captionstojerkby: There are worse things to have to do, and at worse times, on campus. You could be
captionstojerkby: There are worse things to have to do, and at worse times, on campus. You could be a member of the grounds crew after the homecoming game, when tradition dictates that everybody rushes the field, parties all night, and leaves it a junk-strewn mess by morning. You could be taking a seven-thirty section of intro stats. You could be TAing a seven-thirty section of intro stats. All in all, working at the campus bookstore isn’t that awful, even during Welcome Week, when we have to haul all of the books for lower-div classes down to one of the gyms and spend the week helping the hoards of hapless freshpeople who don’t know a syllabus from a hole in the ground. They meet with their advisors, register, get given these printouts of what classes they’re going to be in, and then form long lines that snake over the parquet as they come up, one by one, and hand them over to us with helpless looks of confusion, exchanging them for books that will be charged to their student account that will be charged to their parent’s visa. Although sometimes they’re excited, too. This one – I glance down at his sheet: “Miles Crenshaw, Student ID: 56373491″ – is one of the excited ones; beaming and flushed and with wide, expectant eyes. He’s prepped out, and wearing a 2016 sweater even though he’s technically in the Class of 2021; I take a brief moment after feeling too fucking old to imagine taking the sweater off him. I think about stripping him down in the low light of his dorm room – Garrsion Hall 345c, according to the printout – and watching his smooth chest rise and fall with shallow breaths as I run my fingers up it, tweaking his right nipple before sliding my hands over his shoulders and pulling him in for a kiss. A slow kiss, a soft kiss, but one that for all its gentle tenderness (freshpeople spook easy) will end with my tongue and other various parts of my anatomy pushing between his trembling lips. I smile in return, we banter back and forth, and as I fill his arms with books from the boxes behind me I play experienced elder, telling him about the profs he’s been assigned, which classes he needs to go to lecture for, and what days to avoid the caf in Garrison. He laps it all up – which is a good habit for him to get into – and when his sunglasses start to slide off the top of his head as he’s about to leave, I reach up and pluck them off and fold them and place them neatly on top of the stack of books I’ve given him. “There you go,” I say, and my grin shows my teeth. Or even better yet: leaving the sweater on him, and reaching down and gathering up the back of it in my fist and twisting hard, pulling it up tight against his slim body from above as he’s mewling in front of me, on his hands and knees on the low-pile carpet, and I throw the sort of mean, entitled fuck that would make Super Seniors everywhere proud. He leaves, and as I take the printout that the next freshperson in line is holding out to me, I put 56373491′s not in the trashbin to my left but on the table, near my backpack, where it looks like I’ve just set it down for the moment because gosh, it’s so busy! After I’ve gotten this one her books, I’ll go ahead and slide it into my backpack – along with 647388305′s, 38538041′s, and 64729205′s. Some of the senior students get new lists during Welcome Week, too. -- source link
#photo prompt#reblog