dolli ˚ ༘

𝘪'𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦.ᐟ

[polkdotzdoll]

DOLLI’s DESKTOP!

addison rae, outerbanks, john b routledge, art donaldson, lana del rey, all american, formula one, timothee chalamet, the marauders, james potter, gilmore girls, kali uchis, the sims 4, stranger things, harry styles, bridgerton, the rookie, one direction, little women, the resident, criminal minds, johnny lawrence etc.

MASTERLIST

MOODBOARDS

[lacyydollette]

₊  ֹ  ˖  DEAN’S BIGGEST WEAKNESS IS YOU TUGGING ONTO HIS CHAIN ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

dean likes being told what to do by his girl. getting bossed around. getting lectures. getting walked around like a dog.

he just can’t help it. It’s a tiny, teeny secret kink of his that he’s buried deep in his heart and never admits to anyone. not even to you.

perhaps he’s a little embarrassed in this matter? (so unlike him)

but with the way he’s so goddamn compliant around you all the time, answering 99.8% of all your requests and wishes with a simple “yes ma’am,” it gives it all away.

his roommates who lived with him for years and have gotten the opportunity to witness this every day called him things that pretty much consisted of “a whipped motherfucker” or “a goddamn rubber that bends his ass out with a simple push” and much more.

but dean didn’t mind that though. he just thought they were too single and bitter to get it.

so it was no surprise that you finally open your eyes properly and discover this secret little kink too when he was on top of you, his cock buried inside you to the hilt while you moan and writhe beneath him, begging him to move. begging him to stop with the pity pecks and kiss you properly like he always does. messy and all tongue.

and him being the teasing asshole he is just grins while shaking his head as if to punish you.

which leaves you no choice but to latch your teeth into his silver chain he has on all the time, pulling it harshly which brings his head closer to yours, and grab the nape of his neck, kissing him while arching your back, squirming underneath him anything just to get him to move.

“fuck,” he abruptly stops and slumps on top of you, his head buried into your chest. just as you’re about to ask what’s wrong, you feel the warm sticky liquid slowly running down your thighs.

as if he knows you too well and knows you’re about to tease the shit out of him, he whines out a “don’t. I’ll make it up to you all night long, baby please.”

fine. you would just have to bring it up against him during an argument.

“get to work, di laurentis.”

“yes ma’am”

masterlist

[ballard96]

[theunfortunate-author]

my daily affirmation as an author

[slvtzofhell]

johnnys positive affirmations

[spider-stark]

dizzy on the comedown

pairing | jonathan byers x reader

summary | late nights listening to music lead to late-stage realizations (aka, jonathan finally realizes you have a thing for him)

warnings | childhood best friends, reader likes pop music, minor steve harrington slander if you squint, don't fact check my 80s pop culture references, got this idea while listening to dizzy on the comedown by turnover, fluff

word count | 2.6k

Your gasp rivaled the too-loud volume of The Clash's latest album spinning in Jonathan's record player, sat up on the old vinyl shelf that always looked to be one ill-timed breath in its direction from collapsing.

Jonathan was on the floor beside you. He sat with his back against the side of his messily made bed, your socked feet resting in his lap as he read some comic Will had asked him to check out.

At your gasp, he immediately looked up.

You shot him a toothy grin from over the top of this month's Teen Beat. "You'll never guess what happened."

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. "Try me," he dared.

Flipping the magazine around, you tapped excitedly at a blurry photo of Cher and Val Kilmer, caught locking lips in the back of a limo after some glitzy Hollywood party.

"They're dating!"

Jonathan dropped the comic, putting on his best I Love Gossip voice. “You're kidding."

You cut your eyes and flipped the magazine back around. "Don't mock me, J."

"Does that sound like something I would do?"

"Indubitably," you announced, dramatically turning a page.

"No," said Jonathan. "It's just, it's exactly like you said." It was obvious he was trying hard to stay serious, to keep that shy smile of his from taking over. "I can't believe it."

Laughing, you tossed the magazine at his face.

He dodged, but only barely, too busy laughing right along with you.

If Joyce was home, now would've been when she'd knock on Jonathan's door. Exhausted, yet kind as ever, she would've reminded you both that it was quarter past nine and she had work in the morning. Just...try to keep it down, okay?

If Will was home, then approximately five minutes ago would've been when he'd invited himself inside, settling on Jonathan's bed to hover sweetly over the top of you and Who's dating? while craning his neck for a better view of the magazine.

