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333creolelady · 2 days
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Jey uso fic in the works after LOTBB is done.
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333creolelady · 4 days
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Jimmy get UHHHHHHH!!!!
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333creolelady · 5 days
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Roman aye man say man. Chill the fuck out FUCK NIGGA!!! Tf???I’m REALLY trying to keep my fucking composure right now.
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My hand is tingling bad. Moving on before I crash out.
You’re seriously winning me over with Cody right now. You seem to make him a little bit more gentle compared to Roman. He’s sweet and I like it. I love attentive men and I admire that anxious edge you added to him. Especially if he’s the exact opposite of roman—-it could be a good contrast.
Your characterization of the twins is THEM through and through. Like fiction aside… this is them. Spotlight stealers, fun, and warm. They make you feel good and I loved how you authentically worked that into the story.
Giana——.
Also, I like the atmosphere you’re building around reader. You set her up in a way that makes her desirable and magnetic …not just with the other characters but the audience as well. I want to know MORE about her. She’s a bad bitch I can already tell. Excited to hear more about her past. 10/10 but what’s new ?
tanks of blood (3)- a funeral, and the second coming back
pairing: biker!roman reigns x black reader (mentions), biker!cody rhodes x black reader (mentions) warning: descriptions of alcohol. some talks about death and funerals (not negatively). cursing. roman being a dick smh. authors note: intro-ing more characters. some funny parts and not so funny parts. this chapter, as you will see, has a few different perspectives. i thought it would be nice to learn some of the fic lore from other pov’s. this chapter takes place in the present time!!!! word count: 6k tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @spritelucozade @gg-trini (if anyone else wants a tag for this story let me know!)
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dean was not an inheritor of his leather. he had no familial ties to such greatly established pensacola street bloodlines. but he was scrappy and clever and loyal. he loved fixing things. making a hard work of his hands till the satisfaction of a job well done had no choice but to bleed from between the slight cracks of skin. and he didn't need second or third generation leather, or a bike gifted to him on his eighteenth birthday, and then again on his twenty first—because bikers could be showy motherfuckers—he just wanted something to call his own. a beautiful sum of meek ambition. a tangible manifestation of earned freedom. and kendrick greggs—God rest his soul—had given it to him. all those years ago, when the roar of engines were still new and ear splitting, KG—as everyone called him—let dean's desires run wild. and then when those too humble desires became ill-suited, KG threw a prospect kutte at dean, with a stare that dared him to succeed. and here dean found family. absolute community. no blood relations needed. 
dean remembers the grit of his early bloodline days well, but it is the existence of such a fond remembrance from which his annoyance is born. he hates the easy slip into reminiscence. that ache so naturally tethered to the joy of it all. it was always just too much of everything. but funerals make him nostalgic. with each one, comes that reminder. he's getting older. 
and maybe that's why anger doesn't move in him. doesn't stifle the surprise rife in his blood or the stinging in his eyes. emotion threatening to well over, and then its—fuck—it's brimming and washing hot in his cheeks. its just that thing. and of course when the whole abrupt ordeal of you leaving came about, he, in a bout of rather rare sensitivity, worked his sadness to a favorable subtlety. because you weren't his but you were still like family. you were KG's blood so, yeah, there was no halfway to think about it. you were family. and it's just that thing, that comes with much time and much distance, and then finally and so suddenly theres that breaking of the space between, where such time and distance is forgotten, and all there is left, are the things waiting to be picked up again. a taking in and a holding, as if such things had never been let go in the first place. 
just outside a small pensacola church, dean pulls lazily from his cigarette. seth—and he knows its seth by the leisure thudding step of his heel toe—approaching with a cigarette of his own. the both of them watching interestedly, as you brush harsh against cody to pass him. with the air of someone amidst a lovers quarrel. the remnants of a disagreement sticking to the rushed way you make your way up to the church. 
seth snickers. "you think they're fuckin'?
"if they're not already, then he probably wants to", dean assess. mirth slipping over his lips as he takes another much needed drag. and honestly, cody wasn't to blame for such a desire if dean's thinking was as spot on as he knew it to be. it was a small, not fully established joke of sorts after all, that at one point or another, most third generation bloodline members thought about KG's daughter in not so platonic ways. the one forbidden fruit amongst a plethora of other things to freely choose from in the garden. but it only happened maybe once or twice, before the realization set in that you just weren't to be seen that way. or at most, if such thoughts occurred, it was better to let them stay exactly as they were. as thoughts with no tangible form to see to its flourishing. 
"cody is dusty's son. he'll go the gentleman route and slow burn it", seth's cigarette falling to its end as its met with the tip of his shoe. 
dean does the same. making a dramatic show of peering over his shades before his leather clad arms open up to encourage an embrace. "this ain't a mirage is it?" 
you laugh. and as your face caves softly into dean's chest he can feel the lightness of it pulsing into him. a laugh filling itself with relief as you slip your arms to tighten the embrace. "no dean". 
you slip away to embrace seth. the three of you bright with smiles despite the adornment of mournful colors and eye-guarding shades. and dean can feel the fast to creep up nostalgia. the clever way it goes about softly sweetening his blood. 
"good", dean starts. unfailing in the not so subtle way he takes you in. everything about you different but the same. new but old. "thought i was hallucinating. between the leather and the weather, i'm due for a heat stroke soon".
"fuck tradition". a short thoughtless quip. your fingers tugging his leather. "take off the jacket".
seth bristles. the offense a detailed etch along his face. "fuck tradition?! you went up north and got fucking screws loose. one of the originals is dead in a box, we gotta represent". 
and seth was right. tradition was tradition, and dean wasn't going to forsake his leather because he felt a little uncomfortable. come to think of it, it wasn't so hot—it absolutely was hot— that he needed to have loose lips with complaining about. 
your eyes roll. smiling still. "m'not nursing you when you collapse". 
"anyways", a drip of mischief steeping in. deans arm hugging your shoulder into his side. "in the spirit of reunion, do i have permission to indulge in some thoughts and opinions?" 
"i too would like to indulge". seth adds. grinning. 
your head shakes in what dean knows to be a small gathering together of patience. "are said thoughts and opinions messy and reductive". 
"...yes...maybe...", dean looking to seth for a quick temperature check of just how unruly their curiosities could be. "...i don't know". 
you sigh. "go ahead". dean feeling the ever so slight tense up in your shoulders. because loads of time had past, since the last time any of the guys had seen you. and everyone would have their own little questions and curiosities. it was impossible to hide everything forever anyways. they were all as nosy as they were rowdy and dean only knew this because he was one of them, one of the guys. 
seth breaks the tension. "you and cody?"
and you move quick. slipping from under deans arm. "absolutely not", trying to make it up the rest of the church steps. 
"ohhh no no no no no", the guys giggling like children. dean bringing you back into his side. "absolutely yes". 
"there's nothing going on-".
"because if so, it'd be cool y'know?", looking to seth for some teasing validation. "juggling both. some real TLC harem shit". 
and the mixed deadpan-grimace you take is beautiful. fulfills the void of all that long standing separation thats been existent till now. it's like you'd never left. everything feeling good and whole. 
"actually", seth adds. "i was reading, as most intelligent people do, and came up on this article about the fall of the postmodern monogamist nuclear family and the rise of polygamy... so yeah", seth feeling big in his little drop of whatever knowledge he thought that was. "nows the time for all that lovin you got sweetheart". 
and God maybe you should've came home sooner. dean laughing in the most ironic of ways. a good from the belly sort of laugh he hasn't done in a while. 
"you read?", he asks seth. words semi-genuine. 
"first of all", seth immediately brimming vexed. "i'm well read and why do you do this? i try to flex a little intellectual prowess and you shit on it". 
"ain't enough prowess in that mustard-fucking-seed brain thats worth an eighth of my shit". 
seth scoffs. "oh cause your shits just so damn prestigious". 
"thats right. premium shit. ask your mother". 
"if i gotta ask then maybe it ain't that good brother".
dean toughs a chuckle. "anyways...", feeling loss of touch again and then he's pulling you back to stand between him and seth for more questioning.  "...back to you". 
your attention switching between dean and seth. words trying their damnedest to sound sure. "there is no me and cody. i do not want or care to have roman again. drop this please". 
and deans never heard such a hard attempt at self-persuasion. 
"for now", seth relents. "but it is good to see you. very good. i been gettin bored lately". 
"a telenovela couldn't produce this much fuckin' mess, i'll tell you that much...but", dean pivots. throwing his hands up to surrender when your own hand swats his way. "...but...i agree. very happy to see you". 
and the softening you take to isn't something dean has seen for quite awhile. this more than mild reversion, a silent change of language where your arms cross and cover over in what he thinks is an anxious grasping at safety. the degree of it showcasing a vulnerability that maybe once upon a time you wouldn't have dared let be so exposed. 
"i'm hoping thats the general consensus", you let out.
seth hums short. sparing dean a glance through the tint of his shades. "one very big possible margin of error". 
"maybe even two", dean adds. aware of the context. 
"oh?", you give. 
but before any true indulgence of your flight or fight, dean pulls you along up the church stairs. "you'll see. we'll walk you in". 
your fingers squeeze over the thick set of his. thumb running in what feels like an aimless go at his skin. an attempt at quelling whatever anxieties threaten to fully undo you. dean squeezes back and slows the wide fast pace he's used to taking. 
"me being here though, whats the temperature on that? ya'll aren't...."
