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meiieiri · 2 months ago

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pretty woman.

he lives in the world of leather, grease and speed. he knows he's absolute trash, but what's a guy gotta do to have you, a pretty woman wrapped in silks, pearls and smiles, to spare him just. one. glance?!

pairings. biker sukuna x rich!reader

genre. opposites attract, fluff with slight angst-ish (you know me by now, pls skskdskfjskd), references to smut.

notes. yes, i'm still alive, please i haven't been here for months bc i've been so held up at work TT anyway, i thought of this while i was going home when i heard this busker singing "oh, pretty woman" by roy orbison~

He isn't sure how this happened. Maybe he smoked the wrong mushroom or some shit. It was supposed to a regular evening terrorizing the population of Tokyo with the sounds of their bikes revving to the goddamn afterlife or just until someone calls the police. But this is all his goddamn fault, parking in a gas station smack dab in Minami-Aoyama of all places where artists, celebrities, and pompous heiresses camp out at the jazz clubs here which Sukuna absolutely does not understand.

What's so good about a guy choking on some piece of metal that makes a sound similar to a dying seal? But oh well, pompous art for equally pompous people, I guess.

You walked out of that jazz club like you were straight out of a Hollywood movie, the kinds he used to steal from the local DVD rentals in Shinjuku. You were listening to something your friend has to say and your demure chortles invade the very air like the very melody could make the stars tumble to the ground out of pure jealousy because nothing could be quite as radiant - no, what the hell is he saying? He's a biker, not a poet. Even if he were, he's a shit one for using that stomach-churning cliché piece of word vomit.

Fucking gross. Sukuna stomps on his half-finished cigarette.

You were just hot - no, not quite the word - Sukuna scowls frustratedly - ah, there it is, pretty. Too pretty for you to even run around the same circles as him. The Dior mini bag you were carrying makes Sukuna postulate that you were probably born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you must have gone to an exclusive all-girls high school, afterwards, you must have been sent by your snobbyass parents to finish your studies overseas.

Even if he were to approach you right now, Sukuna grimaces at the thought, you'd probably run for Beverly fucking Hills.

Sukuna watches as you help your friend inside a taxi, waving them goodbye. "Please drop her off safely," he heard you say to the driver just as you shut the car door. Sukuna quirks an eyebrow when he spots you looking left, then right, and then left again before taking off your high heels, unafraid to look improper despite your pretty get-up. But your feet must be aching like hell after dancing all night to Roy Orbinson and Frank Sinatra.

You hurriedly head to your car that, as fate would have it, is parked in the same gas station he's hanging around. He doesn't say a word when you look at him a little fearfully when you approach your car that was parked just behind his Ninja H2, your eyes glaze over his leather jacket, his scandalously tight riding jeans, his pierced lip and tattooed face.

He tilts his head in a polite gesture that begs to convey: "Hey, I'm not gonna bite, kid."

Momentarily frozen, you had to shake yourself awake and you apologetically bow your head for staring too long. Slipping into the driver's seat, you fumble with your keys, struggling to turn on the engine. "H-huh?" you gasp. "Ah, no...no...come on..." You try to turn the key again and again hoping to get a reaction from your Benz but nothing happens.

Sukuna snickers slightly when he sees you mouth the word "shit" from his view of the windshield. For a pretty little thing, you seemed more like a spitfire than a delicate flower. You step out immediately going to pop the hood, struggling slightly but you somehow manage.

He watches on as you struggle to even look at what needs to be fixing. Finally, when he sees you tinkering around the parts, he speaks up, "It's probably the battery, miss."

"I...I don't need help, I'm fine," you insist despite him not offering. To be honest, Tokyo's a safe city so, even if you had to stay the night at this gas station waiting for help or the tow-truck - whichever comes first - it's not exactly an issue. The issue is havng someone...like him...hanging precariously around.

Now, you understand. You shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but if that book has everything your parents warned you about - tattoos, piercings, an unfriendly scowl - you'd settle for slowly putting it back on the shelf.

"The gas station has a power pack, you might wanna borrow it," Sukuna offers you some advice. "You got any jumper cables on you?"

"I'm sorry?" You blink obliviously. "I-I don't-?"

"Those bright orange things - ah, whatever - you probably have it in the trunk," Sukuna pushes himself off his bike. He's full of shit, playing knight in shining armor right now, but you look like you're about to cry. He slaps your hands away when you try to pull out the radiator.

"Ow! What are you doing?!"

"You want your car to explode or some shit?" Sukuna hisses. "Don't fuck around with anything else. I'll go see if I can borrow their power pack."

You look at him in disgust. Everything about this mystery man is just so infuriatingly vulgar, and he doesn't even wait for your permission, he's just stomping off towards a random gas station attendant, muttering under his breath about clueless rich kids and their cars. You scowl at his retreating figure, rubbing your hand where he slapped it away, lips parting in indignation at what you hear.

"Can't tell a spark plug from a bottle of champagne..."

"Excuse me?"

"Ah, you're excused, don't worry," Sukuna says as he returns, the power pack in one hand and a bundle of thick jumper cables in the other, the gas station's dim lights casting sharp shadows across his face, your nerves seem to fray even further.

Though, truth is, you're stuck between being grateful and horrified. If you don't make it back home, you weren't gonna hear the end of it from your parents about how Tokyo is dangerous and how you shouldn't be wandering around the city alone when you have bodyguards. But, it's all thanks to this stranger, a questionable-looking one at that, that you might just make it home tonight before your parents even notice you snuck out.

"Pop the hood," he orders, his tone flat but not unkind.

Your first instinct is to snap back. Just who the hell does he think he is? Assuming that you needed help when you had everything under control. That's obviously a lie, seeing as you were about to yank out your Benz's radiator. It'd be a nightmare explaining that to your parents and your insurance company. Surrendering, you uncross your arms, and pop the hood again.

It's infuriating how people always liked to assume that you needed help with everything. But that's just how it goes when you're an only child, and your parents had to undergo six rounds of IVF to have you because they spent most of their young adult life building their fortune that they forgot to have kids in the middle of all that. A spoiled brat - it wouldn't be a stretch to call you that. Still, it stings a bit because you never wanted to become one.

Nothing hurts you more than the thought of you growing up not knowing how to do anything for yourself.

"This happen to you often, princess?" Sukuna asks, his calloused and strong hands working their magic on your car, clearly, he's ressurected a lot of engines with the way he doesn't seem to flinch at the bitter scent of gasoline and burnt rubber.

"Don't call me that," you mutter. "And no, I don't make a habit of getting stranded since not all of us have experience with--" You gesture vaguely at the cables, his leather jacket, the bike, the car, and this entire situation. "-this."

Sukuna snorts, shaking his head. "Yeah, I figured. People like you don't get their hands dirty."

There it is again - people like you. The words grate on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard, but what stings more is the way he says it, like he's already decided everything about you just from your shoes, your car, your voice, where you like to hang out. It's honestly disgusting, but the truth always has an element of hurt hidden in it, right?

"Right, because you know everything about me," you mutter, a flash of hurt appearing on your features.

You don't know why, but the way he says it - so casual, so certain - makes your heart ache. He's not even insulting you, why would he have to? He doesn't know you, and you haven't done anything to offend him. He just...sees right through you and he's decided that you were just another shallow rich kid that doesn't belong in the real world.

And maybe you don't.

You're pulled from your thoughts by the sudden roar of your car's engine. Sukuna straightens, wiping his hands against his jeans before shutting the hood with a heavy almost contrite clunk. "There, good as new."

You let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding. Looks like this chance encounter is about to end. It's silly, feeling a little anxious at finally being able to go home which also spells that you'll probably never see this stranger again, but this demeaning and embarrassing situation happens to be your first encounter with the real world, the world outside the bubble your parents have confined you in.

And it hurts pulling away from it now and so soon too.

"Thank you," you say, quieter this time and you hate how small you sound and feel.

