recently, I was writing this thing about two characters who are archetypes of life (creation and light) and death (destruction and darkness), and I caught myself feeling initially bothered by my tedious way of summarizing them into humanoid combos of the very same human ways and flaws.
my critique of myself was that the grandiosity of these deities and the primordial nature of their existence wouldn't leave room for them to be like humans. but it was a romance (guilty). and if I stripped away all humanity from the characters, no matter how cosmically inherent they were, I would lose the core of the reader's understanding. I am human, how could I not only write but also involve myself in a narrative with concepts I don't know and don't feel? they needed to be human to a certain point because I am human as a whole.
so, I was looking for ways to bridge the uncanny valley of placing such grandiose beings in ordinary, mundane situations. most stories rely on human limitations to give the narrative meaning. a great story of lost love only makes sense because time is counted. tragedies about accidents and loss only make sense because we are limited and because we die. stories of love and war only make sense because we know what hate is and we know peace. so how would I take a narrative to 'unlimited' beings? their bodies don't get sick or wither. their time is not counted. they are not theoretically struck by hate or love the way we know it. and thinking about a scene where Death reveals his feelings to Life, in the form of an 'I love you' confession, I found myself wondering: what does that even mean for these characters? after all, for humans, love is usually the word we use to define what we feel toward another person with whom we want to share our finite time, whose health we want to maintain and care for in sickness, whose happiness matters as much as or more than our own. but how could that be translated for cosmic beings? their time isn’t finite, and if we go deeper, perhaps it isn’t even linear; their existence doesn't depend on health, and their measured omniscience places them above mortal needs.
while thinking about this, I came to an idea that intrigued me. if they are more conceptual beings expressed in a tangible way, then their love would have to be too. I decided that life doesn’t love death because he brings her flowers or because they got married. after all, that is banal to them. but perhaps they love each other because of the intrinsic way their existence is intertwined. Life exists and matters because there is death. we only value creation because we know it can be destroyed. In this way, the love between life and death is less of a fleeting feeling and more of something inevitable and equally primordial to their existence, something closer to 'Ubuntu.' Death is only death because life exists, and vice versa.
and how could there be anything more powerful than the idea that 'my existence would be fundamentally altered to the point of turning me into something other than what I am, were you not to exist'. yes. this makes more sense. maybe that was what was missing from my definition.
'Just switch to linux', 'Just switch to firefox', 'Just switch to ellipsus', 'Just buy a VPN and pirate it' okay, or- hear me out- tech companies can stop making their products worse, because I shouldn't have to change my entire workflow and spend time and money learning new programs and tools just to have a bearable online experience
Okay and I’m gonna totally sound like my mom for a second here but it’s interesting that soooooooo many women in entertainment have careers based on “embracing their sexuality” but the vast majority of men in entertainment base their careers on like … being people…. and like maybe there’s a reason most men don’t seem to find going on stage in underwear “empowering”…? Bc it’s not…?
The thing about referring to a woman embracing her sexuality as "upholding the patriarchy" is that it's falling into like twelve discourse traps that the feminists of the past already fought their way through.
Time to read just a sprinkling of feminist theory!
Marliyn Frye's 1983 essay Oppression should not be at all controversial to modern radical feminists; its conclusion is that men are not oppressed as men, even if they experience deprivation for other reasons or are oppressed as other identities. But when I first read it in my feminist philosophy class in the mid 2010s (right before reading Crenshaw's essay on intersectionality, which complicated Frye's conclusion) the part that stuck with me was Frye's evocative metaphor of a birdcage:
Consider a birdcage.
If you look very closely at just one wire in the cage, you cannot see the other wires. If your conception of what is before you is determined by this myopic focus, you could look at that one wire, up and down the length of it, and unable to see why a bird would not just fly around the wire any time it wanted to go somewhere. Furthermore, even if, one day at a time, you myopically inspected each wire, you still could not see why a bird would have trouble going past the wires to get anywhere. There is no physical property of any one wire, nothing that the closest scrutiny could discover, that will reveal how a bird could be inhibited or harmed by it except in the most accidental way.
It is only when you step back, stop looking at the wires one by one, microscopically, and take a macroscopic view of the whole cage, that you can see why the bird does not go anywhere; and then you will see it in a moment. It will require no great subtlety of mental powers. It is perfectly obvious that the bird is surrounded by a network of systematically related barriers, no one of which would be the least hindrance to its flight, but which, by their relations to each other, are as confining as the solid walls of a dungeon.
