#inside sales training

[grovaleulers-businesscoach]

Inside Sales Training – Five Pillars to Build an Impact in Your Calls

1.Build a strong database to scout the market

2.Research well about the prospects – Use digital media and latest tools

3.Identify and work with all stakeholders – How to use LinkedIn and other mediums?

4.Understand the business KPIs – What matters the most to the decision-makers?

5.Engage Consultatively – Personalisation, Personalisation and Personalisation

For more insights and to enhance your inside sales skills, visit our page.

[ursaspecter]

what i say: i'm fine

what i mean: in the back to the future telltale game in episode 1 doc was talking about how jules and verne were already getting ready to go to college. and its just not brought up again. what the fuck. at that point marty hadnt seen him since october 1985 and it's may 1986 now. and this was before the idw comics so there was nothing to fill that gap yet. marty's best friend has been gone for so long his own kids are around marty's age now. i love the game and it's my favorite extension to bttf but holy shit why did they do that. i know in the end the timeline gets so changed around that the browns have been living in hill valley since the end of part 3 but marty wasnt around for that. this is another whole new doc he has to get to know now. how many times must marty lose his best friend to time travel

[rowarn]

IF YOU NEEDED ME !

simon riley/reader – 7.1k words sale of a lifetime mini series !

tags: smut, childhood best friend!simon, virginity for sale trope, unrealized feelings, soft!simon, protective!simon, virgin!reader, afab!reader, no prns for reader

cw: loss of virginity, cunnilingus, wet & messy, fingering, creampie, mid-sex love confession, a little arguing but nothing crazy tbh, petnames (love, lovie, sweetheart)

; he remembers the way you would look at him when you were children, all smiles and bright eyes. he never thought he was deserving of such happiness. but now, with you shyly covering your bare breasts, in his bed, he feels like he’s the only man deserving of you.

or.

he may not have been the first man you picked to give your first time to. but looking back, you realized he was the only right choice in the end.

Meeting some unknown, shady guy out on the street outside of a seedy bar wasn’t the smartest decision you’ve ever made. Nor was it how you actually intended to spend your Friday evening. But it was the only option you had at the moment, so you swallowed your nerves and forced yourself to stay put at the spot the guy had chosen despite the fact that being out on the street made you feel x10 more nervous and vulnerable. 

You could hear the loud music and chatter inside the bar every time the door opened to let someone in or out. There was a chill in the air that had you contemplating actually going inside and just telling the guy to meet you in there – you were about to give the bastard your damn virginity, the least he could be was accommodating to your temperature struggles. Plus, you could really use a drink.

A car, expensive by the looks of it, pulling up to the curb had you pausing in that train of thought. You recognized him from his profile picture when he stepped out of the vehicle – Lucas, you recall being his name. Whether that was really his name or not didn’t matter; all that mattered was he brought what he promised.

“You have the money?” you asked when he approached you, giving him a tight-lipped smile as a greeting.

“Yeah, got it in the car. All cash, I hope that’s alright,” he grinned, a sight that made a shiver go down your spine. His tone didn’t match the smile, all transactional and dull despite the glimmer in his eyes.

He wasn’t necessarily unattractive but he certainly wasn’t your type. There was a look in his eyes, one that made your skin crawl because you felt like you were nothing but a piece of raw meat in front of a starving, salivating predator. 

“We should get going,” he said, hurrying to open the backseat of his car for you.

You paused, “Aren’t we going to go inside or something?”

He looked confused, grip on the door tightening for a moment before he bursted out laughing. When he saw the shocked look on your face he sobered up, “Sorry, sorry, that was rude of me. Sweetheart, this isn’t a date. I’m just here to get what I paid for.”

“Oh…” you swallowed around the lump in your throat at the condescending tone, humiliation making your cheeks burn, “Right.”

Tears stung the back of your eyes and you quickly averted your gaze so he wouldn’t see how much that stung. Of course, you knew it wasn’t a date. This was a transaction. But you at least thought you’d get to know the guy who was about to take your virginity. You should have known better.

A man who was paying for your virginity wasn’t bound to be someone you could trust to feel comfortable around. You quietly sigh, resigning yourself to this all for the sake of some fucking money. 

You settle into the car, heart jumping into your throat when the door slams. It feels as if you’ve just sealed your fate and you can’t deny that you’re scared. 

But there’s an envelope next to you that you can see stuffed with bills and you clench your fists, trying to calm your racing heart by closing your eyes and breathing. 

You just hope this decision doesn’t cost you your life or something. You’d hate to imagine what that would do to a certain someone.

Suddenly, the car jostles. Your eyes snap open and you see Lucas is jacked up against the side of the car, a very familiar form caging him in. His scarred hands grip the man’s shirt in tight fists. You can’t hear what they’re saying but you can see Lucas is chattering frantically, gesturing wildly with his hands in an attempt to quell the angry man in the skull balaclava. 

You curse to yourself, a different kind of terror shocking through your system. Lucas is thrown to the side and you wince at how hard he hits the pavement before the car door is jerked open.

You can’t even say anything before a strong, rough hand wraps around your arm, yanking you out. You stumble once you’re on your feet, falling right into his chest. 

You try to pull away but his arm clamps down around you. 

Lucas is cursing and screaming his head off, words you don’t even bother to try and decipher because you’re too preoccupied with the masked figure that made his sudden appearance. Nerves make your knees shake and from the look of pure rage in his eyes, you know you’re in deep shit. 

Lucas opens the car door and slams it before driving off, tires squealing against the pavement before he vanishes. Along with that wad of cash that was going to be yours in just a short time. 

Suddenly you’re angry, shoving your hands against his chest to get him away from you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Riley?!” you shriek, shooting him the fiercest glare you could muster.

“I should be askin’ you that,” he sneers, “The hell were you doin’ with that prick?”

“I–”

“Don’t answer that,” he snaps, cutting you off swiftly, “I know what you were doin’. If you needed money that badly you should have told me.”

“It’s not your concern, Simon!” you cry, resisting the urge to petulantly stomp your foot.

You’re so pissed. 

Simon Riley and you went way back, childhood friends. The two of you had always been in each other's lives. Simon especially was always there when you needed him, a beacon of safety and protection. Your best friend and someone you loved to the ends of the Earth. 

But right now, you’re so angry with him that you can’t seem to think straight.

How dare he show up now, when you’re about to do the most humiliating act of your entire life. How could he show his stupid, masked face here when you didn’t even ask for his help in the first place for a reason. 

“You are always my concern,” he shoots back, scarred knuckles turning white from how hard he clenches his fists, “I have always taken care of you. You should have come to me for help instead of puttin’ yourself in danger like this. You didn’t know that guy, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Anger makes your skin hot, sweat beading on your forehead, blocking out the chill that once made goosebumps rise. You feel ashamed that you were caught in this situation – that the man you’ve known your entire life knew you were about to sleep with some random asshole for a fat wad of cash. You don’t like that he’s made you feel ashamed and confronted you with it.

“Just fuck off, Simon!” you shriek, the only thing you can think of before turning on your heel and stalking away from him.

You don’t glance over your shoulder to check if he’s following because you know he most likely is – from a safe distance to make sure you make it inside your apartment alright but far enough that you can’t get mad at him for it. Your jaw is clenched so tightly that you feel a headache radiating down your neck. 

By the time you reach your apartment, the anger has simmered and all you’re left with is a festering shame that makes tears fill your eyes. You wrap your arms around yourself and quickly shuffle yourself inside, not bothering to check if Simon is out there or not. All you want is to get a hot shower and crawl into bed for the rest of the weekend. 

You do just that, letting the burning hot water scald your skin until you can’t feel any emotions except exhaustion. And then, you crawl into bed and let sleep overtake you without a second thought. 

When you wake up, it’s clear that it’s late into the afternoon. The sun is high in the sky and shining painfully bright through the crack in your curtains. You groan and roll over, slapping the bed to find your phone. 

You grab the device and unlock it, taking a moment to scroll through your notifications. There’s some angry messages from the guy from last night – cursing you out for setting him up to be jumped. It makes you roll your eyes before a particular notification catches your eye.

It’s from your bank – alerting you of a deposit. 

You sit up straight in your bed, brows furrowed before your eyes nearly bug out of your head when you see your bank statement. It’s more than you needed and you know exactly who was responsible. 

You jump out of bed, not even bothering to dress out of your pajamas before you’re shoving some slides onto your feet and storming out of your apartment. 

You’re so heated that you can’t even remember the walk to Simon’s place, your mind racing a million miles a second. You storm up to the door and slam your fist on it, the hard wood making your hand sting from how hard you pound. 

The radiating tingle of pain is quickly forgotten when the door swings open. 

Simon stands there, looking down at you expectantly. He leans against the door with his arms crossed over his chest. He wears an army-issued t-shirt that’s a bit too tight. The sleeves stretch taunt around his biceps and you can make out the swell of his pecs. It’s not very often that you get to see his tattooed arms, littered with scars since he tends to wear long sleeves most of the time. 

He doesn’t look at all surprised to see you, clearly having expected you. The apathetic look in his eyes just solidifies that you were right all along.

“What the hell is your problem?!” you cry without so much as a greeting.

He sighs, broad shoulders rising and falling with it before he opens the door wide and motions you inside. You duck underneath his outstretched arm, turning to watch as he closes the door and locks it. 

He wanders into the kitchen and you realize you can smell bacon. He doesn’t seem at all surprised by your outburst nor does he seem interested in acknowledging your question.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, only solidifying how unperturbed he is by your display of anger. 

“No!” you snap, “I want to know why you did that, Simon!”

He sighs again, much louder but doesn’t respond. You stand in the doorway to his kitchen, watching him plate his lunch – which is actually just breakfast food. He places the dish on the table and pauses, looking up at you.

“You needed the money, I had it,” he offered with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I was handling it on my own,” you say, “I-It was my problem to solve.”

“By sellin’ yourself to some prick?” he snarls, the anger he was masking coming out in a flurry.

“I wasn’t selling myself–” you refute but he slams his palms down on the table. His cutlery clatters with the action and you jump.

“I read that post you made,” he hisses, teeth bared, “There’s no fuckin’ reason you should be selling your virginity for some cash when I was right here the whole time!”

Your cheeks burn when he brings up your virginity, crossing your arms over your chest protectively, “I-It’s mine to sell if I want to! I needed that money!”

“And now you have it,” he says with finality. 

He takes a seat and you stand there, fuming. Your jaw is clenched, teeth grinding together as your mind races to find a rebuttal. He begins to eat, taking large, fast bites that just shows how he’s been conditioned to eat quickly by the military. 

“That’s not the point, Simon,” you huff, growing less angry and more frustrated by this conversation. You were just going around in circles. 

“Then what is the point?” he snaps, snatching his empty plate and angrily tossing it in the sink. He turns to you again, a frown evident on his face, “You got the money you needed safely. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s too much money, Simon!” you cry, “I was selling something in exchange for it!”

“I care about you,” he says, “That doesn’t matter to me. What’s mine is yours, you know that.”

You silently glare at him, wishing that the heated stare would get through to him. He stands unbothered, staring blankly at you with his fists clenched by his sides.

You hang your head, sighing, “I-I can’t take your money, Simon, alright? I’m already in debt and I’m not going to be in debt to you of all people.”

“You feel like you owe me, is that it?” he asks.

You nod your head, heart rate spiking when he stalks towards you. You’re close enough to smell his body wash and aftershave, a painfully familiar scent that you adore. He stares down his nose at you, brown eyes lidded and lazy. 

He reaches out suddenly, rough hand gripping your cheeks, smushing them together until your lips pucker, “Then give me a kiss as payment.”

“H-Huh?” you whimper dumbly, eyes wide in shock as his face grows closer and closer.

“It can be payment for a kiss, lovie,” he coos, syrupy sweet and soft, “Will that make up for it, then?”

The air in your lungs suddenly doesn’t feel like enough. This is a man that you’ve known almost your entire life so you’ve obviously thought about him in a romantic sense at some point. Hell, when you were a teenager you even had a crush on him. But he never once looked at you any other way than as a friend so you quickly got over it – or maybe that’s just what you told yourself. Because as you stand there, staring into his eyes, you realize that kissing him would feel like a dream come true. 

You find yourself nodding despite the inner turmoil going on in your head. Simon huffs through his nose before leaning down and pressing his lips against yours. 

There’s a shock of electricity that goes through you at the contact. Your eyes flutter shut as you lean into the kiss, letting him take over. He works his lips expertly against yours, eventually abandoning his hold on your face in favor of wrapping his arm around your waist. You gasp into the kiss when he suddenly yanks you closer, your body pressed close against his. 

He’s warm and sturdy against you, a solid form of muscle that makes you feel safe and content – just as he always has. His hands are big and rough as they grip your hips, kneading the soft flesh there as he gets lost in kissing you. 

“S-Si,” you find yourself muttering without realizing.

He hums in response, chuckling when you continue to mindlessly kiss him. He pulls back, one hand coming up to wrap lightly around your throat, thumbing at your jaw as your eyes slowly focus on him, “What is it, sweetheart? What do you need?”

“I-I don’t…” you swallow thickly around the forming lump in your throat, “I don’t know. I just…”

“Show me,” he breathes, softer than you’ve ever heard his voice. 

The sweet, tender look in his big, brown eyes is what gives you the courage to grab his wrist, leading it just under the hem of your shirt so he can touch your bare stomach. You give him a shy glance from under your lashes, hoping he’ll get the hint that you want more. 

You want him.

Simon, in all his experienced wisdom, understands immediately what it is you’re aching for. His hand travels up further, pausing at your ribs, just under the swell of your breast. Your heart hammers in your chest when your gaze meets his. His eyes are lidded, long lashes obscuring his pupils but still burning into you. 