He shrugs, already walking back to his bike. "Don't mention it."

You watch him for a moment as he haphazardly lights a cigarette in the middle of a gas station, his face partially obscured by shadows but you manage to make out his frustrated frown when the lighter doesn't work. He's so focused on lighting the damn stick that he doesn't notice you bringing your own lit lighter to the end of his cigarette.

"Didn't think pretty girls like you were into bad habits like smoking," he exhales, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.

"You'd be surprised."

For too much of your life, you've had to put up with reminders from your folks like don't sit like that, don't do this, don't speak like this, don't go there, it's unbecoming of someone like you. And you're getting fucking sick of it, if only your parents could discover the many cigarettes and scratchers you've collected over the years, then, maybe they'd piece together that you only went to a jazz club tonight with every intention to end up in a nightclub later on.

You're self-destructive, he's dangerous.

And this entire exchange could cause your high-strung parents to suffer simultaneous strokes.

"Yeah?"

"Really," you rub your eyelid. "So...why'd you help me?"

Sukuna pauses mid-inhale, his crimson gaze flicking toward you through the haze. For a moment, you think he might say something serious, something straight out of those Audrey Hepburn movies where the girl falls for the greaser. But, that's kinda gross anyway, so you're a little thankful when he quips.

"Hell if I know. Maybe I'm just a sucker for pretty faces."

You blush, your heartbeat stuttering. Before you can respond, he waves you off dismissively, as if the moment never happened and should never be spoken of again like most moonlight rendezvous's.

"Now get outta here before I start charging you for my time."

"Ah right, sorry," you are suddenly reminded of paying your dues, so you take out your wallet, handing him a wad of yen bills. "Tell me if it's not enough. I can run to an ATM."

Sukuna stares at the bill, a little insulted. But tonight seems to be about judgmental assumptions anyway. He laughs - a low dark sound that makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

"What the hell do I look like, huh? A roadside service?" His voice isn't harsh, but the edge of amusement makes your cheeks burn. "Keep it, you might need it later on when your tires give way. Don't tell me you don't check the air pressure on them too."

"It's not like that!" you argue. "I just don't want to owe you anything. Just take it, and go buy yourself a beer or something, and then, we can move on with our lives, okay?"

"Owe me, huh?" He tilts his head, the faintest of smirks tugging at his lips. His gaze locks with yours and you take a step back until your back hits the driver's seat door, and there's something sharp and deliberate in the way he says: "Fine. You wanna pay me back?"

You nod.

"Tell me your name. Since you nearly threw a damn fit when I called you princess."

"What?"

"Your name," he shrugs as if it's the most casual thing in the world. "Otherwise, I can help you continue pulling out that radiator of yours."

"Are you threatening me?! Just when I was about to change my opinion on you!"

"Really? You'd do that for me?" Sukuna feigns gratitude, placing his hand over his heart. "I didn't think you were that stingy with your name. Unless you don't have one, now that's just pathetic. Even trashy sons of bitches like me have one of those."

"Fine, it's Y/N. And go clean up that mouth of yours, it's like you can't go a full sentence without profanity."

"Pretty name," Sukuna says, ignoring your last remark. You blush at the way he says it - low and rough, like it's a secret just between you two.

Your breath hitches and you roll your eyes, slipping into the driver's seat again, shutting the door with a final clunk. "You're insufferable," you mutter, your cheeks still warm, as you begin to drive away.

"No, my name's Sukuna! Drive safe, rich girl. Can't have your fancy car breaking down again," he whistles, leaning against his H2, waving cheekily, a cigarette dangling between his slotted lips.

He smirks when you roll down your car window only to flash him your middle finger.

"She's pretty, but she's a damn bitch," he mutters, though this time, there's a faint hint of a smile in his voice as he slips on his helmet.

A week has passed and the memory of Sukuna is still clinging to you like the scent of a too-sweet perfume, the ones that girls like you pre-order months in advance before it's even launched. You feel like an idiot, craving to see him again, when absolutely nothing happened between you. But when your mind wanders over to that random biker with too many tattoos, too much attitude but too little manners, you just wanna ruin your mom's expensive Picasso collection in the living room before you could even admit it out loud.

You're now standing in the back of your mansion now in Denenchofu, phone pressed to your ear, talking to one of your drivers - sipping your favorite vanilla bourbon tea - your heart pulsing with mischief.

"I need you to do something for me. Go mess with the car's AC, as in, break the damn thing if you can."

The driver hesitates. It's the middle of winter. "Miss, you - are you sure? That seems a bit-"

"Just do it," you plead. "Please, I promise I'll be safe. And I already sent your Christmas bonus to you!"

You hang up before he can say another word, a grin curling onto your lips. This must be the dumbest thing you've ever done, but it's too late to back out now, but what the hell? Nowadays, it's do or die.

That night, when you're sitting in your car, researching on this biker's meet in Shibuya, you coincidentally drive by, stopping in front of am awfully familiar Ninja H2, its chrome glinting under the streetlights. Its driver, seemingly having just arrived, whipping his head around when one of his buddies taps his shoulder, pointing in your direction.

You step out of your car, perfectly-rehearsed. You instantly pop the hood, pretending not to see him. "Oh no, not again," you smirk inwardly.

Sukuna bites back a laugh at how ridiculously obvious this entire farce is, but he decides to play along anyway. "Already broke down again? You should just drive that shit into the bay!" he calls, voice laced with mockery and something else, something close to affection.

You glance over at him, carefully hiding your amusement. "Think you can help me? You were quite the hero last time."

Sukuna raises an eyebrow at you, biting his lip at how you subtly play with your hair, the dark baritone of his voice making your heart skip. "You're pushing it, pretty girl. You think I'm just gonna swoop in and fix everything again when I've got a meet?"

You give him a dry look. "Not playing the hero today? Here I thought you wanted something more than my name this time around."

His eyes narrow, a flicker of something darker passing through them at the insinuation. "You do realize that if your AC's busted, you're just gonna have to freeze your little ass off since I don't know how to fix that." He brazenly pulls off the extra helmet on his buddy's bike, paying no heed to how his backpack glares at you and Sukuna, tossing it over to you. "Where you headed anyway? I'll just drop you off."

You shrug and he shakes his head, chuckling darkly. "Can't remember, huh? Then, let's just ride around for a bit until you do."

In the end, neither of you walk away unscathed. Your dainty Chanel tweed dress lays pooled on the floor of a random motel in Yokohama, right next to his leather jacket. In the end, you do remember where you're going after all, and that's straight into the inferno of Sukuna's embrace, even if you have to break your car a thousand times to get there.

#jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x y/n #jjk #sukuna #jujutsu kaisen

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pearlprincess02 · 3 days ago

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dating & dates (leo version)

leo: (leo venus/mars/5th house/7th house)

when dating someone with leo venus, leo mars, leo in the 5th house, and leo in the 7th house expect a bold, passionate, and theatrical approach to love. they crave attention, admiration, and grand romantic gestures, thriving in relationships where they feel special and adored. they love excitement, playfulness, and a strong emotional connection but also require loyalty and consistency. confidence is key—if you’re dating them, show them off, hype them up, and make them feel like the star of your world. leo venus loves romance with a touch of drama; they want to be courted in a way that feels grand and cinematic. show appreciation often, and never let the spark fade. leo mars is passionate and direct in pursuit, enjoying playful competition and a partner who can match their fiery energy. they need excitement and spontaneity to keep them engaged. leo 5th house brings a love for fun, creativity, and performance. keep the relationship lively with shared adventures, laughter, and an element of showmanship. leo 7th house seeks a partner who embodies confidence and charisma. they’re drawn to those who can hold their own but also complement their natural radiance, making the relationship feel like a power couple dynamic.

