this point. Still, he says nothing, just gives a tiny nod of acknowledgment.

You head straight for the pantry, grab a box of cereal, and rip open a Red Bull. Breakfast of champions. You’re about to pour the cereal into your mouth raw, no milk, no dignity, when suddenly—

SMACK.

The Red Bull flies out of your hand, clattering to the counter, and you’re left holding an empty cereal box like some kind of fool. You stare at it in shock, then turn to Vil, who’s looking at you like you just summoned Satan.

“Dude??” You blink, genuinely confused.

Vil crosses his arms, expression disgusted as he points at the stove, where there are some leftovers of whatever perfect meal he made earlier. “That,” he says, enunciating like he’s explaining basic math to a child, “is food. What you were about to ingest is poison.”

You look between him and your spilled Red Bull. “Uh, that was breakfast?”

“No,” Vil snaps, “that was a caffeine overdose waiting to happen. And dry cereal? Have you lost the will to live entirely?”

You’re still processing the fact that he just slapped your breakfast out of your hands when you glance at the stove again. Your stomach growls, and, well, you guess your organs could use something that won’t actively try to kill you.

“Fine,” you mutter, shuffling over to grab a plate. “But if I’m late to class, I’m blaming you.”

Vil barely glances at you as you load up your plate with whatever masterpiece he’s made. “You’re already late,” he says flatly.

“...Okay, fair.”

You sit down at the table, expecting the silence to be awkward, but it’s surprisingly chill. You eat, Vil eats, and for a brief, strange moment, it’s kind of peaceful. You didn’t think breakfast could be… normal. Not with someone like him.

Just as you finish, Vil stands up, wipes his mouth, and gives you a small nod. “You’re welcome,” he says, like he’s just saved your life—which, in his eyes, he probably has. Then he grabs his bag and leaves the kitchen without another word.

You sit there for a moment, fork still in your hand, feeling oddly touched. Then you glance at the clock.

You’re now 30 minutes late to class.

Totally worth it.

You pass out at 4 a.m., your body finally giving in to the pure exhaustion that college life has inflicted on you. You're in that deep, blissful sleep when, at exactly 7 a.m., you're jolted awake by a scream so loud it feels like it rattled the entire room.

At first, you try to ignore it, desperately clinging to the last remnants of sleep. But after a moment, you groggily realize there’s no escaping it. You groan and roll out of bed, stumbling into the hallway with all the grace of a sleep-deprived zombie, not even bothering to change out of your mismatched pajamas.

Standing outside his room, on top of a chair(???), looking absolutely frazzled, is Vil Schoenheit. Hair still perfect, but his usual calm demeanor is gone, replaced by… well, panic?

“What the hell happened?” you mumble, rubbing your eyes.

Vil’s face is pale, and he gestures to the door of his room with a shaky hand. “There’s—there’s something in there.”

Your brain immediately jumps to the worst. An intruder? A stalker? A wild animal? Something actually dangerous? Vil shifts behind you, as you carefully open the door just enough for you to peer inside. You brace yourself, expecting to see something terrifying.

Instead, Vil points dramatically toward the floor. “There.”

You blink. And then you see it—a cockroach. A big one, sure, but still. A cockroach.

You turn to Vil slowly, your face a mask of pure judgment. “You woke me up… for this?”

Vil, now perched on a chair, crosses his arms indignantly. “It’s not about fear. It’s about disgust. I am not touching that.”

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“...No. No, you don’t.”

Resigned, you grab a cup and a piece of paper from the kitchen. You approach the cockroach like some kind of extermination expert, scoop it up, and open the nearest window. With one swift motion, you throw the unfortunate bug into the outside world, praying it finds a better life somewhere far, far away.

“There,” you say, tossing the cup in the trash. “Crisis averted.”

Vil, still standing on his chair like the floor is lava, steps down carefully, brushing off his clothes with an air of dignity as if he hadn’t just been screaming at a cockroach. “I wasn’t scared,” he says, straightening his posture. “I was disgusted.”

You nod along, patting him on the shoulder with the patience of someone who knows it’s best not to argue. “Sure. No problem. Don’t worry about it.”

Vil purses his lips, his pride clearly a little bruised, but he still offers a tight smile. “Thank you.”

You wave him off as you shuffle back to your room, your bed calling you back like a siren. As you flop onto the mattress, you think to yourself, He might be a diva, but damn, he’s gorgeous.

With that, you pass out again, hoping to squeeze in a couple more hours of sleep before the universe inevitably conspires to ruin your day again.

You and Vil have settled into an odd but functional arrangement. If not quite friends, you’re definitely acquaintances with benefits — and by benefits, you mean Vil keeps you from dying a slow death via your terrible diet, and in return, you serve as his on-call exterminator for the various bugs your old house seems determined to spawn. It’s a mutual understanding, and lately, he’s stopped questioning your life decisions. Well, not as much.

One afternoon, you’re sprawled on the couch, half-asleep and doomscrolling on some social media app, when Vil clears his throat. You jolt upright, momentarily thinking you’re about to get a lecture about posture, only to find him standing there, looking at you in a way that’s… almost awkward?

“What’s up?” you ask, genuinely curious because Vil being awkward is as rare as you cooking anything edible.

Without a word, he hands you an invitation, embossed with gold lettering and all. It's for a performance competition on campus. The kicker? Vil’s participating.

“You want me to come?” you ask, surprised.

He waves a hand, trying to look nonchalant. “Only if you’re available,” he says, but there’s a slight tremor in his voice. He’s trying to play it cool, but the slightest hint of tension betrays him.

You have no plans (unless eating ramen at 2 a.m. counts), so you agree. “Sure, I’ll come.”

The day of the competition arrives, and you actually dress like a normal human being for once. Vil didn’t give you any kind of ultimatum about your outfit, but you figure you should at least try to look like you belong among the living.

You’re in the front row — of course, Vil had VIP tickets to a performance competition. The crowd is buzzing, but you’ve barely noticed because your attention is glued to the stage.

Vil appears, bathed in light, and you swear you’ve just glimpsed into heaven. His voice is smooth and captivating, his moves are graceful, and his gaze? One hundred percent lethal. It’s almost unfair. He’s the kind of performer that could turn someone to stone with a look.

You’re standing there, feeling the ridiculous urge to brag to the people around you that he’s your roommate. “Yeah, that’s right, I share a bathroom with that guy.”

Then, Neige LeBlanche takes the stage. Now, you’ve heard the hype. Neige is the campus sweetheart, the kind of guy who probably smiles at babies and rescues kittens from trees. If Vil is the untouchable beauty you admire from afar, Neige is the best friend you’d want by your side, also weirdly gorgeous.

You expect another powerhouse performance. You’re bracing yourself for it. And then… he starts singing.

Wait.

Is Neige… singing a nursery rhyme?

You blink. The crowd is eating it up, swaying along like they’ve been hypnotized. Meanwhile, you’re just standing there, dumbfounded, the only person in the front row not bopping along.

You glance around, jaw practically on the floor. Is everyone here insane? The man is singing something that you swear you heard at preschool.

And then it happens. Neige wins. The audience erupts into cheers, and you think the universe is playing a cosmic joke on you. What the actual—?

“What the fuck?” The words slip out before you can stop them, loud enough that the people around you turn to stare. Apparently, your disbelief is showing. You even catch Vil’s eye for a moment, and he smirks weakly at your outburst, but it’s clear the loss stung. A little part of you feels something unfamiliar—anger on someone else’s behalf.

You don’t even stay for the encore. It’s either leave or throw something at the stage, and you’d rather not get banned from campus events. You march out of the hall, still fuming.

Later, when Vil returns, you can see it in the slight slump of his shoulders. The air of perfection is still there, but it’s a little cracked around the edges. That anger bubbles up again.

But you have a plan. A master plan.

Vil’s been telling you for weeks that you’d look decent if you just took care of yourself, and you’ve been brushing him off like the human disaster you are. But tonight, for him? You’re willing to make a sacrifice.

So, when he looks at you, barely meeting your eyes, you blurt out, “You can do whatever you want to me.”

His eyes widen slightly. “What?”

“Whatever creams, lotions, skincare products—you want to use on me. Go wild. I’ll be your project for the night.”

Vil’s expression lights up like a kid who just found out Christmas came early. You didn’t think it was possible for someone to get this excited about transforming you from a crusty goblin into a passable human, but here we are. And honestly? You kinda owe him at least this much, considering he makes sure you don’t die from malnutrition.

The next hour is nothing short of war. Vil is aggressively applying products to your face like he’s trying to sandpaper your soul clean. His focus is deadly serious, his hands precise as he rubs some fancy serum onto your skin.

Between all the smearing of moisturizers and the occasional Ow!, the two of you start talking. Or rather, you start griping about Neige’s performance.

“I mean, seriously? A nursery rhyme?” you groan, rolling your eyes.

Vil huffs, his fingers moving swiftly over your cheeks. “Don’t remind me. The judges clearly have no taste. What kind of competition rewards… that?”

“Right? I was ready to riot. Your performance was like…” You search for the right words as he smears something cold on your forehead. “It was like watching art come to life, and then he goes and sings Twinkle Twinkle and everyone acts like he just reinvented music.”

Vil laughs—an actual laugh, something deep and genuine that makes the tension in his shoulders ease a little. “You sound like you wanted to run on stage and throw him off.”

“Maybe I did,” you mutter, wincing as he pats something into your skin a little too enthusiastically. “Honestly, the only reason I didn’t is because I didn’t want to get banned from campus events.”