Frye used this metaphor in the context of explaining the twin pressures to not be a slut AND not be a prude, illustrating how women are kept caged by a society that justifies punishment for both sexual availability and lack of sexual availability:
It is common in the United States that women, especially younger
women, are in a bind where neither sexual activity nor sexual inactivity is all right. If she is heterosexually active, a woman is open to censure and punishment for being loose, unprincipled or a whore. The “punishment” comes in the form of criticism, snide and embarrassing remarks, being treated as an easy lay by men, scorn from her more restrained female friends. She may have to lie to hide her behavior from her parents. She must juggle the risks of unwanted pregnancy and dangerous contraceptives.
On the other hand, if she refrains from heterosexual activity, she is fairly constantly harassed by men who try to persuade her into it and pressure her into it and pressure her to “relax” and “let her hair down”; she is threatened with labels like “frigid,” “uptight,” “man-hater,” “bitch,” and “cocktease.” The same parents who would be disapproving of her sexual activity may be worried by her inactivity because it suggests she is not or will not be popular, or is not sexually normal. She may be charged with lesbianism...
It's been forty years since this essay was published, but the situation hasn't improved all that much with regard to the slut/prude double-bind. Women are pressured to be modest AND pressured to be sexy. If you're good at balancing these pressures, or if your personal style falls naturally ("naturally"🤔) between them, you may not even notice you've been caged. You may look at a woman in modest Mennonite dress and assume she has succumbed to the pressure to be modest; you may look at a woman in a push-up bra and a miniskirt and assume she has succumbed to the pressure to be sexy. But consider: did you yourself succumb to the pressure to be neither?
I had to dig back over ten years to find this comic by @rosalarian, but I'm glad I found it, because it encapsulates the problem pretty perfectly:
There is pressure to be sexually pleasing to men and there is pressure to NOT be sexually pleasing to men. This is not some "men want you to be slutty and feminists want you to be a prude" thing: BOTH of these pressures come, ultimately, from the patriarchy! The unifying theme is that women's sexuality should be entirely under male control; women should never make choices about their sexual expression based on what they personally find gratifying. They should entirely restrict their sexual behavior to whatever the nearest representative of patriarchal power happens to want in the moment, whether that's saving themselves for marriage or stripping for the camera.
The reason women are more likely to have careers based on "embracing their sexuality" is they're more likely to be forced to justify trying to look extremely sexy on purpose. Trying to look extremely sexy (and sexually available) on purpose is not limited to female pop stars by any means, but Sabrina Carpenter aggressively dressing like a pinup is political in a way that Harry Styles in leather pants with his tits out is not.
So it's time to drag out another classic of feminist theory: Deborah Tannen's 1993 article There Is No Unmarked Woman.
(It's a very short article and I'm reproducing nearly half of it in this post, so I encourage you to read it in full.)
As I amused myself finding coherence in these styles, I suddenly wondered why I was scrutinizing only the women. I scanned the eight men at the table. And then I knew why I wasn't studying them. The men's styles were unmarked.
The term “marked” is a staple of linguistic theory. [...] The unmarked form of a word carries the meaning that goes without saying -- what you think of when you're not thinking anything special.
[...]
Each of the women at the conference had to make decisions about hair, clothing, makeup and accessories, and each decision carried meaning. Every style available to us was marked. The men in our group had made decisions, too, but the range from which they chose was incomparably narrower. Men can choose styles that are marked, but they don't have to, and in this group none did. Unlike the women, they had the option of being unmarked.
Take the men's hair styles. There was no marine crew cut or oily longish hair falling into eyes, no asymmetrical, two-tiered construction to swirl over a bald top. One man was unabashedly bald; the others had hair of standard length, parted on one side, in natural shades of brown or gray or graying. Their hair obstructed no views, left little to toss or push back or run fingers through and, consequently, needed and attracted no attention. A few men had beards. In a business setting, beards might be marked. In this academic gathering, they weren't. There could have been a cowboy shirt with string tie or a three-piece suit or a necklaced hippie in jeans. But there wasn't. All eight men wore brown or blue slacks and nondescript shirts of light colors. No man wore sandals or boots; their shoes were dark, closed, comfortable and flat. In short, unmarked.