"mad? no", dean settles. "you left. you’re back home. its all good". 
you nod. matching now the width of their steps with a little more confidence. 
"then again", seth teases. "we weren't exactly the ones fluffed out and madly in love with you". 
and the fight you give not to smile is a comedy in of itself. that harsh fight against self-persuasion. 
dean snorting. "speak for yourself seth. i was quite literally ready to marry you before i found out you were so goddamn untouchable". 
you swat against dean's arm. a little more speed in your walking to get away from their teasing. "it wasn't like that with him".
"funerals make people delusional. so we'll let you live". 
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giana rarely feels threatened, with being the daughter of a silversmith and all, it affords her the luxury of patience. but this doesn't feel good. having to constantly maneuver strangers and their strange, too ancient to understand histories. maneuvering for him and for the willing give of his attention. said attention that lingered elsewhere. and giana doesn't mind the occasional funeral, but she doesn't particularly enjoy–not that its supposed to be a joyous occasion—bloodline funerals. they're busy, rowdy affairs. men covered from head to toe in black, draped in leather, and smelling of too much amber wood and tobacco. all of them too mournful to care about just how wild they could and would eventually be. and most of the women—mothers, sisters, nieces, long standing girlfriends and wives—seemed not to care. filled with too much indifference, so much so that they find delight sometimes in the way their men carry on. and amongst the crowd and energy of the room, giana settles, finally, within herself that it's all too much of everything she doesn't want. something that fails to coax her into a care that persuades her to delve deeper. but still she's patient for him. for roman and this easy, nameless situation she’s settled into with him.
and her oh so diligent thought to check the exits—the guys had penchants for sharp, abrupt turns into violence— leads her to roam into a wild fascination. this major pushing away of the goal post that flares her settled apathy to intrigue. 
because roman's father never smiled so much so that it reached his eyes. and if he has, giana has never seen it. but he's smiling now. thick tinted shades done away with as he holds against the shoulders of a woman giana has never seen before. his hands embracing delicately, adoration sweetening the shine in his eyes as they both smile at one another. his mouth kissing her cheek. 
and never until now has giana cared so much to understand. to want the silent force of such a great man to will itself upon her through adoration. of course she didn't need roman's father to love her, but never has he ever looked at her with more than anything other than something cordial and constrained. a diplomatic smile and head nod of acknowledgement. 
from all corners of the room came upon this woman a full adornment of adoration. grievers making room in their well of emotions. 
and maybe this purity of love is the appeal. the thing which giana has moved so quickly from to avoid. 
but to some odd mixture of dismay and relief, roman stays unmoved. 
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roman grew up hearing the stories. fierce, scrappy remember when's and how it came to be's, like lullabies, if such soft tales were more vicious than virtuous. KG—God rest his soul— and his father. thick as thieves, his mother would tell him. the great street men of pensacola who birthed the bloodline. rubber against the heat of asphalt and a less than holy roar of harley davidson engines. and where ever they stepped the recognition followed. a bountiful hand off of respect, often wordless but pure in its spirit. it was something awe inspiring. a dream that seemed to roman to be more sure fated than not. because if his father was the king, than surely there would be a time of a great succeeding. the president's patch promised to the prince since his own making. and even from young, roman could feel it, see it. the coming into fruition of a future that was more fate than dream. and the grime of it just came so natural. the style and the dirty flare. how could it all not be his? 
but with age came other things. other little complexities. off the road ambitions that lent themselves to less harsh, more ardent affairs. because KG didn't have sons. KG had a daughter. and the same feelings of promise he felt towards his father's legacy, he felt towards her. towards you. and here came a natural drawing in to one another, that grew steadily in it's own time. his commitment to childishness at fourteen and fifteen, turning on its head at sixteen. and soon all the stupid, petulant things didn't matter so much anymore, because all that mattered was the sweetening of your voice in his ears. persuasive and goading to his seventeen year old senses. and then came eighteen, nineteen and twenty. a man—because who would tell him he wasn't—with his own mind, his own way and his own bike, pensacola a playground made by his father for all his delights. races and bars and late night rides. KG's amused knowing stare and the heavy disapproval of your mother. by twenty one, you were his without ever having to say it. 
lingering stares and touches, turning more sure by the second, till they became heavy and unmovable. a stain. 
and that staining proved to be permanent. a deep etching that preserved itself in time. beyond the distance even. a hardening in his bones and over his heart till the beautiful youthful heat of it turned cold and grey. 
a fettering he had started so long ago, unable to be released. and he sees that now, amongst this great show of love as people surround you to greet adoringly, that all this work to undo you, was just a lousy attempt at forgetting. 
and that shit is vexing. filters the mourning in his spirit till all thats there is this silent flaring. anger. because how audacious were you really? to show your face after so many years? after breaking him so easily? your eyes uncovered and beautiful still, and your lips smiling, hugging his father. acting oh so humble. 
romans jaw shifts. clenches hard before release. his eyes taken by a slight narrowing stare that only fixes itself at the meeting of it with his fathers. the joy in him battling against the irritation rife in romans bones. and it all feels so shitty and rotten. a heavy disturbance in his belly. he needs a drink or two even. something strong. an agent of forgetfulness, of numbing. 
and of course with every bloodline funeral there is the draping over of a gray sky. moody and still and blanketing. the swell of bodies in the church filing out as the mourning family took to cars and the guys slowly step towards a heinously long row of motorcycles. but who would they be if the procession were not this heavy, dirty, roaring clash of engines along the streets. the show of it, the noise and the leather and the all black, it was just their way. tradition. something that—and even if it exhausted him—roman would hold to forever. because there was nothing else to know or live for aside from this. a life always dreamed of. and he'd honor it till he couldn't anymore. when others were carrying him in a casket to the cemetery. 
roman takes his time getting to his dyna. surveying the buzz of energy. shades masking his eyes now as he watches jimmy, jey and naomi surround you almost covetously. his jaw clenching again. mounting with irritation. wanting that hard drink more by the second. 
and he can smell the sweetness of giana's perfume. a wafting at his side, becoming closer and closer, that oddly eases the tension in his shoulders. and she, amongst everyone else, is none the wiser to such minute details. the deep understandings of such intertwined and complex histories totally evading her. roman figures now, with the way his vexation wells steadily, that she's better for it. saving him even from the not so efficient procedure of having to explain. because that in itself was a task with more surgical leaning qualities. he'd have to actually open himself up to the vulnerabilities of past circumstance. an in depth overview of just how deeply you'd severed yourself from him. and that, he absolutely wanted to avoid at all cost. even the possibility of it made his stomach drop. 
a whiskey neat. yeah that would straighten him good. 
"who is she?"
the curiosity, he finds odd. because giana was always so quick to maintain that she didn't care much for the inner workings of "whatever you got going on", as she'd say. but now the interest was written about her face clearly. and it was everything that roman did not want. he didn't want roundtable talks, twenty one questions and all about me discussions explaining the intricacies of past lives. he wanted the nameless, shapeless situation they'd always maintained. why the hell was she so curious now?
he turns to her. "be specific. we're at a funeral", clenching his jaw. and if not for the thick of his beard, she'd recognize it as such an obvious tell of his annoyance. 
her head nods in your direction. "the woman your father seems to have so much love for". 
"funerals make him sentimental. he can't help himself". 
"if eye-fuckin her is all sentiment then neither can you". 
roman unfolds the legs of his shades and rests them on cooly. this smooth slipping on of a cover to mask the surprise threatening to shine in his eyes. because to him, that poor heavy build of displeasure felt all palpable. this absolute etching into his face that could be readable to anyone who cared enough to look. but maybe his irritations then didnt appear as whole as they felt to him. he has yet to master the stoicism of his father, the same father who now has so suddenly forsaken his stoic disposition for absolute adoration. bringing on an obvious shift to the spirit of the day. really didnt need whatever giana was attempting to muster up. 
he needs a drink. badly wants it actually. 
"whatever you think it is, its not". releasing the neat knot in his hair as he palms his bike helmet. avoiding the bare over of giana's eyes. a patient burn in of brown he can feel in his skin. "shes a good friend of the family".
"ohhh", a sarcastic draw out. gianas arms folding over. "well if shes a good friend, then i got no choice but to play nice".
and roman cant help the snort that leaves him. the giana he met months ago, suddenly so different now. "stick to what you know gi. playin brazen ain't your game". 
the sweet jasmine of her perfume overtaking the rainy scent of such an oddly mournful afternoon. easing further into him till her hands are holding his cheeks. thumbs running over freckles. a show of intimacy that neither satisfies or disappoints him. and maybe thats worse than feeling either of the extremes. 
her lips kissing his. lingering before she releases him. "and playin clueless ain't yours". 
roman mounts his bike. helmet fastening. he starts the engine and like some great call to action, the guys disperse from their little groupings in front the church to make way to their rides. this small army of all black, draped in leather. 
he looks to giana. eyes hidden behind his shades and his face emulating the great impassiveness of his father. "we are what we are", this vague skating around of words. words that affirm the simplicity of their romantic situation. because thats what it is. "we're good". making no effort to look her way as he backs out of his space to lead the procession of bikes.