But they were both out right now. Joyce working a closing shift at Melvald's, and your favorite drama queen playing D&D at a friend's house.

It was only you. Only Jonathan.

And The Clash, of course.

"You're insufferable," you eventually told him, still glaring playfully.

Jonathan squeezed your foot. "Says the one obsessed with crappy magazines."

"Oh I'm sorry, J — am I too lame for you? Is my love for pop culture ruining your street cred?"

Another laugh framed his pretty brown eyes with the most precious crinkles. "Who says street cred?" he asked incredulously.

"Lame-os, apparently."

It was his turn to cut his eyes. "If either of us lame," he contended, "it's definitely me."

The urge to frown was unbearable, but you tried resisting it.

Jonathan talking down on himself was a frequent occurrence. He'd always been insecure, even back in elementary school when you were both too young to know why older kids picked on him for his too-big coat and out-of-style sneakers.

High school had made it worse, though. A lot worse.

Sometimes you wished all of Hawkins High could see Jonathan the way you saw him. Understatedly funny with impeccable music taste; a photographer NYU would be lucky to teach; smarter than half this damned town and caring to a fault.

Other times — selfish, greedy times — you were glad they didn't.

Hawkins didn't deserve Jonathan, anyway.

Gently, you nudged him in the stomach with your foot. "If you're lame, then I'm lame by association," you told him. "Which actually means you're not lame at all, because I—" you laid a hand on your chest "—am the coolest person to ever exist."

"Didn't you just call yourself a lame-o?"

"Have you never heard of a joke, J? A bit of witticism? An old chestnut, even!"

With a groan that was both embarrassed on your behalf and thoroughly amused, Jonathan tossed his head back against the bed. "Great," he said to the ceiling. "So we're both lame."

You had full intent to argue for argument's sake, to make some exuberant claim as to why you were the furthest thing from lame (as if you weren't spending a Saturday night on your best friend's bedroom floor raving over celebrity romance while wearing fuzzy socks with cat in rainboots on them) when the room went totally silent.

The album had ended.

Jonathan lifted his head.

The two of you shared a look.

And then—

You shrieked when Jonathan shoved your feet of his lap, both of you scrambling to get off the floor. His room became a flurry of limbs and shouts and shoves, each fighting the other to cross the mere feet that separated you from the decrepit vinyl shelf.

Jonathan beat you.

"No fair," you whined. He was already lifting The Clash record off the platter and sliding it back into its sleeve. "You picked the last two albums. It's my turn, Byers!"

"You know the rules," he teased. "You snooze you lose."

"We should play rock-paper-scissors for it."

He dragged a finger over the records on his shelf, deciding which to play next. "You wouldn't say that if I was the one who lost."

"It's not losing if the competition's rigged!"

This whole Race to the Record Player thing was an unfair challenge. Not only were his legs longer than yours, but he had home-field advantage! His room was in such disarray that if you ran too fast, you were likely to twist your ankle on a lone Converse living under a denim jacket.

Jonathan turned his head to smile at you. It was so boyish and sweet, so unknowingly adorable, that you almost forgot to stay mad at him.

"You know," he said, "no one likes a sore loser."

An Oh, phooey! was already halfway up your throat when he slid a record out and showed it to you for approval.

One look at the cover and your Oh, phooey fizzled into a gasp.

"You're kidding!"

Jonathan's taste was eclectic but leaned into post-punk rock territory. Talking Heads, Joy Division, The Psychedelic Furs. Spending so much time with him meant you had come to love all those bands too — but unlike him, you weren't immune to the bubblegum bite of the pop-music bug.

Cyndi Lauper was your new favorite artist.

And now — in Jonathan's beautiful, beautiful hand — was her first ever studio album, She's So Unusual.

Released less than a week ago, there was no way he'd gotten it without spending a pretty penny. A valuable penny. One that could've been given to Joyce for extra groceries or put aside to replace the starter in his car. He could've even bought himself a new record, instead of spending hard-earned money on an album he wouldn't even listen to outside of your presence.

"Remember when I called you insufferable?" you asked.

He tipped his head to one side, pretty brown eyes crinkling as he pretended to think. "Vaguely."

"Well consider this my apology."

Before he could react, you lifted onto your toes and grabbed his face in your hands, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek. His skin was soft, a little prickly where he'd missed a few spots shaving. He turned red so fast you felt warmth bloom under your lips. When you pulled back, admiring his new cherry complexion, you decided you liked making Jonathan blush.