He stares deep into your eyes, waiting for any sign of hesitation as his fingers creep higher and higher. You suck in a breath when he cups your breast in his palm, squeezing lightly to feel their weight. 

A large, calloused thumb creeps up, passing ever so softly over your nipple until the bud peaks and hardens under the attention. You sigh at the feeling, new shocks washing over you that you’ve never experienced before. 

Sure, you played with yourself plenty – you had a healthy masturbation life, you’d say. But you’d always just been focused on reaching an orgasm, never on the build up. You imagine, however, it would never feel as good by yourself as it does with him.

He pinches your nipple between two fingers and you whine, lips parting as the sound escapes. Simon takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. Your hands grab his shoulders, desperately clinging to his shirt as you lose yourself in the sloppy kiss. 

Drool drips down your chin – it's messy and hot between the two of you. His hand switches to your other breast to give it the same attention as the other. You tremble in his arms, overcome by the insatiable throbbing between your thighs. 

You shift on your feet, the fabric of your panties stick uncomfortably to your core. You’re so wet, wetter than you’ve ever been in your life. By the time he pulls back, there’s a string of saliva connecting your lips to his. 

“You want more?” he asks, voice gravelly as he speaks, as if he’s drunk. You nod your head and he clicks his tongue, “You gotta tell me, sweetheart.”

“I-I want more, Si,” you whisper, feeling your cheeks burn as you admit it. 

“Let’s go,” he hums, taking your hand in his as he leads you around the couch towards the hallway.

“Where?” you ask dumbly, hoping that making some kind of conversation would ease the nerves steadily building in your chest. 

“The bedroom,” he responds, stroking his thumb over the top of your hand as if he can sense that you’re nervous, “Wouldn’t want to be stripped down in the middle of the living room, I imagine.”

“N-No,” you squeak, cheeks burning even hotter at those words. 

You’re going to be naked. In front of another person for the first time. In front of him. Simon. 

“There now, lovie,” he whispers as he shuts his bedroom door behind the both of you. He takes your waist in his hands, kneading the soft flesh there, “It’s alright.”

“I-I’m just–”

“Nervous,” he finishes for you, smiling softly when you nod, “I know. We can stop anytime you’d like.”

“I don’t want to,” you rush out, hands coming up to press against his firm chest, “Just…d-don’t be upset when I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The tender way he looks at you sets your heart pounding like a little rabbit. A ghost a smile appears on his lips, “I would never do somethin’ like that.”

“I-I know, I just…” you look down at your feet only for him to catch your chin in his fingers, pulling you to look up at him.

You swallow thickly around the lump in your throat, holding your breath as he descends down. His lips find yours all over again, as exhilarating and mind-melting as the first time. 

Just the sweet, deep kiss he gives you has your nerves dissipating a bit – back to normal levels. You no longer feel the desire to flee, you just feel an intense longing and anticipation. You crave more from him.

As if sensing this, his fingers find the hem of your shirt. He slowly starts to pull it up, agonizingly slow. But you’re grateful for it, it gives you time to prepare before you’re bared completely to him. You lift your arms for him, a sign that you’re still okay with this. 

He pulls it up over your head and lets the fabric drop to the floor. But he doesn’t look down, he continues looking in your eyes, softly pecking your lips as his hands cup your breasts once more. 

When you sigh and lean into his touch, he finally lets himself break the eye contact. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees how pretty your tits sit in his hands. He touches them softly, sweetly brushing over your nipples in admiration. 

“Perfect tits, lovie,” he coos, chuckling when you whine in embarrassment. 

His head descends, pink lips parting to take one of your nipples in his mouth. It’s hot but his tongue is soft when it circles and flicks at the bud. He sucks, popping off lewdly before switching to the other one. 

The sensation makes you squeeze your thighs together, imaging what that would feel like around your clit. Your hole clenches around nothing, drooling messily into your panties. The fabric was so wet by now that it couldn’t soak it up anymore, leaving it to slick up your thighs instead.

Your core ached, a feeling only Simon would be able to soothe. 

“Please, Si,” you finally break, whimpering pathetically. 

He detaches from your breast, lips wet and swollen from the worship he had been giving your now sore nipples. His pupils were blown wide, black swallowing brown and you were sure that yours looked the same. 

He stands to his full height, nudging you backwards until your knees hit the bed. They buckled at that, leaving you to fall back against the bed. Simon’s bedding was soft, the scent of detergent and his own body wash filling your senses. You relax at the familiar, comforting scent, sinking into the blankets with a bashful smile on your face.

To Simon, you’re an ethereal beauty. You take the air right out of his lungs with the way you look at him.

He remembers the way you would look at him when you were children, all smiles and bright eyes. He never thought he was deserving of such happiness. But now, with you shyly covering your bare breasts, in his bed, he feels like he’s the only man deserving of you. 

He scooches you up the bed, crawling on after you until he’s on top of you. Though you’re still wearing your pants, you feel so vulnerable beneath his weight. He’s heavy and warm and he smells so good. You can’t focus on anything except for him – he’s all around you and it’s exhilarating. 

Feeling bold, you reach up and tug at his shirt. He pulls it off with ease, revealing his toned, scarred upper body. You can’t help but trace over some of the ones you’re familiar with – there’s one from a time he fell out of a tree trying to rescue a cat that you had been crying about. He fell out of the tree on the way down, a jagged branch stabbing into his upper arm and slicing it open. There was another one from when you were teenagers, some other kids jumped him and he took a stab to his shoulder trying to protect you. You kiss that one and he softens, as if he’s remembering it too. 

He’s always been there for you, an overwhelming presence that you simply couldn’t live without. The fact you’re here, in this bed, about to give him your virginity is something that you never would have expected. 

And to think, you were planning to sell it off to some random loser. 

“I’m glad you stopped me,” you find yourself whispering. 

He looks confused for a second before he hums, nodding in understanding, “I am too.”

“I-I want it to be you, Si,” you whisper, the confession leaving you embarrassed. It’s true, all this time, you realize, he’s all you’ve ever really wanted. You had just buried it deep down so you no longer felt those sparks towards him.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispers back, as if the two of you are sharing some secret little moment that no one else can hear about even though it’s just the two of you in this room. 

“You always do,” you respond, the words making his dark eyes light up. 

He kisses you deeply, moving his lips slowly against yours. When your hands come up to grip the back of his neck, he takes that as his cue to move down to your neck, then your collarbones, down the center of your chest between your breasts, the spot between your breasts, and finally your navel. 

You lay back, head in his pillows with your hands on either side of your head. You watch him, breathing labored as you wait for his next move. He pauses in his path, looking up through his lashes at you before his fingers find the hem of your sweats. You swallow thickly, holding your breath when he slowly begins to pull the fabric down. You lift your hips to help him, pulling your legs free while being careful not to kick him by accident. 

He keeps his gaze on you until you’re settled back down into the bed and the pants are forgotten on the floor to be collected later. Then, he looks down. 

Even though you still have your panties on, you know that the white cotton is soaked through and hides absolutely nothing from his view. 

You watch as he licks his lips, as if his mouth is suddenly bone dry. His hands are burning hot when he touches you again, sliding over your thighs to your hips. He leans down, pressing his lips against each of your thighs. 

His thumb reaches down, stretches over your pubic bone to touch the sticky fabric. You nearly jump at the sensation – someone’s fingers other than your own touching you there for the first time. Simon’s fingers.

As if he can’t help himself anymore, he tugs the waistband of your panties and yanks them down your thighs. You squeal when you’re jostled under the force. 

He holds the material up and you’re mortified to see just how wet they are. He runs his thumbs over the crotch and you whine, drawing his attention from them. He drops them to the floor and returns his hands back to you, gripping underneath your knees, so he can spread you all the way open. 

Your hands fly to your face, covering your eyes in embarrassment at how exposed you are. He doesn’t seem to mind, pressing a kiss over the top of your hands before moving back down your body. 

You peek through your fingers only to find him already staring at you with a sparkle in his eyes. He carefully spreads your slippery folds apart with his thumbs, the movement causing a wet, sticky sound to emanate from between your legs. The little bud of your clit is hard and twitching as it’s exposed to the cool air of the bedroom. When he’s sure you’re looking he leans down, pink tongue hanging out of his mouth. You stop breathing as you watch a fat glob of spit roll down the surface of the smooth muscle and splatter right on your clit. 

“Si-!” your squeal of his name is cut off when your eyes roll back in his head as that sinful tongue slides right over your bud. 

Your whole body twitches at that, hands falling away from your face so you can reach down and grab his hair. It doesn’t even seem like he notices your grip, focused on slurping up that sensitive nub into his hot mouth. 

You choke out a moan, tilting your head back into the pillows as your back arches. It feels just as good as you thought it would when he was giving the same, lewd treatment to your nipples. 

He continues to suck and lick your clit until your mind is completely blank and all you can think is him. Then, all at once it stops and he pulls back, letting your bud slip from the heavenly clutch of his lips.

“You ever have somethin’ inside you, lovie?” he asks, bringing up one of his fingers to swipe through the folds of your entrance, as if to show you what he intends. 

You swallow to moisten your throat before nodding, “J-Just my fingers.”

“How many?” he asks, growing more confident in prodding at the tight little hole. 

“T-Two,” you breathe, any embarrassment you felt long dissipated in the face of true pleasure.

“Alright, lovie,” he hums, “Just lay back, I’ll take good care of you, yeah?”

You nod and do as he says, turning utterly boneless against the blankets. The sweat already slicking your skin despite the fact you’ve only just begun makes the fabric stick to you. 

He prods at your entrance for only a second longer before finally, he pushes his thick middle digit inside you. Your cunt is so wet and pliant that it hungrily swallows it up to the very last knuckle. You clench around it intentionally, getting used to the feeling of the foreign finger inside of you for the first time. 

It feels so different compared to your own, thicker and rougher. The sensation is so strange but you can’t say you don’t like it – in fact, it feels amazing. You already want another, feeling like one just isn’t enough to give you that unknown feeling you’re chasing. It’s like you have an itch that needs to be scratched and only Simon can do it for you. 

As if sensing this, ever the reliable one, he carefully introduces a second finger. The stretch is unfamiliar, a burn around your entrance following as he reaches the last knuckle on that one too. His middle and ring finger stuffed snuggly inside your gooey little cunt as you whine and squirm from the feeling. 

Once you’ve adjusted, he slowly begins working them in and out of you. You slick up his fingers easily, streaks of creamy white coating his skin and making his mouth water. When he crooks his fingers up suddenly, prodding at that tender little spot inside of you, your entire body twitches and the most beautiful moan rips from your chest. 

He can’t resist leaning down and trapping your pulsing little clit under the flat of his tongue. He doesn’t slurp it into his mouth like before, instead, he just licks over it, pressing it down with the muscle. Your eyes are rolled up and your mouth hangs open as you moan and moan, tugging mindlessly at his hair as he works you towards your orgasm. 

It grows and grows, the unrelenting pleasure of his fingers fucking deeply into you and his tongue lapping sloppily at your clit like a mutt driving that knot in your belly to tighten. Drool spills out around his tongue, slipping down to meet his fingers where he easily fucks it into you – the added lubrication not needed but so very welcome with how much wetter and messier it makes you. 

“S-Simon…” you pant, gasping to catch your breath as the pleasure makes it hard for you to even think. 

He glances up at you through his lashes but doesn’t offer any other acknowledgement. There’s a knowing look in his eyes that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s going to wring this orgasm out of your little cunt whether you like it or not. 

And fuck, do you love it. 

The orgasms you brought yourself in the deep of the night, little hands stuffed down your panties as you played with your clit and stuffed yourself with your own fingers was nothing like what you were experiencing now. Simon’s thick fingers and hot tongue were torturing your little clit until your entire body started to lock up.

You looked at him desperately, unsure what was even going through your mind besides him and how fucking good you felt right now. 

Just as you teetered on the edge of this orgasm, he suddenly changed up and swallowed your twitchy little clit into his mouth. He sucked, sending you flying over the edge with a shrill wail of his name. Your legs kicked and twitched, heels hitting him on the back as you trembled and shook through the orgasm that he eagerly fucked out of you onto his fingers. 

He suckled your clit, swirling his tongue around it until it was too sensitive and you were tearily pushing him away. When he finally released you, slipping his fingers from your cunt, you were boneless and twitching on the bed. You didn’t even try to close your legs when he pulled away, giving him the perfect view to watch your cute little pussy clench and messily drool cum in the aftermath of your orgasm. 

He popped his fingers in his mouth, eyes rolling and lashes fluttering at the taste of your cum tingling on his taste buds. As you came down, eyes closed and breathing heavy, he began pulling at his belt. 

You could hear the metal clinking as he dropped it to the floor, peeking your heavy lids open to see him pull the button of his jeans open. As he slowly pulled them down, his underwear went with and suddenly you were more aware than ever. 

His cock was something to behold. Thick and veiny, bobbing in the air where it hung – too heavy to actually stand upright. You’d seen dicks in porn before but none of them prepared you for Simon’s. Precum dribbled from the tip, creating a long, gooey string down towards the floor before it broke. 

He wrapped a big hand around himself, giving a few good strokes as he reached down to cup his own heavy balls. The hair wasn’t wild or offensive, but neatly trimmed short. 

“All good, lovie?” he asked, stepping out of the pool of his jeans and boxers so he could kneel on the bed again.

“All god-good!” you blushed as he laughed, leaning down over you to balance his weight on his elbows.

“You still want this?” he asks, hushed and sweet, 

You glance between your bodies to see that intimidating cock, drooling messily over your skin. You realize, quickly, that you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.

When you voice such, he looks relieved, like a weight was lifted off of his shoulders. He sits back on his heels and spreads your legs, pushing your knees up to your chest.