By the time he’s finished, Vil steps back to admire his work like an artist assessing a freshly painted canvas. “There,” he says, his voice softer now. “You look… acceptable.”

“Wow, high praise,” you snort, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, Vil.”

He smiles back, something quieter and more genuine. “Thank you.”

You wave him off, already heading to your phone. “So… delivery tonight? I’m thinking chicken?”

Vil wrinkles his nose. “Not fried. How about sushi?”

“Deal,” you grin.

As you place the order, you can’t help but think—yeah, maybe you and Vil are friends now. Weird, slightly dysfunctional friends. But friends, nonetheless.

You’ve been working on this project for months. Countless sleepless nights, caffeine-fueled coding sessions, and a pile of stress larger than your student loan debt have led to this moment. It’s crunch time. You’re this close to submitting your final assignment. You think you deserve a break, so you go to order a coffee—just 10 minutes, tops.

But when you come back? Your laptop, your precious laptop, is gone.

You look around in disbelief. This can’t be happening. Someone stole it. The weeks of coding, months of planning, your entire project, everything. Gone.

You do the only thing you can think of when life throws you a sucker punch like this: you go drink.

You’re a few shots deep when your phone buzzes. It’s Vil. He’s asking, “Are you going to be home for dinner?” His voice is sharp, but you can’t even string together a coherent answer. You let out some garbled mess of a response that’s more slurred syllables than actual words.

There’s a pause, then a very clear “Send me your location. Now.”

Vil shows up at the bar like he’s stepped out of a luxury fashion magazine, a vision of elegance in this grimy little dive. You’re nursing what can only be described as a sad excuse for a cocktail, and he just gives you this look—disapproving, concerned, and about two seconds away from reading you the riot act.

He doesn’t say a word as he helps you out of the bar and drives you home. You can barely sit upright in the passenger seat, mumbling something about losing your laptop. You’re not even sure if he hears you.

Back at home, Vil sits you down on the couch and hands you a glass of water. “Drink,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You sip the water, slowly sobering up, though your mind is still a mess. Meanwhile, Vil is pacing back and forth like an actor in a drama, preparing for his monologue. And then it comes. He’s yelling at you, frustration and worry bubbling up to the surface.

“What are you doing to yourself? Why are you so determined to self-destruct?!” he demands. “You eat like garbage, you barely sleep, you pass out at random hours of the morning, and now you’re drinking like you’re on some kind of mission to obliterate your liver!”

You can’t take it anymore. His words break something inside you, and you just… fall apart. Tears stream down your face, and you sob, unable to hold it together any longer.

Vil immediately stops pacing, his expression softening in an instant. He crouches down in front of you, gently resting his hands on your shoulders. “Why are you crying?” he asks, his voice now quiet, almost tender.

You try to explain between hiccupping sobs. “My laptop—it’s gone. I… I worked so hard, and now it’s all gone. Someone stole it.”

Without hesitation, Vil pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice soothing. “We’ll figure it out.” He holds you like he can somehow undo the theft, like he can bring back what’s lost just by being there. And in that moment, you cling to him, sobbing into his shoulder as if the world could collapse around you and it wouldn’t matter because he’s holding you together.

You wake up hours later, still curled up on the couch, with a hangover so brutal it could bring empires to their knees. But something’s off. You realize you’re not just lying on the couch—no, you’re lying on someone’s lap.

You blink and look up. Vil’s sitting there, talking softly on the phone, one hand gently patting your head. You try to make sense of it, but the pounding in your skull makes that nearly impossible.

“No, Rook, I don’t care how you do it. Just find it.” Vil says into the phone, his hand still idly resting on your head. He doesn’t seem too concerned about you waking up—if anything, he seems almost like he’s daring you to go back to sleep.

And you do.

The next time you wake up, it’s to the world’s loudest human: Rook Hunt.

“Ah, mon ami, I come bearing treasures!” he announces as he swoops into the room, a grin plastered across his face. In his hands? Your laptop.

You sit up, blinking in disbelief. “What…? How did you get my laptop?”

Rook flashes you a sly smile, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ah, it was no small feat, but for Vil’s amour—”

“Rook!” Vil snaps, cutting him off with a glare that could freeze fire. “That’s enough.”

You look between them, still not fully understanding what just happened, but you’re too relieved to care. You practically leap off the couch and grab your laptop, hugging it to your chest like it’s your long-lost child.

Before you can stop yourself, you turn and hug Rook, then Vil, a huge grin spreading across your face. Then, in a moment of pure, unfiltered gratitude, you kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Vil blinks, momentarily stunned by the gesture, but before he can say anything, you’re already dashing back to your room to finish your assignment.

As you shut the door, you can hear Rook’s laughter from the other side.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters to himself, but there’s a warmth in his eyes. Maybe you are a walking disaster, a self-destructive potato. But you’re his favorite potato.

It’s finally the end of the semester, and a little notification pops up on your phone: Housing Applications Now Open.

If you apply now, you could get your old dorm back—no housemate, no interruptions, just you and your tragic life decisions. No one telling you to eat healthy or waking you up at ungodly hours over insect-related emergencies. Just you, alone, in your beautifully chaotic mess. And Vil? He’d probably go back to wherever he was before, maybe with someone like Rook who actually knows how to behave like a normal person.

You should be thrilled by this prospect. A whole apartment to yourself again. But instead, your stomach is doing weird somersaults, and not the normal “I forgot to eat breakfast” ones. This feels... different. Kind of like the time you ate that suspicious leftover curry, except this time it’s your heart that feels like it’s about to implode.

Oh. Oh no.

You sit there for a solid 10 minutes, staring at the housing application, feeling something suspiciously like heartbreak. And being the impulsive disaster that you are, you decide the best thing to do is to blurt out your feelings without any consideration for how unhinged it might sound.

So when Vil comes home, looking elegant and put-together as always, ready to greet you with his usual "Good evening..." you don’t even let him finish. You jump up, and before you can second-guess yourself, you blurt out, "I’m in love with you. Deeply. Hopelessly. In love."

Vil freezes mid-step, his eyebrows shooting up so fast they might actually fly off his face. There’s a solid beat of silence as he processes what you just said.

“…Excuse me?” He blinks, looking like you just told him you set the kitchen on fire again. “What did you just say?”

You gulp but there’s no backing out now. You’ve committed. “I said I’m in love with you. Like... seriously. I think you might’ve ruined me for life.”

Vil stares at you, and for a second, you’re terrified that you’ve broken him. But then—he laughs. He laughs so hard he doubles over, clutching his sides like you just told the world’s best joke.

You blink, baffled. “Uh... you good?”

Vil wipes at the corner of his eyes, still chuckling. “Oh, potato…” He takes a deep breath, shaking his head, amusement still dancing in his eyes. “I love you too, you ridiculous creature.”

“Wait, what?” Now it’s your turn to stare in shock.

Vil sighs, but there’s a fond smile on his lips. “I was going to ask if you wanted to room together again next semester. But, you know... in a better apartment. One without bugs or whatever demons this place keeps spawning.”

You blink once, twice, processing his words. He wanted to room with you again? In a better place? Your heart does a little flip in your chest, and before you can stop yourself, you’re grinning like an idiot. “Oh, hell yeah.”

Without thinking, you pull him close and kiss him. It’s quick and impulsive, but somehow it feels right. When you pull back, you find Vil smiling at you with something soft in his eyes, like he’s genuinely content.

“Maybe I don’t wanna die young after all,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

Vil raises an eyebrow, his smile widening. “That’s a start. Now, go drink some water before you pass out from dehydration.”

You laugh, content for the first time in forever. Maybe this whole “life” thing wasn’t so bad after all. At least, not when you had Vil by your side.

Masterlist

guys I promise I don't hate neige I just hated the VDC ending I wanted to off myself fr

[minhosimthings]

Sample Session || 18+

Synopsis: In which you ask your boyfriend for a semen sample

Pairings: Sunghoon × fem!reader, non idol au

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, p in v sex, rough sex, overstimulation, unprotected sex (not for you at all) masturbation (male), spit as lubricant, praise, degradation, swearing, rough dom Sunghoon, sub!reader, reader wears pink lingerie, boob fixation, dirty talk eyyy, collecting semen in that tube because we medical students, mentions of Yunjin from Le Sserafim and Gaeul from IVE

A/N: this is my submission for @deluluriddhi's 500+ followers event which you can find here! Had a shit ton of fun writing this though so here you go babies!

Being a doctor has its advantages.

You get to help people, you get a shit ton of money (student debt sucks but hey), you get a hot boyfriend, you can correctly pronounce and know the meaning of choledocholithiasis.

Did I mention hot boyfriend?

Park Sunghoon. Possibly the hottest and the only surgeon-in-training you'd ever want to have inside of you all day long.

Of course the walls still speak of the times he railed you in the room where they kept the crp training dolls, but we don't speak about that anymore.

But one of the greatest advantages of having a Park Sunghoon, as you soon found out, was that he proved useful in a quest.

For a particularly awkward thing.

"Sperm samples?" Yunjin gasped, almost spilling her coffee on you, "we have to collect sperm samples?"

"For the last time, yes." Gaeul groaned, massaging her temples, Yunjin had been asking the same thing since the past hour.

"How on earth are we going to get semen samples?" Yunjin asked, turning to you for some reason.

"Alright ladies, time to seduce some men." Gaeul laughed, sipping her frappuccino.