Although no man wore makeup, you couldn't say the men didn't wear makeup in the sense that you could say a woman didn't wear makeup. For men, no makeup is unmarked. I asked myself what style we women could have adopted that would have been unmarked, like the men's. The answer was none. There is no unmarked woman.
The woman in the teal shirt and jeans in Rosalarian's comic thinks she is unmarked. She judges the other women for 'marking' themselves. But she, too, is marked; she cannot escape the patriarchy cage simply by splitting the difference between slut and prude.
Similarly, OP is comparing Sabrina Carpenter's marked-ness with the way male celebrities are unmarked. OP imagines that Sabrina could base her career on "being a person" if she ditched her slutty pinup style. But do more modest female artists actually get to do that, as a rule? There are a million articles and studies about discrimination against women in the music industry. Plenty of stories exist about the forced sexualization of female artists who actively did not want to be sexualized. But OP isn't digging into any of those: OP is most distressed by the female artists who are vocal about choosing and controlling their own sexual expression. And that, unfortunately, means OP's concerns are 100% aligned with the patriarchy on this issue.
There's a surface-level feministy reason for this, in that if you are distressed about women getting forced to be sexy when they don't want to be sexy, you're afraid that a different woman saying "Actually I really enjoy being sexy and I'm doing it on purpose" is going to provide convenient cover for the victimization of the unwilling.
But that kind of concern has always been a cop-out. If women aren't allowed to say yes to sex and sexiness, then you are not actually advancing the cause of female sexual autonomy. You're just saying that the patriarchal pressure to NOT be a slut is more acceptable to you than the patriarchal pressure to BE a slut.
You have to reject both pressures. The pressure to dress sexy, the pressure to dress modest—they are both the patriarchy trying to control women. Neither is legitimate.
If a woman is less of a person because she's too sexual, the patriarchy is winning. If a woman is less of a person because she's not sexual enough, the patriarchy is winning.
If a woman is less of a person for literally any reason, the patriarchy is winning.
SYNOPSIS★ When your sweet old landlady passes away, her grandson Caleb takes over the property. He’s goofy, charming, a golden retriever of a man—except behind that smile is a freak who can’t get enough of your scent. First it’s lost panties, then unwashed bras, and before you know it your landlord is moaning into your laundry and begging for “payment” straight from the source.
CW★ landlord!caleb, writer!reader, panty theft, gooning, scent kink, lingerie stealing, unwashed clothing kink, masturbation, cum everywhere, oral (fem receiving), leg humping, public indecency vibes, crack mixed with depravity, Caleb being a pervy golden retriever weirdo but hot about it, reader hairy + unshaved mentions, rent = panties arrangement, shameless dirty talk. . . wc : 4.3k
CHERRY’S NOTE★ caleb is a freak from heart. only face card is saving him. also, tysm for 4k+ followers—take this as a celebration gift.
You hadn’t exactly planned on being broke.
That was the funny thing about pursuing your dreams—it sounded noble until you were eating instant ramen for the fourth night in a row and rationing your laundry detergent because it was either that or running out of coffee. You’d quit your steady nine-to-five to finally give writing a real chance, which meant no more safety net, no steady paycheck, just you and a Word doc full of half-finished drafts.
And rent. Always rent.
The apartment wasn’t glamorous, but in the middle of Linkon City, it was a miracle you’d managed to hang onto it this long. The only reason you’d survived was your landlady Josephine, a sweet old woman with a soft spot for starving artists and lonely tenants. She never raised the rent, always slipped you leftovers from whatever she’d cooked that week, and told you, in her gravelly smoker’s voice, that you reminded her of her younger self.
Then she passed away.
Just like that, you went from living in a cozy, rent-stable haven to dreading the letter that slid under your door with news of “new management.”
That was how you met him.
Caleb.
Josephine’s grandson.
The first time you saw him was at the front of the building, clipboard tucked under his arm, chatting up the tenants like he’d been born to do it. Tall, broad-shouldered, messy brown hair that fell into his purple eyes when he laughed—and he laughed a lot, loud and goofy, like a golden retriever in human form. He wasn’t what you expected at all.
When it was your turn, he leaned against your doorframe like he already knew you, grin so easy it almost disarmed you. “You must be… let me guess…” His eyes swept you up and down before he tapped his pen against the clipboard. “The mysterious writer in 3B? My grandma used to say you were always clacking away at night.”