“Hold them there,” he orders, which you follow immediately. 

Your elbows circle around your knees, holding yourself open for him as he asked. He whistles low in appreciation when your cum-slicked cunt was spread and exposed for him to prod his cockhead against. 

He swipes the tip up and down through your folds, humming appreciatively when your little hole tries to suck him in every time he grazes past it. He nudges your clit, the little bud still hard and sensitive from your orgasm but so eager for more. He couldn’t wait to grant your wish and make you cream on his cock. 

You watch him with wide eyes as he starts to push into you. Your jaw drops as you feel that burning stretch, an ache settling between your legs as he continues to sink himself into you. 

“F-Fuck, wait, Simon!” you squeal and he halts immediately. 

He’s only reached just past the head of his cock but he reaches down to pet your clit. The pleasure shoots through you, making your toes curl and your walls relax around him. He keeps his eyes on your face for any sign that you want him to stop as he moves his hips again. 

More and more of his cock sinks inside and his thumb keeps working little circles over your clit until his hips are flush with yours. Your voice breaks as you moan when you realize you’ve taken every single inch of him. 

He’s heavy and throbbing inside of you and you clench around him intentionally, forcing a moan from his chest. 

He leans down, arranging your knees over his shoulders, folding you up and pressing down on  you. He’s heavy and it makes it hard to breathe but that makes it even better – the pleasure of being speared on that fat cock and being utterly helpless underneath this man is better than any fantasy you could have made for yourself. 

“Fuck,” he snarls, rolling his hips back before rocking them forward again, heavy balls slapping against you as he does, “Can’t believe you were gonna give this little cunt away to some prick.”

“S-Si,” you whimper, biting your lip at the feeling of him slowly and carefully rocking his hips against yours, “‘M sorry, sh-shoulda been you all this time.”

“That’s fuckin’ right,” he hums, “No one else gets to love you but me, sweetheart.”

“O-Only you!” you agree, nails digging into his shoulders when he hits that spot just right. 

He can feel you soaking his cock, drippy cum lathering him up to make every glide of his cock wetter than the last. He sits back up on his knees, adjusting his grip so he can pin your legs wide open, giving him the best view of your greedy cunt swallowing his length up. 

He begins to fuck you in earnest, pulling out halfway before sliding home again - nothing like the little movements he gave you to prepare you. He was going to show you exactly why you should only think of giving him this precious pussy for the rest of your life. No one will ever be able to fuck you as good as he can, he’s going to learn your body like the back of your hand and you’re never going to be able to cum as hard as you can with him. You’ll never even want to use your own fingers again when he’s done with you. 

You can’t do anything but lay there and take it, take the pleasure and take his cock. He hits so deep, prodding at your cervix in a way that aches but it only feels that much better when it’s mixed with mind-numbing pleasure. 

Simon looms above you, panting and groaning as he fucks you like he was made to. He angles his hips just right, blunt nails biting into your thighs where he pins you open, neither of you caring if he happens to break skin while he does. You don’t even register the bite of pain underneath the way his cock prods you g-spot so perfectly. 

Your own fingers would have been tired by now, no longer able to work that little spot like you need. Simon’s cock, however, is unrelenting. The pleasure builds and mounts uninterrupted, every stroke of his length sending you higher. His body moves fluidly, rolling his hips tirelessly so he can give you every ounce of pleasure your sweet little cunt needs. 

You’re creaming around him, a frothy, milky ring forming around the base every time he sinks in and becoming visible when he pulls back. It’s filthy and messy and makes your cheeks burn but Simon seems to not mind in the slightest.

“So fuckin’ messy, love,” he coos, breathy and slurred, “Look at that, pretty cunt needed some cock, huh?”

“Y-Yours!” you manage to choke out.

“What’s that?” he asks, a crooked, teasing grin on his face. 

“Y-Your cock! Only needed your cock, Simon,” you pant, reaching up to grope your own tits, pinching and rolling your nipples meanly. It hurts so good, making you clench around his cock. He moans at the sight, his pretty little virgin tormenting your own nipples.

“That’s right,” he hums, reaching a shaky hand down to thumb at your clit, “Keep pinchin’ those pretty tits, sweetheart. Don’t stop.”

You nod your head, unable to form a vocal response from the new sensation of your clit being played with while he fucks you. It feels so damn good that you could go drunk from it all. Everything in your brain is slow, thoughts of only him and how good you feel are all that’s there. Your entire world, right at this moment, revolves around Simon Riley. 

He knows it too, a cocky grin on his face as he works you to your orgasm. You dangle, almost helplessly, staring unblinkingly at his handsome face as he works it out of you. 

After what feels like minutes, but is probably only seconds, you cum. Hard.

Your head slams back against the pillows, back arching as you cunt clasps tight around him. You cry out in pure, unadulterated pleasure as he fucks you through it. His thumb keeps working your clit as it twitches and pulses under the digit, cumming nice and pretty for him just like he wanted. Just like you deserved. 

You cream his cock messily, it drips down his balls and down your ass to the bedding below. So fucking sloppy and wet, a perfect little cunt made to take his cock. 

His brows furrow, mouth falling open as his own orgasm mounts and builds. Now that your well-earned orgasm is out of the way, he can finally let go and allow himself to experience it as well.

“Where do you want it?” he grits out, teeth clenched from the ache of holding back.

His balls draw up, heavy and full. He feels ready to positively explode when you gasp, “I-Inside!”

His head falls back, the loudest, most drawn out moan you’d never expected to come from a stoic man like Simon falling from his lips. It’s deep and primal, full of nothing but euphoria as he spills into you. His load is hot and thick, drooling out of the sides of his cock as he slows his thrusts to milk the least bits of pleasure from the orgasm. 

When he comes down, he collapses. Your legs lock around his waist and he draws you tightly into his arms, neither of you caring for the way his weight crushes you. All you care about is being wrapped up in his arms where you belong. 

He pulls his neck from your chest and kisses your forehead. Then he kisses your nose. Then your lips. 

“Pretty,” he breathes, still drunk on the endorphins of the sex so his lips are a little looser than they’d normally be, “Always thought you were pretty.”

“Really?” you prompt, cheeks heating at his confession. 

He hums, “Glad you’re finally mine.”

You beam, “No one deserved me as much as you.”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious statement in the world, rolling off of you with a sigh. His cock unplugs your cunt and a gush of your mixed cum comes out, making you whine. He laughs softly, drawing you back into your arms. 

You’ve never felt safer and warmer in your life, knowing in that moment that you should have come to Simon all along. There’s no one in the world who would be there for you, more willing and able than he. 

this work belongs to rowarn. do not repost to third party websites or use for character ai. reblogs welcome and appreciated!

[squishymochithethird]

i refuse to believe that this is our slow season rn

[auragasmics]

PANTY THIEF HINATA!

° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ₒ ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ₒ cw! college roomates, drabble + headcanon format, panty stealing, male masturbation, pillow humping, scent kink, oral (m -> f), p in v

PANTY THIEF HINATA!who began his perverted collection on a whim. It started off with a kind gesture, offering to clean your room while the stress of finals took its toll on your pretty mind.

Yet, once he tackled the pile of discarded clothing, his pure eyes were tainted by the holy sight. He picks up the lacy black thong, examining the foreign object with confusion. 

He couldn’t believe that something so thin and frail could fit along those luscious curves of yours. Curiosity got the best of him, inching the fabric towards his nose.

All it took was that sinful sniff, sending the pangs of arousal to force his cock away. His hand immediately palmed at his erection, his nose buried inside his fist. Was it even allowed for someone to smell this…intoxicating? He knew it was wrong but what was one missing pair to the abundance tucked away in your drawer?

PANTY THIEF HINATA! who absolutely died at your scent. It captivated him, bringing him back to that fateful day. He kept the same pair hidden beneath his pillow, stuffing his nose into the heaven he created.

However, as the rich scent of your essence reached its limit, Hinata knew he had to retrieve yet another pair, doing whatever he could to enter the private walls of your room.

One turned into two, two into four, and four into twelve. He prayed to all the gods you wouldn't notice, but he needed to have them at his disposal, swearing that his daily woes would be forgotten once your scent settled upon his senses. 

PANTY THIEF HINATA! who begs to accompany you during those panty sales he sees all over television. You had no clue as to what piqued his sudden interest but paid it no mind, writing it off as another one of Hinata’s mindless crazes.

You observed the man as he strolled around the store, picking certain pairs that appease his tastes. From silky hipsters, floral boyshorts, and racy thongs, Hinata collected all he could get his hands on, his imagination tinted with the lewd images of you wearing every. single. pair.

When he gets home, he’s already planning which pair to add to his collection. 

PANTY THIEF HINATA! who blushes with the prettiest pinks when he’s finally caught. Not to mention it’s in the most embarrassing position.

With the droplets of sweat adorning his hitching chest, he was hunched over a pillow he folded in half, his flushed cock snuggled between the plush mound. His hazel hues shoot wide apart at the sight of you, standing in the doorway of his room with folded arms and a tight lipped frown.

He could’ve gotten away with it, god could he, Yet bundled within his fist was his latest steal, the citrine hipster you purchased recently. He was prepared for the shouts, anger, and even a slap if it called for it.

What Hinata hadn’t prepared for was your initial reaction, a bubbly giggle of sorts. When you finally stood at his bedside with a single finger hooked around the loop of your jeans, Hinata knew his cards would be played in his favor. 

PANTY THIEF HINATA! who almost burst into tears, his face buried between the supple plush of your thighs. Hearing you offer yourself for his indulgence nearly had him drooling, watching as you stripped down to nothing.

Hell, sloppy wasn’t even the word to describe his excitement, his swollen lips trained to your clit, not giving himself a moment to breathe. With each flick of his tongue, he grinned at how the tender bud perked beneath his touch.

The whites of his eyes hid behind the lids of his eyes, Hinata’s poor mind ascending with every passing second. You whined at the sensation, having Hinata's tongue drag along the delicate sheets of your folds.

You knew of his attraction towards you, the innocent boy breaking into a fierce rouge whenever a smile curled onto lips. But with how he buried himself, the poor boy’s desperation wasn’t shy from apparent. 

PANTY THIEF HINATA! who knew his salacious acts would come to an end as his cock plunged into the warmth of your walls. He couldn’t dare to look away, studying every one of your moves. From straddling his lap, your nails digging crescent curves along the broads of his shoulders, even to seething at your entrance enticing the thickened head through.

Enveloping him in the viscid hold, he threw his head back, writhing himself into a pit of disbelief. Just before your hips could begin to rise, the pad of your thumb swept past his spit-ridden lips, leaving with a final word of advice.

“Next time you want me, Sho…just ask and I’m all yours.”

[the-offside-rule]

Jude Bellingham (Real Madrid) - Dorada

Requested: no

Prompt: Jude couldn't make it to the Ballon D'or, but Y/n brought it to him

Warnings: none

The night sparkled in Paris. Photographers flashed their cameras, calling Y/n's name, hoping for a radiant shot of the footballer nominated for the Women's Ballon d'Or. She was flawless for the cameras, dressed in a shimmering dark blue gown. As the interviews began, she felt the familiar weight of Jude's absence. Real Madrid's sudden boycott meant he couldn’t be by her side tonight. She kept her head up, flashing that confident smile she’d mastered over the years. One of the reporters stepped forward with a curious look. "Y/n, tonight's a big night, and we all know you’d hoped to share it with Jude. Is there any reason he couldn't make it tonight?"

"You get to interview a Ballon D'or nominee and thats the question you ask?" She chuckled, earning an approved laugh from her captain, Alexia beside her. Y/n took a deep breath and gave her rehearsed response. "It’s just a decision that’s out of my hands. It isn’t the time to focus on that. I'm here to talk about my football, about my season, and if all goes well, hopefully my first Ballon D'or." Her voice remained calm, her smile unwavering, though inside she felt a pang.

As she moved along the red carpet, she caught whispers of fans and reporters speculating. There were murmurs about a breakup, suggestions that the long distance between Barcelona and Madrid had driven a wedge. She could feel the weight of it but chose to brush it off. Tonight, she was here for her dream. Jude would understand.

Finally, it was time. The ballroom filled with anticipation as the names were called, leading up to the grand announcement. "And this year’s Women’s Ballon d’Or goes to-" The pause ate away at her. It felt like forever. Who won? Who won? "Y/n Y/l/n, FC Barcelona!" A mix of shock and joy washed over her. The room exploded with applause, her teammates standing and cheering as Y/n made her way to the stage, trying to process the enormity of the moment. She turned to smile, holding back the tears and simply trying to think of what to do, what to say. Her hand was shaking as she accepted the golden trophy, its weight somehow grounding her. She barely registered the applause as she stood before the room, her teammates cheering her on, her eyes welling up slightly as she approached the stand. She was handed her trophy, the one trophy she was missing.

She stepped up to the microphone, her voice steady but tinged with emotion. Gripping the golden trophy, Y/n began her speech. "Wow, um, I didn’t expect so many people to be here." The crowd laughed as she calmed herself down. "Alexia and Aitana make this look so easy." Another laugh. She finally felt calmer. "I've been thinking on what I would say all week if I won this prestigious award and honestly, all the practiced speeches are just-" She waved her hands. "Gone. They're gone." She smoothed out her dress and placed the ball onto the stand. "Firstly, I would like to thank my club, my coaches, and to the girls who make every match something I look forward to. You guys make every training, every game, every win and every loss worth it and I am so happy to be alongside each and every one of you. It is truly an honour." The room.erupted into claps as Y/n thought of what to say next.