Trying to seem unfazed, Jonathan busied himself with putting the record on. "I'll take it under consideration," he said, but the awkward way he cleared his throat before speaking made it obvious: you were definitely forgiven.

He lowered the needle. Money Changes Everything floated through his room, a lively beat that made your bones tingle.

You flopped backwards onto his bed, sighing comfortably. It smelled like him, bar soap and laundry detergent. If he hadn't turned to face you, you probably would've buried your nose in the sheets.

"So." You needed to talk. Otherwise you'd spend too much time admiring how cute he looked, unsure what to do with his hands, unable to hold your gaze but incapable of looking away. "Will," you said.

Concern took him immediately. "What about Will?"

You laughed. "Calm your engine, sports car. I was just gonna ask if he was going to the Snow Ball."

The infamous middle school dance was next weekend. An old teacher of yours had reached out to ask if you'd help with snacks for it, and you maybe promised to bake and ice two hundred cupcakes by next Friday — a venture you fully planned on wrangling Jonathan into.

Jonathan shrugged. "I don't know...I think so."

"Good," you chirped. Because if he'd said no, you would've had to conjure a last-minute plan to convince Will that school dances were So Cool and not Life Ruining Awful. "What about you?"

He gave you a look. "I'm pretty sure I aged out of middle school dances."

You chucked a pillow at him. "Not the Snow Ball, dummy. Our dance."

Winter's Dream, they were calling it. They being Hawkins High's budget friendly planning committee consisting of cheerleaders and theater kids. According to the fliers, the whole gym would be transformed into an ethereal frozen paradise — cotton ball clouds strung from the ceiling along with papier-mâché snowflakes; plenty of twinkle lights; fake snow covering the linoleum.

They had made crowns, too, for whichever lucky students were voted to be the Winter King & Queen. Everyone was gossiping over who would be crowned queen.

There was no doubt who would be king.

Jonathan edged towards the bed. Sat, and immediately started fiddling with a stray thread on his black jeans. "I don't know. Probably not."

"Trick question." You shot up straight, knocking your shoulder into his. "You're definitely going. So, onto our next question: who are you gonna ask to be your date?"

You expected him to say 'I don't know' again.

Instead, he reluctantly replied: "Who's your date?"

You bit your lip against a smile. "No one."

"No one's asked you?"

"No one worth saying yes to." Truth was, there was only one person you'd say yes to. "Connie heard that Steve Harrington's gonna ask me on Monday, but you know Connie. You'd be better trusting a call-in psychic."

"You love call-in psychics."

"But I don't trust them," you said, bumping his shoulder again.

Jonathan kept picking at the thread on his jeans.

On accident, he snapped it right off.

"Well...if Steve asks," he started, still focused on his lap, "will you...I don't know, say yes, or..."

Do you want me to say yes?

"I'm offended," you said solemnly. "Honestly, you're supposed to be my best friend, J! If you don't know that I'm gonna tell Steve Harrington where to shove it, then who will?"

He forced a chuckle. "I don't know...I mean, it wouldn't so...strange, I guess, to think maybe you'd actually want to go with him."

"Why? Because he's got nice hair and a BMW?"

Brown eyes flicked to yours in a sidelong look that said Uh, yeah?

Your jaw fell. "Don't tell me you really think that a BMW is all it takes to win me over."

"Of course not," defended Jonathan. Then, with a too-shy smile: "I think nice hair is all it takes to win you over."

You reached back for his other pillow and whacked him in the face with it. He burst out laughing, stole the pillow, and tossed it clear across the room.

That didn't stop you.

You swatted his arms, his chest, shouting I can't believe you! and Take it back, dummy! Jonathan just kept laughing, dodging hits and trying to catch your wrists, failing and resorting to tickling your sides.

You didn't know how you ended up on top of him. Only that you were, both of you smiling and breathless, your hands pinning his wrists to the bed on either side of his head.

In the background, Time After Time hummed so softly you worried he could hear the sound of your heart fluttering wildly in your chest.

"I take it back," you mumbled, making his brow furrow. "Turns out you really are insufferable."

"Because I don't think you're immune to King Steve's charm?"

"Because you're an idiot." You let go of one of his wrists. His chest froze mid-breath, your fingertips grazing just above his eyebrows, brushing a strand of hair to the side. "Steve Harrington's not the only boy with nice hair, y'know."

Pretty brown eyes were blown wide, his throat working around a swallow. "My hair is...bad."