"Y/N already seduced one." Yunjin groaned, deflating her body onto the table, "Hey, get some for us too will you?"

"Number 1, we need to have different samples, and number two how the hell am I gonna ask him?" You quizzed the girls, who looked dumbfounded.

"Maybe..you know." Yunjin began, and you realised she had the same face on as she did whenever she saw the extremely phallic design of the law building at your college, "Just do the oogey-boogey with him."

Gaeul's frappucino can spit out her nose, as she cackled loudly, garnering the attention of many people in the cafe.

"The oogey-boogey YUNJIN WHAT?" Gauel kept laughing, holding her stomach tightly, "Is that your way of saying that Y/N needs to seduce Sunghoon into somehow giving her his semen?" She said, when her laughter died down.

"Absolutely not!" You protested. The idea of seducing your boyfriend was...nice to think of but to actually have a practical session? You would have rather jumped off a cliff.

"Just ask him today, we have a holiday tomorrow, so incase the oogey-boogey indeed does oogey-boogey you have semen! Simple."

Gaeul's frappucino was subjected to being ejected out of her nose again, as she rolled over in fits of laughter.

This wasn't you.

This definetly wasn't you, Sunghoon thought.

His mind was racing at a hundred kilometres per the second, and his bag full of pastries for you was abandoned on the floor as soon as he saw what lay in front of him.

A reward for his hard work today? The thought of what he had done to deserve you was running a lap through his brain. You, in your pretty pink lace, with white trimmings, and pearls on your neck, the ones he bought you of course.

"Well hello there, gorgeous." He said, grabbing your waist in his arms, as he always did when he got back home. But this time, with a different purpose.

"All dressed up for me today?" He quizzed you, placing a kiss at the nape of your neck. It was pathetic how much the simple action made your hole so wet.

Sunghoon toyed with the pretty pink lace of your bra, kissing up and down your collarbone. God had you changed your perfume? It seemed so intoxicating to him. Your hands came to rest on his shoulder, as you nibbled the tip of his ear a bit, which made his dick throb inside his pants.

"Come on." He mumbled through his kisses, lifting you into his arms, making you wrap your legs around his waist, which you did promptly.

The one thing that Sunghoon would have never expected was the various medical equipment that lay on your bed.

"Y/N." He glanced at you suspiciously, putting you down on your feet, "what's all this?"

You awkwardly cleared your throat and rushed over to the bed, picking up a tiny test tube and shoving it in your boyfriend's hands.

"Alright so I have an assignment and I need your help." You said, a bit more seriously than you had wanted to.

"Do you need me to get you pregnant or something?" Sunghoon chuckled, his eyes darkening, "Cause I won't say no."

"Actually it's not that."

"Then what is it, princess?"

"Canihaveyoursemensampleplease." You mumbled, or more properly, to say, rapped.

"Y/N, proper sentences please?"

Sighing heavily to yourself, you gulped and wrapped your arms around Sunghoon again, pressing a chaste, sweet kiss to his pink lips.

"I need a semen sample for an assignment." You mumbled into his ear, albeit a but louder this time. Sunghoon smirked into your neck.

"That's it?" He asked, a cocky smile spreading on his face. His baby, needs a sample from him? He thought it was the most adorable thing ever.

"Yeah...it's fine if you say no though!" You panicked, looking at him with widened eyes. But Sunghoon only chuckled again and raised your chin to his level with his finger.

"How could I say no when you're asking so nicely?" He said, guiding you over to the bed. Kicking off his shoes, Sunghoon settled in nicely between the sheets, while you awkwardly sat at the edge, handing the tube to him.

"Don't want to join me baby?" Sunghoon asked, taking off his belt and his trousers, and pulling you in for a sudden kiss, by grabbing your face with his hands.

"You're a medical student too Hoon, you know I can't." You rolled your eyes at him.

"Alright, but do me a favour. Hold the tube in place for me will you?" He handed the tube back to you, and you bit your lip. Holding it in place. In other words, bending over to make Hoon see your cleavage.

"If that's what'll get you off, then fine." You grumbled, although your panties were getting wetter by the second at the idea.

Sunghoon leaned against the bedframe, relaxing into the sheets, holding his throbbing cock with one hand. He began to jerk off hard, his hand rising to the tip of the cock, where more fat drops of precum accumulate, feeling the alcohol of your perfume take over the body,

"that what you want, princess?” he spits on his cock and starts jerking off again while he speaks his hand doesn't stop, slow movements, up and down as if he wanted to feel the familiar sensation of your walls clenched around him. He could feel a knot forming in his stomach, at the sight of seeing your tits, lined perfectly in your lingerie. The sight of it made him go mental.

His hand never abandons his cock, squeezing, going up and down without losing rhythm. Sunghoon began to feel signs of orgasm so he reduced the speed of his hand, waiting for what will come next.

Sunghoon thinks while squeezing his cock tightly, holding by the base his fingers massage the balls, he climbs his hand slowly and passes his thumb over the head of the cock dripping precum, spreading and with his eyes glazed, little moans escaping his lips. Sunghoon sits more centered on the bed, drops of sweat run down his hair, dripping and turning a trail around his neck, chest and belly, his body is so sensitive to touch that the drops of water seem to scratch while the sheets seem to hug him.

"Fuck—im close." He whimpered, eyes rolling back as the knot in his stomach broke and the next moment, his hand was drenched in cum, and you were holding a test tube filled with what you needed.

"Shit" Sunghoon fell back on the bed, while you happily inserted the semen into your carrier so that it stayed safe. You crawled promptly into the bed with him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you so much Hoonie, I had no idea how I was going to get the-"

"What about my payment princess?" Sunghoon's whispered growl in your ear left you crumbling.

His touch left your skin burning in desire for more and before you could even catch a breath his hands grabbed your legs and you find yourself wrapped around his waist. Your hair was soft between his fingers and as he gently pulled it, you let out a little groan. 

"Hoonie–" you whimpered, feeling a blush creep up to your cheeks.

He loved seeing you like that, confused, embarrassed, submissive, and highly aroused. Holding your gaze for another moment, he rubbed his hand over your wet folds, gathering your slick on his palm. When he finally bent a finger and slipped it between your lower lips, he watched you closely, and as a soft squelching sound rang in his ears, he saw you writhing in discomfort, frowning slightly, but it made him smile at you, and your embarrassment was quickly forgotten.

Holding your waist firmly, Sunghoon flipped you over onto the bed with a rough thump, making you moan at the very sensation of his biceps touching your body.

"So wet for me already?" Sunghoon chuckled, removing your panties slowly, "You're so adorable."

"Shut up." You groaned, feeling embarrased again, "Hoonie, we ran out of condoms, maybe we should-"

"You're on birth control right?" Sunghoon pressed a kiss to your neck, making you mewl when his tip slightly touched your pussy, "You're not leaving this bed until the sheets are either drenched or until you've fainted."

His voice was rough as he lined himself up with your entrance as you panted in anticipation, fingers digging into his back when he finally entered you, moaning deeply at the feeling of your walls starting to clench around him.

The stretch when he enters you burns gloriously, your mouth falling open in a perfect, round ‘O’ of ecstasy. Sunghoon fills you slowly, burying himself to the hilt, so deep that you can practically feel him rearranging your insides.

“That’s it, fuck, that’s a good girl.” he praises.

Discomposed, his voice thickens, rounding the vowels and blurring the ends of his words. Sunghoon rocks his hips one shallow thrust striking a spot inside you that has your vision whiting out, ecstasy buzzing in your heavy limbs.

“That felt good, huh? Yeah. I know, I know,” he soothes, swallowing your whines with wet, deliberate kisses, tongue sweeping every corner of your mouth and teeth grazing your lips.

Your noises grew louder, as did the wet squelching sounds as your pussy fluttered around him, muscles clenching, a burning warmth gathering inside you. You sank your nails into the old wood, holding on for dear life as his pelvis smacked against your cushioned ass in quick succession.

 “Can’t you handle it, baby?” Sunghoon looked at you with pity, "Is it too much for your pathetic pussy?"

“I can-fuck, I can—handle it.” you whimpered. You clearly, could not handle it.

His own grunts filled your ears, adding to the tension building up in your belly, those deep vibrations pushing you right over the edge.

"Hoon-I—ah FUCK!"

You cried out when your walls clamped around him, that tight coil within exploding into a thousand tiny lights that made your entire body convulse against him. He felt your orgasmic contractions, and despite the soreness in his leg, he kept fucking you through your release, your juices helping in easing your tight passage, but he still strained to keep his rhythm. His fingers dug into your soft skin, and he felt a bead of sweat running along his temple.

That unlocked something inside of him. While he still held you, leaving sloppy kisses on your neck, your shoulders, anywhere he could reach, he slammed into you, forcing your small body to jerk in his arms with each thrust. He grunted and moaned, nearly panting, as he crammed himself inside of you.

It doesn’t take long for your next orgasm to build up, releasing it with a silent cry as you unintentionally dig your fingers into Sunghoon's back causing him to groan in your ear in pleasure. He keeps his thrusts consistent as you begin to leak around his cock and onto the blanket beneath you. There’s no doubt you’ll have to change the bedding later. 

All you could do was bury your head in his chest until with one more thrust, he pushed into you, unloading pump after pump of cum. Afterwards, he slumped down, slowly dragging his cock out of your stuffed cunt, leaving you empty and internally screaming at the intoxication of the burn.