"To my family back home, who believed in me from the beginning. To the culers who watch us at home, to the culers who follow us around the globe, I dedicate this to you. Thank you for making my jersey sales so high." The room laughed once again as she found a new confidence in herself. She took a moment, gathering her thoughts. And then, with a gentle smile, she continued. "And to the silly little boy I met all those years ago in Dortmund, thank you for cheering me on tonight from Madrid. I love you, and I am so sad you couldn’t make it. I know you would be taking photos of me for my instagram, so maybe it's the thought that counts." She waited for the crowd to quieten once more so she could deliver the most important part in her opinion.

"And finally, to all the little girls out there watching. To the little girl who will one day stand up here and win this award, don't you ever give up! Keep going, and enjoy the journey. Visca el Barça!" She smiled, raising the trophy and wiping her tears away as she walked down back towards her teammates. The crowd cheered, and Y/N stepped off the stage, her heart a mix of pride and longing. She knew Jude was watching, and she couldn't wait to tell him everything.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

As the celebrations continued, her phone buzzed. It was a video notification. Opening it, she saw Jude's mom had posted a clip on Instagram. The video showed Jude’s face lighting up as her name was announced, pride etched all over his expression. He cheered loudly as she walked up the steps. "That’s my girl!" Y/n laughed, her heart feeling warmer than it had all evening. She wanted nothing more than to see him. Turning to her good friend, Laia from Atlético Madrid, she pulled her aside. "Laia, would you mind if I joined your flight back to Madrid?" She asked, biting her lip. Laia grinned, immediately understanding. "Of course! You want to see your boy, right?" Y/n nodded, a bit shy. "Yeah… I need to be there. Tonight wouldn't feel complete otherwise."

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

It was late when she arrived, but the city lights twinkled as her cab rolled through familiar streets. Thank God she had brought Jude's hoodie with her to Paris or she would have froze to death. She carried the golden Ballon d'Or and her luggage up to Jude's door. She barely had time to knock before the door opened. She had messaged Denise that she was coming sos he could surprise Jude, so she was happy to see her boyfriend's mum at the door to open it. "Comgratulations, darling." She whispered, hugging Y/n gently. "Thank you so much!" Y/n replied, before the pair walked in and up the stairs to Jude's room.

She sat down on his bed, still holding her trophy in one hand. Her other reached up to his cheek to caress his face. He stirred, his eyes flickering open. "Babe?" Jude whispered,his eyes now fully open. "Did someone order a Ballon d'Or?" She said with a grin. Jude laughed, pulling her into his arms, hugging her as if he’d never let go. "I did! Took long enough to arrive, though." He teased, eyeing the trophy she carried.

"I am so sorry I wasn't there. I wanted to be there. You know that, right? That I hated not being there?" She sighed softly. "I know. I wanted you there, but I understand why you couldn’t be." He wrapped an arm around her, his voice warm with affection. "You deserved every moment up there. It was all you." She looked at him, her gaze soft. "Not all me. It was partly you, too, Jude. You’ve been with me through everything, even if we’re miles apart."

Jude chuckled, shaking his head. "A whole Ballon d'Or winner, calling me a ‘silly little boy’ on live TV." He laughed, nudging her playfully. She grinned. "Well, it's the truth. The boy who used to kick balls at me during training just to get my attention." He pulled back, beaming as he looked down at her. He shook his head with a grin. "Look where that got me." He murmured, leaning over to kiss her forehead. They both laughed, the months of long distance and tonight’s worries melting away. She handed him the trophy, watching as he held it with reverence. "It’s lighter than I thought it would be." He murmured, grinning. "Oh, really?" She challenged. "I didn’t think you’d get to hold one just yet." She winked playfully, knowing that her banter would fire him up. "That was far." Jude said, looking towards his mum who was laughing by the doorway.

Jude laughed, feigning shock. "You just wait. You give me a year." His gaze softened, and he ran a thumb over her cheek. "I’m so proud of you, though. You deserved every bit of that." Pulling her close, Jude took out his phone. "Okay, one last thing. Let’s get a picture. Just so we can recreate it when I win mine." She rolled her eyes, leaning in and making sure to show the shiny trophy. They snapped a quick selfie: Y/n in Jude’s hoodie, cuddled up with the Ballon d'Or shining between them. She gave a goofy grin while he kissed her temple, pride and love written all over his face.

As he posted the photo, the caption silencing those who whispered all evening.

Finally got to celebrate my girl, the Ballon d'Or winner, up close

"That long-distance stuff?" He murmured. "We’ll make it work. No one’s stopping us."

[ceilidho]

coworker soap who frames the fleshlight thing as a joke but with a creepy undercurrent that you cant understand why you know it isnt a joke but you also dont wanna rock the boat so you dont tell hr bc johnny the ex-military man is a model employee otherwise and you cant help but feel hot shame run down ur spine when he says it that you are, at least a little, flattered by it bc shit dude hes HOT. coworker soap who just. doesnt bring it up again. its just boiling rhe frog. he says weird, borderline creepy shit that could be passed off as "guy talk" in any other situation (regardless of readers gender). He follows you around like a puppy and where it used to be normal for you, you feel a little creeped out now but. everyone. already refers to you as a duo. itd be weird if you stopped for no reason? right?

i don't know what broke in my mind long ago that this is like, the weirdly hottest thing in the world to me but im genuinely twitching over it right now.

model employee Johnny, knows the handbook inside and out, walks elderly customers to their cars with their bags, shows up to work early for every shift, always with a smile and a positive attitude. management loves him because his sales are also record high (i mean, it makes sense - i wouldn't be able to say no if he was helping me with a purchase and tried to upsell me). he's also a spokesperson for the company in all of their internal training videos because he was hired through some "jobs for vets" program that they just rolled out (idk i'm making this up). and the guy can stack things on a shelf like no one's business lmao like MILITARY precision/organization.

all your coworkers love him and genuinely like fist pump whenever they get put on the schedule with him because he's a blast to work with, and some of your coworkers are actually incredibly jealous that he just seems to follow you around everywhere. hangs off your every word. always seems to just pop out from around the corner whenever you're having trouble reaching something on a shelf.

but he says weird, uncomfortable shit to you sometimes. way over the line. you don't even know what to say at first when Johnny jokingly tells you that he has a fleshlight at home that he's named after you, just laughs and then stares at you for a second. and you like, give a little awkward laugh, growing more uncomfortable by the second the longer he stares at you without blinking. until something passes over his eyes and suddenly he's back to normal, clapping you on the arm and wandering off back to the men's apparel section.

he does a lot of strange shit actually. maybe insists on walking you to your car when the two of you are on the closing shift and it's well into the evening. laughs a little too hard and with too much vigour when someone calls him your shadow, his eyes just a little too bright and fervent. asks if you want to sit on his lap while he shows you how to use the forklift in the backroom. begs management to let him take his breaks with you and doesn't let you have a moment of peace, just sits with you in the breakroom or follows you to your car when you say that you're going out for lunch.

and you can't complain to any of your coworkers because the second you so much as criticize his work, they bark at you to be nice to him. he's just re-acclimating to civilian life, of course he's not perfect at his job yet. they defend him viciously. and the real jealous ones even tell on you in front of him, leaving you standing there embarrassed and on the spot until Johnny just smiles and says that it's alright. you'll just have to teach him better.

[acaaai-t]

and it was all yellow.

[modern au! scaramouche x gn! reader]

cw: angst, hurt/no comfort, mentions of cheating, breakups, reader likes yellow

“Let’s live together when we get married! Oh oh, and we can get cat too,” you exclaimed. “Or a dog, if you prefer.”

“No kids?” a smile tugged at the corner of his lips at your bubbling excitement.

Your nose scrunched up at the mere thought of having children. “No, no kids,” you said, shaking your head.

Scaramouche laughed, the corner of his eyes crinkling up as he looked at you, eyes filled with just pure adoration and love for you.

“Our bedroom can be painted.. hmm..”

“What about yellow?” Scaramouche suggested. “It’s is your favorite color after all.”

You clapped your hands together, eyes lighting up with excitement. “Ooh yes! Great idea. Let’s go look at furnitures, please?”

“I still think you’re thinking too far ahead,” he mumbled, yet nevertheless, he took your hand and guided you out the living room.

“It’s never too late to start planning,” you said, pressing a small kiss to the corner of his lips.

…

“Mmm, no. Too… blue.”

“How about this one?” the sales lady gestured to a simple pastel couch placed upon a soft plush carpet. “This one just came in, part of out newest collection of furniture.”

You looked at Scaramouche, who had an unpleasant expression on his face. He didn’t seem to be a fan of the colors—nor the shape of the furniture itself. You turned back to the sales assistant and gently shook your head.

She looked slightly disappointed at your rejection, but she quickly led you to another set of kitchen setups, all the while explaining the benefits provided and how nice it looks. You ran a finger over the waxed surface of the wooden dining table. A cloth of yellow and white checkered pattern lay over the center of the table, a vase of yellow daffodils sitting atop of it.

Yellow.

For as long as you can remember, it’d always been your favorite color. You’ve taken quite the liking to sunflowers recently, and coincidentally enough, they were a beautiful shade of yellow too. Scaramouche knew—he somehow always knew—and made sure to surprise you with bouquets of fresh flowers every once in a while, the giant sunflower being the centerpiece.

Scaramouche knew you, inside and out. The good and the bad. He’s seen through with you through your worst and your best. He knows exactly how to cheer you up when you’re feeling down, via a long cuddle session; how you like your coffee, always black with a splash of vanilla creamer; the people you love and hate; that you adore the color yellow.

Never was there a day where Scaramouche would hear himself say that yellow was lovely color. For some odd reason, ever since he was a young child, he’d always hated yellow. But after meeting you, it’s as if yellow had been completely painted in a new light. Everything yellow he saw, he saw you in it. Splashed across the sunset, blooming in a field under the stars—you. You were always there.

“Do you like it?” Scaramouche asked.

You met his eyes and smiled. “Yeah.”

…

“Yeah, its… true.”

You said nothing.

Scaramouche shifted uncomfortably in his seat at your silence. You kept your eyes trained on the nearly dead daffodil leaning helplessly against its ceramic cage. The petals had begun falling off, you noticed. When had that happened? Just a couple days ago everything was fine. It was healthy and thriving. Happy.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Did he think that such a measly apology was enough to compensate for your broken heart? Nothing Scaramouche did or say could soothe the burning ache that hollowed you from the inside-out. He’d been playing with your emotions for nearly two weeks now. Had it not been Scaramouche slipping up, you would’ve never caught on that he was being intimate with someone else that wasn’t you.

Tears brimmed, the water tension so close to falling. You blinked, and it broke, tears trailing down your cheeks. Does he feel anything seeing you cry? Does he regret his actions? Will he hate himself for what he’s done to you? You gritted your teeth. Even if he begged for you to stay, you won’t waver. It’s his loss.

You sniffled and wiped away your tears. It’s useless. Crying won’t reverse what’s been done. “Whatever,” you muttered, pushing away from the dining table. Your heart aches, but you pushed the pain aside and slowly collected yourself.

The place that you’d once shared with Scaramouche—a place that you once dared called home, was now nothing more than a painful reminder of what once was yours. A place where you’d spent creating countless day and nights painting up a paradise where you’d raise your children with your husband. Everything you’ve done was futile. It’s over.

It was bitter. The process of packing your belongings as Scaramouche remained at the dining table was cruel. Everything you wanted to take only serves as nothing more than a taunt to your now dead relationship. Everything you ever loved you shared with him, and now, you don’t think you’d ever be able to look at them in the same light anymore. Your hands hovered over a pot of crocheted sunflowers sitting above the fireplace. Crestfallen, youfelt your heart twist once more.

In the end, your tiny backpack was only filled with everyday essentials. You swallowed back a cry and dialed a friend as you prepared to leave this god forsaken place.

“Hey Xiao,” your voice was quivering.

Scaramouche stiffened up at the mention of your friend’s name. You didn’t see it however, for your back was turned to him. He wanted to stop you from leaving, to stop you from stepping out the door. But he refrained from doing so. He chewed anxiously at his bottom lips. Don’t leave. Please. He wanted to say. I’m sorry.

Yet he did nothing, only squeezing his eyes shut, listening to the sound of the door slamming shut. When it was finally just him alone in the apartment, he buried his face in the palm of his hands and cried.

The yellow curtains fluttered gently, and the last petal of the daffodil fell.

✩ ·┆ masterlist┆ >> part 2 <<

notes—

— quick life update: haven’t played genshin in a year now, and it’s college application season so i’m going to start stressing; sorry if i disappear again it will keep happening, unfortunately

© acaaai-t — do not plagiarize, repost, or translate

[tieronecrush]

so much wine

joel miller x reader

summary: christmas is difficult for joel, with and without you.

rating: M

wc: 2.8k

warnings: no outbreak, angst MAJORLY, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, acts of mild violence (NOT towards reader or any other person, it is toward an inanimate object), joel hating christmas, grief, anger, depression, big big feelings, mention of break up, sad joel, angry joel, resentful joel, reader trying to make christmas nice, um i may be forgetting some so if you notice any big ones lmk!

a/n: ya girl is always on her angst grind. ESPECIALLY around christmas cause....issues. hope you all find the means to enjoy this lil one shot based on one of the saddest but still incredibly beautiful christmas songs. here's the link to the song! tysm to @northernbluess & @kiwisbell for beta-ing and encouraging me to post this. love you both xx

“Tommy?”

“Hey, m’so sorry to be callin’ ya on Christmas Eve. I know…Well, I know this is probably the last thing ya wanna be hearin’ but I really need your help. It’s Joel…” The noise level on the other side increases with a gust of rowdiness, clueing you in that he must be at a bar. You press the phone tighter against your ear, listening to Tommy ramble off reasonings for your help interwoven with profuse apologies. Guilt hangs heavy inside of you, the soft music and glasses clinking in the other room a reminder of your own Christmas Eve plans. How it’s supposed to go every year. Peaceful, light, fun, full of love. Your holiday with Joel looked different. Full of love, yes, but overwhelming, stifling with grief.

