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eerythingisshaka · 4 years

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Ride

[Rio x Reader]

Word Count: 3.2k

“Alright, alright party people! Coming to the stage now is your girl, Candiiii!”

DJ Thundercat announces a dancer to the stage who sends the house into a frenzy. Lights dance across her body giving you mere snapshots of what she had going on before the glowing red spotlight revealed her deviant frame. The deep tones of her skin set a perfect backdrop for the light to catch. Her smile looked like fangs as she snaked around the stage, eyeing the crowd through the hordes of money raining in front of her. She shakes her Diana Ross-esque hair around to rev up the crowd even more.

You carry your drink tray back to the bar and lean back, enjoying the view.

“She’s a fucking sight, ain’t she?” The bartender, Jules says to you while popping open a can of Coke.

“Always. I don’t know how she does it every single time…” your voice trails as she climbs the pole, leaning back into a move called the Eye Opener. A guy in the front row looks like he wants to eat his chair, he’s so enraptured.

“Practice and passion is all it takes. And when your money is up, a good doctor doesn’t hurt,” Jules says before tapping your shoulder. “You know a drop is going down tonight.”

“Really?” you say with worry. “Is it the same guy as before or someone else?”

“Someone new. He may be working with the guy from before but since he got his job back as a cop he has to keep his nose a little cleaner.”

You snort. “Yeah right. So what is this guy's deal?”

Jules leans closer to you. “So you know Aviator? Last I heard, he is behind on some payments, plural! How he is still breathing is anybody’s guess but some dude named Rio is coming in with his crew to set up a payment plan.”

“Well that’s nice...right?”

Jules looks at you like you shat an egg. “Are you kidding me? That’s just code for curtains. Sleeping with the fishes. Giving him a Colombian necktie. That’s why I’m telling you in case something big goes down. Get your ass far away from the action as possible.”

You thank Jules as she sets a couple drinks on your tray for you to serve. You adjust your red fishnet stocking rolling down your thigh and head over to table 8.

“Thanks honey.” One middle aged balding man says, holding out a $10 bill.

You smile nice and wide and take hold of the bill, but he won’t let go.

“Does this get me to see a little of what those cups are holding in honey?” He palms your breast over your pleather cups before you could even clapback. So instead you clapped the back of his shiny noggin.

With the $10 in your possession, you push in down your cleavage. “If you like it rough, just ask. But if you like it hard, try again. If swallowing glass is your kink.” His partner applauds, laughing at his friends mishap.

You briskly walk away, heart pounding in your chest. You hate confrontation, but you refuse to be walked over in this business. Certainly not by some cheap regular who tips to get his ass beat by women.

You notice some figures entering in your peripheral. The front is too dark to see but there are several heads standing by which you find odd.

You find Jules for another drink order. “Hey, do you recognize those guys?”

Jules squints at them as they come forward. A stray light finds the face of one in the middle.

“Shit. I think that’s him. Rio.”

You look over but Jules pinches you. “Don’t call attention to yourself! Be stealthy about it.” She sets two more Cokes on your tray and shoos you away.

You walk more carefully than you regularly do, nervous about the new guests. You set the drinks down for the patrons who thank you and send you off. When you turn around you almost bump into a figure.

“Shit, sorry,” you say before freezing in place. This Latino dude with a neck tattoo peers at you like he was expecting you.

“No, it’s no problem. Excuse me will suffice.” His voice sounds like when you strained your voice at a concert the previous night, raspy and low.. You wait a minute for him to laugh or smile to let you know he is joking but enough time passed to tell you that wasn’t the case.

“Well...excuse…” You couldn’t bring yourself to the end of that phrase as you turned to walk away. Is this fool joking?

“You didn’t take my drink order, Ms. Waitress,” he calls out to you. Amazingly his low, gruff voice is very distinct over Megan thee Stallion playing in the background.

You walk up to him, looking him straight in his eyes. You can’t lie that it is impressive how his eyes trained on your never wavered elsewhere. Especially in a skin tight strapless one piece that hugged every curve like a straight jacket, how could he be so focused on a drink?

“Sure what can I get you?” you ask sharply.

“Don’t you need a pen and paper?” He asks.

“I’ll remember it,” you say with a slight slip of attitude.

His smile somehow does not break his stone glare. It actually warms his features like a hearth in the dead of winter. He must’ve been adorable as a child, you thought. That smile would make anyone spoil him.

“I’ll make it easy for you then. Get me and partners some top shelf whiskey, straight. Matter of fact, bring the bottle and some shot glasses.”