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the first shot of whiskey is to wet his palate. the oh so simple taste of a familiar spiced burning. and the second shot is friendly. doesn't suffer him to grimace or grunt in that faithful way. settling in faster, easier, a fire on his tongue that steeps into his blood. the third take of whiskey warming his belly. a deep restraining. and then comes that odd form of clarity. all the overthought things, less overthought. the diligent fight that once existed, managing that complicated flow, because what were words and thoughts and feelings anyways? if not just the dregs of an already downed beer. useless idle remains. but still that foamy sludge lingered, like a thick film at the top of his drowning patience, refusing to go ignored. his tongue forsaking the whiskey for beer. cold and his palm clutching it for dear life. the heat of his body losing to the icy chill of the bottle. and he's losing everywhere. his presence waning amongst the energy of the clubhouse. 
the guys mingling as they always did. heavy knocking bass from the speakers and the too loud boostings of laughter. whispers and clinking. bottles and shot glasses. the warm brown of creaky hardwood walls and the coarse gray of the floors. the leather couches swishing from the rise and fall of bodies. so many bodies. and the more he attempts to sip his beer while missing the dregs the more it foams over his mustache. the more he sinks into his seat, the louder the room gets. this sharp focus about him that can't be mitigated. the whiskey and the beer working in vicious tandem. whiskey makes him hot. molten lava flowing over with a threatening pace to reign amongst the fright of the people. 
and he can do it if he likes. he can let the remains of him loose and reign amongst the people. forcibly siphon the energy since everything was so damn funny. 
that laughter filling the air, where the joke is too funny. takes the attention too well, till the room has no choice but to yield. the twins were good at doing that. at coveting the attention innocently. and everyone always fell victim to it. it made for good times. for good memories. but that was the problem. 
all this strolling down into remember when's made roman's belly ache. a nagging twist too hot to ignore. 
"and you know the type of guy i am. im approachin ole girl all gentlemanly n'shit. finesse game on damn near a thousand".
whiskey makes roman hot. makes his blood wreathe with what feels like anger. and maybe thats why he doesn't drink the stiffer stuff too much. 
"next thing i know, we back at her's and im in it, like in it. neighbors know my government type shit. and then BOOM the damn front door opens. it's her HUSBAND UCE!", jey grabbing a too-drunk seth's shoulder. 
and roman can feel the damp way his skin grows. leather burdening his shoulders. 
"i swear my lil nineteen year old ass was shook. damn near was peeing on myself hiding in that closet. i ain't know nothing about being the other dude. i was tryna get out of there".
"fuckin' with cougars had ya ass shook, hidin in closets, danglin out of windows and shit, tryna escape", jimmy quips. laughing and sipping at his cup. 
and with every new height of laughter, comes this deeper sinking in of whatever heaviness that's making roman suffer. because it was too much to simply call it anger. anger never consuming him so wholly. 
"but the SAVE uce, the save!", jey's arm throwing around your shoulder till you were tucking under him. hugged into his side. "my sis came in clutch. rolled up quick with that lil cutlass ciera and saved my ass". 
the mirth in your eyes, crinkling at the corners as these little delicate laughs escape you. it makes him fume. the ease you've taken, returning back into the fold so seamless. aided by the love and longing of so many who seem to have forgotten just how shitty it was. a sudden departure. this tearing away that never really mended. like the raw splitting of skin, together again but gruesomely scared. the pain that came with such a nasty tattering felt still. felt when it was quiet and when it rained. when he drank too much whiskey and when the foamy dregs of beer stuck annoyingly to his lips. and then comes this accidental meeting. the linking of your gazes and it stutters the beating in his chest. an arresting that feeds the fire. because how does such power still exist? a potency that makes his stomach lurch. 
your eyes are soft. hesitant. scared. and none of it satisfies him. none of it fixes the wrongness twisting in him. and even when he wins, watching you rip away to look else where, the triumph in victory forsakes him. 
your lips sipping on a drink. something mixed he's sure. because things haven't changed so much that the way you take your alcohol completely evades him. but nothing ever really gets past roman. not much. definitely not cody and his eyes. the small slipping smile of his lips and the linger of his hand on your shoulder. flanking your side like he's been ordered to protect you. but it's not new. cody's always been servile. ready to perform for you. and maybe, just maybe he can't help it. maybe its the history roaming in cody's veins, an inherited drive to see to it that you were ok. the same way dusty did for KG. because dusty was the protector. the slightly older man. KG's slightly older "brother". but cody was different because he lingered. his eyes and his touch. just long enough for roman to notice. and never has it bothered him so much till now. 
the whiskey making him hot still. not so much his skin anymore—though yes he was a little warm—but the vexing in his blood. and no it was not the agent of forgetfulness he needed it to be. it numbed nothing. mitigated nothing. 
and when you slip away from this reminiscing cluster of laughter and leather, he has all the mind to follow you. because the gall of it all steadily amasses the heat of his anger. that desire to siphon the energy pushing deeper until it begins to solder to his bones. a dense take to his will. because how can you be so comfortable with yourself  in his presence, that such maneuvers have no hesitation? no second guessing? and then to make him watch your fit of smiles with another man. their has to be another word other than hot to describe the blaze in him. the overflow of vexation. but either way cordiality is for the fucking birds. 
roman stands, and with it everything follows. eyes and a swelling anticipation. waning laughter and the slow drift away of mouths telling old memories. 
seth shifts. suddenly more sober than he's been for hours. aggressively clearing his throat to lessen the torture of such an abrupt silence. 
dean just stares. sips from his beer and holds his eyes over roman. and if not for the drowning of whiskey and beer, roman would run rife with appreciation for such a sharp attentiveness. 
and cody. oh cody. never too hard to read. his thumb fidgeting over his knuckles. restless but ready. 
roman crosses the floor, stepping closer till his shoulder checks cody's. a stiff leather against leather. something petulant and liquor inspired. 
the noise of the clubhouse back to its former glory as roman disappears down a long wide hallway. slow measured steps as he feigns for stability. and of course it'd take more whiskey to have him completely stumble, but the additive of the fire in his blood makes things all the more unusual. and this push to seem alright, unaffected, only reinforces the opposite. makes his steps heavy and the pounding in his chest thunder. 
and when he gets to you, the unrelenting need to be vicious overtakes him. nearly threatens him to illness if he fails. and maybe thats just the anger again. the pensacola heat and the whiskey and the hurt. 
the wide hallway is small somehow. feels taken up. by warm subtle perfume smelling of autumn and far away ancient things. hugs and summer morning whispered i love you's. soft eyes and softer fingers. in his hair and over the steady growing muscles of his shoulders. because memories aren't just in words, this tedious coming together of letters and syllables, it's the time of day, scars left by long healed bruises and perfumes. its the old, overwrought beating in his pulse. uneven breaths and shy lingering eyes. and here the rushing back is quick. like whiplash. and the idea that such a thing has to rush back to him, cross over to close such a wide distance, is the source of such deeply rooted anger. 
it is the second coming back of everything lost. 
fuck being cordial.
a framed photo sits in your hand. your thumb brushing over the old wood of it. the wide long hallway filled with doors that lead to small bedrooms and framed photos. because the clubhouse for many, was always like an actual house. a place to stay, to be, when no where else was available. like a home for family. 
you hang it back up, turning to look at another. wistfulness in your eyes. it makes his jaw clench. thick arms folding over his chest. feigning still for stability. 
"s'nothin in here that's changed", you give. a too short olive branch. the pretty shape of your eyes taking to a widely framed photo. you and KG, smiling under the harsh beam of the sun. posing cooly next to his custom harley soft-tail. 
romans heart skips. your voice sinking sweetly to mix among the welling over of his pain turned anger. 
"that's usually what happens when things go untouched".  
and it comes in, as you finally turn to face him, this storming chant. fuck being cordial. fuck it. whiskey inspired and sounding so right. amongst the muffled droning of too drunk bikers and the easy mean speak of his own thoughts, your eyes take him in. a meticulous working over, as if to reaffirm your memory. and he does the same. your body done up in traditional bloodline funeral attire. black boots, black denim, black leather and silver jewelry. your hair so different from the last time he'd seen you but your face the same. everything of your father except your eyes. those being all your mother. eyes that always seemed so close and far away. leaving him doubtful and chasing. always in attempt to settle them. to remedy the faraway look of them with something satisfying. 
back then, all those years ago, he only ever wanted to satisfy you.
being amicable? yeah. no. 
"he talked about you a lot before he passed", he starts. inching closer, step by step, till he's close enough to smell your perfume in full. the same scent you've worn since you were seventeen. nostalgia working to run rife in him, his displeasure working deeper. "little soliloquies n'shit. said he was happy he had you, cause if he had sons, they'd be too much like him. too fixed into everything. too stuck in the life. too loyal". 
the glazing over of your eyes shine under the warm hallway light. lazily going about his face. that drink you'd had filled with whatever before definitely not your first.
"you're saying this because?" voice edged with hesitancy. guarded. 
"i don't know really", his back leaning away to rest against an empty spot on the wall.  "i guess i just realized how wrong he was, and KG was always right about shit but that? very very wrong". his lips smiling malicious. head tilting. "m'sure all that heartbreak and disappointment, getting abandoned. the way it was eating away at him, he wouldn't have gotten that with a son". 
you laugh. something mirthless and corrosive. biting into the air the way it fills up the hallway to taunt him. 
"sika's little baby bird couldn't have his chance out the nest", your mouth smiling with teeth. a mean sort of amusement taking your eyes as you meet him. "jealousy never did look good on you. it makes you whiny. needy. like a child, and it's boring", you chuckle. rolling tipsy eyes. "for the first time in a while i'm seeing you and already the argumentative shit is boring me". 