"Shit-" Sunghoon plopped down on the bed, next to you. Both of your chests rose and fell in unison, as you managed to steeply catch your breath.

A moment of calm silence arose before-

"Does your professor need any more sampler or...?" Sunghoon asked, eliciting a laugh out of you.

"Nope, just the one." You chuckled at his unseriousness as he pulled you in for cuddles.

"You're changing the sheets this time Hoon."

"Damn it."

Bonus

"So you did the oogey-boogey with him?"

"Yunjin!"

[apoemaday]

I AM 17. I HAVE A LOT TO SAY.

by Jackson Holbert

My mother was around all the time back then, always walking in and out of rooms carrying stacks of  laptop computers. She spent most of  her daylight hours blowing dust out of circuits, fans, motherboards, daughterboards. Sometimes her little canister would die and she’d have to use her mouth. My father was gone all day every day getting repetitive stress injuries at the newspaper. He was a journalist and everyone hated him, even his friends. Nothing really happened during my entire childhood so he ended up spending most days shooting paper footballs through a miniature goal post he kept in the locked drawer of  his desk. He was rarely kind. And in the few, short instances he was, it still didn’t seem like it. Something about his mouth made everything he did seem either sinister or inept. He was completely inscrutable except for a period in the spring of 2004, when he was just sad. I was young that year and my sister was older. She came home from college for the whole summer of 2005. I was 14. She told me not to worry about other people, not to worry about war, not to worry about a thing. That was the greatest summer of my short life. I had no friends. Oh I had people I talked to at school but once summer hit it was like every school bus had crashed headfirst into a wall except the one that was carrying me and my silver trumpet. I had that tall kind of  joy that you can only feel when your bones still have another few inches left in them. My sister and I would watch three movies a day and never go to the lake. Everybody says it seems like summer never ends until it does. But that’s a lie. I knew so little back then but the one thing I did know was that all my friends were coming back and I would once more join them in the hallways, in the classrooms, once more join them for hours after school in the far part of  the parking lot and would continue to do so until I turned 16 and got a job cutting my fingers on the cheese grater at the Pizza Factory. After that everything was all work work work go home Jeremy get your feet off the sofa  Jeremy work work math homework band-aids and on a good day a little trumpet and on the best days all trumpet. I wanted my life to be about music but in the end it was about getting B’s in subjects such as Spanish. I don’t know, sometimes it feels like those summers really did never end, they went on forever and just got progressively worse. We like to pretend that one day we just walk into our adulthood like a congressman walking into the ocean, but we all know that’s not true. What really happens is we walk into the same building day after day, but every night some crew comes in and replaces something little — a lamp housing, the chair of a conference table — until nothing is the same, until the building is not as we remembered it at all, until the building is stronger, up to code but a lot less fun, and the lighting, the lighting is fluorescent and obscene.

[unusualtfs]

The Roommate Compatibility Program

this is my first time posting something like this to tumblr, hope it's an enjoyable read !

Arthur and Jimmy may have had the same last name, but that was the only thing they had in common.

Arthur Lee was, by all accounts, a nerd. When the Asian math major wasn’t dutifully taking notes on complex equations at his lectures or studying in silence at the library, he could usually be found holed up in his dorm, gaming until the wee hours of the morning. His only extracurricular activity to speak of was his weekly participation in the Chinese Student Union, if by “participation” one meant “sitting in the back of the room and not speaking to anyone.” His naturally pale skin was made even more so by a lack of sunlight, and his messy black hair resisted any attempt at styling. Short, shrimpy, and gay, he had clearly never seen the inside of a gym. In short, he was the exact opposite of his roommate.

Jimmy Lee was everything Arthur was not. Tall where Arthur was short, buff where Arthur was skinny, popular where Arthur was friendless. The straight white jock spent his days living out the all-American college fantasy — playing sports, pumping iron, and partying all night long. Of course, that hardly left any time for Jimmy to work toward his comms degree — but that hardly mattered, because everyone knew he was as dumb as a bag of rocks. His brutish Neanderthal features, extensive body hair, and blond buzz cut only added to that impression.

Maybe it would have been unrealistic to expect Arthur and Jimmy to be friends, but certainly no one could have anticipated the sheer antipathy that defined their roommate relationship. Arthur’s reasons for hating Jimmy were predictable — he was dumb, loud, and obnoxious; he left dirty clothes and sweaty exercise gear everywhere; and he stank up the dorm with his alpha musk. Jimmy equally couldn’t stand his prissy, prudish roommate. Arthur nagged him constantly, and he shot down all his invitations to work out or go out. Not to mention, he forbade Jimmy from getting laid while he was in the room, which was all the time. Nothing said unsexy like the presence of a judgmental Asian nerd hunched over his gaming PC at two in the morning.

Needless to say, it was not an ideal situation for anyone. So when a flier for the Roommate Compatibility Program was slipped under their door one evening, their interest was piqued.

Having issues with your roommate(s)? The Roommate Compatibility Program is here to help! Our trained experts use scientifically proven methods to ensure you and your roommate have a lifelong bond. 100% success rate, guaranteed!

In a rare moment of agreement for them, they decided they had nothing to lose.

That was how they found themselves entertaining a stranger in their dorm the next day. The man, who had introduced himself as “Mr. Thompson-Filipowski, from the RCP — but you can call me Mr. T.F. for short” had shown up out of the blue, giving them no time to prepare. So now they sat in their respective beds, answering Mr. T.F.’s questions as he appraised their living space thoughtfully. He wore a loud blue suit and had in hand a clipboard that he occasionally used to jot down notes, but otherwise he had no distinguishing features to speak of. Everything else about him, from his build to his skin tone to his hairstyle, was somehow impossible to pin down. He must have just had one of those faces.

“Thank you, boys,” he said after he was done interrogating them about their (lack of a) relationship. “I just have one more question for each of you before we can officially get started.” He turned to Jimmy first. “Jimmy, what would your ideal roommate be like?”

Jimmy had to think for quite a bit at that question. Finally, he responded in his vapid baritone: “Uh, I dunno… I guess he would just, like, be my bro.”

Mr. T.F. nodded, scribbling something on his clipboard. “Okay, excellent.” He turned to the Asian nerd next. “And Arthur, what about you?”

“My ideal roommate would be someone who’s, well, similar to me,” Arthur said, wincing at how his voice still cracked at every word. “Someone who shares my interests, and who I can spend time with, and… yeah.”

Mr. T.F. returned to his clipboard. “Right,” he said. “So, to summarize — Jimmy, you want your roommate to be your bro. And Arthur, you want your roommate to be similar to you. Is that correct?” There was a strange weight to his words, exuding the sense that something significant was carried within them, but Jimmy didn’t register this and Arthur thought it irrational, so both roommates ignored it. They nodded.

“Excellent!” Mr. T.F. said, the ominous presence now gone from his voice. “Okay, so often what we’ve found at the RCP is that roommate incompatibility is often a case of misapplied expectations. Often, our roommates do meet our expectations, you just need to keep an open mind about it. I’d wager you boys have much more in common than you think.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and Jimmy audibly scoffed at that, but they both kept listening anyway.

“For instance, looking around your dorm room, I can tell that both of you have a pretty similar fashion sense, wouldn’t you say?”

Arthur wanted to protest that all of the clothes strewn about belonged to Jimmy, not him, but the more he looked, the more he realized that wasn’t entirely true. That jersey on the floor definitely belonged to him, as did the baseball cap hanging from his bed and the sweaty white socks next to his desk. In fact, now that he thought about it, roughly half of the clothing he could see actually was his. Huh, he supposed he did dress similarly to Jimmy, then…

“I guess so,” Jimmy said as Arthur was distracted. “It’s hard to remember whose is whose sometimes because we dress the same and wear the same size, huhuh.”

As Jimmy spoke, his words became reality. He didn’t notice, but he shrunk down a few inches from his previously monstrous height until he was just under six feet — still respectable, but no longer anything more. Meanwhile, Arthur rose dramatically to meet him, until they stood at the exact same height. Since the two were equally small and shared the same taste in schlubby, sporty clothes, they essentially owned one wardrobe between them, borrowing and swapping constantly — although what looked tight and well-fitted on the muscular Ajimmy was loose and baggy on the lanky Jarthur. Curiously, the shirt Jarthur currently wore was the one item of clothing he wore that didn’t update itself to match his new reality; as such, it was now uncomfortably small on him.

Mr. T.F. continued, “And judging by the sports gear and gaming equipment in here, it looks like you also have similar interests, isn’t that right? Have you ever tried bonding over that?”

Again, it seemed Mr. T.F. was mistaken. Yes, their room indicated their respective interests in fitness and video games, but those interests were far from shared. Jarthur wanted to correct him, but then he had to reconsider. While he wasn’t into sports like Ajimmy, he certainly knew his way around them. He got as hyped as any other guy watching the Super Bowl, and he had fun whenever he was invited to play a quick game of basketball or soccer.

Meanwhile, Ajimmy was trying not to laugh at the implication that he liked video games. What did Mr. T.F. take him for, some nerd like Jarthur? But now that he thought about it… he did have fond memories of owning his bros with his mad gaming skills. He didn’t really want to call himself a gamer — he wasn’t into any of that anime or Nintendo kiddie shit. But Madden, CoD? Yeah, he fucked with those.