You blinked at him. “That’s me.”
“Hell yeah, nailed it on the first try.” He gave you a wink, then extended his hand like you were old friends. “I’m Caleb. New landlord, same building. Figured I should get to know my tenants, y’know? Keep the family business running.”
You shook his hand, noticing the way he held on just a second too long. His palm was warm, rough, and when he finally let go, he still lingered there in your doorway, rocking on his heels, grinning.
“So,” he said, like he had all the time in the world, “what do you write? Horror? Romance? Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who writes smut and tries to hide it. My grandma would’ve loved that.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “I… write fiction. Different stuff.”
“Cool, cool.” He nodded enthusiastically, messy hair falling into his eyes again. “That’s awesome. Bet you’ve got a ton of stories. You’ll have to tell me sometime.”
It was harmless, you told yourself. Just a goofy young guy, suddenly inheriting more responsibility than he probably knew what to do with. He made a couple of corny jokes about rent—“Don’t worry, I won’t make you pay me in blood, ha ha”—and then scribbled something on his clipboard.
But when he finally left, you couldn’t shake the way he’d looked around your apartment like he was memorizing it. Like he wanted to know more than just your name.
It started with one pair.
You figured you’d dropped them somewhere between your bathroom and the laundry room, maybe caught on another piece of clothing or shoved too far into the dryer drum. Things got lost all the time in a shared building like this.
But then it kept happening.
Another pair went missing the next week. Then two more the week after. You counted one morning, standing in front of your dresser with your hands on your hips, and realized you were down nearly half your underwear. The good ones, too—the ones you actually liked wearing.
It didn’t make sense. You weren’t careless. You weren’t that forgetful. And yet every time you shrugged it off, convincing yourself you were imagining things, you’d pull another empty drawer and feel your stomach sink.
What you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that your missing underwear never made it out of the building. They were upstairs. In Caleb’s room.
He’d tried to hold back at first. The very first pair he’d “rescued” from your laundry basket, he’d told himself it was just curiosity, just one time, just a stupid little peek because he couldn’t stop thinking about how good your smell must be. But one time turned into two, and then three, and then now.
Now he was spread out on his bed, the violet of his eyes blown wide with a glassy haze, his thick brows pulled together in desperate focus. Four used tissues were crumpled on the floor beside him, and he was rutting against the fifth pair like an animal in heat.
Your panties—pink cotton, soft and worn—were pressed to his face as he moaned, voice muffled and filthy. His hips bucked into his fist, stroking himself raw, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Not when your scent was clinging to him, filling his lungs, drowning out every thought except you.
“Fuck—pipsqueak,” he groaned into the fabric, voice breaking on the nickname he gave you. “Smell so fuckin’ good, can’t—shit, can’t stop—”
He buried his face deeper, nose dragging over the gusset until he was practically whining. His body trembled, desperate and frantic, as if the panties themselves were his lifeline. The mattress creaked under his weight, the slick sound of his fist pumping echoing through the room.
Around him, the evidence was everywhere. Pairs of your underwear scattered across his sheets, some balled up, some laid flat, some stained and ruined already. He’d tried to keep them neat once, folded in his drawer like trophies, but the hunger was too much. Now they littered his room like a shrine, and still it wasn’t enough.
Caleb’s chest heaved as he came undone again, hot spurts spilling across his hand, staining his stomach, dripping messily onto your panties. He kept rubbing them against his face even as his orgasm tore through him, shuddering with need.
And then, as soon as his breathing slowed, he reached for another pair.
He couldn’t help it. He needed more. Your scent was addictive, sweet and dizzying, and every time he thought he was finished, the ache clawed back inside him.
Caleb clutched another pair to his nose—lacy, delicate ones this time, the kind that made his throat go dry just imagining them stretched over your hips—and groaned low in his chest. His cock twitched in his fist again, aching, insistent, already hardening back to life.
“Fuck, pipsqueak… what are you doin’ to me?” he whispered, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to the lace as if he could sink into it. His body curled in on itself, hips grinding into his hand like a dog rutting against anything that smelled of its mate.
His sheets were ruined, his body sore, but none of it mattered. Not when your scent was in his lungs, not when your panties were his only salvation.
And still, he thought about you downstairs, pacing your room, probably frustrated and confused, probably wondering where all your underwear had gone. The thought made his cock throb painfully, precum smearing over his knuckles.