"oh?", his back pushing off the wall. eyes baring down. a mirthless smile slipping in to mirror yours. "did it get a little to real for you? is the ride down memory lane not fun enough anymore?" his breathing deep. brows pulling together and his jaw goes to clench. "yeah... all that nostalgia is a bitch ain't it? just a whole bunch of bullshit sentiment and remember whens". and whether it is the draw of your scent—your presence—or the rushing of his ego he does not know, but the space even in such a wide hallway grows minimal. the whiskey on his tongue washing over just as the tequila on yours does the same. sharing angry breaths. "you got them boys reelin, fallin all over you, all wistful and simpy and shit. what'd you do to cody to make him go all puppy eyed? you fuck him finally?" 
"you should know better than anyone, cause i never needed to fuck you to make you care", and the stinging there is deep. cruel and gut twisting. "yeah no, you got all simpy and shit on your own". 
a few inches closer. if he were inches closer he'd be able to feel your lips. his eyes lingering over them. desire and pain gathering themselves to war. "you got him placeholdin. doing him the same way you did me". 
"the same way you doing her". 
and till now he'd forgotten about giana. her suspicions and her questions. her sudden doing away with of that apathy he found so faithful and easy to enjoy. 
because of you. everything always for him. because of you. 
"he's always been a little soft for you", roman smiling. "but cody is smart. you m.o. ain't hard to pick up".
"i'd love to know what you think that is". 
"i don't even think its something you can help. it's just in you. hereditary shit. just like your moth-"
a breath toughing out. "watch. yourself". 
"you leave. thats what you do. you leave". 
and here there is no triumph in victory either. not when your eyes well, nor when you step away from him to leave the hallway. the twisting in his gut tightens and the whiskey soaking his blood is graceless. makes all the attempts at stability a failure . his back against the wall again. feeling ill and incomplete. 
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Oof… that was a-lot lol. roman being a dick unfortunately, but his tune will change eventually. let me know what you think!
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333creolelady · 7 days
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I have a feeling this is going to be one of ur best works. I won’t even explain why—you know why. And you need to start looking into the possibility of publishing. I’m saying this in a scolding manner btw.
"ask your question". like a parent to a child. finally giving such coveted permission. "ask".
"was it you?"
"no"
"was it the bloodline? was it him?"
he softens. but only slightly. "you wear accessories, you don't become one. that's what my father always said".
"real nice. you're such a well of wisdom".
Your portrayal of Cody is pushing him in my favor for sure lol ! Roman is making me fucking nervous.
tanks of blood - accessories are meant to be worn
pairing: biker!roman reigns x black reader (mentions), biker!cody rhodes x black reader (very small hints) warning: explicit descriptions of extreme violence. cursing. no smut, sorry ya'll. authors note: next chapter will be a bit chunkier but hope u enjoy this for now! word count: 2700 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @spritelucozade @gg-trini
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hospitals are filled with things. life and blood and metal and these one of a kind tumultuous screams of pain. for the body was designed to heal, to be —in whatever way it chose—whole once more, but there is something to be said about such a suffering as this one. the pain that comes with pain as the body makes its painstaking trek to stability. and getting nico jeffrey—he preferred to be called nico rather than his birth name nicolas— to stable condition was hell. that particular seven pm to seven thirty am shift deserving of its own circle in dante's inferno. and of course you'd found yourself just in the middle of it, letting the mess of the job roll onto and off your shoulder. this undulating wave that was as common place in a hospital as the august summer heat. and nico jeff—because he told you to drop the end bit of his last name too, very demanding for someone in so much pain—once stabilized and no longer screaming for his life, became unnervingly quiet. the pain meds seemingly taking his words. 
his eyes were alive though. flitting and observing. all that white hot pain forcibly driven into his body now a fierce anger in his gaze. and it scared the living shit out of you. forced a dread into your bones. because that silent sort of menace was familiar as air. 
and the slow to simmer anxiety, this soft cautious build up of weariness is more of a drowning than any other non-fatal state of affairs. the dread rife in your blood is a drowning. a slow submergence. this flooding of the lungs. your arms and legs set in a metaphorical bout of flailing that plead in its motions for mercy. and drowning, much crueler than falling, is unhurried. this steady decline that waits for your heart to give. this suffering of morale was silent, save for the bubbling water and that warped fight of your limbs as it attempts to break above the dense weight. but of course this going under is simply a fear of the unknown. of long dead things coming back to spite you with violence. with the pain of memory. dread, here in this sterile room, does not burn your throat but it weighs over your shoulders. tiring the muscle and bones till the heaviness quickens the frenzy in your nerves. dread is ugly and haunting and throbbing, makes the paranoia sing with loud mangled beltings.
it'd been days since nico's not so grand entry. the skin of his back singed to a rawness. his body curled fetal-like at the foot of the emergency ward's automatic entry doors. his screams blood curdling, this tumultuous echo that still stains your memory, till they waned infant like. these bouts of whimpers that made him look younger than he already was. 
twenty six. nico jeff was twenty six with severe third degree burns. the entirety of his back left raw and undone. 
you felt for him. really you did. but the void in his eyes, the cold distance of it, sunk a weight to the base of your belly. because their sure fated chaos was not something that could be so easily taken or missed, and beyond the avoidance nestling deep in your will you knew this was them. nico jeff's suffering was all the bloodlines doing, and the slightest bit of a talk would be all the confirmation you'd need. 
"how's he doing?" 
donna was as personable as she was sensible you'd found out. a trauma specialist that frequented your side of one of the hospitals many pavilions. her eyes soft and inviting. flitting over things as if to read them. taking in the smaller complexities and such. the things that would otherwise go unnoticed. it was the psychologist in her, to just be in the know, to have an arresting sort of presence that called to the surface every little prickling thing that seemed to nag at your nerves. but then again it could just be the guilt. this unshakeable dose of dread given by nico jeff. 
you stand next to her. the both of you looking over nico as he sleeps. 
"he's stable. quiet when he's awake. cries in his sleep. barely has an appetite". 
"is he saying anything when he's sleeping?"
"nothing i can make out"
and that silence sticking so closely to his pain is the very base of the knots twisting your belly. most, in the trouble of their own pain, would sing for the sake of discovering some relief. this very odd sort of bargaining. a submission of the self—the giving in of a heavy weight—for the taking on of something lighter. you'd seen it before. men torn by wounds and struck by bullets, their eyes overdone with tears and their lips trembling as their words styled themselves with pleads for mercy to no one in particular but to anyone who would hear them. and you'd gotten so used to that, to those loud overflowings of guilt, that nico's silence scares you whole. the brevity in his words possibly covering up something that would for sure give this limbo of dread true meaning. it would give your ill feelings a name. maybe even a body and a face. but yet the curiosities still remain. details of what proceeded such a violent affair. it seems that no one but you cares to know anything. 
"the cops are draggin they feet on doing up a report. i mean, he's been here like three days now". your curiosities falling over donna. the neutrality of her eyes a bit jarring. "that's not a little off to you?"
she turns. her head tilting with a regard you can't make out. 
"how long you been in pensacola?"
"a few months. a little over two".
"you moved here because of the job right?"
"i did"
the lie slipping off your tongue with a nasty pacing. the words thick in your throat and heavy in your mouth. tasting similar to bile. 
"and it's ok right? as good as any hospital job could be?" 
"yeah, no its- it's fine". 
"good". the soft brown of her stare piercing even in its gentleness. "the less time you spend asking questions, the better. you clock in, do your thing, you clock out. it ain't worth it being curious beyond that". 
and with her leave she takes some of the air with her. but donna doesn't know, along with the affects of such fair advice —and how could she?—that the sum total of your young adult life was looking the other way. enjoying the spoils of brutal little street wars. being quiet even with the mounting burden of questions. and God were the questions endless, rife with a heaviness and breathing to live all their own. 
it all made the silence that much more insufferable to bear. and maybe thats why the hospital was such a sanctuary. what with its blood and metal and tumultuous noise. a forced clashing against the thick quiet. something to busy the mind. but those hours just before the break in your shift bring back that force of stillness. the endless questions and the dread. 
and it's 6:37 in the morning now, nicolas jeffery awake and his coarse tired voice low and cold as it leaves him.
"it's better the cops don't give a fuck". but he never meets your eyes. forever staring out the window. "they'd make the shit worse anyways". 
awake all that time, listening. the thought of no justice more of a relief to him than not, and it shows well in his shoulders. the way his breathing steady's. or maybe it's the morphine. or both. but you can't tell. because he won't look at you. 
"you wear turtle necks a lot", he notes. and through you runs a shiver. "coverin' up them job stoppers huh?", a small smile through his lips. 
"it gets cold on this floor". 
his eyes flitting, from the window to you, but not really to meet you. working rather through you. making an estimation about the area where your turtle neck curls over to cover the column of skin where your pulse lives. as if expecting something to reveal itself. to prove that his curiosities are not in vain. 
your fingers itch to move. twitching as you rub the area. a scratch that relieves the odd spark left behind over the patch of flesh beneath the thin fabric. feeling the heat pool before it throbs. a sensation that only comes with the weight of eyes on the skin. instinct attuned to interest. nico's interest.
"m' gonna sleep", he mumbles. 
you nod. leaving him to drift as he stares out the window. 