“I’ll be right over, Tommy.” You can’t turn away, you can’t hang up and go back to your life tonight. Not with knowing how much pain Joel’s in.

The tree lights up as you stick the plug in the socket, your nightly task for the last month just as the sun sets. Clear, warm bulbs illuminate the otherwise dark living room, shining out to the street as a beacon of a lived-in home. Reflections of warmth bounce off of the shiny glass ornaments littered around the branches, heirlooms from your family, and some you’ve collected yourself. Combined with ones from Joel’s past. It’s not cohesive, but it’s a beautiful smattering of your lives. Pine wafts from the sappy center of the tree, filling the room with the scent of evergreen, tinged with the stuffy warmth from the central heat.

You’d decorated the tree on your own a few weeks ago. Joel helped you pick up the tree from the sale lot in the H.E.B. car park, strapping it down in the bed of his pickup. More than willing to help you get it inside, into the basin, and secure it tightly to avoid any accidents. But that’s when his assistance stopped. No humming along to the Christmas CDs you queued, no suggestions of festive movies to watch, no sneaking some Bailey’s into the mugs of decaf coffee you brewed to keep warm. Instead, he retreated up to your bedroom, shutting the door behind him and effectively shutting you out for the evening.

Tommy’s truck pulls into the driveway, dropping off Joel for the holiday after last-minute projects were tied off. Joel had mentioned grabbing a drink with Tommy, to celebrate another year gone by with their new business venture, Miller Construction. You didn’t think anything of it, wishing him a good day that morning and sending him off while you prepped dinner and baked cookies to bring over to your parent’s house tomorrow.

As you sit down on the couch, Joel fumbles at the door with his keys, finally getting them jammed in and the lock turned. He stumbles inside, tripping over his own feet despite his eyes being trained on them, grumbling to himself as he frustratingly kicks off his boots. You stand up to greet him, a warm smile on your face faltering when he looks back at you with a scowl.

“Need a drink…” he slurs, avoiding you completely in the middle of the living room, frown lit up by the tree. Joel treks to the kitchen, straight for the whiskey bottle that he takes a long pull from before filling a glass halfway. The amber liquid sloshes as he turns to look at you, holding out the crystal tumbler.

“You want some, baby? S’Christmas Eve! Everybody thinks it’s something to celebrate, right?”

It never snows in Austin, but driving down the highway with your windows down, it smells like winter. Crisp, cool air rubbing your cheeks raw, running your nose. Thin air, fresh. A medicinal feeling, like inhaling the menthols you used to smoke. It’s freezing, but you can’t bring yourself to roll up the windows, to close yourself into your car as you cruise on the open roads. Everyone’s tucked away at home, with family or friends, while you drive towards something as familiar, but much more grisly.

Christmas carols crack over the stereo, painting visions of picture-perfect holidays, the feelings of joy, love, belonging, and warmth that you’ve craved for him since you met him. Something you so desperately wanted to drip back into his life from your hand, dribbling water to a lightless soul.

The glass is empty now, bottle as hollow as Joel’s eyes look. He stands in front of the tree, studying the decorations with a freshly opened bottle of wine in his grip, one you were meant to bring to your parents tomorrow. His brows haven’t relaxed, not one stitch unsewn since he walked in the door. Mumbles of anger have rolled from his chest, never directed toward you, but aimed at the world around him. At the holiday. At the lack of presents addressed to his daughter under the tree, the missing duties of playing Santa.

You met Joel after Sarah passed. He spoke about her often, telling you all about his little girl who was funny, bright, bubbly, better than him in every way. She’s been gone for a handful of years now, the tragedy worn on Joel’s face and in his curls; aged and grayed. He was still so handsome, still held a smile for you despite the deep, open aches he feels the pains of every day.

Never having a holiday with him, you didn’t know that this is ‘just how he is’. Tommy had heeded some warnings to you, had called you in a whisper as he pulled away from the house that evening with apologies — ‘I tried to cut him off, but when I left for a minute to go to the bathroom, he’d gotten the bartender to pour him another double���I tried to take it, but he wouldn’t…’

You expected feelings these days, this month, the whole season. How could a father not miss his only child when the rest of everyone’s happiness, luck, blessings are thrown back in his face? But this…this was a different Joel. Someone angry, someone cursing his own existence. He fumbled around the living room, shoving the coffee table when he bumped into it, picking tinsel off the tree and tossing it to the ground.

At the time, it seemed like a good idea to intervene. To attempt to talk him into bed, or at least into eating something and laying down on the couch. Other issues to address in the morning when he was sober.

Now, you know that was a mistake.

“What do you want from me? What does my brother want from me? Am I just supposed to get over it so everyone can have their merry little Christmas?” His voice strings words together, his drawl thicker with inebriation. Wine splatters across the kitchen tile, Joel’s arms swinging around as he speaks with his hands.

“No one is ever asking or expecting you to get over it, Joel. We just—I don’t want you to be like…to feel like this. Sarah wouldn’t want you to—”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Joel never raises his voice. The calm chill of his voice sends a wash of anxiety over your entire body, words punching clear now despite his physical state.

“Enough. Don’t even say that 'cause you wouldn’t fucking know.”

The freezing air fills your lungs, choking out as it stifles your inhale. Strong heaves of breaths expand your lungs before they squeeze out with sharp exhales, the coughing fit morphing into sobs. Tears blur your vision, flowing over your waterline and burning hot against your cheeks. Carving trails across your face with iron branding. Find the same paths of all their predecessors, all that came before them for the very same reasons.

You manage to pull off to the side of the road to compose yourself, parking near enough to your exit. Slipping out of the driver’s seat, you open the door and tumble out, talking yourself down from hysterics. Wading through the thick emotions, the unresolved slashings of anger and frustration, the unanswered love.

Facing the midnight sky, twinkling spots stare back at you, reminding you of your size in the world. How large everything feels, how all-consuming. How it doesn’t seem to be felt all the same by the one person you want it from. Need it from.

Struck with a flash of a star falling against the black backdrop, there’s a brief moment when you think it’s Santa Claus. In his sleigh pulled by reindeer, riding around to deliver joy to families across the world. Another reminder of how small you feel. How much like a kid you feel. Unsure of where you stand in his life, uncertainty facing your future, undecided in what is the right thing to do.

The sky kaleidoscopes in your watery eyes, small shining bursts gazing back at you. And your first thought is how similar they look to Joel’s eyes that night. Sad, glossy, shimmering with anger that sat long enough to finally introduce itself as grief.

You stayed out of the way after that. Let him drink himself into a hole. Dinner is left untouched until the later evening when you wrap it all up and store it away in the fridge. Noting another bottle of wine gone from the cabinet.

Joel’s corralled upstairs with less persuasion the drunker he’s gotten, craving the comfort of your shared bed the closer he gets to passing out. He trips over his feet while you walk behind him, a hand pressing into his lower back to direct him. Hiccups shake his body. Teeth stained red. Life sucked from the day, no more chances at honoring memories, no more magic left to make something special for Joel. Nothing that can sprinkle some goodness into his life.

He’s got an iron grip on his resentment, on his rage. Understandably.

But that grip drops his hand from his happiness, from his comfort, from his remembrance. It all slips through his fingers now, grains of sand falling through the lines in his palms, the ridges of his fingerprints. What was so ingrained in him, years ago with his daughter, days ago with you, is easily forgotten as the monster of misery uses your kindhearted man as a vessel. Rendering him unrecognizable.

Taking in his sleeping form, fully clothed and half covered with a quilt. He was out as soon as his head hit the pillow, his coping catching up with him to finally receive the desired effect — feeling nothing. Turning his brain off completely, emptying him to float in a void for at least one night.

His lips parted with slow, even breaths. Brows relax, falling back to lift his eyes, despite them being closed. Delicate eyelashes lay against his cheeks, and you watch as a smattering of exhausted tears slip from the corners of his shut eyes. No more stubborn will to hold them back. The first real emotion you’ve witnessed all evening.

It’s another moment before you turn away, filling the empty glass at his bedside with water from the bathroom tap. Avoiding his soft sleeping form and your empty side of the mattress, you pack a small bag to retreat to your parent's house, a short note left for Joel in the morning inviting him over when he’s feeling up for it.

One last glance at him drives an ice pick into your heart, warm blood pooling around your feet matching the shade of red on his lips. It feels cruel, to pack up and leave for the night, but without knowing if this charade continues through the next day, you don’t quite feel like sticking around to find out.

The bar is busier than you would have thought, with a good amount of groups growing rowdy for the holiday. You imagine they are there drinking in camaraderie, in celebration. The opposite to your Joel. He’s slumped over the bar in his green flannel, hugging his broad frame that shields him from the joy raucous of the room.

Tommy stands next to him, hand on his shoulder in an attempt to draw him away from the wooden bartop, to get him away from the stool and the glass filled with amber liquid.

When the bartender greets you while you approach, Tommy turns toward you, sighing and shaking his head as he leans into his older brother to mumbling loud enough for your to overhear as you settle behind Joel’s seat, “M’sorry I had to do this, Joel, but you’ve got to get home…”

Joel grumbles, shrugging off his brother’s hand. When he’s turned to address his brother with a protest, he catches you in the periphery, reacting with a molasses-like double take. Angling in your direction from his perch on the worn leather barstool, his eyes widen in shock, and he swallows hard. The drink in his hand is left discarded on the bar top, Tommy signaling for the bartender to come by and grab it while Joel stands dumbfounded by the presence of you.

“Sweetheart…”

The name is a punch in the gut, recalling every other time it raised goosebumps in its wake while it was whispered against your skin, each time it was tacked onto a gentle tease, each time it was spoken in place of feelings he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, communicate to you.

Recovering quickly, you right yourself internally, rising tall and holding your shoulders back while tender kindness masks your anguish. A head shake draws up a watery expression despite your efforts, your smile plastering onto your expression. Joel frowns, seeing straight through the guise.

“C’mon, Joel. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

Both of you stare at the hand of yours laid on his bicep, radiating heat from the contact that starts to melt the ice that froze your feelings for him in place those months ago. Joel is the first to look away, the burn of his saucer eyes drilling into your profile.

“No. No, I don’t need to—” he argues, always a mule.

“Joel,” you interrupt, voice thickened with sentiment, “please. I wanna go home. Let’s go home.”

The statement isn’t a lie. The furthest thing from an untruth.

It’s exactly what you have been wanting to say to him for months, feeling untethered and lost. You’ve been aimlessly searching for that same solace elsewhere. In other places, in other people. Nothing could compare. Joel is home. And all you want to do is return, to feel safe and warm and welcomed at home. To feel as if there is room for you there, that you aren’t driven out by the torment that tortures Joel, and in turn, you.

That’s what gets him to agree. The promise of home, with you there with him. The same piece he’s felt missing, the second heart of his home stripped from him because of his unwillingness to let up his grip on his anger and resentment. Because of his resistance to cradle his comfort, his contentment, his love for you.

“You wanna go home?” A nod answers him, rolling his actions into motion, “Okay, okay. M’gon—gonna take you home, baby. We can…I can give you your gift.”

“Sure, honey. We can do that in the morning,” you counter, the corners of your mouth turning up for a split second when Joel agrees.

His large form falls from the stool and into his brother when he attempts to get up. It’s a dance between the three of you to get him into your car and to his place. Tommy follows, there to drag him up the stairs with you behind, a hand on Joel’s lower back. He preens into every touch from you, glancing over his shoulder to check that you’re still there. That you haven’t left again. You can’t help but notice the living room illuminated by a Christmas tree, the smell of pine filling the house and the delicate glass ornaments placed carefully around the tree. He tried this year.

You do stay. This time you’re sitting with it all, ready for the confrontation of the next day. With Tommy gone, you and Joel are left alone with each other for the first time in months. In your old bedroom of all places.

Joel sits at the edge of the bed, head hanging in shame while you kneel in front of him, tentatively laying a hand on his knee.

If this time is going to be different, you need a reason to stay. A single brick taken out of his walls, the signal of the start of a wreckage that you will happily clear so long as you can have your Joel feel like a semblance of himself again.

“You’re always gonna see the bottom of your glass, Joel. Nothing can save you from that, not even all the drink in the world. It’s all still going to be there. You have to decide to face it.”

It’s quiet for a moment, the only sounds filling the room are your slow breaths in sync with each other’s. Joel picks his head up, angling it to look down at you directly. Tears have carved channels into his face, fight leaving his eyes as he opens his mouth to speak in a rasped whisper.

“Sarah always loved Christmas...”

taglist: @northernbluess @atinylittlepain @swiftispunk @joelsversion @mrsmando @ilovepedro @lovers-liability @deathwife @undrthelights @atticrissfinch @casa-boiardi @wannab-urs @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @fishingforpike @msjarvis @walkintotheriveranddisappear @sugadolly @yazsos @peppesgirl @pastawench @addictedtotlou @brittmb115 @anoverwhelmingdin @spishsstuff @wolfbook87 @mswarriorbabe80 @harriedandharassed @decemberdolly @laiisleitte @fierce-bab @vickie5446 @pertinentpostmortem @livingdeadmaria @sullyosully @bitchwitch1981 @its-nebuleuse @marini03 @piercethevic03 @joeandpedrosimp @kiwisbell @planet-marz1 @txtattoostark @jrosie25 @tbniarq @vee-bees-blog @thereaperisabitch @spidermanfrog @belliezz @joelsflannel @cartoon-garbage04 @bianqueee04 @nostalxgic @xyzstar @cumberpegg @b00klvrs @burningnerdchild

[grovaleulers-businesscoach]

Inside Sales Training – Five Pillars to Build an Impact in Your Calls

To be successful in Inside sales, one must be constantly working on building abilities to have impactful conversations.