If only you knew.
If only you could see your landlord, your goofy, smiling Caleb, sprawled out in the dark, surrounded by your stolen underwear, jerking off for the fifth time tonight like a total fucking weirdo.
It was getting ridiculous.
First panties. Then bras. Then—what the actual fuck—your apple-printed pajama shorts. Who even wanted those? They had a bleach stain on the thigh.
And yet they were gone. Just like the too-tight crop top you’d kept for “motivation purposes” and even your socks, mismatched and worn down. You stood in front of your laundry basket one night like a detective on the verge of a breakdown.
“The dryer’s not eating them,” you muttered to yourself. You’d checked. Twice.
Which meant the only possible explanation: some pervert was going to town on your clothes.
The idea made your skin crawl. And yet—there was no way to prove it. No cameras in front of the laundry room. Nothing but your own paranoia. So you started paying attention. Standing guard. Lining up to wash your clothes instead of leaving them overnight. Still, things disappeared, and you swore you could hear the X-Files theme every time you folded laundry.
By the time evening rolled around, you were frazzled. Your desk was covered in empty mugs and crumpled notes. You’d been pounding away at your laptop for hours, trying to hammer out a smut scene for your latest fic, but the flow just wasn’t there.
You slammed the space bar, growled into your hands, and nearly headbutted the keyboard.
“Fucking—”
Ding-dong.
The doorbell startled you upright. Muttering, you padded over and yanked the door open.
And there was Caleb. Clipboard in hand. Purple eyes bright, thick eyebrows bouncing with every word as he grinned.
“Monthly check-in!” he chirped, like he wasn’t the reincarnation of your stress.
You sighed, rubbing your temples, and stepped aside to let him in. “Yeah, sure.”
Caleb strolled in with all the grace of a golden retriever let off leash. His gaze wandered over your living room, lingering here and there a little too long. And then you remembered.
Your laptop. Your violently-typed, wide-open smut scene.
“Shit—” you bolted to your desk, practically diving to slam the tab shut.
Behind you, you swore you heard the low rumble of a chuckle.
When you turned back, Caleb was already scribbling something on his clipboard, face scrunched in fake concentration. And then he looked up, lips quirking into that same goofy smile.
“All done,” he said lightly. “See you later, pipsqueak.”
Your eyebrow twitched at the nickname, but you bit your tongue. He wasn’t raising the rent, so you let it slide.
He clicked his pen closed, spun on his heel, and headed for the door.
You were halfway to the kitchen when your eyes drifted to your laundry basket.
And froze.
The black thong you’d left there—the one you swore you’d wash later—was gone. Just. Gone.
With Caleb.
You stared at the basket. Then at the door. Then back at the basket.
“…oh. My. God.”
Your voice was flat, horrified, disbelieving. You blinked once, twice, as realization hit you like a fucking truck.
Your landlord. Your goofy, golden-retriever-smiling, thick-eyebrowed, clipboard-toting landlord.
Stealing your underwear.
Somewhere down the hall, you swore you heard Caleb humming.
Caleb barely made it to his office before he was clawing at his belt.
The second the door shut behind him, he bolted to the chair, yanking your black thong from his pocket like it was the crown jewels. His cock was already straining against his sweats, leaking through the fabric, twitching with every heartbeat.
“Fuck, pipsqueak…” he groaned, voice cracking as he pressed the thong to his face. “Bet you didn’t even shower yet… fuck, smelled you so good today…”
His hips jerked upward as he fisted his cock with desperate, violent strokes, the slick sound filling the room. He moaned openly, shamelessly, like some bitch in heat. The thong dragged against his nose and lips as he inhaled, shuddering like he might break apart from just the scent.
“Her unwashed thong… mmmhh—fuck, smells so good! God—so fucking good!” His words slurred between panting, his eyes glassy, rolling back with every thrust of his hand. His whole body trembled, thighs spread, cum-slick cock shining under the office light.
The desk rattled with the force of him rutting into his fist. Papers scattered to the floor. He didn’t notice. Couldn’t notice. Not when he was drowning in you, muttering your name like a prayer, a curse, a desperate fucking mantra.
He was gone. Utterly gone.
So gone, in fact, that he didn’t notice the office door swing open.