“We don’t serve alcohol, only Coke products. Where will you be sitting?” you ask, mouth turning dry.

He walks beside you, stopping just inches from your ear. “Bring it to VIP.”

You let out a heavy breath when his crew deserts you and head for Jules at the bar who is steaming.

“What did I say?” she hisses.

“I know! But he walked up on me! Look, he asked for alcohol. A bottle of whiskey for shots. What the hell do I do?”

Jules reaches under the counter, pulling out a brand new bottle of Johnny Walker and some clean shot glasses.

“For VIP we do, we just don’t advertise. And he is as VIP as it gets. Don’t do anything stupid. Girls have come out of their having done shit they couldn’t even talk to God about.”

Your heart dips at the thought of what could happen and your usually steady hands tremble under the weight of the bottle and glasses balancing on your tray. The velvet rope in front of the heavy curtains that lead to VIP is unlatched by a bodyguard who doesn’t even look at you: stoic as the Queen’s royal guard.you push open the curtain and see Rio sitting on the purple lounge couch, legs spread and posture relaxed. Everyone is quiet.

He looks at you, and only you. “There she is. Thanks for pulling this favor for me Ms. Waitress.”

He motions you over to him and you obey, laying the tray down on the glass table in front of him.

“Would you mind pouring it for me? My wrist ain’t what it used to be and that bottle is pretty heavy,” he says, rubbing it for emphasis.

He doesn’t come off as weak in any sense of the word, but you oblige his request. You give him a small smile and crack open the seal, filling the room with the glug of the bottle filling five shot glasses.

“You accept tips, right?” He asks, reaching into his pocket to pull out a roll of bills.

You stand there with your hands folded in front of you trying not to stare. “Well, if it’s offered.”

He nods slowly pulling a couple hundreds off. “I’ll give you this if you take these shots with me.”

He lays down the money on the tray and looks up at you waiting. You stutter anxiously.

“I-I thought you and-and your crew were drinking?”

“If we were, we would. But I like to keep them sober on the clock, so I figured we could indulge.” He picks up a glass of the brown liquor. “Sit down for me.”

You do so hesitantly, keeping mind to leave space between you and him. He picks up a glass and hands it to you.

“I...don’t hold my liquor well,” you confess.

“I don’t mind.” He lifts the glass to his lips, knocking his head back swiftly and firmly sets the emptied shot on the table.

“Do I have a choice here? We are shorthanded out there,” you lied, trying to see if any mercy was in his heart but he just stares. You can see his jaw tighten over your resistance, fist balling on the couch. Could he tell this wasn’t truthful? Whatever it took to get out of there, you had to do. The alcohol rushes down your throat a little too fast and although it was smooth, your windpipe just doesn’t agree with liquid going in it. You go into a mad coughing fit and slam the glass down.

“Shit, you aren’t good with alcohol for real,” Rio smiles again, making you relax a bit that he is satisfied.

Rio bobs his head to the music bumping faintly in the background. “You like this song?”

You shrug. “It’s cool.”

“You can dance if you want to. I don’t mind,” Rio leans back to wait for your answer. You think back to Jules and what Rio can do to people who offends him, but you decide to test something out.

“That’s gotta be an extra $300 on top of that.” You point at the money, anticipating his reaction.

Rio smirks. “$200 for a dance and $300 is you take another shot with me.”

You didn’t hesitate for the drink now, picking it up confidently and holding it up to him for a toast. He takes his, knocking it against yours with a strong tink. You down the shot this time without mishap and get ready to move.

You stand up with your legs widened, letting your hips sway in front of him for a good ass tease, looking back to check on him checking you. He still only looks at your face.

“You know this outfit isn’t for modesty,” you say turning to dip low in a squat while holding onto his knees, sliding your hands up his thighs.

He looks cool as ever with a half naked woman climbing on top of his lap. “I get the most out of someone when they look me straight in my eyes.”

You straddle his lap, feeling his chest, gripping his shoulders. You work your hips on him slowly.

“Shows honesty. I like that.” You play with his ear, feeling his muscle twinge from being ticklish there.

He shrugs. “Honest or not, I can tell when I’m being lied to. Like if someone is trying to screw me or screw with me.” His arms rest on the back of the couch instead of on your body, making you feel cold and awkward.

“Is that why you’re here? To meet a dishonest man.” You whisper in his ear, which must be his thing as you feel some extra friction beneath you rising.

Rio ignores you. “You got one more shot left for the $500.”