date night ideas

glitzy red carpet movie premiere (leo venus, leo 5th house, leo 7th house) dancing at an exclusive club with vip access (leo venus, leo mars) vip tickets to a concert/theater show, masquerade ball/themed costume party, fireworks display/light show viewing, horseback riding on the beach at sunset, backstage passes to an event/performance (leo venus, leo 5th house) luxury rooftop dinner, helicopter ride over the city, private chef cooking a gourmet meal at home, couples’ photoshoot with a professional photographer, luxury spa day for two, glamorous shopping spree together, elegant gala/charity ball (leo venus, leo 7th house) karaoke night where you both perform duets, spontaneous road trip with a surprise destination, sports car rental for a high-speed adventure, amusement park day with thrill rides, live comedy show/improv night, talent showcase where you both perform something (leo mars, leo 5th house)

over 18+ spicy bonus 🔞

leo: (leo mars/cupido/eros/lust/amor)

someone with leo mars, leo cupido, leo eros, leo lust, and leo amor in their chart brings passion, drama, and a sense of spectacle to the bedroom. they crave admiration, intensity, and playful dominance, viewing intimacy as both an art and a performance. confidence and enthusiasm from their partner are essential—they love to be desired and adored just as much as they love to impress. expect them to take charge, demand attention, and turn every encounter into something unforgettable. leo mars is fiery and bold, taking an active, dominant role with a preference for passion-fueled encounters that feel exciting and energetic. they want a partner who can match their intensity and enthusiasm. leo cupido thrives on seduction and the chase, loving the build-up and anticipation as much as the act itself. they enjoy feeling like they have captivated their partner, turning intimacy into a game of attraction. leo eros brings creativity and drama, seeking experiences that feel luxurious, theatrical, and deeply passionate. they love to express their desires through physical touch and expect their partner to be fully present and engaged. leo lust is unapologetically indulgent, craving high-energy, uninhibited pleasure. they have a strong appetite and want a partner who isn’t afraid to explore their desires without hesitation. leo amor ties love and sex together, valuing deep emotional connection alongside physical passion. they need devotion, affection, and admiration in the bedroom, making their partner feel like the only person in the world.

kinks you might have

praise & verbal adoration (leo mars, leo cupido, leo eros, leo amor) power play & dominance, competitive edge (outperforming partner, keeping things exciting) (leo mars, leo cupdio, leo lust) power couple dynamics (feeling like royalty together) (leo mars, leo cupdio, leo amor) high-energy, passionate encounters, oral fixation (giving & receiving with enthusiasm), spontaneous encounters in exciting locations (leo mars, leo eros, leo lust) luxury & sensual indulgence (silk sheets, candles, champagne, etc.), intimate eye contact & deep emotional connection during (leo mars, leo eros, leo amor) passionate roughness (biting, scratching, intense energy) (leo mars, leo lust) possessiveness & marking (hickeys, claiming partner as theirs) (leo mars, leo lust, leo amor) exhibitionism (showing off, performing), roleplay & theatrical scenarios, mirror play (watching themselves & partner), seductive lingerie & aesthetic appeal (leo cupido, leo eros, leo lust) teasing & prolonged seduction, worship kink, over-the-top romantic gestures before intimacy (leo cupido, leo eros, leo amor) voyeurism (leo eros, leo lust) choreographed intimacy (music, rhythm, setting the mood perfectly) (leo eros, leo lust)

all observations are done by me !!! @pearlprincess02

main masterlist

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roosterforme · 1 year ago

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How You Play the Game Part 8 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley was miserable without you, and the pain just wasn't lessening even though you left him weeks ago. He needed to find a way to move on, because you didn't want him, and you weren't coming back. But he should have known there was no substitute for the best thing he'd ever had.

Warnings: Swears, broken heart, angst, consensual sex, sex with a condom while intoxicated (18+)

Length: 5000 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x female reader

Check out my masterlist for more! How You Play the Game masterlist. Banner by @thedroneranger

Weeks later...

As you flew to Vancouver from Detroit, you thought about that six hour flight to Boston where you hadn't stopped crying for a single minute. You thought about leaving San Diego and how it broke your heart to move on to the next city and the next assignment. At least this time you had a window seat instead of the middle seat in the last row. And this time you weren't continually wiping your tears on Bradley's Padres jersey.

You had his jersey on again today, but this time you felt calm as you reached into your bag to take out your computer and read over the research you'd outlined about the Vancouver Canucks. Your eyes caught on the blue golf ball, and after a second of hesitation, you reached for that instead.

You'd taken it everywhere with you. It joined you in every hotel room, on every flight and in every rental car. You had it with you in your tote bag when you were in Boston about a month ago working on the exclusive with the Bruins' coaching staff. You were carrying it when you bumped into Abigail Archer for the first time in person.

With your article completely forgotten now, you dug your phone out of your pocket. It was in airplane mode, but you took a deep breath and unlocked it. You had to scroll a bit to get to the text thread with Bradley, and then you tapped his name and you almost let the tears rise to the surface. You held them back as you read the series of sporadic messages he'd sent you since early November.

I miss you.

Did you make it to Boston safely?

Ace, please call me back. I miss you so much.

I have this whole weekend off, and I can't help but think it would be easy for me to fly to wherever you are. If you would want that.

I still miss you.

I hope you're doing well.

You hadn't responded to a single one of them. And you never called him back either. But sometimes, when you were in a hotel room in a city that you couldn't even identify without looking at your calendar app, you'd get lonely enough to listen to his voicemail message. See ya, Ace.

It took until you met Bradley Bradshaw for you to really understand just how lonely you were. Going back to your apartment in New York City didn't feel like going home. There was nothing there that made you smile. There were no baseball cards or too small Angels tee shirts. There was no Bradley making sure you were taking a break when you needed one.

And he was part of the reason why you let yourself start to be convinced that you could have more out of your career. Maybe he was right. Somebody else might have something better to offer than Greg or the New York Times. When you talked to Abigail and started to test the waters, it wasn't as terrifying as you thought it would be. Making some calls to see what else was out there ended up validating one fact for you: Bradley was right, your writing was in high demand.

But you had to complete your contract with Greg before you could do much else. And that included Detroit and Vancouver. But you hoped after this, your work-life balance might improve. If you decided to take this information back to Bradley, you hoped he would listen to you. Maybe he would even see what you wrote about your career change in your Detroit Red Wings article. If he was even still reading your articles. There was a chance he might still miss you now, and maybe he'd understand that you needed to see the bigger picture for yourself first.

Before you left him alone in his bed, he told you that you knew where to find him. He made you feel like it was still okay to go there.

--------------------------

Bradley walked past his coffee table dressed in his flight suit with his travel mug of coffee in his hand. He paused at the front door and looked back at the mess he still couldn't bring himself to clean up. You left him weeks ago, damn near a month ago, but he just couldn't bring himself to clean up all of the fucking baseball cards.

He closed his eyes and took a calming breath. He was being ridiculous. He was never ridiculous before he met you, so you must have made him this way. Every time he tried to clean them up and put them back out in his garage, his hands faltered and he left the cards out on the table. It was like some sort of sick reminder that you'd really been here with him. It was a way to convince himself he didn't imagine up the perfect woman in his mind and then have to live through the aftermath of watching her leave.

He tightened his fingers around his mug and rubbed the heel of his other hand against his eyes. Then he took his phone out. He knew he shouldn't do it since you never answered his other messages before, but he texted you anyway.

I hope you're doing well.

When he re-read what he'd sent, he started to panic. It sort of sounded like he meant it with an air of finality. The last thing he wanted was for you to think that he didn't want to hear from you, because it was quite the opposite. There were times when he felt so lonely, he'd have done anything for you to write to him or call him back.

He swore he could still smell you in his house, and right now it felt a little too much like you were there. He wrenched his front door open and slammed it closed behind him, breathing in the crisp December morning air. He had to start making some changes, and he needed to do it this week. You weren't going to respond to him. After four weeks he should accept that as a fact and stop bugging you.

He'd been skipping Hard Deck nights and leaving the locker room after work without really talking to anyone. Nat knew why he was miserable, but even she seemed surprised it had gone on for this long.