You stood there, frozen in the doorway, jaw dropping as the scene burned itself into your retinas.
Caleb—your landlord—thick brows furrowed, violet eyes rolled back, cock in his fist, your thong plastered to his face. The obscene sound of wet strokes echoed around the office.
And then—
He came. Hard.
“FUCK—” His back arched clean off the chair, hips snapping up violently as his cock exploded. Cum shot so high it actually spattered against the wall behind his desk, dripping down in obscene streaks. His moans broke into whimpers, thighs trembling, body jerking with the aftershocks as his orgasm tore through him.
Panting, gasping, Caleb finally peeled the thong off his face—only to freeze when his violet eyes locked on you.
Your hand was still on the doorknob. Your mouth was wide open. You swore you wanted to scream, or bolt, or call the cops, but nothing came out. Just stunned silence.
Caleb looked like he’d seen a ghost. His lips parted, his thick brows shooting up, panic flashing across his face.
“P-pipsqueak—” his voice cracked, trembling.
You didn’t move. “….”
“H-hey, p-pipsqueak, I—I…” He scrambled off the chair, tripping over his own pants as he tried to yank them up. His softening dick bounced against his stomach with the motion, making the whole scene even more humiliating.
Your throat worked, and finally, you managed to whisper: “I’ll file a report—”
Caleb practically lunged forward, hands up, eyes wild. “Wait! No—don’t—listen to me!” His words tumbled out, desperate, his voice breaking. “You don’t… you don’t have to pay me rent!”
You blinked. “…what?”
He gulped, then—like the absolute freak he was—pressed your thong back against his mouth, moaning at the scent, shameless even with cum drying on his shirt. His eyes fluttered back, his hips twitching helplessly as his softening cock gave a little jump in his half-zipped pants.
“Pay me in these…”
You stared at him, horrified. “You… want my underwear?”
“Fuck yeah.” His answer was immediate, wrecked, voice thick with hunger.
Silence stretched between you. The only sound was his ragged breathing and the faint drip of cum sliding down the wall.
You thought about screaming. You thought about running. You thought about your dwindling bank account.
Finally, you exhaled, long and slow. “…deal.”
And with that, you shut the door.
It got… normal.
Well, normal in the sense that your landlord would casually sniff the air when you walked into a room, tilting his head like a bloodhound and asking, “Showered yet, pipsqueak?”
You always thought he was a weirdo—which he was, let’s not sugarcoat it—but he was your weirdo, and more importantly, he wasn’t charging you rent. And when your bank account was gasping for air every week, that was enough to keep you tolerating his freak habits.
The first month, Caleb showed up for “check-in,” leaned against your doorframe with that goofy grin, and then just… waltzed right in. You didn’t even fight it. He rooted around until he found your laundry basket, plucked out three pairs of unwashed panties like he was harvesting apples, and left humming to himself.
You sighed, plopped back at your desk, and smashed your keyboard to get another smut scene out. As long as you saved money, having a pervert gooning to your underwear wasn’t the biggest deal in the world. Or maybe it was. You didn’t think too hard about it.
The second month, though…
Caleb showed up again, hair messy, violet eyes wide and twitchy, practically bouncing on his heels. “Pipsqueak, c’mon, I need it fresh outta the source this time. Please. Please.”
You stared at him, deadpan, and then sighed through your nose. Slowly, you hooked your thumbs under your shorts, peeled off the panties you’d been wearing all day, and slapped them into his waiting hand.
He made a sound. A wrecked, desperate, feral sound that you swore belonged in some nature documentary. And then, like a complete horny freak, he stayed in your doorway, panting, jerking himself through his sweats as he buried his nose in the damp fabric.
“F-fuck—fuck, pipsqueak—ohhh god, smells so fucking good—”
You dragged a hand down your face and went back to your desk, deciding to pretend none of that was happening in your peripheral vision.
By the third month, you didn’t even blink when he knocked.
Caleb sauntered in for his “check-in,” twirling a lacy pair of your panties around his finger like a keychain. His grin was pure menace, thick brows raised, violet eyes glinting like he’d just robbed a bank.
“Hey, pipsqueak,” he sing-songed, waving the lace at you before pressing it to his face. He inhaled deep and moaned shamelessly, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Mmmm—bet you’re not showering to let the scent linger even more, huh? you've anything else for me?” He wiggled his eyebrows like he was proud of the detective work.