"To you, maybe." He never complained, but you knew he'd never liked that they didn't have enough money for his hair to be anything but a product of love and kitchen scissors. "I think it's perfect," you whispered, when what you meant was I think you're perfect.

Because he was, wasn't he? Always playing along with your silly Hollywood gossip, buying records he wouldn't like because he knew it'd make you happy.

How could I ever want Steve Harrington, you wondered, when Jonathan exists?

Stupidly, you murmured, "Hey."

He said it back, just as stupid.

"I've got an idea," you said. "What if we go to the dance?"

You weren't sure his eyes could get any wider. "As...friends?" he asked.

"Or a date," you suggested too quickly. "Unless you think it'll hurt your street cred, being spotted with some pop culture lame-o."

"What happened to being the coolest person to ever exist?"

"Depends on the moment." And right now, you certainly felt like a lame-o.

Jonathan considered a long moment, gazing at you all the while.

Finally, he said, "I don't have anything to wear."

"I'm sure we could find something."

"I don't have a BMW, either."

You cut your eyes and leaned in so close that the tips of your noses nearly touched. "If you allude to Steve Harrington even one more time," you threatened, "I promise to smear blue icing all over your face."

His brow furrowed. "And you just...keep icing on you, or...?"

"Did I not tell you?" you asked, knowing full well you hadn't. "I signed us up to bake two hundred cupcakes for Will's dance."

"Two hundred?!"

"Oh, c'mon! It's for your brother," you told him. "I'll even let you lick the whisk!"

"Is that supposed to convince me?"

"Convincing implies choice, which last I checked, I didn't give you."

An easy laugh tumbled from his lips. Without thinking, he brought the hand you'd freed up to your waist, squeezing light enough to make you squirm at the tickling sensation. "Have you ever considered that maybe you're the insufferable one?" he asked.

You shook your head. "Not even once."

His gaze flitted to your lips. You thought of all the times you'd wanted kiss Jonathan over the years, imagining what it'd be like to feel the warmth of his mouth and taste his toothpaste on your tongue, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, he'd been wanting to do the same.

He brought his hand to your face. Grazed his knuckles along the curve of your cheek, so soft you could barely feel it.

He swallowed. Asked, "Can I—"

The door swung open.

Will stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, a cheerful "I'm home!" cut short when he caught sight of you straddling his older brother.

None of you spoke.

Then Will darted back into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him as he shouted, "ABOUT TIME!"

You immediately started laughing.

"This isn't funny," Jonathan protested, cheeks flushed. "You know he can't keep a secret. He's gonna tell Mike, who's gonna tell his sister, who's probably gonna tell the whole school and then—"

You shut him up by running your fingers through his hair.

"So. About that dance," you said. "Are we going?"

He looked at you like you were crazy. Like he was so sure this was all some mistake, a prank gone too far. You couldn't actually want him to be your date, and any minute now he was counting on you to remember that, to say so and send all the surreal beauty of this moment crashing down around him.

But that never happened.

So he gave you a faint teasing smile and said, "Pick me up at eight."

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

a/n | don't mind me, just thinking of all the ways the Winter's Dream dance could go (+ making cupcakes with Jonathan). ugh.

thanks for reading!

[b6rntosdiee]

[polkdotzdoll]

MOODBOARDS

masterlist off all my moodboards ⤵

ERICA SINCLAIR

[polkdotzdoll]

ERICA SINCLAIR

"you can't spell AMERICA without ERICA"

[polkdotzdoll]

WONDERING WHY

·˚ ༘ JOHN B x HONEYBEE!READER STANDALONE SERIES

·˚ ༘ this is a standalone series, meaning each "episode" doesn't necessarily connect to others... in simple terms, unless explicitly marked otherwise, (ex: part 2, part 3, etc.) you don't need to read any other episodes to understand one you are currently reading.

·˚ ༘ highschool cheerleader x footballer AU -- john b attends kook academy on an athletic scholarship. HONEYBEE's dad is ex-nfl.

·˚ ༘ the pair's relationship dynamic is heavily inspired by the song WONDERING WHY by the red clay strays

·˚ ༘ she comes from silver spoon, golden rule, private school, never missed sunday church ·˚ ༘ and i come from blue collar, low dollar, out here where concrete meets old red dirt...

WORKS!

"HOW'D YOU MEET?" - fluff, 1k words

[polkdotzdoll]

"HOW'D YOU MEET?"