Build a strong database to scout the market

Research well about the prospects – Use digital media and latest tools

Identify and work with all stakeholders – How to use LinkedIn and other mediums?

Understand the business KPIs – What matters the most to the decision-makers?

Engage Consultatively – Personalisation, Personalisation and Personalisation | For more in-depth training= Grovaleulers Inside Sales Training.

[hellenhighwater]

hi! I saw your vid on TikTok of Mal throwing a fit post-picnic time. how did you harness train the cats? and where did you get their harnesses?

Mal's never been anxious, so I actually started her really early on; she's never not known how to wear a harness. She doesn't love having her legs handled, so hers is an over-the-head harness with a waist belt instead of the kind Vice has, which has leg holes and velcroes, without going over the head. (Vice is chill about his legs being handled but doesn't like stuff over the head.) Both are from...either amazon or a yard sale, I don't remember. Neither are special or exceptional enough to recommend; they work fine but there's nothing about them that makes them better than any other kind of harness.

It should be noted that Malice does not complain about having her harness put on--the griping is only because she knows that when the harness comes off, she's done with yard time.

Baby Mal, in her section-of-a-tube-sock 'training' harness:

For Vice, I kind of went at it like you would if you were breaking a horse to saddle--touching him gently with the harness, exposing him to it, draping it over his shoulders and putting gentle pressure on it--it fits appropriately snugly--and practicing sticking his leggies into the arm holes, with lots of praise and positive reinforcement throughout. He's limited to brief yard time right now and I try to cut it short on a positive note, before he gets distressed--if a loud vehicle comes past or something startles him, he will try to bolt and will hit the end of the tether and freak out, so I try to not let things get to that point. So right now yard time is just a few minutes of adoration and then back inside with the harness off and lots of treats.

[3liza]

the other thing about duvets is i dont like that theyre a big pillowcase. this is more trouble than its worth imo. i think duvet covers should actually be two separate pieces, or one long piece in a taco format, and you just spread it out on the bed or floor, spread out the duvet on top, and THEN fasten the top of the duvet cover closed with either buttons or a concealed zipper along the edge. zipper texture unpleasantness could easily be tucked inside a padded border so it doesnt scratch you at night.

duvet covers were introduced to the usa in the 1960s as a part of the "scandinavian" interior decor movement during midcentury modern (they were brought from Sweden, so not actually scnadinavian, but americans dont know the difference and we dont care [edit: i am being informed sweden is actually considered part of scandinavia, i had been previously misinformed]), apparently from the Habitat store in London. i thought Biba was involved for some reason but I may be confusing a bit of documentary i watched with something else. in the documentary, the older lady they were interviewing who used to work at the department store that she claimed popularized the duvwet (either Habitat or Biba) talked about how the sales girls were trained to "demonstrate" the "convenience" of the duvet vs the traditional British method of quilt+sheets, and she remarked she got so good at it she could put the duvet in the cover in about 30 seconds. however when she tried to demonstrate for the presenter she got completely flummoxed by the damned thing. it was at that point i knew duvets were a mistake

anyway im finding some interesting gadgets for securing duvets rn, the one that looks least ugly is a thing that looks like a fabric-covered button that snaps into another button using a tack that pierces the duvet and cover layers. the other solutions also seem fine but are all ugly plastic doohickeys that would bother me on an aesthetic basis. the tack would probably damage the fabric but if you're not using your nice linens i bet it doesn't matter much, especially if the duvet cover is a rustic textile of some kind

the wikipedia article about the duvet is very interesting. i especially liked the part about how previous attempts to introduce it to england were failures

one of the other home bedding issues in the usa is that home washers and dryers and apartment washers and dryers are generally not big enough to effectively wash a down duvet or a quilt thats larger than about a Full, depending on thickness. this bothers me. feather down is especially irritating in this respect because it will get mildewy instantly if it isnt bone dry immediately after laundering. mentioning Sweden yet again, a friend showed me her shared laundry facilities in her Swedish apartment once and they DID have large, industrial machines that could easily take a duvet. she said this was typical. america continues to be difficult to live in for no good reason. its like literalyl everything you do here is 160% harder and more expensive than any other "comparable" country

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Holy SHIT! Speaking of "you never know what's going on inside a house," here's the home of avid maximalist collectors. You can't see the interior b/c of all their stuff, but it has a pending sale. It's a nice looking 1968 Mid-century modern tri-level in Ada, OH. 5bds, 4ba, 2,692 sq ft, $355k.

Hello. (Oh, it's already decorated for Halloween, too). Are those giant stuffies really necessary? (Note the Indian Chief statues on the left.)

Very large, long, living room.

The dining room is ready for Halloween, unless it always looks like this. You know, I live alone, maybe I should get a skeleton to sit at the table, for company.

There's a lot going on in the kitchen. But, as you can see it's very large.

They tried to update the dated cabinets by painting them 2-tone, but the hardware and design are a dead giveaway. I wonder if the bright red tool cabinet conveys.

So, this is a bedroom. I guess it's pretty big, by the looks of all the furniture in here.

I don't know what this is.

Looks like a sewing room or craft space in this bedroom.

OMG. Do these people intend to pack all this up and take it w/them? I would just light fire to the place and call it a day. I see a fireplace. So, it's a rec room.

I wouldn't even consider buying a house like this, even though it's big and cheap- you can't see if there are any problems. The carpets are so dirty. They never clean around this stuff.

This is nuts. These are the bedrooms. Look at the little village along the bottom of the bookcase and cabinet.

Here's a nautical-themed bath.

They made this M&M bedroom into a laundry room I think that's a w/d in the closet.

This is crazy. Most of the bedrooms are unrecognizable. This table isn't even for a train set- it's just some kind of a scene.

Clearly, they don't use this bath.

There's a large deck.

And a narrow deck continues around the house. Looks like a pond next door.

Under the deck, a narrow patio area.

Play area.

Garage and shed, plus a fire pit area.

Oh, there's the pond.

The triangular property is 4 acres.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/8096-Township-Road-90-Ada-OH-45810/97144687_zpid/

[selyeji]

polaroid

jamal musiala x reader (requested)

summary : a photo can capture love and keep it young forever. (childhood friends to lovers)

warnings : none

daily click to help palestine

a/n : this was kind of rushed sorry…

you and jamals relationship was no secret to anyone. in fact, you two were the absolute lovebirds of germany. the story between you two was an absolute cliche.

…

it started in the cold sky of england, crouched down on the grass, waiting for jude to finish with his training.

jude bellingham was a close friend of yours, you two being neighbors and schoolmates as kids. it wasn’t a surprise when you two were best friends.

hearing footsteps caused by the long grass, you assume he was approaching. until you turn your head to see 2 pairs of shoes instead. you got up to see jude, and an unknown face. your brows furrow in confusion, you never saw him before, in practice nor in town.

jude picked up your confused face, “y/n, this is jamal, jamal this is y/n.” the boy smiled at you as he took your hand, shaking it.

“nice to meet you y/n.” jamal said, his voice sweet and warming.

you continue to walk around town, stopping by for some snacks from time to time. you learned that he was from germany, grew up there pretty much until now. he played football aswell, likes the same movies as you, you two were more similar than you thought.

this has now become a daily routine for the three of you, go to school, finish training and walk around together.

“can you guys seriously hurry up!” you yelled at the two of them, fresh out of training, muscles sore.

“ughh… coach gave us the worst exercises man.” jude groaned out.

“c’mon, i’ll miss the sale and i wont get to buy it anymore!” you said as they both caught up to you. that sale was in a photography store, although you already had a camera, you’ve been dying to get one of those polaroid ones.

you hurriedly ran into the store, luckily enough there was still some stock left aswell as its film. once you checked out and paid, you see both jude and jamal waiting outside. you smile at them, lifting up the plastic bag with the box inside. the three of you continue to walk to a local park.

“what’s so special about that anyways” jude asked, he is much more of a talker compared to jamal. too much sometimes even.

“its a polaroid camera, now i don’t have to go to a printer shop every damn time. you can also stop limping, not everyone on this area has to know you’re an athlete or something.” you spat back while trying to open up the box.

“you two are like siblings y’know. always fighting.” jamal said, giggling at the both of you.

you held the camera up, facing it towards your direction.

“alright, cheeese!” you said, quickly taking a photo, more of a selfie. you felt squished in between the two of them when they tried to get in the frame.

“what the hell we didn’t even get a warning, you got my bad angle didn’t you.” jude complained.

“blehhh not my fault.” you said, shaking the film waiting for the photo to appear. “see! you look fine.”

you showed the photo to the both of them, the three of you sweetly smiling. you on the middle, your arms up holding the camera.

finding an ice cream place to sit at, jude went to the restroom while you and jamal settled down. you took out a marker, writing down the date on the photo.

“you want to keep the photo jamal?” you hand it over to him, maintaining eye contact.

“are you sure…? i mean there’s only one copy right?” he said softly, his hand hesitantly grabbing it.

“of course, you live farther away from the two of us. take it.” you insisted on him even more.

“thank you y/n” jamal said, gazing into the picture once more before taking out his wallet. inserting it in.

you blushed slightly, jamal was always sweet and kind to you. he’s always considerate of others even putting them before him.

once jamal went home, you and jude were left alone walking together since your houses were right next to each other. you felt his elbow bump into yours, not in accident but more intentionally. you look at his smug face. returning a confused face at him.

“you like him, don’t you?” jude whispered, that only you can hear.

“what? who?” you played confused. obviously not gonna work with jude, especially with your cheeks red.

“you think i’m blind? the way you guys look and talk to at each other? and giving him the photo, wooow you’re hiding it soo well.” jude said, the last sentence sarcastically.

“you saw that? i thought you were taking a shit…” you said, “whatever, he doesn’t like me like that. goodnight jude.” stretching your arms out as you walked into your front door.

“he does! and goodnight to you too.” jude said, before going into his.

that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about what he said. you never really considered having feelings for someone, passing it off as admiration only.

you kept turning in bed, your head filled with thoughts. now you were blushing, if jamal really would like you back, what would it be like? he was already sweet as a friend, but as a partner? you would melt.

trying to get these thoughts away, you were still young. he’s just being nice, jamal is naturally like that to everyone.

…

even after years, those thoughts still flood your mind. the three of you grew up already, both their careers in football slowly rising. jude played for birmingham while jamal played for chelsea development squad, that still doesn’t effect your relationship.

jamal invited you and jude out to a small cafe. wearing a casual outfit, you and jude arrived at the same time. jamal waved to the both of you to sit, already waiting.

you notice he already order your usual orders, smiling to yourself. you sat down, thanking him.

“right, i have to tell you guys something.” jamal said, he seemed nervous, his finger fiddling with each other.

“what has gotten you worked up mate?” jude mumbled, mouth filled with the sandwich he was devouring.

“i’m going back to germany… to play for bayern munich…” he said quietly, avoiding eye contact with you two.

both you and jude stayed still for a minute, silence in your table.

“for bayern munich… like the bayern munich..?” jude asked quietly.

��holy shit he’s gonna go pro jude!” you hit judes shoulder.

“it’s just the junior team…” jamal said humbly.

“that’s still pretty big, i’m happy for you!” you replied with a smile.

“i thought you guys would be pretty mad.” he said to himself.

“we’d never be mad at you for doing something good for yourself.” jude reassured him.

“thank you man.”

after the meetup, you sluggishly laid in bed. barely motivated to do anything. you were truly happy for him indeed, you just wished the two of you had more time. you cursed yourself for wasting these years together and still not telling him.

you found yourself curled up in bed, the empty spot beside you filled by a pillow. you could only wish it was a persons warmth, his. but telling him now, right before he leaves would be selfish of you.

…

it’s been 2 years now since then, jude also left for germany a year later. it was only you left in the land of england. jude of course comes back home from time to time, usually only for the national team.

but now you weren’t left alone, you were now in the streets of germany. bayern munich has given you a job as a photographer for their social media. you didn’t even hesitate nor think twice before saying yes. this was your dream, photos were art to you.

you couldn’t help but think of jamal aswell. you saw him online, happily playing for the club. it bummed you out that jude started playing for dortmund, their rival. but it would be nice to see two childhood friends in a rivalry, they couldn’t hate each other no matter what.

you walked around with the other staff, introducing yourself and wanting to show a good impression. until it was time to head out to the field, you got your camera set up and ready.

players continued with training, your eyes gazing towards jamal. he was all grown up now, well he looked like the pictures online but he did look more attractive. you got back to work though, taking pictures from time to time, getting the perfect frame. sending it to social media staff.

it was only after training, when players started to go back to the changing rooms when he noticed you. jamals heart skipped, you sat there smiling with other staff.

jamal quickly showered and changed, not wanting to miss an opportunity to get back to you. he went out, this time you were alone with your camera. you seemed to be re-checking the photos.

the sun glowed your skin as the cold breeze played with your hair. he approached you slowly, not wanting to startle you.

“y/n? you didn’t tell me you started working here.” jamal said, he sat next to you but kept his distance.

“yeah, just today, i didn’t know how to tell you. sorry about that.” you softly chuckle.

jamals eyes darted to your camera, the screen lighting up a picture of him while working out. his brows furrowed, perhaps you were thinking of him aswell. you follow his eyes and immediately smile.

“well, who wouldn’t take a picture of a bambi?” you tease him. proud of his skills and how much he improved since he was young. remembering times when u showed up to his games and training. cheering them on every time.

“i was wondering… if i could take you to dinner later?” jamal quietly said, scratching the back of his neck to not make eye contact with you.

“like a date?” you asked, resulting to his cheeks blushing and fiddling with his fingers.

“no-no! i mean… well, if you want to…?” his voice crack, his hand gesture showing his obvious shyness.