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memories are weird. stored at times in forgotten simpler places. often oddly undone. a selfish rearrangement to better suit pride. to better suit nostalgia. memories are preferred because they can be reshaped. overworked to hell till they're rewritten, remade. so when you tell cody "i prefer you brunette", it's not because you hate the blonde. it's just because time has flown both too slowly and too quickly. all those crazy nights of young adult mischief stored in brunette hair. in the stark contrast of it against the icy blue of his eyes. but he's older now, blonde and less boyish. face lines about his eyes and his jaw set tighter. as if always clenched. stressed and on edge. and maybe beneath such selfish preferences is that sinking feeling. something like regret. having missed the change. from brunette to blonde. 
his fingers skim the ways of his cropped hair. cheeks dusting pink. a small smile that barely shows his teeth. "you don't like it?"
"it's different". 
"sometimes different is good".
"yeah, sometimes". 
but there are somethings that don't change. these little complexities that preserve themselves. and cody still does that nagging thing with his eyes. a taking in like he's looking for something. for a fault, but not like an error no. more like discontentment. something to fix. to make right. and you know this only because his thumb is doing the fidgeting thing. a soft spreading over the knuckles that tames urgency. restlessness. the waiter had gotten your burger wrong twice—first time too undercooked and the second time too over—and his thumb wouldn't stop pressing into his palm. it drove you crazy. it didn't stop his looking though, searching for other things, and the icy blue way his urges fall over your body make the dread in your belly worse. because if he's looking for shit, he'll eventually find it. wring it out of you softly. put warmth and worry behind the natural cold of his looking and pry it out. 
"how's the job holding up?"
and his voice. a little deeper than the last time you heard it. and sure that was only months ago, but it's different here. lives against the buzz of fluorescent lights in a way thats not familiar. his words filling the air just a half step slower. like he was purposely controlling his tongue. 
or maybe it isn't new. maybe its just a sweet addition to the focus in his eyes. maybe thats a thought to plead the fifth to now and dig up for examination later. 
"regular hospital mess. nothing new". plucking a fry up off the plate to bite at. the heat in your cheeks rising. his lips going up with a small spread. his smile not as big as it used to be, but present enough still. you meet him again. unable to not return the simple gentle gesture. "what?"
"just...", making to say something and then pivoting. "i'm happy you're here". 
"yeah? wouldn't know that, considering i called, and then again and again, and then another time-"
"yes. i know. radio silent", a deep heavy sigh. and against his face rises a wall. being as remorseful as he can be, but that's as much as he'll give. thats what his body says when he leans back into the both. releasing whatever sort of intimacy there was, where he was oh so happy to see you. "i got busy". 
and it was a few months of a small plan. lighter communication than usual but you didn’t question it much. short text and brief calls. just a simple coordination to make the trip back into pensacola, back home, not so big and formal. especially since it not being seen or heard about was the idea. specifically not seen or heard about by roman-
"i think he's figuring it out. if he doesn't know yet". 
the ball living freely in your gut tightens. you didn't like the mess of this. "how do you mean?"
"he's always been a bit of a dick, just more than usual. icing me out of shit..." and cody keeps the vagueness there of course. "....i think he's havin' one of the guys tail me....". 
your eyes roll. "explains you being MIA". 
"...makin me babysit prospects and do shop upkeep for fucks sake. do i look like a damn bookkeeper?”
cody wasn't saying it. but you heard it clearly. and it made that space on your neck heat. the same patch of skin that nico jeff tried to uncover with just the cold hard distance of his eyes. a slight burning that spread through till it was creeping over and out onto your chest. but it didn't feel good. it sweltered the skin. vexed the nerves. 
"is this you blaming me?"
"m'not blaming you". his fingers spreading over his face. obviously frustrated. "he's just being petty. he's the king of that shit. makin unnecessary trouble". 
"m'not tryin to cause trouble for you". 
"anymore". 
all caution and ease to the air siphoned. and the pooling heat solders deeper. beneath nerves till its melting at the dense make of your bones. the offense of it written in your face. "what?"
but he's dying on his little hill about it. "you don't wanna cause trouble anymore". 
"are you kidding me?"
"all of us. everything we all had was everything and you left and unleveled shit". his jaw tightening. "and now you're back, and it's shakin shit up again". 
"is this a fight? you wanna do this now?" we're really gonna revise the history of this like what i did was so awful?"
"don't be dense", his tone stinging. venturing deep into an arena that is all too familiar. patronizing and corrosive. "you breathing is permission enough for him to upturn shit. enough for any of them, enough for...", catching words just before their end. but theres no pivoting away this time. "it's enough for me", but it does not quell the anger easing deeper. it just becomes a faithful addition to the list of things to leave for examination later. "so if you wanna be back home, you gotta be open and honest about it. about the way you affect things. affect people". 
he wants honesty? 
"you gotta give a little to get it cody, but that's fine, because i've been havin a pretty shit few days actually. stuck takin care of some kid whose burnt up all over his back and nobody's doing anything about it", your fingers curling in till the nails sink into your palms. scrutiny this heavy bleeding out of your eyes. "and now i can't help but to connect the dots on it all and its just leadin to a certain someone with a propensity for violent bullshit". because that never changed, beyond memory and whatever else. they still seemed to have a hard on for mess. "lets be real yeah? there was always trouble. i left, i'm back, it's still here". 
"ask your question". like a parent to a child. finally giving such coveted permission. "ask". 
"was it you?"
"no"
"was it the bloodline? was it him?"
he softens. but only slightly. "you wear accessories, you don't become one. that's what my father always said".
"real nice. you're such a well of wisdom". 
"it kept my mother out of crosshairs, did the same for yours". his eyes filling with scrutiny. harsh and irritated. "and the girl i knew way back when understood that. don't ask!", his frustration peaking. proving itself in his tone. a rain down of what feels like disappointment. "you went up north to wherever and got your head screwed up with all this moral high ground bullshit". 
"well i'm so very sorry for having a conscience cody". 
you weren't wrong. you preferred him brunette. 
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some slightly new developments… let me know what you think!
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333creolelady · 7 days
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I—I…
I just need to be alone for a little bit
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untitled drabble (two)
pairing: roman reigns x black reader , cody rhodes x black reader warning: smut. minors do not interact pls. authors note: in the process of writing for tanks of blood, this came to me so here it is. word count: 800 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @kill-the-artiste @southerngirl41 @thesamoanqueen @theninthwonder @empressdede @spritelucozade @2-muchsauce @hypno-bear-tini
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cody was still trying to register his current state of affairs. fully suited still in a well color matched three piece. but very badly exposed. or rather thats how he feels. fully clothed but somehow so very bare. 
but this is what was asked of him. 
"come in a suit. she has a thing for you, and for the suits". 
and he didn't know why he followed the instructions so willingly. with such diligence. or rather, he knew why, but it was always so much easier to skate around the scarier truths. hide and cower away from the finality of them. because no honest man wanted to admit that he was into another mans wife. not aloud anyways. 
but roman was insistent. calm and insistent. diligently following the simple instructions given to him. 
a cracking smack against tender skin strips cody of his disassociation. and then comes the gentle breaking of a moan to sedate his wanderings. your legs open wide and revealing. held to keep from some sudden mindless urge to close. and when that pleasure of pain overtakes, you arch and tremble. your soft body caving into the strength of romans chest. 
your lips are kiss swollen. chest heaving and the fabric made to cover over is tattered viciously. cody was very obviously late to the party. the thick heat of the air beginning to swelter his skin. his tongue watering, icy blue eyes slipping slowly over the hard perk of your nipples and the heavy pulsing at your clit. and yes, maybe he'd thought of this once or twice. in the dead of the night, comfortably alone and left to play with his thoughts. 
but his imagination had so obviously failed him. disrupted by the will of his own ideas and likings. but the ease with which you could moan at something pleasurable made for a terrible weakness in his knees. he wanted to be the cause of something that sweet. something that raw. 
roman caresses the inner heat of your thighs. a soothing go against the skin before the intensity of his palm breathes with life again. slapping against the skin. each thigh and then a beat. his own groaning mixing in as he does it again. his fingers slipping soft and delicate over the mess of your slit. such an abrupt and devious exit from the pain he'd just given. his lips kissing gentle into your neck. licking into the skin as his finger drives knuckle deep to slot against the throb of your pussy. 
roman laughs into a moan. surely feeling just how desperate and needy his wife is. the sticky wet thrust of his middle finger lazy. roman kisses his way from your temple to your cheek. "she's kinda like you in a way rhodes. she likes her pain". 
the mess of his finger leaving with an easy slip to join the others. a tight methodical pattern of bursting pats to your clit before he's rubbing over it. driving you wild and stressing the limits of your moaning. 
"tell him what you want", roman adds. his lips at your ear. 
and the gears in cody's body oil over. ready to do and perform. and if his mind were anymore sober and void of need, he would bristle from just how ready he is to do. so damn servile. but he can't help it. 
"start with the tie", you rasp. the burn of your eyes meeting the blue of his. "take it off slowly". 
and you've never looked at cody so intently. with such want. dazed and your teeth tensing over your lips. a mouth he hopes he can get to taste before the night is over. 
the thick of romans fingers remain at your clit. a delicate teasing touch. "what do we say when we want things sweetheart?", his thumb and his pointer giving your clit a soft pinch that forces your hips to cant. 
the headiness of your arousal driving the work of cody's hands to undress more efficiently. 
"we say please".
your words drifting into a moan. 
"go ahead then".