A few days ago, she said, "You've never behaved like this over a woman before. This has all just been very surprising, and I don't know how to help you."

Bradley had shrugged and laughed sarcastically. "Well, I fell in love with her. First time for everything, right? I'll know better for next time."

And that was the truly fucked up part. He had fallen in love with you over the course of ten days. As he drove to work, he thought about your face and your voice. He knew exactly how many miles he put on his Bronco driving back and forth to see you at the games in Anaheim. He knew exactly how much money he spent on all the tickets. He knew how badly it hurt right now to be without you. And he knew he'd repeat everything all over again if he could see you for five minutes.

Just like every other day, he had to collect himself before he could head inside to the locker room. There was no getting his time with you back. There was no second chance. There was no communication. He needed to stop. He took off his aviators that you'd liked so much and set them in his cup holder. When he checked the time on his phone, he had a notification that a new article from you had been posted eight minutes ago. It was like this every day. He'd wait to see each morning if you'd written anything, and then after it was posted, he'd read it at least three times.

Your final World Series article was the worst one. It was released two days after you left. He must have read it a hundred times. He'd even take a screenshot of the short passage he was certain was about him.

This World Series was exciting and dynamic for so many reasons. We witnessed some of the best major league pitching in the last decade, and there were more stolen bases than the past three finals combined. Professionally, I may never witness anything like this again. And I can even tell you that on a personal level, I was profoundly changed for the better by everything I allowed myself to experience and enjoy between San Diego and Anaheim over the course of the series.

Bradley looked at his phone screen now. It had to stop. He desperately wanted to read your article on the Detroit Red Wings, but he needed to make this feeling stop. It was like he was constantly in pain every time he thought about you or even simply read your name on his phone. Your written words were never going to help him move on, so he needed to do something about it right now while he felt like he could.

He deleted the New York Times app. He thought about deleting your number as well, but he needed to save some of his strength to get through his workday. So he just tucked his phone in his pocket and climbed out of the Bronco.

---------------------------

When Bradley walked into the Hard Deck on Friday night after work, he felt defeated and exhausted. He managed to delete the app you wrote for, but he still couldn't bring himself to delete your phone number. Moving on was a necessity right now. He didn't even know why he bothered to come to the bar, but staying home and looking at baseball cards on his coffee table didn't seem to be helping him.

"You're here!" Nat called out as soon as he walked inside. The bar was decorated for Christmas. Was it that close to the holidays? He'd completely lost track of the weeks, but at the same time, he knew exactly how many days it had been since he'd seen you. His mind was too aware of that number, and it tacked a new one on each day.

"Hey," Bradley managed to grunt when his friend came over to him and wrapped him up in a hug. The Christmas tree and the strings of lights blurred, and he had to close his eyes. He was missing the feel of your arms around him and the way you smelled. None of this was Nat's fault or anyone's fault really. Bradley didn't even blame you. He couldn't. You and he were nothing.

"Let me get you a drink," Nat whispered, and she took him by the hand. He recognized the upbeat Christmas song, and he saw the guys waving from the pool table. But when he turned to face the bar, Shannon was right there with her usual smile and a pint glass in her hand. He didn't know why he wasn't expecting her. The last time he saw her was when he brought you here, and he'd give anything to go back to that night.

Bradley just shook his head. "Something stronger. Please." Shannon raised one eyebrow at him and set the pint glass down in favor of a whiskey tumbler and a bottle of Johnnie Walker. "Yeah."

"Haven't seen you around in a few weeks," she said, watching the amber liquid slosh neatly up the side of the glass as she poured. "Kinda missed you." She met his eyes as she pushed the glass across the bar. "You look so sad."

He held eye contact with her, trying his best to push the intrusive thoughts away. "Maybe I'll be around more now," he muttered, downing the whole drink in one go and setting the glass down again.

Shannon was familiar to him. Comfortable. He'd been messing around with women for damn near two decades without any deep feelings. You were really his first foray into something... more. But you were gone. You didn't want to talk to him. You weren't coming back.

She refilled his glass and said, "Take this one a little slower, Bradley." He nodded before downing it just like the first one, and she kind of smirked and shook her head. "You'll pay for this in the morning."

He laughed sardonically. "That's the idea." He left the empty glass on the bar with a little nod indicating that he would be back. He desperately needed to clear his head, but he'd been trying everything for weeks. Taking a walk outside, having a cold shower, going for a drive. Nothing fucking helped.

He needed to forget the feel of your body and the sound of your voice. So he drank an extravagant amount of Johnnie Walker on Nat's tab, and he started to feel looser. He laughed at her when she asked how many he had so far.

"Don't worry. I'll pay you back," he rasped with a smile that he knew could charm every woman except for his best friend.

She just rubbed her hand up and down his arm and said, "I hope you know what you're doing. Let me know when you want me to get you home."

He kissed her cheek. "I'm fine, Nat. Just fine." He finished his tumbler and tried to remember if that was his fifth or his sixth, but it didn't matter. He was warm now, and his lips were a little numb. This was exactly what he needed tonight. After he shot a round of pool and lost, he flipped through the jukebox, but it was all bullshit Christmas music. He wasn't in the mood. He thought about playing the piano, but there was an empty stool at the bar now, so he headed in that direction.

"One more?" Bradley asked Shannon as he sat, and she reached out to touch his cheek.

"You sure you really need one?"

"Yep," he said, swallowing against the lump in his throat as she swam out of focus for a split second. "Just one more. It'll make it easier."

She turned away from him to get one more clean glass. Then she filled it for him. "Thanks, Shannon," he muttered when she set it down in front of him. He was leaning on his propped up hand, and he knew she was kind of pretty. But he knew you were prettier and funnier and smarter.

"You can't have what you want," he mumbled to himself after Shannon walked away. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it and just looked at the screen. Delete it. He had to. He opened his contacts, and there you were right at the fucking top.

Ace

You'd always be at the top, wouldn't you?

Instead of deleting your number, he sent you a text before he could reconsider.

Ace, I fell in love with you.

Fuck. Fuck! You didn't want him. And there was no way to take that message back now. He closed his eyes and shook his head, because he couldn't tell if he was about to cry or laugh. He was fucking miserable. Truly, he'd never experienced this before, and it hurt like hell. His thumb hovered over your name once again, but he couldn't delete it. He drank the whiskey and tried again. But still nothing.

He watched Shannon move around behind the bar. She wasn't you. She wasn't what he wanted, but when she announced that it was last call, she made her way over to him.

"But no more for you," she teased, reaching to take his glass away. But he had her wrist in his hand before he registered what he was doing. She looked a little surprised. The tears were in his eyes again, but maybe it wasn't so obvious to her. He couldn't say the words. He needed her to be the one. When he licked his lips, she leaned a little closer. "I'm done in fifteen. Are you interested? Or are you too drunk?"

He took a deep breath as his eyes closed. He needed to try to move on. The pain needed to stop, or else he didn't know what he would do. Right now he was numb enough. It was now or never. "I'm interested."

Bradley was very aware of what he was doing, it just vaguely seemed like someone else was doing it. He gave his keys to Shannon once they were outside. "Remember where I live?" he asked, walking toward the Bronco.

"Of course I do," she whispered.

He found himself with his back against the passenger side door with Shannon's lips on his. It felt fine. Would probably feel better the more he got used to it again. He could do this. He kissed her back and told her to drive, because he knew he shouldn't.

She drove and parked and took him by the hand, leading him inside his house. As soon as he saw the baseball cards, he wanted to upend his coffee table. He wanted to do this and get it over with and go to sleep for a week. And if he didn't feel better after that, then he didn't know what he was going to do.

When Shannon tried to turn on his bedroom light, he took her hand in his and guided it away from the switch. "Too bright," he mumbled, and she started to get undressed. He stumbled across the hallway to the bathroom and closed the door. When he looked in the mirror, he'd never seen anything quite so pitiful. He splashed a little water on his face, but it just made his flushed cheeks stand out more. He dug around under the sink for some condoms he thought he still had. When his hand closed around the box, he sat back against the wall and cried.