The worst part? He wasn’t wrong.
You were drowning in commissions, barely sleeping, barely eating. Showering felt like a luxury. Shaving? Forget it. You were running on caffeine and deadlines.
So instead of arguing, you reached under your oversized shirt, unhooked your bra, and handed it over.
Caleb’s reaction was instant. He whimpered. Loud. Like a kicked puppy who’d just been given a steak dinner. His knees almost buckled as he pressed the bra to his face, rubbing it over his nose and mouth, his whole body shivering like he was seconds from busting in his pants.
You blinked at him, expression flat. “…you’re unbelievable.”
And Caleb, muffled against your bra, moaned, “Unbelievably lucky.”
You smashed your keyboard once again.
Caleb had been practically vibrating ever since he could see your thigh hairs peaking out from those shorts. His eyes were sharp, ridiculously so, noticing every single detail. His clipboard was still abandoned by the door, rent forms forgotten, his goofy grin melted into something desperate—hungry.
“God, pipsqueak…” he rasped, pupils blown wide like he was drunk on you, his hand hovering an inch away from your thighs, twitching like it took every ounce of willpower not to latch on. “You really… fuck, you really don’t shave anymore, huh?”
You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re not seriously—Caleb—”
“Dark little curls peekin’ out—mmhh—fuck, I knew it,” he cut you off, his own voice hitching like he’d already palmed himself half-hard just from the thought. He crouched lower, shamelessly eyeing the faint hair on your thighs. “God, bet this pussy’s a goddamn jungle… been thinkin’ about it all week. Nasty, musky—fuck, I wanna bury myself in there so bad.”
The heat rushing up your neck was embarrassing, your own body betraying you. Your oversized shirt felt suffocating, sticking to your skin, and the way his gaze locked onto the damp spot forming on your shorts made you press your thighs tighter together.
“Don’t say shit like that,” you muttered, but it came out weaker than you intended.
Caleb moaned like you’d just sucked him off, head tipping back, hand squeezing the bulge in his pants. “Nnnhhh, pipsqueak… you’re hairy and smelly and I swear to god that’s all I want. Your pussy probably tastes like heaven after days of sittin’ hot in these panties.”
“Two months rent,” you snapped, face hot, ignoring the way your cunt clenched at his words.
His eyes lit up. “Deal—fuck yeah, deal.”
The oversized shirt rode up when he tugged at your shorts, clumsy but frantic, his big hands swallowing the fabric until he yanked it past your knees. And there it was—your puffy folds straining against damp cotton, dark curls spilling out the sides, the faint tang of your arousal hitting his nose.
Caleb whimpered—whimpered—like he’d just been blessed by god himself. “So pretty…” he moaned, fingers trembling as he hooked his thumb under the waistband and peeled the panties off you, his mouth falling open at the sight.
You raised a brow, trying to play it cool even as your stomach flipped. “What, you never seen a hairy pussy before?”
His jaw went slack, eyes glassy, his chest heaving like he’d sprinted a marathon. “Not like this… oh fuck… not yours.” His cock twitched violently in his jeans, precum already wetting the front.
Then he just folded, literally shoved his face forward and pressed his nose against your mound like a starved man. A strangled groan tore out of him. “F-fuck… musky, sticky, hairy—nnnhhh, god, pipsqueak, this is it, this is it—smells so fucking good.” He humped your thigh like a dog, rutting desperately while inhaling lungfuls of your scent, drool dampening the curls above your slit.
You nearly laughed at the absurdity if it didn’t make your head spin. “You’re disgusting,” you muttered, but your legs parted on their own, your body betraying you.
Caleb was too gone to care. He mouthed at the curls, sloppily making out with your pussy lips, leaving trails of spit that matted your hair further. “Mmmhh—fucking love it—your hairy pussy, fuck, jungle time baby!” he moaned, voice muffled as he shoved his tongue between your folds.
Your eyes rolled back at the first hot swipe of his tongue, and you had to grab his stupid fluffy hair just to ground yourself. “F-fuck—Caleb…”
He whimpered against you, humping your leg harder, his voice vibrating through your cunt. “Mmmhh so good, so fucking good… hairy, smelly, fuckin’ perfect… pipsqueak tastes like heaven. Don’t ever shave, don’t ever shower, just—fuck—let me drown here forever.”