"cody, please". 
and he's never relieved himself of a suit and tie before so fast. his button up left to lay idle along the hotel floor. knees dipping into the bed till his lips purse, tongue sweeping in to kiss your lips. and when the thick of romans fingers mix to slip against your tongue, cody finds neither the will or strength to care. licking against the taste to savor your arousal. 
his balance shifts, laying flat against the bed till his lips hover teasingly over your slit. a moan pushing easy from his chest as he dips his tongue against your clit. lips pursing over as he suckles gently. your fingers driving through his cropped blonde hair till you're thumbing his nape tenderly. 
a collection of moans melting in with the call of his name . 
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333creolelady · 7 days
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Wow. This was HOT! But also really moody/sullen in some parts. Here are some of my favorite lines:
1. The way you introduced Roman… I could see it so well in my mind. It was crystal clear. I shuddered —thinking of myself in that place. I can see the intensity of him from how well you set up this particular scene. Always so descriptive but agreeable to the reader. “ but the warmth of the night is inviting, breezes the skin more than the stiffness of the bar. roman standing at the opening of an alley just next to the building, roughing out words, unintelligible, but the closer you get to him the better the timbre is. his big boy, taking care of business voice, you're sure of it. that slight underscoring of coarseness, even at such a young age, steeping chills into your skin. his eyes cutting up, on you now, sticking to the dip in your hips till they find lips, and then your eyes. 
he pulls you in, listening to the call still, touch instinctive. possessive. always claiming your body with a certain finesse. a wide palm stretching along your back till its comfortable, slipping into the back pocket of your skirt. and his head tilts, something slight, like he's taking a reading. and his eyes, black pushing against brown, too silent to be anger but silent enough that its uneasy”
2. Love the nod to this long attraction they both shared that they finally decide to act on. Love a good yearning prison sentence until it all boils over. “it reminds him of some few weeks ago. his birthday. the day had been loud and crazy. gift after gift, and who would expect anything less for the prince of pensacola. whose father birthed the bloodline. and so that night had went on, you tucked under him by his own wordless request, lingering eyes and his hands searching for comfort in your skin, till you could no longer avoid the heat of them. and so they'd dug and littered pleasure harshly. a greedy taking. a years long build released suddenly and so terribly blissed. sounds he'd never heard before from you, wanting to hear them now all the time. tremblings in your skin that'd bruised the harsher parts of him to a softness.”
3. You did such a good job with his intensity in this one and this may be one of my favorite characterizations you’ve done for him. I know it’s a bit early to say that but he’s just so….UGHH 😩 when I got towards the end of the chapter I literally had to put my phone down because I started hiding my face. Ur new nickname in my phone is rizzler:
your belly coils. wrecks your voice. "fuck you"
“whenever you want”
Help!!!
tanks of blood - circa '09
pairing: biker!roman reigns x black reader warning: this chapter contains detailed explicit content and alcohol. mentions of violence. the perspective changes oddly towards the end but who gives af, this is for funsies authors note: been sitting on this first chapter for a hot minute. its a flashback! just a little establishment of feelings and dynamics. word count: 3k tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @spritelucozade @gg-trini i suck at keeping up who wants tags for what. but let me know if you want tags for just this story, roman stuff, cody or everything.
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circa '09—
pensacola summers are muggy. sticky thick air that binds to the skin. and even beyond this nasty little inconvenience, pensacola night life rages with a thundering sort of spirit. wood floors groaning under worn shoes, and the walls bleeding with a little taste of everything that's been spilled onto them—overflowed shots of smooth vodka, ice cold tequila cocktails, crisp foamy beer, and the poor stain of some too-slow-to-swing-back assholes blood — till the bitterness steeps into the grain. and this here is no real complaint, because the dross of it is the essence. the thing that stokes the fire of the night till it's a bursting flame. 
and stubbs' dive bar is a staple for all the no good, almost-there-degenerates of pensacola, florida. for not so humble street royalty. but stubbs' dive is only popular because the guys made it that way, what with the vicious rumbling of their dyna's and their cruisers. stainless steel a smooth sharp glisten under the moonlight. and they are as rowdy as their engines, a dirty heavy symphony bordering impatience always. with a mounting lust for the grime of life, inherited surely, from the fathers and uncles and elder brothers who they bore their names from. 
but maybe its nature. the heat of the day simmering quieter men to act upon deep seated urges till their thoughts roam fiery and less ashamed. and maybe thats why randy orton does what he does, acting upon desire with a selfishness, like it's a right born to him. but your indulgence is no better. intrigue rife in your skin till its heating your cheeks. his broad fingers warm, adjusting the pool stick you bend over so prettily to angle with. and if randy is nothing else he is, easy. goes about everything with a deftness that tugs your younger curiosities. so when he touches, just for the sake of touching—because all forbidden things are so damn appealing—the fearlessness in him radiates. excites the skin till its fluttering wild. pulsing. a quick shiver through the spine. the soft of your leg slipping against his rough jeans. 
"easy on the back end here. don't underestimate that hit".
you jitter. his breath warm over exposed skin. "don't underestimate this stick up your ass if i miss this". 
"a little pain is still a good time", his voice low and rumbling. seducing. free hand traveling lower, from the back end of the pool stick to the tender skin of your waist. the easy slip of his playful touch hidden by the shadows covering the back corner of the dimly lit bar. his thumb stroking soft. forcing from you deeper breaths, for the sake of even a little control. 
"randy", you warn. 
"call the pocket sweetheart". 
his thumb feels good, in that forbidden way that urges blood to rush and desire to simmer. untamed and existing messily against your skin. threatening to cause an undoing chaos. he would hate this, and you should too.
"left corner pocket". 
his fingers curl in, more similar to a deep kneading till it's caught firm, just above the denim band of your skirt. and it's a small show of the fire in his fingers, of the possibilities, choosing a tenderness that compels you closer to acting on mere curiosity. and then he's off you. your hand forcing the pool stick to clack against the cue ball. the eight ball falling into the pocket despite his teasing. your heart hammering, refusing to still. hand out as you wait. a hundred dollar bill,  ever the simple prize—carrying the weight of such palpable tension—slips in your grasp. and when all six feet and five inches of him move in to crowd your body, you feel the swell of heat that breaks off him. a lulling force that makes breathing hard. and he doesn't speak as you pocket the money. the low sit of his eyes —mischief in them not so dissimilar to a viper— sharp.
and the others are too rowdy and liquored up to notice, and maybe for both of your sakes it's best. because he would hate this. could possibly even become violent over it. 
randy's thumb, the one that'd so sweetly slipped over your skin, raises to do the same to your cheek till its sweeping over and under to your chin. skimming easy to line your bottom lip. plump and glossed and tempting. and he's considering you, the burn in your eyes, attempting to decipher whether the heat of them is fear, desire, or a mixture of the two. 
"randy", you warn again. 
because you were spoken for. even if the words were silent, known only through secret but not so secret tongue kisses and lingering stares. through wind rushing rides on the back of his dyna and the burdening curl in of his fingers. possession like a nail, screwing into the skin. 
randy's thumb leaves your lip, swiping off a streak of the glossy balm. a sugary cherry on his tongue. your blood beating in your ears, fingers twitching, small and inching towards something that feels like neediness. he knew what he was doing. but he grins, surrendering with silence to the natural order of things. to unspoken rules and terms of engagement. he stalks away, taking with him that burdening heat. the sensation of his touch lingering as your lip tenses through your teeth. eyes floating away and else where to forget that small bout of rebellion against the quiet but ever present force of him. of roman. 
maybe a shot will help the uneasy heat in your belly? or perhaps make it worse? liquid courage possessing its own bursting flame of possibility. no. tequila would be no good. a step in a worser direction. randy's viper eyes still slipping slow over your curves and balmy brown skin, watching the swing of your hips with a quiet admiration, bordering the thick edges of lust that threaten to take him in. but he's smart about such quiet desires. settles for sipping at the chilly beer nestled easy between street scarred fingers. 
you call the bartender. "water please". fingers running anxious over the bar top. 
"still playin' with fire?" the bar loud, the guys and other patrons swelling up the space with laughs and drunk jeers, but nothing stops the recognition of that voice. slightly lisped and ever playful. cody rhodes, oddly dashing for the messy biker life and more judging than the worst gossiping grandmother you've ever met. blue eyes piercing. always looking  for something. 
you sip. "still mindin' my business?"
"if not me, who else?"
"you're such a mom". fingers dipping in to flick the icy water at him. because if cody is nothing else, he's a perpetual pest. 
"and you, a child". 