You shake your head. “You can have it. You can touch me too, you know. Perks of VIP.” You slide your hand down his bicep to pull his arm around you but he pulls back.

“Take the shot.” He says firmly. You stop your dance, reaching for the glass and tipping it back. You set it down haphazardly with a clatter, running our hands down his chest again. You weren’t at all phased by his tone, if anything it excites you, makes you clench a little. The heaviness of intoxication is setting in and you feel loose staring into his eyes. Your fingers graze his beard, his neck, summoning you to his cologne, maybe he will let you taste him there...

“Rio! Enjoying the sights I see!”

The new voice snaps you out of your mode as you fly off his lap to the side of him.

“Aviator. Nice of you to fly in.” Rio says. He looks at you and motions his finger for you to come closer. You do a mscooch, however your leg pulled over his lap is an added touch you don’t expect.

Aviator guffaws. “Good one! I was gonna offer you a drink but I see you got one so no need. On the house, of course.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I haven’t seen you since November,” Rio says, massaging your leg lightly, like you’re his pet.

“Well the business is slower in the cold months so hey what can you do.”

“The weather? You think that’s an excuse here? Do you even own one of them anorak jackets or something?” Rio asks you as you shake your head no instantly. You can feel his anger mounting on your leg as his fingers dig deeper in your skin.

“Still, it’s holidays and shit. Look we can talk about this, but let’s lose the audience, ok? Send your guys back and let the girl work.”

“She is working, very well might I add. So you must think I’m dumb.”

Aviator pauses, looking around the room. “I said we can talk about this privately. I have a plan. You, go bus some tables.”

“Get my money Aviator. You’re overdue.” He looked bored by this back and forth and ready to end it. Your body temperature drops when he looks like this.

Aviator stood there aghast. “You’re new here, so let me tell you something. You’re not going to embarrass me like this in front of my employees. Get your ass up!” Aviator grabs you by the arm harshly, you twist your ankle trying to keep up, falling to your knees.

You hear the sound of a gun cock as your ankle throbs

“Aviator, you embarrassed yourself by not paying me. You’re not the first nor will you be the last owner here so take a guess on what you’re about to do.”

You look up to see Aviator’s hands up and a Glock to his chest.

“Help Ms. Waitress here up and take her to my car so we can have that privacy you want.”

You try to get up yourself but Aviator already has you. “Rio, I still have my shift.”

“Aviator’s got you covered, right Avi?”

Aviator curses under his breath before agreeing out loud. You limp with him out to the Escalade waiting in the alley. You get in without saying a word as you watch Aviator walk back in, flanked by two of Rio’s goons. You lean back, elevating your foot on an arm rest until Rio comes out. When he gets in he tells the driver where to go, looking at you then your ankle.

“We gotta put ice on that soon.” Rio says nonchalantly, laying his arm behind your head..

“What happened to Aviator?” You ask quietly.

Rio looks you over. “You don’t have to worry about that. Not your problem”

You stare at the city passing you all by, getting dizzy from the motion and drinks earlier, you see Rio once more looking at your body.

“You have my $500?” You ask earnestly. “I didn’t pick it up back there.”

Rio smirks, looking out his window. “This courtesy ride is nice, right?”

“I didn’t tell you where I lived.”

“Do you wanna go home?” He asks, piercing his gaze into you. They feel like they are daring you to say yes, go away, danger ahead and reroute.

“No. Is it because I didn’t finish the dance? Cuz that wasn’t my fault.”

“Oh yeah, about that. I was offering you an exit there. Go out on the floor, do what you gotta do but the lap dance was very nice.”

You laugh out loud. “What?! You didn’t tell me to stop! What’s wrong with you, so I did that for nothing?”

Rio licks his lips examining you. “Not for nothing. You’re wilder than I thought, and I don’t think that’s the whiskey.”

You cross your arms in a huff. “I wanted the money. And of course you never acted against it so…”

Rio wags a finger at you. “I appreciate that. Going for what you want. You got a business head on you. I like that.”

The ride grows quiet as you survey this man. He acts like an OG despite his age, running a tight operation with his goons. Even in this car not knowing where you are going after he pulls a gun on your boss, you feel safe with him beside you. But you had to know what made him tick.

You pull yourself on top of him, kissing him needily, tearing at his neck for his shirt button.

Rio talks through your kisses, gripping your curls in his hands. “Is this what whiskey does to you?”

You lean back, opening his shirt. “I want my money. And if I have to teach you to give it to me, I will.”