His nose buried against your clit, his tongue lapping messy and desperate, sloppy smacks echoing as he kissed and sucked every bit of you he could get. He was noisy, shameless, every groan dripping with depravity.
“Goddammit…” you gasped, toes curling, heat coiling in your belly. Against all logic, all dignity—you were enjoying this. Enjoying how your drop-dead gorgeous landlord was losing his mind over something so stupid. Enjoying how freaky he was, how it turned you on more than anyone else ever had.
Caleb pulled back for just a second, his chin glistening, panting like a bitch in heat. His eyes rolled back as he moaned again, grinding his clothed cock against your leg. “Y-you smell so fucking strong… f-fuck, I’m addicted, I’m—lemme taste more, please please please pretty please—”
You tilted your head, playing at nonchalance despite how wet you were dripping down the couch. “A year’s rent.”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Deal—fuck—DEAL!” he cried, before burying his face back in your hairy cunt like a man possessed. His tongue shoved deep inside you, his nose grinding your clit, his muffled moans vibrating until you were gasping, your thighs clamping around his head.
And Caleb? He was in heaven—whimpering, rutting, face smeared in spit and arousal, a depraved freak making out with your hairy pussy like it was oxygen.
Caleb was already whining into your cunt, his tongue sloppy and desperate, when his hips started moving on their own. The grind of his cock against your thigh was shameless, rough, precum soaking through his jeans as he moaned filth into your folds.
“Mmmhh fuck—smell so good—taste even better—” his words muffled against you, his jaw working as if he could suck your scent out and swallow it whole. His big hands slid under your ass, squeezing, digging in, and suddenly he lifted you halfway off the couch like you weighed nothing.
“C-Caleb—what the fuck—” you gasped, legs dangling, cunt spread wide against his face.
He just groaned, shaking his head like a starving man at a feast, his nose grinding your clit while his tongue lapped up everything dripping from you. His hips rutted harder, humping your thigh like an animal, his cock throbbing as wet spots spread across his pants.
If it were any other guy, you’d be disgusted. Mortified. But Caleb—your stupid, gorgeous, pervy landlord—he made it feel filthy and addictive. He made you want it.
Your back arched, fingers tangling in his hair as your thighs clamped around his ears. His moans got louder, wetter, his whole body trembling with the effort of eating you out while fucking into your leg.
“F-fuck—Caleb I’m—” Your words cut off as your body convulsed, orgasm ripping through you, spasming hard against his face. His tongue never stopped, lapping up every spurt, groaning so loud the vibrations nearly made you scream.
And Caleb? He came with you, rutting hard into your leg until his hips jerked violently, cum flooding his pants, the wet squelch audible as he whined into your pussy. His back arched, his cock spurting through denim, and he nearly sobbed from how good it felt.
When you finally collapsed back onto the couch, panting, legs twitching, he pulled his mouth away with a wet smack. His face was glistening, hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes glazed and blissed out.
He looked up at you with a stupid, goofy grin, panting like a happy dog that just got a treat. “That was… heaven!”
You stared at him, speechless, your brain fried.
And from that day forward, you didn’t have to pay Caleb rent. In fact—you never paid him rent at all.
Now, sitting in his living room years later, you watched him chatting with a nervous guy who came to see one of his apartments. Caleb leaned back, laughing, his wedding ring catching the light as he gestured with his hand.
“Yeah, sorry man—no can do,” Caleb chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m married. A married man. The marriest of all.”
You glanced at your own ring, the sparkle even brighter in the sunlight, and rolled your eyes. Married to your perv of a landlord. The absolute freak who ruined you for anyone else.
And god help you—you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
the exercise lady whose videos I follow says things like "Exercise is a celebration of what you can do, not punishment for what you ate" and "Think of some small thing you've wanted to change, and try making that change just for today so you don't stress yourself out over a major change" and "The brain craves blood"
anyway the thing about fanfic is that it's not essentially bad or good; it's essentially amateur. some people are absolutely out there writing award-worthy prose (some fic writers ARE award-winning writers IRL!), but that's not the point. the point is that we're all telling campfire stories. it's a community, and it's a way to spend some more time in the worlds and stories that we love.
Tumblr being the "piss on the poor" reading comprehension site makes sense when you realize that 79% of adults in the US are functionally illiterate. Same goes for Twitter and TikTok.
that's a real high number, sport. where'd you get it?