"fuck you rhodes".
he snorts. snatching your water to finish it. "it would be fun i'm sure but for my own safety i'm gonna have to pass". 
and the music is louder somehow, cody leaving you to step further into the storm of men he'd pulled himself from. their shot glasses empty, scattered and growing still by the hour. voices yelling higher somehow over the hard thumping bass of music. leather littering the bar booth cushions, and any other loose chairs it can find. the worn material sewn with patches, not so dissimilar to tiny precious stones stuck to some grand old crown. and though most of the guys were mere prospects, waiting faithfully for that full patch in, the pensacola streets belonged to them still. riding comfortably off the nobility of their fathers. ripping and running. chaos at their fingertips and mischief in their eyes. 
but the warmth of the night is inviting, breezes the skin more than the stiffness of the bar. roman standing at the opening of an alley just next to the building, roughing out words, unintelligible, but the closer you get to him the better the timbre is. his big boy, taking care of business voice, you're sure of it. that slight underscoring of coarseness, even at such a young age, steeping chills into your skin. his eyes cutting up, on you now, sticking to the dip in your hips till they find lips, and then your eyes. 
he pulls you in, listening to the call still, touch instinctive. possessive. always claiming your body with a certain finesse. a wide palm stretching along your back till its comfortable, slipping into the back pocket of your skirt. and his head tilts, something slight, like he's taking a reading. and his eyes, black pushing against brown, too silent to be anger but silent enough that its uneasy. 
you know that look well. he's annoyed. 
the call ends. his phone slipping into the back pocket of worn dark denim jeans.
his nose flares. "you smell like him". like randy. because the six foot five inch mischievous piece of shit decided to crowd your space. and you'd decided against the good sense God gave you to indulge him. his spiced cologne staining your top. roman's fingers firm and only becoming firmer, slipping out till they grip into the soft of your hips. a smolder more than a bursting flame in his eyes. composed in his displeasure. "you make it real easy for him to try my patience". 
your eyes roll, feet trailing away. the lamp post a blinding yellow that forces you to see his annoyances too clearly. the side of the bar, away from the street corner and eyes of nosy pensacola pedestrians, is much darker. simple dense bricks and gravely ground. 
"you make getting bored very easy".
when you turn he's there. thick chest pressing into yours. easing you into the dampness of the bar's side brick wall. loose tendrils of hair falling against his face, inky and fine. you reach to touch, his own fingers catching yours to fold over them and in between. slipping till his thumb presses your palm. you wrap about his touch there, with soft fingers, void of rebellious intention, before pulling him in by his arms. and he's not so taut here but the wild strength and warmth in him is clear. a radiating heat that lulls you forward. and yes randy's intensity is subduing, maybe even fearfully so, but roman has a familiarity to him. a safety that makes falling into his touch easy. 
his thumb finds your cheek. caressing over the apple of it. a sweet trail over your lips, chuckling at the pitiful little kisses you give it, eyes peering up from below your lashes. ever coy and ingratiating. and down it goes, a slow stripe over your throat, before its up and over to rest at your pulse. his nose knocking tender into yours, lips faint. you can nearly taste the beer he's had. 
"you're not bored". confident in that fact. lips daintily taking yours. barely a kiss. a peak of his tongue after that forces something desperate and feathered to break from you. "just greedy". thumb smoothing into your pulse. "i gave you a little something for the first time a few weeks ago and now you don't know how to act". 
you smile. drunkenly. his scent heady. "so we both agree, this is your fault". 
"everything is my fault". his mouth retreating to tender skin. pulling at the gentleness of it. leading with the slip of his tongue till his lips begin to lay claim. a heated suck that's all possession. 
you moan. "m'happy you know this". 
"if you're happy then fine". 
and if not for the kiss itself, you'd hate the crisp hoppy flavor of his tongue, but the slip of it is too comforting to ignore. the light summer breeze and his warmth, swaddling your skin till it's arresting your bones. an excitement dancing your nerves. and he's holding you tightly, a hand splayed against your back, pressing into him as he's pressing you further into coarse brick. the other roughing and kneading its way over and under your skirt, feeling up the exposure of your inner thighs. the heat there revving the pulse in his blood. surely it wouldn't take much to slip between your panties. to touch you firmly till you came. his legs long, stout, angling wider to trap you in. 
it reminds him of some few weeks ago. his birthday. the day had been loud and crazy. gift after gift, and who would expect anything less for the prince of pensacola. whose father birthed the bloodline. and so that night had went on, you tucked under him by his own wordless request, lingering eyes and his hands searching for comfort in your skin, till you could no longer avoid the heat of them. and so they'd dug and littered pleasure harshly. a greedy taking. a years long build released suddenly and so terribly blissed. sounds he'd never heard before from you, wanting to hear them now all the time. tremblings in your skin that'd bruised the harsher parts of him to a softness. 
the now midnight air streams against your skin, easy but chilling. his touch hot as it fingers past your panties to slip over your slit. and the sudden invasiveness of it is maddening, a sweet rolling over, wet and firm at your clit. your blood taking to a wild thrumming as his tongue licks wide into your mouth. everywhere that he finds himself, embraced over the whole of you, steadied and controlled. a fervor that weakens your knees. 
the honk of a car reminds you of where you are. the coarse bricks of the wall he's fastened you to. the too bright lamp post not so far away. the guys, rowdy in the bar still, and the possibility of a passerby. 
"were-were outside". your voice rushed and whispered. 
"it's dark". the wet glide of a finger pushing patient against lush resistance. lips still working over yours, lapping sweetly, to calm the unease of your nerves. "no one will see us", so sure of himself. stroking gentle through the tight clutch of your pussy. groaning in time with the throbbing take you give his finger. and the intimacy here is odd, exposed to a somewhat weirdly lit street corner, but so very isolated still. your hands burying into the loose knot of his hair, breathing ragged against his mouth. the fear of being found and the thrill of release tugging the nerves beneath your skin. and when he's there, deep and caressing, his lips pulling to smile as you curse into the midnight breeze. "and if you're quiet, no one will hear us either". 
roman's teeth pry at the part of your lips, sinking into the plush of the bottom one. steeping his fingers into the soak of you as his urges crash into you with an easy willingness. his ears sweetened by every sound that stretches out. fragile and dainty one moment, and then overtaken by something more feverish and raw the next. 
"if my birthday is anything to go by though", his mouth at your ear. breath hot. shivering your spine. "then there ain't no gettin you to just shut up and take it huh?"
your belly coils. wrecks your voice. "fuck you"
"whenever you want". 
and his persistence is tiring to the doubtful parts of you. the ones that fear sudden judgement and interruption. white heat over your brows, rising in your cheeks. a second finger slipping in with the first, a deep take as they go, stretching with leisure, as if the night has oh so graciously slowed for this moment. and dammit you wish it did, just a little if it meant holding him against you longer. your nails threatening to break into the muscle of him, running mindless over the leather covering his back. black and worn and familiar, smelling of warm amber wood as it works to soak your skin. a strong silent claim. 
but there were always other things. 
"yoo!", a voice calls. 
it sounded like one of the twins. like jimmy. 
but roman continues his ministrations. shushes into your cheek before kissing you to drown your whimpering noises. and you curl into him, figuring his broad body will shield you. 
and you're nearly there. blood rushing and the heat sharp. pressure in your core, tight and unrelenting. 
but jimmy is closing in. "yoo uce!". step after step, grinding the dirt under his heavy feet. "jey in here going at it. we need them hands". 
the moment caves in till its collapsing, and roman slips his fingers from you. annoyed and sucking his teeth. fishing for something in his pockets till he's wiping your arousal away with a tissue. "im sorry", jaw twitching. a sharp clacking sounding in his other pocket. fishing again till he pulls out two carved rings. he slips them on, looking at you still, your eyes and your lips, searching for tells of anger. 
still, he hasn't moved. doesn't want to leave you. 
"it's okay", you break from his eyes. pushing him lightly towards where jimmy's voice calls from. "go".
and your legs, despite the thought-numbing heat, are suddenly cooler now. missing the sweet burn of him as they chill up. a breeze whisking to fill in the absence of him. and the circumstances are annoying. frustration rife in your body as it runs with a shiver. but it seems to be a better deal than toughing it out inside the bar. because even from the outside front of stubbs' you can hear the chaos of it all. screaming voices and wood cracking bangs. a fight of some sort. the inevitable unraveling. because who were the guys if they didn't get themselves into some shit. proud about their leather and proud about their pride. it only ever made for rougher nights, especially after the drinks were poured and savored. words back and forth till a fist flew to silence it all. 
in the end it was sure to be wordless and bloody, because the guys had a perpetual hard on for mess. and then came the screeching wheels against asphalt and parked cars blaring their own sirens. stubbs' bar bound to be lit up with blue and red because the cops had a perpetual hard on for the guys. a cycle of bullshit indeed. 
you wait by their parked bikes. a uniformed line of black and steel. each styled with crimson red fenders. a pout in your lips because tequila sounds like a good deal. something smooth and clear to eat at the unsettling ball in the pit of your gut. 
and the street has a ghostly silence to it. an air that is comfortable in how still it is. 
your eyes close and for the first time, you settle into the quiet of the night. the nothingness of it all, sweet and new. no rattling engines or clinking metal. neither were there jarring or jeering voices, threatening to break against the skin. no ruptures of the air from sure fated chaos. just a simple lonely breath. you like this. 
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333creolelady · 9 days
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The gray in his hair…. The older he gets the better he looks
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No words.
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333creolelady · 9 days
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Chaos and tears all over the TL…listen….
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333creolelady · 20 days
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It’s actually the week after next ! Sorry lol. My mistake.
Yes I know…I’m late. Thankfully my spring break is next week so I’ll have plenty of time to edit and make some last minute changes. Stay tuned 💙
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333creolelady · 20 days
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Yes I know…I’m late. Thankfully my spring break is next week so I’ll have plenty of time to edit and make some last minute changes. Stay tuned 💙
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333creolelady · 20 days
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tanks of blood - table of contents
pairing: biker!roman reigns x black reader warning: there will be blood and violence. most likely drugs and definitely alcohol. these things will be explicitly described. explicit descriptions of sex, angst (i love angst) and eventual fluff(maybe...). some chapters will be flashbacks, others will be present time. minors please do not interact with chapters containing aforementioned explicit sexual content. authors note: ok lets try this again. second times a charm. every times a charm as long as i'm having fun! this is probably my oldest roman idea. going way back to before i even started writing for him. shout outs to @333creolelady for CONSTANTLY hearing me rant about this idea lol.