Imperceptibly, the dorm room shifted to match the roommates’ changing interests. Posters of popular players duplicated themselves from Ajimmy’s side of the room and pinned themselves into the wall above Jarthur’s bed. At the same time, the gaming computer vanished from Jarthur’s desk, swiftly replaced by a small TV between their beds. Well-used controllers popped into existence, one for each of them. The roommates themselves weren’t spared from the wave of changes, either. The tan leached out of Asjimm’s skin until he was quite pale, although not unhealthily so. Meanwhile, muscles made themselves known for the first time all across Joethur’s body. He was still lanky, but there was a definite sculptedness to his body that had never been there before, demonstrating his newfound appreciation of physical activity and straining his shirt even further.

“Yeah, all the time,” Joethur responded to Mr. T.F.’s questions. “I can destroy Asjimm at basketball in real life and in 2K,” he bragged.

“As if!” Asjimm retorted good-naturedly. “Next time, I’m kicking your ass, nerd!”

Joethur laughed. He may have had some problems with his roommate, but their shared competitiveness was not one of them.

“Ah, that’s lovely to hear,” Mr. T.F. said, checking a box on his clipboard. “The best way to become closer is to spend time together, after all. But that should be easy for you two — I’d imagine your class schedules are quite similar, since you’re in the same major.”

What was Mr. T.F. talking about? Joethur had never taken a comms class in his life, and Asjimm would certainly never be caught dead in a math classroom. But then Joethur went over his class schedule in his head again, and he realized that he did share most of his classes with his roommate. There was Accounting 101 on Mondays and Wednesdays, and Entrepreneurship every Thursday morning… In fact, aside from Joethur’s one math class and Asjimm’s lone comms class, their schedules were identical! But how could that be the case…?

“Well, I mean, yeah, I guess we do,” Asjimm said. His face twisted into a cocky smirk. “But just between you and me, it’s not like we bother to show up to class most of the time, right Joethyr?”

Everything suddenly snapped into place for Joethyr. Ausjim was right, of course — being a business major required confidence, charisma, and leadership skills more than anything else, and both Joethyr and Ausjim had that in spades. It certainly didn’t require studying or smarts, which was fortunate for Joethyr, as his brain was rapidly shrinking to match his meatheaded roommate’s. In fact, it was even smaller than Ausjim’s — he had scored highly enough in high school math that he was able to take an elective comms class for an easy A this semester, while Joethyr was being forced to struggle through calculus for a second time.

Records across campus rapidly rewrote themselves to reflect this new reality. Ausjim’s grades rose slightly, even as Joethyr’s GPA dropped from a 4.0 to a 2.0 — but whatever, C’s got degrees. In turn, the two roommates underwent their own changes. Joethyr’s unkempt hair retreated into his skull, leaving behind a slick fade. Moreover, the spark of intelligence retreated from his eyes, leaving them dark and hard. Ausjim’s hair experienced the opposite change, growing out into an impeccably groomed quiff that perfectly framed his face, neutralizing his unattractive Neanderthal features. His body hair also faded into nothingness, leaving him totally clean-shaven. The business classes he was taking had taught him the importance of presentation, after all.

“Yeah, bruh,” Joethyr agreed, now speaking in the same vacant timbre as Ausjim.

“Well, how do you boys spend your time then?” Mr. T.F. prompted. He was nearly at the bottom of his checklist — this far into the process, he didn’t even need to guide the roommates’ transformation. Their new personalities had largely subsumed who they used to be, and would be happy to fill the remaining gaps by themselves.

“Isn’t it obvious, bruh?” Ausjim said. “The gym — duh! Gotta get those gains!”

At his roommate’s proclamation, Joethy underwent a startling change. At last, his muscles ballooned all across his body until they were identical in size to Ausjim’s. No longer did he have to settle for merely toned — he was well and truly ripped. So dramatic was the change that his shirt was instantly torn apart, revealing his glorious pecs and washboard abs for the world to see. The Asian hunk subconsciously flexed as he thought about his answer to Mr. T.F.’s question, realizing something funny in the process.

“Hell, we probably even spend more time at the Chinese Student Union than class, right bruh?” Joethy nudged his equally jockish roommate.

The word “Chinese” resonated in Ausjin’s mind as he experienced sudden changes of his own. His lush hair was quickly thickening and inexorably staining itself midnight black. And as for the rest of his body, his lack of hair down there became much easier to maintain, as he naturally had less of it. Meanwhile, his facial features were shifting all at once — brow softening, nose broadening, eyes narrowing, lips plumpening. Eventually, they settled on what the rest of his body had already become — a carbon copy of his roommate.

“Yeah, bro, totally…”

At the word “bro,” the roommates’ final changes began. The physical refinements were over, but there was still work to do mentally. Ausjin’s brain was purged of the faces of his former family, their white features morphing into far more familiar Asian ones. Fond memories shifted as his mother’s famous meatloaf became her authentic dumpling recipe, and the destination of his childhood summer vacations was corrected from Europe to China. Through it all, he remained the dumb, popular jock he had always been. That was also true of Joethy, who could no longer remember being a lame, skinny nerd. Nights spent studying were replaced with nights spent partying, and members of an extensive social circle easily entered the parts of his brain that had never experienced true friendship. His memories of his family remained the same, however — with one key addition. The newcomer’s face was blurry, but the more that he focused on it, the more familiar it seemed. Almost like… his own face…? Or was it Ausjin’s face? That seemed closer, but… 

By Joethy’s side, Ausjin found his memories haunted by an identical face. The two jocks sat there in dumbfounded silence, both trying to recall who it was that featured so prominently in their memories. What was his name? Not Joethy or Ausjin, but rather… rather…

“Joey! Austin!”

Joey and Austin Lee snapped back to attention, refocusing on their strange guest.

Mr. T.F. chuckled, putting his clipboard away. “You boys zoned out there for a sec! It’s okay, I’ll get out of your hair soon. I just have one last question for you — are you getting along as roommates?”

“Well, of course we’re getting along, bruh!” Austin exclaimed.

“We’re basically the same person already!” Joey finished his twin’s sentence with a pure, dull guffaw.

Because it was true. Joey and Austin Lee were clearly cut from the same cloth: The identical twin Asian jocks were both brainless, buff, bisexual business-major bros. The only appreciable difference between the twins was their hairstyles. Austin fancied himself a pretty boy, spending hours by the mirror meticulously maintaining his gelled hair. Joey, meanwhile, rocked a utilitarian crew cut, confident enough to put his angelic face on full display. But other than that, they were totally inseparable — everything they did, from working out to gaming to partying, they did together. (Rumor had it that they even fucked together, only bringing a lucky girl or guy home when he or she was willing to share.)

“Great to hear that! Thanks for participating in our Roommate Compatibility Survey, you two — although I don’t know what results we were expecting from twins like you… Anyway, have a great one!” As Mr. T.F. exited the room, he allowed himself one last glance back at the Lee twins as they mindlessly bantered. Both of them had certainly gotten their wishes. Joey was exactly like Austin, and Austin was exactly like Joey, and they were certainly each other’s bros — in both senses of the word. Another success for the Roommate Compatibility Program.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Mr. T.F., the Lee twins promptly forgot he had ever existed, returning to their existences as paragons of young Asian American masculinity.

“So, what’s the plan for today, bro?” Austin said. “Hit the gym, then hit the streets?”

Joey smirked, admiring himself and his twin in the mirror. “You know me so well, bro!”

[sweetbans29]

You're Mine - CC

Pairing: Caitlin Clark x Reader

Summary: Caitlin's jealousy grows when your attention isn't on her (based on THIS request)

Warnings: mildly suggestive

Word Count: 2.1k

Sweetbans Masterlist

AN: Okay but a jealous CC is something else...

It all started when they were moving into their apartment in Indianapolis.

Caitlin would not typically call herself a jealous person. She was confident enough in herself that jealousy was never a dominate feeling. That comes with being the best on the court. When the two of you started dating, it was the classic trope of her falling first but you falling harder. It was something the two of you would joke about often and even though you are pinned as the one that has fallen harder, you know Caitlin is right there with you.

The two of you met sophomore year of college. You studied to be an athletic trainer and got placed to work with the men's basketball team at Iowa. Due to the both the men's and women's teams playing in the same season there was a lot of overlap with athletes in the trainers nook. That is how you met Caitlin, she would typically be the first one in and one of the last ones to leave. You being you, would be the last one out. Cait would use that to her advantage and would often strike up a conversation as the two of you were finishing up your time there. One thing led to another and after declining a date with her three times, you finally said yes.

Over the course of college, the two of you build a relationship that has you moving to Indiana with Caitlin and her younger brother.

It's the three of you with Cait and Colin's parents as you guys move in. Once everything is in the apartment, everyone is quick to set up the apartment. You are the one directing while everyone is doing the physical movement.

The living room is set when you ask Mr. and Mrs. Clark to unpack the kitchen boxes which really only leaves both bedrooms.

Colin comes up to you with a shy smile and you know what he is about to ask. You have a major soft spot for the youngest sibling.

"Will you help me with my room?" Colin asks. You smile and nod at him the same time Caitlin waves you over to set up your room. Colin heads to his room and you turn to Cait.

"Let me help Colin then I will come in and help, I trust you," you say trusting her to start the set up. You give her a quick peck and head into Colin's room.

Caitlin stands there a little disappointed as she looks at what will be your shared room. She doesn't know where to start, you have the better eye for this stuff. It didn't help that she had pictured the two of you setting up the room together for the past few weeks. It's the first time you are living together and Cait really wanted to share in this moment with you.