JOHN B x HONEYBEE!READER

·˚ ༘ she comes from silver spoon, golden rule, private school, never missed sunday church ·˚ ༘ and i come from blue collar, low dollar, out here where concrete meets old red dirt...

·˚ ༘ WONDERING WHY -- standalone series!

·˚ ༘ warnings!: reader gets awkward, like, secondhand embarrassment level awkward. OC named mckenna is HONEYBEE's teammate. highschool football x cheerleader AU.

·˚ ༘ aprox. 1k words

finally, 5 pm, the end of cheerleading practice. you hurry to put away all your stuff, making sure your stanley cup doesn't spill at the bottom of your cheer bag like it did yesterday. you're on a mission, the same mission you have been on every monday through thursday for the past month;

pack up the fastest, be the first outside, watch the last 20 minutes of the football team's practice, watch him practice.

there he is, john b routledge in the flesh. football in hand, shirt nowhere to be seen and sweat glistening down his chiseled abs as he practices with kook academy's varsity football team.

sure, he's a pogue, but he's the best football player you've ever laid your eyes on,--and that says a lot considering your dad is ex-nfl--i mean, he even got a merit scholarship to kook academy for his ball skill, so that means he's, like, better than other pogues, right?

either way, you're staring, hard, and it doesn't go unnoticed. your teammate, mckenna, breaks away from the rest of the girls on your cheer team after they make their way outside and she spots you eyeing up the new transfer for the third time this week.

"you actually gonna talk to mr. pogue prince this time or are we still being stalkers?" she teases, leaning onto the gate around the stadium next to you.

"it's not stalking, ken, it's scoping out potential. my dad likes to mentor guys like him, i just wanna make sure he's, uhm, mentee material." you try deflect--your cover was blown weeks ago, but actually having to admit to being obsessed with a guy you've had but one conversation with? tragic.

"you sure you're not trying to see if he's boyfriend material?" she continues to tease, earning herself a groan and eye roll from your end.

"don't you have a family dinner to attend?" you ask, though it was more of a triumphant statement. a foolproof way of getting her to go away.

"you're no fun!" the girl beside you whines, pushing off the gate. "talk to him!" and with her last little scolding encouragement, she runs off to her car, leaving you and your slightly creepy, but mostly endearing people watching alone again.

maybe mckenna was right, maybe you should talk to him...

taking a metaphorical leap of courage, you decide that instead of watching john b practice from the gate like a weirdo, you'll head up to the bleachers. plus, you can actually sit on something other than the ground or your cheer bag that way. it was a win-win.

5:23 pm, the football team are currently gathered in a tight little circle in the middle of the field, practice is officially over.

interpreting it as your cue, you run down the bleachers--still being careful not to trip and fall because that would be humiliating--and head over to the locker room doors that reside under said seating.

after a few minutes of waiting there, you watch guys that you've known for years walk into the room--most of them ignoring your presence, others giving a casual nod--until you finally see him.

john b's the last to make his way in your direction, as he was going over a few things with the coach after the team broke their huddle.

he's about to pass you. he's gonna leave. you have to do something quick.

"hey pretty,"

fuck. why would you say that? well, your mom didn't raise a quitter, so you cant back down or take it back now.

a flash of intrigue meets the brown-haired boy's face as he takes in your bold greeting. "sorry?" he asks, just to make sure he heard you right, not because he was offended.

"i said, hey pretty." you double down despite feeling sick to your stomach about how bold you are being all of a sudden.

he chuckles at your audacity before wiping sweat off his hand on his shorts and sticking it out to you. "Well hello to you too, pretty."

your brain short circuits for a moment as you take his hand in a shake, theres no way this is real. "uhm... HONEYBEE, i mean, like, fuck, i'm HONEYBEE."

still laughing, the boy takes your introduction as a sign to do so as well. "john b."

"i know." I KNOW? who even says that? you apparently. "no! i mean, like, so- my dad was in the nfl, you're good at football." how the hell did you go from bold and cheeky to stumbling over your words so quickly?

john has to be an angel sent from heaven with the strict assignment to ignore how awkward you're making everything the way he doesn't miss a beat before answering. "no kidding? that's awesome. when can i meet him?"

straight to the point, huh. "i can, uh, set it up- can i get your number?"

"because you think i'm "pretty" or to set something up with your dad?"

"both?"