“it’s a date then, see you later?” you said, standing up. the bright orange sunset glowing your eyes.

“see you!..”

you arrived in the restaurant just on time, entering the building. your face was immediately met with fancy interior, low yellow lights, quiet jazz playing in the background. the place wasn’t as packed, just a family and a few businessmen you assume.

looking around, you saw jamal already sat and waiting. it reminded you of the times back then in england, always being an early bird within the group.

you waved at him as you slowly approached the table until he got up, pulling your chair for you to sit. whispering a thank you, he was still that sweet boy you met.

“didn’t expect this place to be so… fancy.” you looked around the room while settles onto his chair. “now i look out of place with this outfit.” you laugh it off.

“sorry about that, but hey atleast you’re not alone.” jamal giggled, pointing to his outfit which was just a pair of baggy pants, a white shirt, jacket, and a cap. which both of you just laugh at. “i already bought us some food, they had the usual you bought back at england.” he said.

“seriously? thats great, lesser waiting time. thank you for remembering.” you responded, slight tint on your cheeks.

“it’s no problem really, so… how have you been lately? we haven’t kept touch since i left.” jamal said in a nervous tone.

“it’s been fine for me, im just glad im able to catch up with you two here in germany. what about you? you and jude still talk to each other even if he’s in dortmund?” you tease.

“thats nice to hear, im glad. we talk from time to time, just crazy he moved to dortmund.”

as the conversation continued, time ticking by as customers leave one by one until it’s you two left. you were startled on how much hours passed by, your conversation wasn’t even near to ending.

“it’s getting late, i think i should go…” you said, pushing your chair back before jamal stopped you.

“i’ll drive you back, i insist. the rain is about to get stronger.” he said, pointing out the small little drops by the window, slowly falling as more land.

he accompanies you out the door, the cold air crashing onto your faces right away. nose becoming a bit more numb, before you could take another step, he grabbed your arm softly.

“uhh… here, this should keep you warm.” jamal said, his hands carefully cover your shoulders with hid jacket.

“thank you…” your voice responded in a quiet tone. nose and cheeks warm as you pulled the soft material into your arms.

the ride was in comfortable silence, jamals playlist playing through the speakers while you set your gaze in the empty streets. your eyes darted to jamal from time to time, you could feel his nervousness. he was holding back something but you didn’t question it, not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable.

once you arrived, you unbuckled your seatbelt and opened the car door.

“thank you for the time jamal, it was really thoughtful of you.” you whispered. your steps quiet as you walk to your apartment building until you heard rapid footsteps behind you.

“y/n!”

“ah sorry! i forgot to give back your jacket-”

“sorry for not saying this earlier, and in the past years. ever since we were young i always loved you and i still do. i was afraid of ruining our friendship so i never expressed my feelings but… our distance from the past year really affected them. i don’t want to lose you again, so please y/n… i love you.” jamal spitted out quickly, not wanting to focus in making the conversation awkward.

you blinked in silence for a moment, maintaining eye contact while jamals eyes were avoiding yours. your cheeks burned as you smiled sweetly at him. you embrace his tall presence in a hug, your hands reach up to his shoulders from behind.

“i love you too.” you said, barely above a whisper. feeling the beat of his heart even through the layers of each clothing.

before he could even process what happened, you pull away. both of your palms sneaking up to his cheeks as you kissed him on the lips, this time jamal caught up, snaking his arms around your waist. pushing you further in, you could feel his growing smile against yours.

“this is much warmer than your jacket.” you said, wanting to light the mood once your lips separate. he giggled against your warm skin.

…

it’s been months since you two established a proper relationship and is very well known to the public. it wasn’t easy hiding when jamal is a known footballer, but the both of you didn’t mind.

once your relationship went public, fans were quick to make opinions, positive or not. but most of germany supported your relationship, being the most known couple in the country.

of course, informing jude way before announcing.

y/n - 15:28

jamal and i are now together, you can leave us alone now😛

*photo*

jude - 15:30

well about damn time 🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️

wait… y’all hanging out without me?🤨

y/n - 15:31

most restaurants don’t allow wild pets sorry mate

jude - 15:32

never contact me ever again. 😐

you sat with the other photographers waiting for the match. deciding to scroll on social media for a bit, you come across a post about jamal. it was a pre-game photo, still in his casual attire. but something was off, he started using a clear phone case.

the next slide zooms into the phone, revealing some sort of photo. fans were quick to question and become curious, although you knew exactly what it was.

you smile to yourself, he still kept it after years. you turned off your phone, taking a break. the game started, players going into the pitch and lining up.

half-time has passed with the score up 1-0 for bayern munich. you were able to take decent photos for the social media accounts. with the game already ending, bayern munich winning.

fans cheered as you start talking with the social media team. you hesitated going into the field with jamal, wanting to take photos aswell until your co-worker tapped your shoulder.

“go ahead and celebrate with jamal, i’ll take care of everything, dont worry.” he smiled at you, patting your back insisting you to go.

“thank you! you can check my camera for extra photos!” you yelled as you ran towards jamal.

your body clashing onto his as you hugged him tightly, almost suffocating his chest.

“you played so well baby…” you whispered as you peppered his face with kisses. jamal trying to resist smiling too widely. you pull away, making contact with his eyes, filled of joy with a mix of shyness from the public eye.

now you were laid in bed, jamal snoring into the pillows. exhausted from the day, immediately sleeping once his warm body crashed into the sheets.

light lit up from his phone, showing a notification. you grabbed it checking who it was, you trusted him of course but it didn’t hurt to look. both of you knew each others password.

you scoffed when you saw the name jude.

jude - 00:21

yo, good game man congrats!

that’s another trophy in the cabinet for u

you turned off his phone, not wanting to evade his privacy even more. turning over to the back case, you see the same photo you gave him years ago.

a picture of you, him and jude. admiring the young features, seeing how the three of you matured. but even in the photo and today, your love for each other did not change one bit.

a/n : i am not a camera nerd so i probably got some stuff wrong… ☝️🤓

this took a while to write cause my period cramps were killing me and some irl stuff so i needed to take a break… ill be in my writing grind soon

[hottpinkpenguin]

Easy Company HC's: Letters Home

A/n: I'm really rolling with these BofB headcanons! hope you enjoy :)

Characters included: Dick Winters, Lewis Nixon, Ronald Speirs, Carwood Lipton, Buck Compton, David Webster, Joe Liebgott

Dick Winters

Writes frequent, short letters

Meticulously dates his letters and includes a blurb about the weather. January 12th, 1945. It’s snowing outside, dark and cold. 

Starts each letter with My dear y/n 

Always asks how you are, even though he’s the one fighting a damn war

Follows up on every little question or story you include in your letters. How was the bake sale? Did you ever hear how Louise Graham’s brother is doing after taking that shrapnel to the shoulder? Hope you were able to get someone out to look at the washing machine.

Ends his letters with classic but sentimental sign-offs, like Affectionately yours and All my love

Makes sure not to include anything in his letters that would worry you. Doesn’t necessarily lie or fake being happy, but just gently side steps that. 

Although every once in a while you get a longer letter where Dick’s handwriting is a little messier. You know it’s from writing fast, you can almost feel the pressure behind the penmarks. He opens up more in those letters, talks about losing too many good men and sometimes will say things that just absolutely break your heart, like sometimes I wonder how all of this is really going to end for the men who are over here fighting. 

Even in these letters, Dick never says “I” or “Me”, always writes about the men and the boys. You know - and so does he - that he’s including himself in those boys.

His next letter he always makes sure to reassure you. And it’s genuine, you can tell. He’ll say something like I have to put some of these heavier thoughts somewhere, and there’s nowhere I trust more than with you. 

When he comes home, you find a stack of letters you wrote to him tied up in a neat bundle and stashed in an inside pocket of his Ike jacket that he sewed in especially for that purpose. You could tell by the flimsy, near-ripped creases and dirty paper that he’d read each one about a hundred times over. Buried in the middle of the stack was the picture you’d given him before he’d left for training. On the back, he’d written simply your name, the date the photo was taken, and a short instruction: in event of my death, please send all personal effects to with your home address. It made you sob but you never told him you found it.

GIF by mads-weasley

Lewis Nixon

Rarely writes. Actually drives you crazy with worry most of the time.

When he finally does, you can tell that he’s initially annoyed at having to put his thoughts down on paper. Letters start off with short, sarcastic sentences like nothing new here. Still fighting the war, in case you hadn’t heard. Enjoying German hospitality. 

But as the letters go on he relaxes into it and stops being so grouchy. 

Because he’s always grumpy at having to write (you should probably thank Dick for cajoling Lew into actually sitting down to write to you), he usually doesn’t write any sort of introduction or sweet address, just dives right into it.

His letters usually don’t say much, he just kind of rambles about how much he hates being away from you and how he can’t wait for the whole damn thing to be over. 

Sometimes he’ll write something so incredibly romantic it takes your breath away, like I’d fight a whole division of Panzers myself if I could just get one more sniff of your perfume. 

Those are the letters you save and reread to yourself over and over again when you’re waiting weeks for the next one.

Always signs off with something kind of sassy but also sweet?, like You know I love you or Keep our bed warm for me. 

Sometimes you feel like you can smell whiskey on the paper, which both worries you but also reminds you of Lew

When he finally gets home and you ask him about what he did with your letters, he kind of looks at you like you’ve gone crazy and says I read them of course, what else was I supposed to do with them? 

This hurts your feelings at first which of course he doesn’t understand, but after a few weeks you start to realize that he actually did read them and not only that he memorized their contents. Like he refers to your mother as “the Wicked Witch of Wichita” (something you called here after you wrote him a long rambling letter about how angry she made you at your sister’s bridal shower) and buys you a bouquet of daffodils because you wrote him a letter with a daffodil doodle in the margins of the page talking about the spring gardens. 

You realize that Lew shows his love in the little details, and it makes you appreciate him all the more.

GIF by beautifulguycollector

Ronald Speirs

Ron’s letters read like military bulletins. 

Doing well despite the cold. 1st sgt sick with pneumonia. Think of you often.

Writes predictably once per week. Never misses a letter. Ever. 

You always write him long, lengthy, romantic letters. Sometimes even a little raunchy, if you’ve had some wine. After one particularly *ahem* suggestive letter, you feel ridiculous and say so the next time you write.

In typical Ron fashion, you get a short, to-the-point reply, but it still puts a smile on your face and a blush on your cheeks: Loved your letter. Keep writing. 

Towards the end of the war, Ron starts a countdown to when he expects to be coming home. Two months now, maybe less. Home for the Fourth of July. 

Also signs off with R.S. Which makes you laugh, as if you could forget who was writing to you.

Whenever your girlfriends find a letter from Ron (you keep them all in a shoebox in your closet), they tease you and ask how you can possibly be in love with someone so stiff and formal. To which you can only chuckle to yourself, because you know it’s just that they don’t understand that Ron doesn’t tell you he loves you, he shows you. Writing a letter every single week. Updating you on everything going on, even short updates, because he wants you to know how he’s doing. That’s Ronald Speirs’ love language.

Maybe three weeks before Ron comes home, you start getting boxes of (stolen?) German silver at your door. At first it freaks you out and makes you feel slimy for having lavish riches from an enemy country, so you don’t unpack the boxes and you just stack them up in the back bedroom. When Ron gets home and sees the boxes unopened and shut away, he immediately asks you what’s wrong. You stammer out an explanation and without blinking an eye, Ron loads them into his truck and takes them to the dump. 

(Later you convince him that a better use of those would be to donate them to the local orphanage, so off he goes in his truck to get the boxes back out of the dump and bring them to shelter.)

One night when you’re lying awake, head on Ron’s chest, talking idly about things that don’t matter, he interrupts you to ask Can you guess which letter I kept? 

You instantly blush, thinking of that risque letter you wrote him when you were halfway through your second bottle of white wine. He shakes his head and pulls a letter out of his nightstand and hands it to you. You don’t recognize it immediately, although you do see that it’s too short to be one of the naughtier correspondences. 

It’s too dark to read, so you ask him which letter. He says it’s the one you wrote to me for my birthday. 

You don’t remember that one and you tell him as much, so you ask him why he kept that one instead of some of the others. He looks down at you with a serious look in his eyes, a little surprised that you can’t figure it out. Then he tells you: it’s the first time you wrote that you loved me. 

The next day, you sneak a peek at the letter and realize he’s right. You signed it, I love you Ron. 

From then on, you make sure to tell him that every night before he falls asleep.

Carwood Lipton

Formal, sweet letters. This man is a king of romancing by words.

Writes as often as he can, but you know that Lip needs peace and quiet for an entire evening to get one of those letters done (he probably definitely writes a draft or two before he gets it right). And let’s face it, Easy Company doesn’t have the luxury of many quiet evenings. 

Always, always, always starts his letters off with Dear (future) Mrs. Lipton, which you honestly think is hopelessly corny but it’s way too adorable to tell him so. And besides, you secretly love it.

He always reminisces about home in his letters. Tells you how much he misses the smell of your baking, the squeak of the front porch swing that you two would sit on and watch the sunset. 

He worries a lot about you and his family. He always asks you to look in on his mother if it’s not too much trouble. 

Lip doesn’t talk much about the war, in fact he hardly acknowledges it at all. And he never uses the term ‘war’ or ‘battle’. Instead, he says things like The boys over here are still committed to doing the job or Easy presses on.  

Lip’s letters get a little shorter and less soft after Bastogne. He starts including the names of the casualties in his company in the P.S. Even though you don’t know these men except by name - and some of them, not even that - you feel honored that he trusts you with their memories. 

Lip has saved your letters and all the pictures you sent to him - he loves pictures, and asks for an updated one of you almost every month - tucked in his foot locker and safely between the pages of his Bible so they don’t get creased or dirty. 