Rio’s hands feel across your back and ass and you shiver at the sensation. “I admit, I am a little hardheaded.”

“I’m very very strong willed” You lock onto his mouth once more, tasting the liquor you both shared, running your hands along the front of his pants to find the zipper. It felt so right as his hands guided your hips along his lap, pushing you on your back across the seat.

------

The next morning you wake up in a sea of blankets and pillows, head throbbing as you stare at the late morning sun.

“You get some rest, Ms. Waitress?” Rio stands at the doorway of the bedroom with his hands in his pockets.

You try to sit up but your head won’t stop rolling. “God I feel awful.”

“You look it too.” Rio says, walking up to your side of the bed. “Wore me out last night.”

You keep the sheets close to your naked chest with regret. “I can’t believe this. Did we…”

Rio pauses a little too long before saying, “Nah, you complained you were dizzy and puked all over my backseat. Taking your clothes was just part of the clean up. Had to dock that from your pay unfortunately but got some daytime looks over there if you need.” Rio points to a tshirt and sweats laying on a chair.

You weren’t about to argue with a gangster over money in his own house, especially if you fucked up his car. “Thanks, I’ll get ready to go immediately.”

“Ah don’t sweat it. Oh, and your cut is in the sweatpants pocket. Hope you get something nice with it.”

“Wait, did you...kill him?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Who?” Walking towards the door he says one more thing. “And, I would keep in touch if I were you. There’s more where that came from if you’re willing to go after what you want full time. I’ll see you around.”

When Rio leaves, you get up to put on the shirt and pants, reaching into the pocket. Magically your $500 became $5,000. You let out some choice curse words as you thumbed through the bills, thinking back on last night. Being on your best behavior never paid this good. And Rio piqued your curiosity enough to see what being bad felt like.

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#rio fanfic #rio x reader #shakafic

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flauntpage · 6 years

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Dumb Pitchers Punching Shit and Getting Injured: A Selected History

San Francisco Giants closer Hunter Strickland, a man well-known for his even temper and kind demeanor, is out for six to eight weeks after punching a door in rage at his own poor pitching. It’s a bad situation for the Giants, who were not in particularly good shape pitching-wise anyway, and it’s bad for Hunter Strickland, who now not only has to endure the pain of a broken hand and the forthcoming pain of the surgery he will likely need to repair it, but must also endure the emotional pain of having to explain to his team and the world at large that he, a fully grown man, is unable to perform his job—a job which he is paid millions of dollars to do—because he got mad and punched a door.

At the very least, though, Strickland is not alone. He can claim a place in the annals of baseball history as one of a storied, stupidly large class of pitchers: those who got mad, punched something, and got injured. In honor of Strickland’s induction into this venerable class of baseball men, let's journey back and enjoy a few of the finest—and, it follows, some of the most idiotic—examples of these incidents in the history of America’s Pastime.

1985: Jon Tudor Threatens To Punch Reporter; Punches Inanimate Object Instead

Jon Tudor could have been the hero of the 1985 World Series. Pitching for the St. Louis Cardinals against the Kansas City Royals, he allowed only a single run in his Game 1 start; in his Game 4 start, he pitched a complete-game shutout to put the Cards up 3-1 in the series. But after two losses over which the Cardinals scored a total of two runs, the series was tied 3-3, and Tudor took the mound for a third time in the Series — this time for all the marbles.

And it was there, in the biggest moment of his life as a pitcher, that Tudor absolutely shat the bed. He gave up a homer, a double steal, and four walks, including one with the bases loaded, and was pulled after only 2 ⅓ innings. He was charged with five earned runs. The Royals went on to win the game 11-0.

Even in good times, such as immediately after his Game 4 shutout, Tudor had done his best to antagonize the media, suggesting that they issued press passes to anyone who had a driver’s license and got so annoyed by reports that he asked one, “Do you want me to take a swing at you?” Perhaps with this rage still bubbling over, Tudor went on to have that spectacularly bad showing in Game 7. Once pulled, rather than seek out his reporter friend, he went into the dugout and took a swing at an apparently defenseless electric fan.

The electric fan, it turns out, was perhaps a worse foe than a reporter would have been. Tudor shredded his hand to the point that he needed stitches. To add insult to injury, he had to address this in front of assembled reporters.

For his part, though, Tudor seemed no worse for wear. He explained to the press that, rather than waiting for a doctor to do it, he was going to cut the stitches out of his hand himself. He wanted to go scuba diving as soon as possible.