Caitlin starts moving stuff around and quickly gets frustrated as she doesn't know what the best set up would be. She throws in the towel and heads into Colin's room to find you and him laughing over some old photo he has of him trying to keep up with Caitlin and Blake.

Caitlin frowns when she finds the room is set up and the two of you are sitting on the floor.

"Oh Cait! This is pure gold!" You say looking at the photos. "You were adorable."

"Were? Aren't I adorable now?" She asks, the comment hitting deeper that she would like to admit.

"Well you are grown now," you say as if it was obvious.

Caitlin doesn't hide her disappointment well.

"Are you guys almost done here?" Caitlin asks. "We need to unpack our room."

"I'll be there in a little," you say, eyes still on the pictures in Colin's hands.

Caitlin doesn't like the feelings that arise in her as she walks back. She swallows them down thinking it is because she is tired and it has been a long day of driving and unpacking. When you finally make your way into your shared room Caitlin feels herself relax. You come in and do exactly what Caitlin needs, telling her where to place things and helping her move the bed. Once everything is where you want it, the two of you fall on your bed.

Cait curls herself around you like a sloth, a common occurrence when the she was missing you or on the sleepy side. You chuckle at your girl.

"Sleepy babe?" You ask. She rubs her face into you, one of your favorite things she does. She only speaks after she is content with her little face rubs.

"Missed you," she says with a sigh which causes you to chuckle.

"We have been together all day," you say as your fingers find her neck, starting to massage her.

She doesn't say anything because it sounds silly in her mind. You are right, the two of you had been together all day, only parting when you helped Colin with his room.

"Why don't you and I do some exploring tomorrow?" You ask. Caitlin smiles and nods rapidly.

"Just you and I?" She asks.

"Just you and I," you say.

The next time Caitlin feels that unknown feeling arise is when she comes home from a particularly hard day at practice. She walks into the apartment in hopes of pulling you into your room for her to be held.

When she enters the apartment it's empty. She calls your name, in hopes that you would magically appear. After no response she sees a note on the kitchen counter that read 'Colin and I went out, we will be back soon. Love you'.

Cait sighs and decides to lay down. She hates the feeling of an empty bed and would much rather have you there with her. She shifts all of your pillows, not caring about keeping the bed made, trying to makeshift something that resembles you. When she fails, Cait gets up and decides to put on a pair of your sweatpants and sweatshirt then climbs back into bed.

When you get home, you see remnants of Caitlin leading up to your bedroom. Her shoes by the door, training bag on the floor next to the kitchen counter with her jacket hanging over the couch.

You smile at her trail and make your way into your room. You peak in to see Caitlin laying in bed, wearing your clothes, and scrolling through her phone. Caitlin doesn't see you enter and jumps a little when she feels the bed dip. Her eyes shoot up to find you crawling in next to her.

She doesn't go directly to you even though that is what she desperately wants. It is also what you expect her to do. You give her a questioning look and throw the pillows off the bed.

Caitlin stays put.

"No cuddles?" You say softly, seeing the tiredness in her eyes. You see the conflict in her eyes as she hesitates but slowly makes her way to her sloth position.

Once Cait is next to you, her body releases the tension she didn't realize she had been holding.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You ask and Caitlin shakes her head no. The only thing she wants right now is to lay there and listen to your heartbeat.

"Okay love, you know I am here if you want to," you say kissing the top of her head.

It isn't until the third time that Caitlin can name what she is feeling as jealousy.

She is sitting next to you on the couch while you and Colin are knee deep in a movie, pausing it every now and again to discuss what was happing and offering opinions. You went from being curled up in Caitlin's side to a foot a space between of the two of you. Caitlin sat there itching and that is when she feels her jealousy reach a peak.

You are in an intense conversation with Colin when Caitlin shoots up from the couch and heads into your room, shutting the door a little harder than she had intended to.

Caitlin is frustrated.

She is frustrated with Colin for taking your time when Caitlin wants it. It is a first for her to have to share you with anyone else, let alone her brother. Whenever Cait wanted to spend time with you, you were already doing something with Colin.

She is frustrated with you, only slightly, but still frustrated at the fact that you are not choosing her.

But Caitlin is mostly frustrated with herself. At no point during your Iowa days was she jealous and she has seen you a lot less due to her schedule. Now she sees you daily and nightly and she hates the feeling that she gets when she sees you bonding with Colin. Caitlin knows there is absolutely no threat in Colin. If anything, she should be thrilled that the two of you are getting along so well.

Caitlin sits on the edge of the bed and puts her head in her hands. She hates this.

She hears the door creak and knows you have entered. She feels you come and stand in front of her.

Caitlin's hands find your waist as her head is now on your stomach. Your hands come to her shoulders. You both don't move, only breathing with one another.

"Talk to me, Caity," you say breaking the silence. Cait lets out a sigh. She hates this.

"It's stupid," Caitlin says as she looks up at you.

"It's not stupid if it has you feeling like this," you say as your hands come to her neck. Your thumbs soothe over her face.

"The transition has been hard, I am not adapting to the league like I want to," she says and you both know that although that is true, it is not what has Caitlin feeling this way.

You look into her eyes and it is as if you can see her walls fall.

"I don't know what it is but seeing you with Colin has been making me feel like you are choosing him over me which I know is dumb but I can't help it. Whenever I want to spend time with you, you are with him and I get this feeling and it just burns inside of me," Caitlin says and you can see her frustration.

You can't help but let a smile creep to your lips.

"Caitlin Clark," you say and she already knows what's coming. "Is my girlfriend jealous?"

Caitlin groans as he head comes to your stomach again, shaking her head.

"Baby," you say bringing her eyes to meet yours again. "It's your little brother, you have no need to be jealous."

"I know!" Caitlin says. "It's just, we haven't had much time for the two of us, you know? Between my practice and Colin..."

You choose to not bring up the fact that the two of you saw each other less while you were at Iowa and lean down to kiss your girl.

Her hands grip your waist as she pulls you to straddle her waist.

She breaks the kiss and buries her face in your neck.

"How about we have a code word," you say and Caitlin perks up.

"What kind of code word?" She says.

"One that allows us to show each other that we need some alone time with one another," you say.

Caitlin smiles, "Okay, I like that."

"Any ideas of what it could be?" You ask. Caitlin smiles.

"How about buns?" Caitlin says as her hands squeeze your butt.

"Cait!" You squeal.

"It's buns," she says, wrapping her arms around you and laying both of you on the bed.

You roll your eyes but accept.

"Fine," you say as you look her in the eyes. "You know, jealous Caitlin is kind of hot," you says as you see Caitlin's pupils grow dark.

"Yeah?" She says as she licks her lips. You nod and lean in.

"To bad I have a movie to finish," you say sitting up.

Caitlin looks at you like you are crazy.

"You are seriously going to to choose watching a movie with my brother over having sex with me," Cait says in disbelief.

You make your way to the door.

"Yes." You say without a hitch. "Because I know, the longer I make you wait, the more rewarding it is for both of us."

You walk out and you hear Caitlin groan.

AN: I may or may not be doing a prequel to this with the 3 times you declined a date with Caitlin and the time your finally do... I am a fan of the concept. Let me know if you are interested in that. And as always, thank you for your love and support 🤍

[bigwishes]

Big Man on Campus

(a trade with @alphajocklover)

Trent had been going to college for almost 4 years at this point, he was 21 and steadily approaching his 22nd birthday and approaching his graduation even faster. He had spent most of his time inside, working on his computer engineering degree or gaming. He didn't really care for the college party scene, he'd much rather stay in his tidy little single all weekend until monday classes.

but when it finally sank in how close it was to being over Trent couldn't help but have a little bit of regret, should he have hit the gym with the other guys on his floor? should he have joined the casual rowing team just for some fun and exercise? was computer science really what he wanted a degree in? Senior doubt and regret flooded his mind, but there was still an upside. 4 months were left, 4 months he'd make the most of.

Trent went on the college forums looking for something to do, he thought about a few of the options but found two that he really liked. The first was a dungeons and dragons club the second was listen as an exercise club but it also seemed to be a project for two sport science students.

Transformation Experiment Ground: "Our names are Brody and Clark, we are looking for young males on campus who are out of shape looking to get in shape and help with our experiment. Come form a sense of community, get the body you desire and help us with our research!" Monday came and classes went. Normally Trent would go home and smash out a few ours gaming but it was time for his clubs to start. First he had the sport experiment thing, the only issue was he only had a few minutes to get to the dnd club across campus, but he wasn't sure how sweaty he'd get or if he'd need a shower. He just had to hope there was a shower at the campus gym.

Trent checked his phone, he thought he was going to the campus gym but the address was for a room in the athlete scholarship dorms. Trent walked passed the gym and into the building next to it. The halls had photos of previous college athletes plastered up between the doors.

Finally he arrived, right on time, room 223. Trent raised his hand to knock when the door suddenly swung open. Standing before him was a jacked guy with spiked blonde hair in a black tank and grey sweat pants and standing next to him just slightly down the hall was an equally jacked dude with shaggy brown hair in the same outfit.

"hey bro what's up I'm Brody and just over there is Clark"

Brody stuck out his hand but when Trent went to shake it he realised Brody was waiting for a fist bump not a hand shake, Trent awkwardly closed up his hand and bumped Brody's fist. Clark let out a douchey laugh that echoed out the door.

"Come in man, come in"

"You are, the only one comin" Clark sighed

"oh, was I the only one who signed up?"