He had no idea how long he was in the bathroom. He took his shirt off and used it to wipe his face. You didn't want him. He went back to his bedroom where Shannon was naked on his bed, her skin glowing in the light filtering in from the bathroom where he forgot to flip the switch off.

"Fuck," he grunted, running his fingers through his hair. But she must have taken that as a sign that he was ready to go. He wasn't, but he told himself he was. She touched him, and he let her. She kissed him some more, and he let her do that, too. He reciprocated. He knew to do that much. But it didn't feel like anything. He fucked her, but it just wasn't right. And then he fell asleep with a throbbing head and an aching heart and the wrong woman next to him.

-----------------------

It had been years since Bradley had a hangover. When he opened his eyes, his left arm was hanging off of his bed, and his face was halfway smashed in his pillow. His mouth was completely dry, and he tried to press his lips together and swallow. He had no idea how he got home or what time it was.

"Oh, shit," he groaned. He texted you last night. When he was sitting at the bar. He was pretty sure he told you he fell in love with you. He knew you wouldn't write back. You must have blocked his number by now. He was probably texting nobody by this point, but it still hurt like hell that you didn't want him the way he wanted you.

Then he remembered what he did after he texted you, and the bile rose in his throat so quickly. Shannon was right there next to him when he turned his head. He let her sleep over. He never let her sleep over before this. She was in your spot. He needed her gone immediately.

"Hey," he grunted, his throat like sandpaper. "Shannon. You need to leave."

She rolled over and glared at him. "Still tired," she whispered, completely naked in his bed.

"Please," he begged. He was so fucking stupid, it was incredible. Now he was miserable and hungover and angry with himself. "I need you to."

She sighed and stretched, and Bradley made a beeline for the bathroom, stepping on a condom wrapper on the way. At least there was that. Then he emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He sat back against the wall for a few minutes, afraid there might be more he had to throw up. He knew his head was throbbing due more to the fact that he regretted everything he did last night with Shannon than him drinking most of a bottle of whiskey.

There was tapping on the door. "If you want me to leave, I need to use the bathroom."

"Give me a minute," he groaned, standing up and looking at himself in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked pale. When he brushed his teeth, he felt the tears burning behind his eyes once again. Was this ever going to stop? It had been more than a month.

Bradley rinsed his mouth and opened the door, barely looking at Shannon as she walked past him, still naked. He went back into his bedroom for a pair of clean underwear and some gym shorts and fought the urge to put all of his bedding in the washing machine. He couldn't even be in here right now, so he left for the kitchen. And he passed the fucking baseball cards again. He would have to throw them away or ask someone to come get them, because he needed them gone as much as he needed Shannon to leave.

As he turned on his coffee maker, he heard someone knocking on his front door. He already wanted this fucking day to end. He tried not to look at the baseball cards as he passed the table and wrenched his front door open, and then his jaw dropped in surprise.

"Bradley. Hi."

He braced his hand against the door frame as he looked at you standing there on his tiny porch. You were wearing his Padres jersey. He had to be hallucinating. This had to be a dream. You were here.

"Ace."

He watched your face light up at the nickname, and you laughed softly as you examined him like you'd been dying to see him. He gripped the doorframe a little harder as he reached his other hand out to cup your chin and feel your silky skin.

"Holy shit, Baby. What are you doing here?" His heart was pounding, but he felt somehow normal again. Just like he had five weeks ago before you left him in a state of panic.

"I came to see you." He stroked his thumb along your lip, but you didn't back away. In fact you took a tiny step closer as you added, "I have to be up in Anaheim tomorrow afternoon for some Ducks interviews, but I wanted to see you first. I thought we could talk."

Your eyes were open and earnest, and Bradley felt weak as he looked at his jersey on you. He let his hand drop away from your face, because he had no idea what to say to you right now. He had convinced himself he'd never see you again. "Did you get my texts? Or did you block my number?"

You pressed your lips together and then whispered, "I got your texts. And I've listened to your voicemail a lot. I've missed you." Bradley watched you smile tentatively and give him a little shrug.

"You missed me," he said in disbelief. "And you got my messages. And you missed me. And you're wearing my jersey."

You looked down at yourself and laughed. "I've been wearing pretty frequently, actually. Turns out I don't have a dress code at my new office, which ironically is in Houston now, but I hardly ever have to be there in person."

When you met his eyes again, he asked. "New office?" He was so confused as he reached out and stroked your cheek with his fingers again just to try to make sure you were still real.

"Yeah," you said softly, taking another step closer to him. "I have you to thank for that. I have you to thank for a lot of things." You bit your lip before you said, "I left the New York Times. I just finished my last assignment for Greg yesterday. I'm working on a brand new piece now. I actually begged my new employer to let me come back to California for the Anaheim Ducks article even though it's a bit of a fluff piece, because it meant I could come here and tell you that I'm happier now."

"You are?" he asked, unsure what you meant by that. He was having a hard time listening to your voice and looking at your face at the same time, and he wondered how he'd managed ten days in your presence for the World Series. You were just so overwhelmingly perfect.

"Yes, Bradley. You made me think about my career, and I kind of took the time to change some of my priorities. Because if there's a man as incredible as you who is willing to take a chance on me, then I can take the same kind of chance on myself."

"Ace."

You smiled up at what he was sure was a look of longing on his face. "I'm working for Velocity Report now, and I'm going to have a lot more time off between assignments. Which is important, because you reminded me that I need to take breaks and eat and take care of myself. Even when you're not around."

"I loved doing that for you," he gasped, suddenly dying to kiss you.

"Yeah, well, you were really good at it," you said as your smile faded a little bit. "But that's why I'm here. To tell you all of this in person. You deserve to hear it in person instead of over the phone, especially since I never responded to you. I wanted to, but I just wasn't ready until now. And I don't know if you read what I said about you in my Detroit Red Wings article... but, I still miss you. And I love you."

His heart was pounding so hard, he thought he was going to pass out. "You love me?" he asked, absolutely needing you to say it again for him as your eyes drifted to where the box of baseball cards was still out on the coffee table.

Your smile grew as you reached out for his hand and tugged him closer like you were going to kiss him. "Yes, I do. I love-"

Bradley heard a noise behind him, and his heart sank as his eyes went wide. You were looking off to the side, and he heard Shannon's voice. "Oh, sorry." He turned to see her with a puzzled look on her face. He had completely forgotten she was even here. After a few minutes in your presence, you were the only thing that mattered.

"Oh my god," you gasped, wrenching yourself away from Bradley. "Oh, fuck." You looked at him with your hands on your forehead and tears in your eyes. "You know what? Forget I was even here. I'm sorry," you gasped, turning on your heel and walking full speed across his yard to the black car that was parked at his curb.

It took him a second, but then he was right behind you. "Ace! No, Baby, you don't understand." But it didn't look like you were listening as you dug the keys to your rental car out of your pocket. "Ace! Please!" He ran barefoot out onto the street to try to beat you to the car door, but you were too fast. When he reached for your hand and spun you around to face him, you had tears streaming down your cheeks.

He was frozen, clinging to your hand as you whispered, "She's the bartender. I should have never come here."

"No," he begged, stepping into your personal space, but you kept dodging him. "It's nothing. I want you here. I need you here."

But you pulled your hand free and reached for the door handle as you sobbed, and it broke Bradley's heart. "I need to go."

He was ready to drop to his knees. "She doesn't mean anything, Ace! Please! I missed you too, Baby! I've been miserable without you, okay? You have no idea."

You wouldn't even look at him now as you pushed him out of the way so you could climb in the car. He felt all of his dreams slipping through his fingers twice now as you slammed the door closed, started the engine and drove.

"Ace!" he shouted running alongside your door until you hit the accelerator and left him standing in the middle of his street without shoes on. "Ace. I love you," he whispered as you turned left at the end of his block, and then you were out of sight.