You also find that he’s kept stacks of letters from some of his men that died in the field. When you ask him what he plans to do with the letters, he gets a heartbreaking, far-off look in his eyes and says I reckon I’ll try to get them back to their families. 

You take on the burden of doing that, and you write to some of the families introducing yourself and introducing Lip and offering to forward them the letters.

All the replies you get back mention that their soldier talked about how good a leader and friend Lip was. Their replies bring tears to your eyes. For some reason, you don’t show the letters to Lip, although you do tell him about them. He never asks to read the letters, he just kisses you on your forehead and tells you that he’s never loved you more. 

Even after he’s home, he’ll still write you a letter from time to time, usually at Christmastime or for your birthday in the summer. His letters are always talking about his favorite memories with you, and there’s always a paragraph at the end where he talks about how in love with you he is. It’s borderline poetry and it makes you cry every single time.

GIF by balladofthe101st

Buck Compton

Basically just writes a list of questions for you to answer in every letter.

Wants to know everything about what’s going on at home. Especially sports teams.

Doesn’t write frequently, so sometimes it’s hard to feel like there’s a conversation happening. 

But he always includes sweet little notes about how much he’s thinking of you and how he’s counting down the days until he can hold you again, so you’re not complaining. 

Not the most poetic writer. Always says what he thinks and feels though. Completely honest and open. 

Does not tell you anything about the war. Basically ignores the entire thing. 

Sometimes you think about asking him about that, but you figure that he’s not talking about it for a reason, so you follow suit.

Calls you baby in his letters. 

Doesn’t actually say ‘I love you’ in his letters, although says everything else. Miss you baby. Dream about you all the time. When I get home, I’m putting a ring on your finger. 

One time he writes that he woke up last night out of a dream and swore I could taste you and it makes your toes curl.

You save that letter, tuck it in your underwear drawer. 

Signs his letters very simply: Buck. Sometimes he’ll put something in like until next time or I’ll write soon. But usually nothing super romantic or sentimental.

Doesn’t save your letters, but that really doesn’t bother you too much because all you wrote in them was basically just rambling details that Buck requested about your boring day-to-day. 

Buck’s always better in person than in writing - he’s a quality time and physical touch kind of guy - but you know that your letters were his only lifeline to normal during the war, and you’re just happy to have him back at all. 

He does surprise you one night when it’s really quiet in the house and you’re sitting on the couch together, each reading a book. He suddenly turns to you and says You know baby girl, your letters saved my sanity over there. It’s the most he’s really ever said about the war, but it’s enough, and you kiss him so he knows that you get it.  

GIF by balladofthe101st

David Webster

Unsurprisingly, Web is probably the best letter writer in all of Easy Company. 

He helps a lot of the other guys write letters home, especially if they’re trying to say something important. Web just has a knack for words unlike any other. 

He writes a lot of letters home, not just to you, but to the rest of his family, his siblings, some of his friends, and definitely his professors. 

So because you’re close with Web’s family, you do get to read a lot of his writing. 

His letters to you are different though. They’re darker and a little less polished. Sometimes, they frighten you a little bit. Web talks about things you’re not you really understand - like how pointless death is, how empty it makes him feel to see his friends get KIA, how he carries around guilt about surviving this long like an anchor. 

Refers to you exclusively in his letters by your first name, his writing is always serious and somber and drenched with heavy emotions, so pet names just really don’t fit the vibe.

He quotes poetry and literature quite a bit when he writes. It all feels a bit Gothic, but you’ve always known that Web has found clarity in the world through books, so you don’t begrudge him a little poetic license.

Signs his letters Yours in perpetuity, David K. Webster. 

Asks you to send books. Sometimes he asks for something specific, but other times he’s happy to get whatever you pick out for him. Your tastes are different from his; you prefer to choose shorter, gentle pieces about life in the British countryside or Western adventure novels. Web would prefer Wadsworth or Hemingway, but he figures it’s probably in his best interests to read things that don’t tackle dark themes. You always tuck a letter for him into the first few pages. 

He doesn’t save your letters, per se, although he does save every single book you send to him. When he gets home, he puts them all up on the bookshelf in his office. Even though they’re beat up and stained and not at all fitting with the rest of his collection, they’re front and center. 

Sometimes he takes a stab at sketching in his letters. He’s not bad, either. You try to encourage him to take lessons when he gets home, which he never does. He secretly loves how much you love his drawings though.

GIF by yourspeirs

Joe Liebgott

KING OF DIRTY LETTERS

You definitely like to re-read his letters… again and again…

Not every letter is a dirty one. But most are. Or at least have a dirty section in them. 

You don’t know how this man makes you feel wanted from halfway around the world, but somehow he does. Lord knows you love a lot about your Joey, but you didn’t realize how good he was with words until you found yourself practically stalking the mailman, hoping for another delivery from Joe.

Uses a lot of pet names in his letters. Baby girl, Doll, Princess are some of his favorites. Literally never calls you by your name.

Always signs off with Your Joey. 

Even when Joe is clearly in a dark place, his letters are saturated with how much he needs you and how he can’t stop thinking about all the ways he’s going to have you when he gets home. 

When your mother finds one of Joey’s letters to you, she throws an absolute shit fit and freaks out that you’re sleeping with someone before you’re married. It takes a long time for you to convince her that you haven’t slept with Joey yet, you’re just… really into dirty talking.

She kinda chills after that but still looks at you suspiciously every time you get a letter from him.

She never tells your dad though, which makes you think maybe she’s more supportive of your relationship with him than you realized.

After working up the courage, you write Joe a letter that is so sinful you actually doubt whether you should send it in the mail, it just feels so wrong.

When I say this man goes crazy for that letter, it is an understatement. He is out of his mind and immediately writes you a reply telling you so. Basically begs you for more.

Even though your letters back and forth with Joe are pretty raunchy, there’s also a sweetness to them. He’s always sure to mention that This ain’t just all talk, Doll. When you’re Mrs. Liebgott, you’re gonna see exactly what I’ve been writing about. Which you know is still pretty dirty, but hey, he’s basically proposing to you, right?

You are not the least bit surprised to know that he kept your naughtiest letters when he finally gets home.

But, Joseph Liebgott is a man of his word, and even though he is clearly dying to and you’re practically begging him to, he doesn’t make good on all those dirty promises until after you’re wearing his ring.

Much to your delight, you find that he is just as good with actions as he is with words.

[bratphilia]

note ✩ 🎀°｡‎  no thoughts just teacher student relationship with mikey. my last completely self indulgent fic before i actually get back to answering requests, i promise!! got this idea from this post by @harry1simp

pairing ✩ 🎀°｡‎‎ mike schmidt x reader

cw ✩ 🎀°｡‎‎ professor!mike x student!reader, reader is college aged, age difference, blow jobs, riding, unprotected sex

taglist ✩ 🎀°｡‎ @dilfity@iikyutee@kissingrhi@jen-parker@kathxstuff@papyrus-the-poet@lowballbread@cecelovesbooks@bluebearieally@cybunii@van-van@iamunabletothinkofablogname @1ncidentdropout @ice-echo26@officially-a-simp13@all4kura@el-sol-sale-de-nuevo@littlexstarlightx@samlow23

synopsis ✩ 🎀°｡ you notice your endearing, but bashful, classic literature teacher can't keep his eyes off of you and you decide to do something about it

baby, you might need a seatbelt when i ride it ‎ / ‎ i'mma leave it open like a door, come inside it

strawberry lip gloss (m. schmidt x reader)

you casually stride into your classic lit class, messenger bag swung on your shoulder, wearing tight-fitting leggings and a cropped jacket. it wouldn't be a big deal to you if a shiver didn't shoot up your spine; you felt like you were being watched. it wasn't abnormal for your peers in your classes to cast you glances. instinctively you turn to the podium; it's professor schmidt staring at you.

he's an awkward guy, to be honest, in the sense that he's not very charismatic or expressive. very standoffish, like there's certain things he wants to stray away from. you never really put much thought into it, though, he's very much just someone in the background of your life.

when your eyes meet his face, he's definitely not looking into yours. instead, his eyes are trained on your ass. you stop and clear your throat quietly, grabbing his attention. he immediately flusters and gulps, blinking a couple times to gather his thoughts and snap out of it. internally, you're not disgusted — you're honestly intrigued. brushing all thoughts aside, you take a seat and the lecture starts.

the lecture is about shakespearian works. he talks of hamlet, macbeth, and, interestingly enough (to you, at least), romeo and juliet. he assigns a broad topic essay on picking a play and writing a theme from said play. which is, again, weirdly broad, but you get an idea from the predicament he unintentionally put you in.

somewhere along the way during class, while you're reapplying your lip gloss — strawberry scented with a sheer, light pink tint to it — the two of you make eye contact. you pull the tube away from your glossed lips as he stares at you, and only for the briefest moment, he stops talking. you feel like a spotlight is on you, but everyone else around you disappears, and it's just you and him in that room. then he clears his throat, apologizes, and continues on explaining his expectations for the assignment.

the gears in your head turn. you torture him and you know it. with your pretty outfits and your pretty glossed lips.

the next class is fun, to say the least. you wear a v-neck top with a lace bra peaking under it, paired with bell bottom jeans that, again, hug your ass in a delicious way that catches your professor's gaze. you make eye contact with him like before, and this time, you smile politely and take the initiative to approach him.

he looks the other way for a moment, unsure and nervous, then looks back at you. "hi," you say in a voice that only the two of you could hear. "i was wondering if i could meet with you about my essay sometime."

he inhales. "sure thing," he says, not returning your smile. of course he wanted to help you, you were such a cute little thing, lips shiny and donned in a beautiful outfit that showed off all the right places to make him absolutely weak in the knees. "how about tomorrow evening during my office hours?"

you didn't any classes tomorrow and the only work you had to do was his essay. perfect. "sounds good to me," you say, containing your excitement enough to look innocent.

before you know it, the next evening arrives and you're making your way to the building his office resides in. it's not like you're wearing anything special. just an oversized, forest green campus sweatshirt with shorts underneath. your sweatshirt covers most of the shorts, only showing off your legs, paired with some sneakers. in your opinion, it's a typical outfit; not like you went searching through your closet for something "sexy" to wear to office hours. and yet, your professor still seems to have quite the staring problem. you bite back a smile.

"i wanted help on the essay you assigned," you tell him gingerly. "specifically on how to go about it."

mike inhales through his nose. "right, okay." he pulls a seat up in front of his desk for you and sits down in his respective chair. you promptly take the seat in front of his desk and cross your legs. "do you have an idea of what you want to write for the prompt?"

you, once again, bite back a smile. "i wanted to write about forbidden love between romeo and juliet..." you trail off when he drops his head slightly, breathing a sigh and your name.

you look at him, confused. "i just don't get it," he says, running a hand through his hair. "i just get this vibe from you that—"

"from me?" you say, furrowing your brow, tone accusatory and knowingly. you couldn't believe he was putting this on you. "you're the one with the staring problem!"

he looks at you blankly from your outburst. "you're right... it was totally inappropriate of me," he says with a sigh. "i don't know what's wrong with me."

"nothing's wrong with you," you say softly. you try to offer him a smile and stand up. as you walk over to his side of the desk, he watches you curiously but doesn't stop you. he swivels his chair around to face your direction, creating the perfect opportunity for you to sink down to your knees. you take note of the tent in his pants and allow yourself to smile. you hate to sound like a pornstar — because this situation is starting to turn out like a home movie — but you reach forward and he watches you intently. "if it helps... i'm into it too. can i?"

mike gulps. "please."

you reach forward to unzip his pants. he helps you free his cock from his boxers. the tip is swollen and red, pulsating. you lick your lips and look up at him with doe eyes. mike swallows yet again, adam's apple bobbing. you give him a slow, long lick up his cock. he throws his head back instantly, running a hand across his face in disbelief that this was actually happening. "fuck..." he whispers.

you slide your mouth up and down, eyes trained on his face, his reactions of pleasure. you learn quickly what makes him tick: paying attention to the tip of his cock. you lick around the slit and grasp his dick with your hand to pump as you suck him off. he's writhing and breathing your name, encouraging your movements even more.

when he looks down at you and the two of you make eye contact is when he starts to utter somewhat coherent sentences. "look at you — ngh — lips all glossy on my cock. so fucking — fuck! — sexy, shit."

you can sense that he's close but before he spills into your mouth, he nudging you by your hair to stop. "stop," he breathes, "hey.. stop, stop."

you let him go and remove your hands, head tilted with a frown. he wordlessly grasps you by your waist and pulls you to your feet. "come sit on my lap. can you do that?"

you give him a weak, knowing smile, jaw still tired. before you can hop on, he's undoing the clasp keeping your shorts together and you kick it down your legs. no panties — you have no idea what you do to him. you climb onto his lap, the chair tilting backward ever so slightly to support the weight of both of you. your legs swing over his lap and you rest on one of his thighs. he cradles your face gently and kisses the top of your head. it's surprisingly affectionate.

you're suddenly acutely aware of his hard length prodding against your clothed stomach. you lift your hips and put your hands on his shoulders as he watches you, and sink down onto his cock. the both of you moan in unison.

as you ride him, he can't take his eyes off you, and for once, looking at him is too much to bear. your eyes are shut in pleasure as you moan open-mouthed. all you can hear is the plopping noises of you bouncing up and down and his grunting.

he grasps at your ass and pulls you down so that his cock fits snug inside of you. "come for me me, baby," he whispers. "come on, you can do it. just let go."

"fuck," you groan, tears pricking at your eyes. he comes almost instantly after you, the both of you pulsating in the aftermath of your orgasms.

he keeps himself seated inside of you, once again craddling your face. "did so well f'me, my good girl." you embrace him back, holding onto him tightly.