Trent started to get anxious, guys who looked like this normally bullied him and now he was going to be on his own with them for an hour. Trent made his way into the room, following Brody and Clark.

The athlete dorms were so much bigger than the other rooms he'd been in. There was a large lounge space with a small kitchen, a door to a private bathroom and two bedrooms either side of the lounge.

In the corner of the lounge there was a small fold out chair and table. On the table were 5 green vials and what looked to be an oculus rift stripped down to its basic components.

"so ummm, where do we start with like a workout plan?"

"nah dude, I mean I can totally write you one but this is a bit more of a series of practice experiments" Brody said as he walked over to the small table

"get him hooked up man, I'm gonna grab my laptop with the video"

Trent followed Brody over to the small fold out chair

"its nothing too fancy but our class mates got the actual sports lab, apparently our experiment is pseudo-science"

"what exactly are you guys studying?"

"we are trying to see if active suggestion and nutrients redirection can get people to actively pursue fitness"

"oh damn, I just thought this was like, a workout class" Trent sat down as Brody began setting up the make shift visor. "if you don't mind me asking, what are you guys majoring in?"

"well I'm getting a double major in bio-chemistry and psychology"

"and I'm getting a double major in computer engineering and software development" Clark said as he walked back in carrying an open laptop

Trent's jaw almost dropped to the floor, he'd come here thinking he was going to be made to workout by two dumb jocks who were just going to scribble times on a napkin, but instead he's participating in a proper experiment designed by two people probably leagues smarter than him.

"okay man its real easy, we are gonna hook up an image display for a few minutes and you'll take a shot of this" Clark said as he handed over one of the small green vials.

"errrr, is it safe?"

Clark burst out laughing and Brody couldn't help but crack a smile.

"yeah man, its just a diet supplement you can get offline, fda approved, basically it tells your muscles they want to hold water and your fat cells to burn"

Trent downed the green liquid as Clark flicked the visor down over his eyes. There was a short beep sound before images began to flash on the visor. Flashes of guys working out, of dumbbells and the words you are a jock and you love working out and muscle.

Trent couldn't help it, he burst out laughing.

"I'm sorry guys this is so corny" He laughed.

The other two began to chuckle as well as the room filled with laughter.

"Look dude, Its the closest thing I could find on YouTube, its about the suggestions" Clark laughed

Suddenly the lights in the room began to flicker and all 3 globes in the lounge burnt out at once.

"what the-" Brody and Clark said in unison, but they were interrupted when sparks began to fly off the oculus. They rushed to try and take it off Trent but were shocked by the electricity. Sparks shout out of the power point in the wall and the two boys watched helplessly as Trent began to convulse in his seat.

Trent let out a painful and stalled out moan as the electricity travelled over the oculus and shocked his temples.

The room was dark was illuminated every few seconds by a shock or spark and the two boys could swear they could see something, something happening to Trent's body. A few more seconds passed before it finally stopped.

Brody and Clark stood there stunned, the sound of beeping could be heard from the kitchen as the oven entered safety mode, but a more concerning noise echoed in the boys ears. The sound of sizzling. Clark carefully walked over to the curtains and opened them, the room filling with light and showing them what had happened to Trent.

He sat in the chair with his head slumped forward, his chin hitting his chest as smoke was rising off the device on his head and all over his body. But what the two saw in the dark wasn't a trick of the light, Trent had indeed gotten bigger. His skinny fat body had expanded, he'd become more lean, his muscles more pronounced and most of the fat on his body had melted away.

Trent let out a moan as a string of drool fell from his mouth

"OH THANK FUCK HE'S ALIVE" Clark cried out with a sigh of relief.

The two rushed over and pulled the device off his head. Trent's eyes instantly responded as he looked up at the two of them.

"wooahh bro, huhu, that was intence" Trent mumbled

"yeah, thank god you're okay" said Brody.

Trent lifted his arm to the side and flexed his bicep and let out a dumb chuckle.

"errr, dude, real quick, what's your name?"

"Trent, duuuhuhuhu, you fuckin forgetful bro?"

Trent seemed okay but something was wrong, even with the short interaction the three of them had, Clark and Brody knew something had happened to him.

"hey Trent, what are you" Brody asked

Trent smirked as he lifted his other arm, completing a double bicep pose.

"a jock, duuuhuhuhu"

Trent stood up and effortlessly pushed passed the two as he started heading towards the door.

"well at least we know his motor functions weren't damaged"

Clark and Brody quickly followed him

"Dude, I really think you should go to the medical centre"

"Nah bro, I got dnd like NOW I gotta boost"

"wait Trent!" Clark yelled out "err, dnd thats an interesting hobbie for a jock, what else are you into"

Trent spun around on the spot with a big smirk on his face

"glad you asked dude, I love three things, gymmin, gamin, dndenin..dndin.....dndining....." Trent's voice trailed off as he tried to finish forming his catchy sentence

"and, what about your major? what are you studying?" Brody asked

"errr huhuhu, like, what's a major?" Trent said turning around to leave again

"FUCK DUDE I THINK WE ACTUALLY FRIED HIS BRAIN" Clark started to panic

"I mean, yeah, but it seems like his core interests and that jock hypno video have combined into a new personality, I dunno if we friend his brain more, re-wrote it"

"DUDE NOW IS NOT THE FUCKING TIME FOR YOUR INTEREST IN THE HUMAN BRAIN WE FUCKING CREATED GYM BRO FRANKENSTIEN"

Trent walked out the door into the crowded hallway. Students were all talking over the top of each other in front of their dorm rooms trying to work out what was going on. The two boys raced out to follow Trent.

"Trent dude wait!, errr, tell me about your dnd character" Brody called out desperately trying to stop him from leaving

Trent continued to power forward through the crowd, pushing through them like water with his new powerful body.

"well bro, I was gonna play some like, lil spell caster dude, but like, i dunno bro, numbers are hard, so like, I think I'm just gonna play, like, some sick fucking, roided out minotaur with a huge axe"

Brody was struggling to keep up with Trent, they both had already lost Clark to the sea of students. Brody grabbed onto the back of Trent's shirt which caused him to stop and turn around.

"woah lil dude, if you wanted some action all you had to do was ask, I got an 8 inch python with your na-"

"WHAT!, ha, oh, no dude, errr, that's" Brody's face turned bright red as he got flustered.

"no? damn too bad, you lil fuckin, science dudes are kinda cute"

Brody was stunned, some how all this muscle and new persona had also added a level of charm to Trent that dug right through to his core. But it was too late to grab his attention again. Trent had already pulled away and gone off out of Brody's sight...

One week had passed since the extreme power surge that had hit the Athlete Scholarship Dorms. There almost wasn't a single incident other than a few blown light bulbs and some damaged electronics....almost. The college had found out about Trent, no matter how hard Brody and Clark tried to hide it. However the two got off lucky. Both the College and the investigation into what happened deemed it was an accident that unfortunately resulted in what was being called "Personality Death". Trent had an entirely healthy body and brain with no signs of damages, but something had happen to completely re-write who and what he was.

The college couldn't let Trent graduate, he couldn't even remember what he had enrolled for, but the college still found a purpose for him. The hid the extreme and sudden body transformation from the investigation and gave Trent a 'job'. His official title was research assistant but he was too stupid for any serious work. His real job was to sit there and be injected with experimental steroids. Forced to grow like some roided out lab rat. Not that he cared, every time Trent put on even an ounce of muscle he'd spend hours in the mirror flexing. He was the biggest guy on campus.

[6 years later]

"okay babe, just hold still"

"aahhh, fuck, it feels so good when it goes in"

"you are so weird, I hate getting injections"

"well huhuhu, when you got a sexy lil piece of meat to do em, its a huge fuckin turn on dude"

Brody stood up from the kitchen table and began to clean up the injection kit, chuckling as he did it.

"Trent, that's so cheesy"

Trent stood up, the sound of wood scraping against the floor filled the room as he effortlessly and accidentally moved the entire dining table.

"will it make me look like Captain America huhuhu?"

"babe...seriously, I think we passed the Captain America stage about 150 pounds ago"

"then hit me with all 6 and make me the hulk" Trent pressed his body against Brody and the table.

Brody was no stranger to 300+ pounds pressing against him "I said no Trent" a slight grin cracked across Brody's face, 'besides, for all I know that one shot will add another 50 pounds, we gotta wait and see."

Trent stood there staring into Brody's eyes with an expression that could only be described as a computer failing to load a basic program 10 times in a row.

"Then jab me with all 6 and give me" Trent stopped to count on his fingers, "120 pounds of muscle" a large smirk crept across his face, proud he was able to do the math in his head.

Brody rolled his eyes and chuckled

"that'd be 300 pounds babe" Brody packed up the rest of the kit and left the kitchen.

Trent went to follow after him, he had hit the gym already today so no other thoughts existed in his mind other than getting attention for how big he was from Brody, but as he walked out the kitchen he caught a glimpse of himself and began flexing in the lounge room mirror, completely forgetting what he had been doing just 2 seconds again...

He was so proud of the roided lab rat he had become...

[bunny584]

OBSESSED: NANAMI (PT. II)

A/N: Because our collective husband won the contest. Gege texted me saying obviously Nanami would win. He also said if I don’t post a second part immediately Choso gets the boot next season. So I’m doing this for ALL of us 🤗 (I swear, I swear I’m 90% done with H&H for those of you that follow/have tolerated my lollygagging).

C/W: Fluff, Breeding, Mature, 18+

“It wasn’t over…it still isn’t over.”