Bradley sank down until he was squatting with his face buried in his palms. "Fuck!" he screamed, the sound only slightly muffled as he jumped up to his feet and made his way back to his house where Shannon was standing on his porch. She looked disgusted as another car pulled up in front of his house.

"Why are we sleeping together if you're clearly in love with her?" she asked, barely looking at him as she headed toward her Uber. "You should go take care of that."

As Bradley watched her away, he tried to pinpoint exactly how he'd fucked all of this up. He wondered if there was any way to fix it. Once again, he couldn't breathe correctly as that crushing feeling returned to his lungs. This feeling has vanished for those few minutes he was with you again.

"Maybe you don't even deserve her," he told himself as he walked back inside alone, thinking about how for a minute there, you'd loved him back.

------------------------------

Oh, Bradley. Oh, you sweet thing. Should I add one more part? Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 9

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darkintothedawn · 2 days ago

Text

THE BOYFRIEND CODE

Memo — Part of 'The Boyfriend Code' series. These are the rules themselves. I also don't know why I wrote every fourth rule to be weirdly long in comparison to the others.

(A guide to maintaining a happy and thriving relationship with one Stiles Stilinski.)

As drafted by Stiles Stilinski

(To be signed in blood. Or, you know, ink. Whatever’s available.)

1. Thou shalt not steal the last curly fry without proper negotiations.

2. Thou shalt always laugh at thy boyfriend’s jokes, even if they are terrible (which they are not).

3. Thou shalt never, under any circumstances, team up with Scott against thy boyfriend in any and all debates, disputes, or Nerf wars.

4. Thou shalt not hold thy boyfriend’s hand just to warm up thy own freezing fingers and then let go once they’re toasty. My hands are not a temporary rental service—they require long-term commitment. Hand-holding is a big deal, okay? It’s a sacred act of love, comfort, and subtle flexing. If thou initiates contact, thou must maintain it for an appropriate amount of time (i.e., until I say so). If thou dares to pull away too soon, be warned: I will be needy about it. I will pout. I will stare at thy hand longingly. I will dramatically sigh until my hand is reclaimed. I don’t want to beg, but make no mistake—I absolutely will.

5. Thou shalt not threaten to replace thy boyfriend with Derek Hale, Chris Evans, or any fictional hottie with a tragic backstory.

6. Thou shalt not wake thy boyfriend up at ungodly hours unless there is (a) a fire, (b) a werewolf attack, (c) pancakes, or (d) an ungodly amount of love and affection.

7. Thou shalt always check behind thee in horror movie situations because thy boyfriend will absolutely be too scared to.

8. Thou shalt not initiate tickle fights unless fully prepared for the consequences. (The consequences include, but are not limited to: uncontrollable giggling, immediate retaliation, loss of breath from excessive laughter, potential betrayal by nearby allies, an all-out war that lasts for days, and, most importantly, the risk of thy boyfriend holding a lifelong grudge and striking when thou least expects it. You have been warned.)

9. Thou shalt not let Lydia convince thee that thy boyfriend is not cool. Thy boyfriend is cool. Very cool. The coolest. Tell Lydia.

10. Thou shalt always pretend to be impressed when thy boyfriend does a Cool Car Slide™ over the hood of the Jeep, even if he falls. Especially if he falls.

11. Thou shalt not judge thy boyfriend for excessive hand gestures during storytelling.

12. Thou shalt not change the music in the Jeep without a full democratic vote, which requires at least a two-thirds majority and an impassioned speech justifying the change. Veto power is reserved exclusively for thy boyfriend, as the rightful ruler of the aux cord. Exceptions may be granted in cases of extreme emergency, such as a truly terrible song choice (unlikely), spontaneous karaoke needs, or the requirement of a dramatic soundtrack for an impending battle, chase scene, or epic road trip montage. Abuse of this privilege may result in a permanent aux ban. (Also, if the Jeep breaks down, it is not because thy boyfriend’s music taste is cursed. We do not entertain such slander.)

13. Thou shalt not put socks on thy boyfriend while he is sleeping just to mess with him. (Seriously, why would you do this? Are you a monster?)

14. Thou shalt not let Coach Finstock know that thy boyfriend has, in fact, finished his economics homework. He thrives on the chaos.

15. Thou shalt not insult Star Wars in any way, shape, or form. Ever. No exceptions. (Even about the prequels. We do not speak of the prequels.)

16. Thou shalt always respond to thy boyfriend’s "I love you" with "I love you more," or at least pretend to fight about it. Because love is a competition, and thy boyfriend refuses to lose. Bonus points for dramatic declarations, exaggerated swooning, and impromptu Shakespearean monologues. Failure to engage in this battle of affection shall result in excessive, possibly puppy-eyed pouting until the matter is properly resolved.

17. Thou shalt not hide sticky notes with increasingly unsettling messages around thy boyfriend’s room just to see how long it takes him to find them. (I will NOT be gaslit in my own home.)

18. Thou shalt not give Scott better cuddles than thy boyfriend. (I see you. I know what you’re doing.)

19. Thou shalt prevent thy boyfriend from naming any future pets after fictional detectives, no matter how endearing his arguments may be. (We are NOT adopting a dog names "Spooky Mulder.")

20. Thou shalt not eat the last Pop-Tart and then blame the supernatural—especially not ghosts, banshees, or mischievous forest spirits. (They have better things to do than steal my breakfast.) If thou art the culprit, thou must accept the consequences, which may include but are not limited to: dramatic sighs, betrayed expressions, and a well-documented grudge lasting no less than 48 hours. Restocking the Pop-Tart supply immediately may lessen thy sentence.

21. Thou shalt not record thy boyfriend’s sleep talk and use it as blackmail. (Even if it’s hilarious. And yes, I am Batman in my dreams.)

22. Thou shalt not use thy boyfriend as a human shield during werewolf-related incidents. (It is rude and it hurts me physically even if I do appreciate you wanting me to protect you.)

23. Thou shalt not tickle thy boyfriend while he is driving. (Unless thou hast a death wish.)

24. Thou shalt not challenge thy boyfriend to a duel with pool noodles unless thou art truly prepared to suffer the consequences. A challenge once issued cannot be taken back. There will be no mercy. There will be no surrender. There will only be the sound of plastic striking plastic, the cries of the fallen, and the inevitable betrayal when one of us decides to wield two noodles at once. Victory is never guaranteed, but humiliation is. And should thou lose, thou must accept thy fate with dignity—or prepare for a rematch at dawn.

25. Thou shalt always accept spontaneous dance breaks in the kitchen. No exceptions.

26. Thou shalt not bribe thy boyfriend’s dad with baked goods to get classified FBI-level intel on thy boyfriend’s embarrassing childhood stories. (I know he caves for cookies. This is betrayal.)

27. Thou shalt not, under any circumstances, allow thy boyfriend near a Ouija board. (We do not need to summon ghosts. Again.)

28. Thou shalt always remember that thy boyfriend is the funniest, smartest, most charming, and overall most lovable human being in the universe. This remains true even when:

I'm ranting about a conspiracy theory at 2 AM with a suspicious amount of red string.

I'm attempting to parkour off the Jeep and failing spectacularly.

I'm using sarcasm as a defence mechanism instead of admitting I have emotions.

I'm dramatically narrating my own life like I'm in a noir film.

I'm absolutely convinced that I could take a werewolf in a fight “if given the proper motivation.”

I'm getting side-tracked in the middle of an argument because I thought of a joke and simply must share it.

I'm clinging to thee like a koala after a scary movie but still pretending I’m totally fine.

I'm being an absolute menace in every way, shape, and form—but, let’s be honest, that’s part of my charm.

In conclusion: I am a menace, but I am thy menace. Act accordingly.