"perfect."

john b doesn't miss the stupid smile you try to hide as he waits for to you fumble to get your phone out of your cheer bag so he can put his number into your contacts.

he snaps a picture of himself flexing--because of course he does--for the contact photo before handing the phone back to you. "alright, HONEYBEE, i'll be waiting for a text tonight, k?"

"you have my word."

you can't hide your little flustered smile anymore, so you stare at your phone with red cheeks as the boy disappears into the locker room. while staring, you realize what he put as his name in your contacts.

PRETTY BOY...

[polkdotzdoll]

How figuring out how to do this gradient text has me feeling

[polkdotzdoll]

INTRODUCING HONEYBEE!READER

HONEYBEE!READER who... never lets anyone pay for her

HONEYBEE!READER who... grew up more fortunate than most

HONEYBEE!READER who... is the sweetest girl you'll ever meet

HONEYBEE!READER who... is the middle child of 4 other siblings

HONEYBEE!READER who... eat, sleep, breathes zach bryan's music

HONEYBEE!READER who... will die on the hill of cheerleading being a sport

HONEYBEE!READER who... thinks spring is the only "correct" favorite season

HONEYBEE!READER who... absolutely loves watching football, never playing it

HONEYBEE!READER who... thinks you're a little weird if you're not a dog person

HONEYBEE!READER who... spends her weekends volunteering at retirement homes

HONEYBEE!READER who... only has one comfort movie, and it's little women (2019)

HONEYBEE!READER who... orders her coffee with more milk, sugar, and creamer than coffee itself

HONEYBEE!READER who... has an obsession with braiding her partner's hair, no matter how short it is

HONEYBEE!READER who... plants carrots in her garden for the local bunnies on the first day of spring every year

HONEYBEE!READER who... bakes cookies for every event she attends, even if they aren't considered special events

WORKS FEAT. HONEYBEE!READER

WONDERING WHY -- standalone series masterlist

[vo1dsspid3r]

When Sam Winchester came up on my screen for the first time I felt like i was floating

[polkdotzdoll]

INTRODUCING BARBIE!READER

BARBIE!READER who... only wears gold jewelry

BARBIE!READER who... has major blush blindness

BARBIE!READER who... cries every time she watches a movie

BARBIE!READER who... gets a bleach and tone every two months

BARBIE!READER who... loves when her partner's attention is on her only

BARBIE!READER who... somehow always finds herself in a sticky situation

BARBIE!READER who... has everyone wondering how she graduated high school

BARBIE!READER who... thinks being called "ditzy" or "an airhead" is a compliment

BARBIE!READER who... becomes the whiniest girl on earth when she doesn’t get her way

BARBIE!READER who... gets compared to karen smith from mean girls at least once a month

BARBIE!READER who... leaves sticky, glittery lipgloss on her partner's lips after kissing them

BARBIE!READER who... has a walk in closet overflowing with clothes, most of it a baby pink color

BARBIE!READER who... wears heels everywhere but ends up barefoot in her partner's arms as they carry her to their car every night

BARBIE!READER who... needs someone to guide her by the small of her back, or by holding hands at all times or she will wander off

BARBIE!READER who... got blackout drunk and almost slept with her partner's best friend before realizing they definitely weren't her partner once

WORKS FEAT. BARBIE!READER

coming soon..!

[polkdotzdoll]

MASTERLIST !!

READERS ⋆·˚ ༘ *

WAG!READER

BARBIE!READER

HONEYBEE!READER

WORKS ⋆·˚ ༘ *

WONDERING WHY -- standalone series masterlist

[polkdotzdoll]

INTRODUCING WAG!READER

WAG!READER who... invented chic

WAG!READER who... is a well known nepo baby

WAG!READER who... thinks knows she's always right

WAG!READER who... takes her public image VERY seriously

WAG!READER who... is the epitome of the "model off duty" vibe

WAG!READER who... takes flights like they're her god given right

WAG!READER who... wants to know what her partner is doing at all times

WAG!READER who... thinks gift giving is the only "correct" love language

WAG!READER who... thinks being in the fashion industry is a personality trait

WAG!READER who... has been PR trained since before she knew what PR was

WAG!READER who... is your stereotypical bitchy mean girl behind closed doors

WAG!READER who... sits on her partner's back, filing her nails while they do pushups

WAG!READER who... loves herself a shopping spree on her partner's black amex card

WAG!READER who... expects the ground she walks on to be worshipped by her partner

WAG!READER who... doesn't know anything beyond the basics about her partner's sport

WORKS FEAT. WAG!READER

coming soon..!