Lines from The Notebook bubble from your lips onto Nanami’s bare chest. You’re curled onto him like a Cheshire cat. Your pretty, flushed mouth pets him. Followed closely by muffled sniffles. You bury your misty eyes and runny nose into his ratty, old college baseball shirt.

The one washed heather grey from the days turned months turned years of your careful handwashing.

I can get you another shirt, my love.

But I want this one, Ken. It reminds me of when we first fell in love.

Your answer is the same whenever he offers. Pouring all of your being into mending the natural little holes, the frays, and strain that comes with time.

His precious girl.

You nurse his shirt back to health, time and time again. In the same way you kiss him on rainy Sunday mornings. And pull him into the kitchen to dance with you under candlelight. And sneak extra food into his packed lunch on days he has to work overtime.

You are celestial.

With you he’s entrenched in the Heavens.

With you he builds the palatial wings of his own personal Icarus. Flying close, nearly too close, to the blinding warmth of your Sun.

“It’s so romantic, isn’t it?”

You shift up higher on him. Torsos melding together. Both your thighs cradled between his pajama clad legs. Nanami drags his fingers along your delicate spine.

God, he revels in you like this.

“It is, baby.”

Nanami catches the glassy mosaic in your eyes. Worthy of display in the Sistine Chapel.

You quickly bury your head into his neck, embarrassed about crying over a movie you’ve both seen over 10 times.

“I’m being so ridiculous, I’m sorry. It’s the stupid, dumb, stupid hormones.”

You press a cloud soft kiss into his chest and it reverberates down to his thundering heart.

Truthfully, Nanami has spent the entirety of the film watching you.

Tiny wrinkles in your button nose during some scenes, giggles and full belly laughs at others. You try to bite back your sobs. Slap away your tears before they splash against his abs — like they don’t correlate with the same points in the plot everytime.

He purposefully chose The Notebook after dinner because of your reactions. Just so he could fall in love with you all over again.

Just like Icarus.

Who fell from flying too close to the Sun.

Because loving you feels like a blissful free fall. With no ground in sight.

“I can’t wait to marry you.” The words flow out of Nanami. He can’t seem to contain it.

A pretty gasp escapes you. You pull away from the TV to shift closer to his face.

“Oh, Ken. I can’t wait to—“

“Kiss me.” His voice is throaty, laced with growing need.

Such an obedient girl.

Your lips are addicting. A fiend’s paradise.

He surges his hands in your hair while his tongue traces and tastes every corner of your mouth. You whine into him. He sucks on your tongue before taking your bottom lip into his teeth.

“Baby,” You breathe against his lips. Gentle pants melding with his.

Nanami kisses a hushed I love you into your mouth, before shifting your bodies on the plush couch.

His cock has been throbbing the entire movie. His shirt has inevitably shrunken over the years. Where it used to fall past your mid thighs, now it rides halfway over your hips.

Your plump, perky ass has been in plain view the whole night. Nothing protecting you from his invasion except for a thin, baby doll thong. Navy. Like the letters on his alma mater’s shirt.

Because your body is in heat, preparing you for a baby, your breasts are noticeably larger.

Filling out his shirt in the most mouth watering way. Your nipples, hard and sensitive, enticing him with every miniscule movement.

God, the way you wince and squeal when you brush your buds too harshly against him. Or whimper when the supple, puffy flesh of your tits push against his rigid body a little too hard.

His cock bucks off his thigh every single time.

The next 3 days Nanami will be reduced to the most rudimentary version of himself.

He’ll follow you around the house like a lap dog. Burying his nose and mouth and lips and tongue into every part of your body. He’ll grope you. Rub his crotch into you at every turn. Cum from just sucking on your nipples, if you let him.

You two have decided to abstain from sex when you ovulate. Until you are ready to create a love child.

He says you, because Nanami is fully ready, eager, to have mini-yous filling his home with life.

And really, he’s happy to let you dictate your family planning.

But the next 3 days will be torture. His needy, oversensitive heavy cock will drive every thought. He’ll jerk off more times than he can count.

Nanami is on his back now, with you perfectly perched on his manhood. Nothing but your thin panties cupping your precious little cunt. His length tents right up against you, begging for entry.

Both of your warm hands caress each hill and valley of his abs. Little crystals line your wide, puppy eyes. Tip of your nose so deeply flushed from all your tears. Cheeks dusted rose from your sex rubbing against his in this position.

No matter how many years you two have been intimate, you always blush, and squirm, and look away and hide your face like it’s the first time.

And it just makes him want to bury his cock in you. And take you. And worship you. And keep you swollen with his cum.

“How did I get so lucky?”

Again, Nanami means to think the statement but it rolls off his tongue on its own accord.

“D-do you mean that?” The way your bottom lip quivers makes his cock drool.

“My love. Your name was etched into my heart from the day I met you.”

Nanami pulls himself up so that your chest collides with his. You whimper at the sudden contact and the sound decimates his brain.

He crashes his lips into yours once more.

Your sweet mouth is blinding. You immediately evanesce into him. Little “ohs” and little “mmms” escape you in the pockets of breath Nanami allows you.

His cock jerks violently against your warm, dewy folds. Your arousal has soaked through your measly barrier. Now mixing with his, staining his sweats.

“Oh sweetheart,” Nanami husks against your lips. His fingers go to move your thong aside and are now drenched.

“So wet for me. Such a needy girl.”

He circles your puffy clit twice. And you buck against his veiny hand.

“Mmnnggh…oh god, K-Ken..” broken little moans kiss Nanami’s neck, while he pets your soaking wet folds.

“My precious girl,” he muses, fully aware of how pliant you become under his sweet words and light touch.

Nanami shifts his hips upward, just to avoid his legs falling asleep. But the sound that emanates from your lips is mind altering.

The friction from his fingers on your sensitive bud and his barely clothed, steel pipe length bullying into your opening drives you to see stars.

You bury your head back into the crook of his neck. So embarrassed about the way your hips start rutting against his cock. Slowly. On low autopilot.

Nanami grips your fleshy ass with his free hand. Pushing you deeper onto his rod every time you hump him.

“Oh yeah, baby?”

He gently teases into your ear. It’s such a fucking turn on. You rutting against him so desperately. Blushing up to your ears. Trying and failing miserably at fighting your body when it’s in heat like this.

Your nails dig little crescents into Nanami’s back. Small little puffs of air feather his skin.

“That’s it, pretty girl.” Nanami huffs.

“Use my cock. Make yourself feel good.”

You mewl at his words. Frustrated that the friction you want, need, is escaping you.

“I-I’m so…” words broken by your sloppy, desperate humping. Nanami grips your ass tighter. He suspends his hips upward to help you.

But his adjustments just make you whine louder. Pulling your face out of his neck to glare at him. Little frustrated crystals fall from your eyes. Your pupils are completely blown. Eyelids heavy. Nostrils flaring.

Fucking hell.

He could cum from just looking at you right now.

You need his cock. It feels criminal not to sink into your begging, decadent, pretty little cunt right now. When your body has worked so hard to prepare you to be stuffed and bred.

“I’m so horny,” another salty tear rolls down your pretty face.

And Nanami has to look up at the ceiling.

Because you say things like that.

While dripping around his dick. With your puffy tits and lips. Wearing his shirt that reminds you both of when you first fell in love.

How can you expect him to maintain any decorum?

“I-I-I love you with all my heart, Kento.”

And, he’s off.

You snap his last remaining string of self control in half.

Nanami takes another bruising kiss from your lips. His hands start dragging his shirt over your head. And you immediately moan into him.

“Be gentle with it!” You scold through delirious groans.

He can’t help but smile against your lips. His sweet, tender hearted future wife. So protective. Even if it’s just a cotton t-shirt.

“Forgive me baby, I’ll be more gentle.”

Willing his hands to move a beat slower. He pulls the prized possession over your head and sets it on the couch ledge behind you.

His eyes instantly drop to your sensitive nipples. And you squirm away from his searing gaze.

“My beautiful wife.” Nanami murmurs.

He places feather light kisses on your sensitive mounds.

Your tiny fingers wire through his hair and gently tug. And Nanami’s cock twitches in return. Leaking more of his arousal onto the mess you both have created.

“Can I make love to you baby? All I need is my tongue.”

Grit in his tone almost sharp enough to nick your skin.

You roll your bottom lip under your teeth. Wanton and utterly fucked out, you drop your hand to his crotch for the first time. Evoking a loud hiss from your soon-to-be husband.

“I want to feel you.” Hot desire woven throughout your angelic features.

Your voice calls to his manhood. The last remaining blood in his brain diverts directly to his groin.

“I…” Nanami pulls in a deep, shaky breath.

“I won’t be able to pull out, pretty girl.”

You take a kiss this time, swirling your sweet tongue around his. Nanami melts into your mouth like chocolate. Palming both of your hips with his large hands.

Pull out? He won’t be able to last more than 5 seconds inside you at this rate.

“You’re my husband,” your dulcet voice absolutely fucking his brain.

“And I want to feel you.”

Nanami has to bite back a pathetic whine. There’s barely 3 seconds left before he’s thrusting into you like the caged animal he is.

“Sweetheart, I could…” No, he knows he will.

“I will get you pregnant tonight.”

He offers you the last warning he’ll be able to mumble before he starts.

You cup his face. Place a chaste kiss on his swollen lips and grind onto his helplessly rock hard cock.

“Then let’s make a baby.”