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski x reader fluff #stiles stilinski fluff #gender neutral reader #the boyfriend code

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stunnajitj · 7 days ago

Text

⋆˚࿔ 𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏 (𝟐/𝟑) 𝜗𝜚˚⋆🍓

•　ＳＬＯＷ　ＵＰＤＡＴＥＳ　•

Re-upload

ＳＨＡＷＮ　ＭＩＣＨＡＥＬＳ　

( Michael )

⁸ 🍓: 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐒

/)/)

( . .)

( づ🍓 - Janet and Shawn have two beautiful sons. Their oldest Michael, being five and their youngest Jace, being three. Despite having two kids together, Janet and Shawn's relationship has always been rocky. One minute they are the best of friends and always flirtatious but then, the next minute they can't stand to be around each other. But through all of that, somehow Shawn always finds his way back into Janet's bed when he's home.

↳ WWF ( ¹⁹⁹⁷ )

¹² 🍓: 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃

ʚ🍓ɞ - After months of secret hook ups in hotels, rental cars and backstage areas - Shawn grows tired and finally takes charge. Making a plan so Janet can be his and only his.

↳ WWF ( ¹⁹⁹⁴ )

ＬＩＶ　ＭＯＲＧＡＮ　

( Gionna )

⁹ 🍓: 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒

/)/)

( . .)

( づ🍓 - Wanting someone who's in a new relationship is incredibly challenging, especially when that someone is your best friend...

↳ WWE ( ²⁰²⁴ )

ＲＯＭＡＮ　ＲＥＩＧＮＳ　

( Joesph )

¹⁰ 🍓: 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍

/)/)

( . .)

( づ🍓 ~ Jonathan (Jimmy Uso), Trinity (Naomi) and Josh (Jey Uso) help Lola with a very special surprise for her husband's 38th birthday. Bringing herself back to her roots.

↳ WWE ( ²⁰²³ )

ＢＲＥＴ　ＨＡＲＴ

¹¹ 🍓: 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄

/)/)

( . .)

( づ🍓 - The ladies of WCW convince Vivica to plan an exclusive night so she could finally have her first time with her freshly new divorced boyfriend, Bret Hart.

↳ WCW ( ¹⁹⁹⁷ )

ＲＨＥＡ　ＲＩＰＬＥＹ

( Demi )

¹³ 🍓: 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐑

/)/)

( . .)

( づ🍓 - Solána was the only crew member backstage who truly “HATED” Demi (Rhea) outside of her character on television. Demi didn't know what it was, but, no matter what she did Solána wouldn't work with her or even speak. But After “War Games” all of that has to change...

↳ WWE ( ²⁰²⁴ )

~ 𝔍𝔞𝔷𝔷𝔶 ʚ🍓ɞ

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mosneakers · 5 months ago

Text

Any typical paranoid conspiracy theorist wouldn’t even dream of snagging a coveted invite to Jill Smith's exclusive election party. But Erwin is lucky. His best friend, Tycho Curious, just happens to be the potential president-elect's cousin, and Tycho really went out of his way to ensure Erwin gets in.

The ground-level entrance to The Spot is heavily guarded with high-profile security and helicopters swarming overhead.

Appearing disheveled and visibly anxious, Erwin approaches the entrance, fumbling through his wrinkled suit jacket to find the pass for entry. Despite assuring Tycho he'd be arriving with Coni, he approaches the building alone. Focused on his quest, he’s about to face his first obstacle.

Sydney: PRIES! There you are. Blocking his path, the Mother In Red Association (or M.I.R.A)—rival cult group to Erwin's conspiracy club—gathers around with a mission of their own.

Erwin: Oh... it's you.

Sydney: We've been waiting out here for you, hoping to catch you before you went in.

Erwin: [Still searching for the pass] What? Why? How did you know I’d be here?

Sydney: We track Strangerville rental car records and saw your name come up in the database. Narrowed it down from there.

Erwin: Of course. So why did you feel the need to follow me?

Sydney: [Leans in and lowers voice] Ongoing Bella Goth investigation. We're following a lead... it's confidential. Erwin: [Frustrated sigh] Look, I don't have time for this, okay? There's something very important I need to do. And it's time sensitive.

Sydney narrows her eyes at Erwin, studying his frantic demeanor. Sydney: Okay, fine. If you help us get in, we’ll disclose to you what we’re after.

Erwin: [Scoffs, finally locating pass and softly waving it around] No chance. I barely got myself in because of my connection to Tycho.

I... I just got lucky. Sydney: Damn it! You sure there's not anything you can do? Erwin: Sorry. [Shrugs] But if I were you, I'd get out of here. Tune into the news, if everything goes according to plan— Bella Goth will only be a small fraction of the story.

#ts4 #ts4 story #sims 4 #the sims 4 #Erwin Pries #MD4 #MD4season10 #M.I.R.A.#Sydney Spaulding #Election Night-The Spot #GIF #SalientRecollectionDoc #md4s10finale

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wellourgerdes · 3 months ago

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nieded · 5 months ago

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what are Ezira and AJ like on a long road trip? Which car from their garage would they take? What snacks do they bring? Which one gets pulled over for going eighty in a thirty?

aj and ezira did go on a road trip across california when they were first starting out as a couple! though of course, it would have taken a lot of work to import a car to the states, and so they had a rental. if they could have taken one of their cars, they would have settled on the la ferrari, which could handle the switchbacks of the serria nevada.

maybe someday they will take the road trip that newt and ligur talked about from montpellier to cologne.

the actual reality is that they would take the gti, if they had a choice from their own garage. hypercars are notoriously unreliable. they are not meant for road trips. they aren't really meant to be driven, honestly. replacing brakes on a la ferrari (which is a common maintenance item!!!) costs 40k. the SO works next door to an italian repair shop that exclusively does ferraris, lambos, alfas, and fiats. they have had a lamborghini aventador sitting in the shop for months because it requires a new set of special tires, which they only release every couple of years. so it's just waiting for a random shipment that may or may not come in the next year. the lifespan on hypercars for maintenance items like oil changes and brakes are much much shorter than the average car.

also, where would their luggage go? they will definitely need boot space. crowley's a pain to fly with because he always has extra luggage for stuff: skincare, haircare, nail polish, nail polish remover, extra hats that he will not wear, extra shoes that he will also not wear, but he has them just in case they do the beach or a hike. (and still, he wears his boots.) chargers for his electronics and back up batteries just in case. and weed. road trips are excellent when transporting the goods.

but crowley has no opinion on snacks. thankfully, ezira has all the opinions on snacks. healthy choices such as snacking peppers and carrots and seaweed chips to just cake. lots of biscuits. he has a kettle in the back so they can make periodic petrol stops to boil hot water. and should they stop and pick up more ice for the cooler? just in case? and in the end, they only eat half of it because every four hours, he's on google maps researching local restaurants and cafes for nibbles.

and realistically, neither of them will get pulled over for speeding, but if one of them had to, it'd be crowley. ezira hates driving around civilians. it's much safer to be going 190 on a race track. but average joes are unpredictable. get off your phone! use the indicator (to the beemer, i'm looking at you). oops you missed your exit and are now crossing six lanes of interstate... everybody's out here being lance stroll. ezira absolutely hates it, and if you spend 15 minutes on r/idiotsincars, you will too. there's very little ezira sticks his nose up at, but civilians. *shudders*

but they wouldn't drive over the speed limit, not too much. that's for work. crowley will take it slow through the alps so ezira can take pictures of the clear blue lakes and snow-capped mountains. they'll take turns with the bluetooth, donna summer and pink floyd for crowley, abba and death cab for ezira, and they'll talk about the race season and the spots they want to revisit in america and italy and japan. they'll wonder what ceres has destroyed at marnie and lili's and what the nibling is up to. if she's crawling yet because that means she's almost walking and if she's running they can stick her in a go kart.

but the silence would be good too at night, windows down, one of crowley's feet out the window when it's ezira's turn to drive (less people, more deer, but he will take his chances). and they'll stop on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere between two cities and look up and up and up at the sky, stars twinkling above. and crowley will think about how he's crossed finish lines filled with fireworks, stood on the platform in monza once upon a time when the tifosi flooded the track, sat in the cockpits of wheeled rocketships, unbelievable feats of engineering from mankind, and think nothing could compare to the darkest night in the quiet with his beloved.

it's not about going fast. it's about drawing it out, sitting in the cabin with each other and no one else, as if they could sneak one more minute, one more hour together before they're pulled across the globe in opposite directions. they love it. they love the racing and the adrenaline and the fireworks (but not the jet lag and missed calls and wondering if the other is sleeping ok). they love that feeling of peeling their racing gloves off after hours of sweating and swearing, the long drink of water after a long drive. but. but they love each other more.