1997: Jason Isringhausen Takes It Out on the Trash

Poor Jason Isringhausen—anybody who needed that many Tommy John surgeries over the course of his career warrants at least a little sympathy. It must have been frustrating to be sidelined, time and time again, with injuries to the same part of his arm, losing months and years of development to the interminable waiting of surgery recovery.

It was during one of these recovery periods that Isringhausen lost patience with his injury luck. In a Triple-A rehab game in early April, Isringhausen allowed three runs in the first inning. Enraged that he had come through injury and surgery only to emerge on the other side still in the minors and still struggling, Isringhausen walked off the field and punched a plastic trash can. He then went back out and pitched six more innings, despite the fact that his wrist was swelling alarmingly, and an X-ray taken after the game came back negative.

But Isringhausen found himself in so much pain the next day that he couldn’t throw, and a subsequent MRI revealed that the encounter with the trash can had, in fact, broken his wrist, meaning he would be out of commission until after the All-Star break. A month later, by that point afflicted with something resembling tuberculosis, he was caught directing a racial epithet at the Mets’ director of public relations while on a media conference call. When it rains trash, it really pours.

Isringhausen did manage to get into six games for the Mets that season, but, still haunted by his injury, he posted a 7.58 ERA, and walked only three fewer batters than he struck out. He did not play in 1998.

2010: AJ Burnett Slices Hands On Sharp Door, Tries To Cover It Up

After escaping the purgatory that was the 2000s Toronto Blue Jays and signing a plush free-agent contract with the Yankees prior to the 2009 season, A.J. Burnett seemed to be set for life. But he failed to put up a single decent season for the Yankees. 2010 was no exception: it was a season that saw him post a 5.26 ERA, and the only category he led the league in was hit-by-pitches.

Mired in his frustration by mid-July, Burnett, after a rough second inning, stormed off slammed his hands on the clubhouse door, failing to consider how sharp the edges plastic lineup-card holders on the doors could be. He sliced up the palms of his hands.

In a uniquely shameful display, though, Burnett initially lied about the source of his injuries, claiming to training staff that he had tripped on the dugout steps, cutting up his hands in his attempt to break the fall. He even convinced everyone that he was okay to pitch, though he would be pulled in the next inning after facing two batters, greeted by a chorus of boos. His web of lies did not hold up under Joe Girardi’s withering gaze, and Burnett was forced to admit that he was not only the kind of asshole who injures himself by attacking doors full of deadly plastic edges, but also the kind of asshole who lies about it.

There are plenty more where these came from, too. Walls seem to be the most common punching object, which seems counterintuitive given that they are one of the more impliable objects one could choose to punch; a wall felled, for example, the Yankees’ Kevin Brown and Doyle Alexander.

And this is not even taking into account all the players who have been injured punching other players in brawls, lacerated their hands slamming their bats into the ground, broken toes in failed attempts to kick helmets that weren’t even theirs, or subluxed their shoulders trying to throw their gloves—the creative assortment of injuries boggles the mind. Strickland’s is but the latest in a long line of entirely preventable, invariably foolish rage-induced injuries in baseball, one that will likely continue to get longer as long as the sport remains. They never seem to learn.

Dumb Pitchers Punching Shit and Getting Injured: A Selected History published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

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amtushinfosolutionspage · 6 years

Text

Dumb Pitchers Punching Shit and Getting Injured: A Selected History

At the very least, though, Strickland is not alone. He can claim a place in the annals of baseball history as one of a storied, stupidly large class of pitchers: those who got mad, punched something, and got injured. In honor of Strickland’s induction into this venerable class of baseball men, let’s journey back and enjoy a few of the finest—and, it follows, some of the most idiotic—examples of these incidents in the history of America’s Pastime.

1985: Jon Tudor Threatens To Punch Reporter; Punches Inanimate Object Instead

1997: Jason Isringhausen Takes It Out on the Trash

2010: AJ Burnett Slices Hands On Sharp Door, Tries To Cover It Up

Dumb Pitchers Punching Shit and Getting Injured: A Selected History syndicated from https://australiahoverboards.wordpress.com

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flauntpage · 6 years

Text

Dumb Pitchers Punching Shit and Getting Injured: A Selected History

1985: Jon Tudor Threatens To Punch Reporter; Punches Inanimate Object Instead

1997: Jason Isringhausen Takes It Out on the Trash

2010: AJ Burnett Slices Hands On Sharp Door, Tries To Cover It Up

Dumb Pitchers Punching Shit and Getting Injured: A Selected History published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

0 notes