#ni answers #rainbow road

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martinclark21 · 11 months ago

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curiositydooropened · 1 year ago

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Late Checkout • Teaser

The cursor blinked.

A writing retreat at an exclusive 5-star ski resort. A New Years Eve party in the moody lodge bar. A handsome heir. A bratty bad boy. A snowstorm blocking every guest from the outside world.

Pairing: Rich!Steve Harrington x Writer!Reader, Eddie Munson x Writer!Reader

Wordcount: 1328

Warnings and Tags: Modern AU, femme!reader, strangers to lovers, angst, smut, voyeurism, fantasizing, longing, isolation, snowstorm, skiing, writer's block, murder, blood, gore, recreational drug and alcohol use. This is an 18+ blog, minor DNI please and thank you. Please check chapters for further warnings.

Navigation • Masterlist

Fic Masterlist • Moodboard

---

Your thoughts drifted back out to the veranda. Sun poured over the mountain side and bounced off stark white snow. Golden rays cast down and carded through his chestnut hair. Your fingers ached.

He tilted his face into it, eyes closed, lashes fluttering freckled cheeks, ecstasy evident as his features softened.

You licked your bottom lip.

The woman with him reached for his cheek and procured an eyelash, holding her finger skyward.

His eyes opened, amber and honey. A smile pulled at the corners of his pink lips before he pursed them to blow. His cheeks puffed up and hollowed, dotted with freckles, bone structure immaculate. Wish sufficiently made, his face lit in amusement, brows raised.

What did man like him wish for? He had the money, the looks. You hadn’t seen his car in the lot, but you were sure it was as luxuriously as the parka stretched over broad shoulders. The woman by his side was stunning, a Scandinavian supermodel with legs and curves for days.

So what was it then?

He swirled his glass in an ungloved hand, tips of his fingers reddening as he brought the amber liquid to his pink lips for a drink. What did a man with mid-afternoon Scotch wish for? Maybe he wished to bag a new account at the firm. Maybe he wished for his offer to go through for that rental on the Cape. Maybe he wished for his secretary to wear that YSL skirt again, with those pantyhose he could tear off with his perfect teeth.

You sputtered a cough, accidentally inhaling some of the saliva filling your mouth. Face warm, you mopped at the corners of your lips with a sweater cuff.

At your bistro table, your laptop screen had gone to stand-by. With a sigh, you clicked the track pad until the screen revived. On the blank page, the cursor blinked.

“You done with your coffee?” A busgirl approached, cheeks pinched pink and a smile across freckled features.

“Oh,” you handed her your mug and saucer. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” she nodded, and you were surprised when she leaned in. She smelled of espresso and vanilla. “Hey, this guy in the corner? The cute one with the man bun and the leather jacket? He paid me a really big tip to give you this,” she slipped a drink napkin in front of you.

Beneath the lodge’s bright orange logo were chicken scratched letters in black ink.

I hope the novel you’re working on has a better ending.

“He also offered to buy you another drink,” the barista informed, taking in your reaction with wide eyes. “But if you’re totally disgusted, I will be more than happy to call security and get his ass escorted right out of here.”

You snorted and glanced over your laptop at the far corner of the room. Your Critic from the previous day sat in his same corner, long limbs draped over the sides of the furniture like he he lived there. Slender hands folded the spine of a new novel, decorated in silver rings. His curls were pulled up into a loose bun, exposing a prominent widow’s peak, and a playful smile pulled at the corners of plump lips.

“You don’t need to kick him out,” you smiled, crumpling the napkin into your discarded mug in her hand. The last drops of coffee soaked into the paper. “But tell you what. Why don’t you and your coworker buy yourself lunch on his dime? I’ll double his tip.”

“You got yourself a deal,” she flashed a grin and made her way back behind the counter.

You went about closing your laptop and packing your things into your bag, avoiding the gaze on you from across the room. Zipper zipped, you schlepped the bag over one shoulder, adjusting your sweater beneath the strap. Your table was cleared, save the pen you capped. When you finally looked up to leave the little cafe, you found yourself leveled under a honeyed stare.

Mr. Harrington, the handsome stranger on the veranda, had noticed you through the window. Well that, or the windows were tinted enough to capture his attention, and judging by the darkening of his eyes and the soft smile etching itself onto the corners of his perfect lips, he enjoyed his own reflection. He waved, almost imperceptibly, and mouthed a hello.

You smiled and nodded.

Then, the women he brought with him came into view, all freckles and blue eyes, stunning, full lips.

You turned on your heel and left before you had a chance to wither under her scrutiny, staring at the orange and cream hexagonal tile as you walked through the threshold and back into the lobby.

“Hey,” another voice startled you, impossibly close, the sting of cigarette smoke mixing with espresso in the air.

“So the last book inspired you after all.” You sighed, halting before a head-on collision with a family of seven.

“What?” Your critic crashed into you, capturing your shoulders in large hands to stop you both from barreling into the last set of twins.

You huffed him off with a shrug. “The Vanishing was about a stalker.”

“Oh,” he flashed that charming grin of his, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. “How do I know you aren’t stalking me?”

You snorted and swept past the convenient store, the pro shop, narrowly avoided a sled dog near the exit to the veranda. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Your stalker barked a laugh and managed to trail you past the bar and ballrooms and into the back hallway. “Alright, sweetheart, you caught me. I’ve been following you for weeks.”

You stopped in front of the resort gym. Two middle aged women chatted on ellipticals in matching leggings. “What?”

He didn’t seem like the usual incel fan of yours. They were less clean, less put-together. The ones who managed to weasel your real name and location through hours of research on the dark web usually showed up to a local coffee shop and sent a text message to your laptop from a restricted number.

This guy had a charcoal sweater made of cashmere and designer cologne. His jacket smelled of real leather. You spotted the glint of a silver watch beneath one sleeve.

The Cheshire Cat grin fell from his face when your reaction sunk in, and he shook his head, eyes going wide. “I’m totally kidding. That’s probably creepy and terrifying, I’m sorry. I promise I’m not stalking you. I don’t even know your name.”

Instead of offering it, you turned and headed back down the hall.

“Hey, okay. My name’s Eddie,” he scrambled to catch up, all the bells and whistles jangling on his leather jacket, “and if you want me to leave you alone, I swear I will. But if you’d be at all interested in letting me buy you a drink tonight, can you let me know? Because I’m scaring the spa receptionists.”

You glanced at the two girls behind the nearest desk. They giggled behind their hands.

“I’m sorry I insulted your favorite book.” Eddie’s voice softened.

With a sigh, you tucked yourself into a nearby alcove. “It’s not my favorite.” You’d published a handful of others you liked better, all of them less popular.

“Well what is your favorite?” The smile slid itself back onto his features. He remained a few paces away, giving you a respectable amount of space.

You weighed your options. You’d planned evening room service and sweatpants and drafting, endless drafting. Or, you could let someone else pay for your martini, and maybe his refreshing (albeit rude) perspective on your library of work could spark some much needed inspiration.

“I’ll tell you over drinks tonight.”

“8 o’clock?”

Your stomach flipped at the proud look on his face, and you nodded.

“See you then, princess.” He bowed so low his bun flopped, and he backed out of the alcove, wagging fingers at the giggling spa receptionists. He whistled as he left.

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