HISTORY
Bloodline Motorcycle Club was founded in the early 1970's and finds its home on the pensacola panhandle.
SOME WORDS
bloodlines are created lovingly. preserved violently. "let there be", and so they came. bursting into existence with a rage akin to the sun, and a daring persistence most similar to life itself. bloodlines are long, some short and others undying. connected through metal and chrome. through blood, bone and tissue. through the love that made them.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
circa '09
accessories are meant to be worn
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333creolelady · 23 days
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i cannot emphasise enough how much you need to create something. anything. it doesn't matter if you suck. you don't need to monetise it, or make it your career. you can restart an old hobby; you can start from scratch. it doesn't matter. you just need to hold something and be able to say "i did that". baking, drawing, painting, writing, coding, crafts, whatever. make something ! you cannot have all your hobbies be a form of consumption. it's fun, it's great in its own right. but the single best action to make yourself feel better, to calm your mind, to gain self esteem, is to Create
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333creolelady · 24 days
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Does he know how pretty he is?
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333creolelady · 28 days
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My sister don’t miss but y’all knew. Awww. And if I said she’s the best writer on this app then what?
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“possession this tumultuous flooding. your body slipping into that delicate position of submission. pillows stuffed under your hips for comfort. face sinking into the tenderness of the sheets. there would be a lot to explain, so much so that it'd be worth more not to share. to kiss and not tell. you'll keep it all for your memory. for those little bouts of disassociation, where you think of him. of the brutal take his fingers give your thighs.”
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Don’t play with my bitch!
untitled drabble (one)
pairing: roman reigns x black reader warning: smut. minors do not interact pls. word count: 1100ish
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he'd been feral. the endless slip of his tongue through your lips, licking greedily into groans as the circling of his thumb against your jaw urged a rushing of your own wants. and your nails were roughed in his hair, tangled, and the heels of your feet locked to keep him there. and if the edges of control would suffer to blur anymore, there'd be a trembling in him. a shake in his bones that spoke to the desperation driving the heat in his blood. 
and here, after the pass of so much time buried beneath him, you could just barely breathe. your soft moans having broken and breaking still, into the early morning to spill over his skin. and then comes the next assailment, after quick cuts of air filling the lungs, his teeth sinking into the plush of your bottom lip. the pricking of it working dangerously in tandem with the rutting set in his hips. 
and where he touches you now, these tender thumbing caresses, turning bold and undone once again. pressing in till he's guiding the line of your jaw. his lips pulling, slipping over harshly. till he's there, holding at your neck. feeling the rhythm of your pulse. beating hard and lively. a gentle squeeze that coaxes a tightening at your core about nothing. aching to feel something, if not his fingers or his mouth again then something else. anything. and he's squeezing again, firmer than his former testing, to revel in the steady build up of another undoing. 
because of course, you'd already seen pleasure before the morning, before the beaming in of the softened sun, and by seen meaning the brown burn of his eyes and then the bursting colorless bliss behind your own. the damp slope of your back having been pulled off the bed with a deep arch, a leg thrown over his shoulder as he dug his face between the heat of your thighs. dipping and slipping his tongue through till it prodded its way to lick at the flutter of your walls. and then his lips pursed, deep kisses led with tongue, "how long you been like this", he'd asked. his voice beautifully bruised by the morning. coarse and deep. heavy palms pushing into the meat of your thighs, gripping over your light trembling to pry you open. 
"since last night". 
and he'd watched in his full view. the way your pussy clenched about nothing. feening for his touch. messy and blooming still as your clit had continued then to swell. his mouth pooling wet, till he'd let the sticky spit drip for a faithful addition. 
he'd kissed your inner thighs. trailing north. lips meeting your hot supple skin till he'd found himself hovering teasingly over your clit. your fingers curled into pillows, waiting. "wet and needy for hours. just sittin' with all this tension huh?" kitten licks to the nervy pearl of your clit and you'd melted fast into the sheets. a moaning mess and just near a deep trembling. and the heat of his breath had coaxed another heavy bout of throbbing, about the aching in your core and just at the base of your spine. and so the heel of your foot had pushed into the ripple of muscle at his back to do something other than tease. but all he did then was chuckle and rush his nose in. the heady note of your arousal forcing the simmer of his blood to blister wild. filling his nose till it'd settled in to where he could mindlessly rut into the sheets. the soft fabric a horrible excuse for friction against his cock. 
and when the teasing had been more than he could tolerate, he'd stuffed his tongue deep. savoring the taste of arousal and licking hungrily against the winding in your hips. the air then thick and warm. dampening already dampened skin. the slurp of his mouth lewd as you roughed his head impossibly closer. 
he'd moaned. groaned viciously. a break up from his chest bristling the air. the thickness of his beard caught against your skin. 
but that had been sometime ago, before sunny morning light and breezy rolling curtains. now he'd found your mouth again, licking in as heavily as he did between your legs. his palm against your neck, squeezing to control the smooth take against your lips. sloppier this time. this messy wet coupling filled with the taste of what he'd so greedily lapped up before. 
thankfully you had no where to be. no obligations or prior engagements. nobody would have to ask about the coarse shape of your voice. or the dizziness in your eyes. about such modest clothing in spring weather. or about why your disassociations were so often. you'd have to explain that you were thinking about him. of roman. thinking about the silky fall of his hair cascading against the tough muscles of his shoulder. about the thin layer of sweat shining from the morning glow. that slip of his tongue he always takes along his teeth. the flex of his belly and the determination in his eye. you'd have to tell them—maybe— about the working of his hands. bruising and calculating  in their approach. 
they'd surely respond with envy right? a longing that could not be relieved. 
when the explanation comes, of how easily his lust slipped into his love. possession this tumultuous flooding. your body slipping into that delicate position of submission. pillows stuffed under your hips for comfort. face sinking into the tenderness of the sheets. there would be a lot to explain, so much so that it'd be worth more not to share. to kiss and not tell. you'll keep it all for your memory. for those little bouts of disassociation, where you think of him. of the brutal take his fingers give your thighs. kneading in that perfect little arch. the one all for his viewing pleasure.  your pussy a mess still from his mouth, clenching in anticipation as he hears you whine impatiently. humming as he feels his chest swell. that deep welling of pride. 'mine', he thinks to himself. his knee bent and his dick feeding in cautious.
measured and fair. enjoying the shake in your limbs and the gripping your fingers take to the sheets. giving in to him. 
and the easy work of his hips only reveal just how absolutely ready you are for him. a wet sticky stroking in that knocks the wind from his chest. your body tight and yearning. his fingers grabbing at the wood build of the headboard to stabilize the brute forcing of his hips. 
your speechlessness all the confirmation he needs. your mouth hanging open, eyes screwing shut as each attempt to speak fails worser than the last. 
but his every word that cuts against the thick air leaves your heart to pound and your pulse to beat harsher. the dribble of arousal slicking to coat him lush but unmatched against his words. against the play of his pride off his tongue. these lewd musings as his cock went on throbbing and stroking against the warm vice of you. 
"you like getting fucked ragged huh?"
"you like me stretching your pussy"
"you love being a little hole just for me". 
and your nerves go on crazy. delirium taking hold as your body works its way in to the beginnings of release. "o' my God", like a plea off your tongue. 
and his chuckling is menacing. his hand forcing your back into the mountain of pillows beneath your hips. slipping in deeper with the steadiness he's maintained. perfect and fierce. 
"he ain't here babygirl. he don't need to know how messy i got you right now. it's just me. just me". 
tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @spritelucozade @venusesworld @gomussy @alyyaanna
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333creolelady · 28 days
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BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out.
When’s the next chapter of Fallen 4?
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333creolelady · 1 month
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Thanks so much for that
crying, laughing, loving, lying - being comfortable is no good
pairing: roman reigns x angel (black oc) warning: this little chapter is all angst and unfortunately barely features angel. but i'm giving backstory!! no other warning besides swearing and talks of divorce. authors note: i love imperfect characters. so yummy. word count: 1700
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roman loves his job. he loves the campus. and he loves his office —which to him, despite seth's modernistic sneering, is wholly traditional—outfitted tirelessly to suit a timeless sense of taste. dark wood furnishings and overly warm lamp lights. deep shelf walls and old brass ceiling fans. the neat clutter of sports paraphernalia surrounding unread midterm papers —which detailed in their own ways and intellectual fashions, the steady rise of sociopolitical tensions of pre-world war-two society through a 1936 olympic games lens — and once looked over defensive plays meant for forthcoming football games. and this here was his little heaven, his peace, but said peace was being tainted. squandered and spat on. because of all the days he'd chosen to settle in at the office on campus versus doing work from home, she, had stopped by to see him this day. to parade around that pitiful frowning in her lips and the beautiful, un-useable ring she'd never bothered to just get rid of.
and he was very specific about not getting it back. about not wanting it back. about her even selling it, if thats what she wanted. since she'd always done what she wanted anyways. what difference would it make if she sold the eighteen karat in exchange for whatever dress or lamp or table caught her eye? roman really couldn't give less than a shit what she exchanged it for, just as long as he'd never have to see it again. because all the memory is stored there, in the all those beautiful cuts of diamond. but then again, as he said to himself, 'amina does what she wants', including showing face when showing face was exactly what he didn't need. 
he seems to be the only tired one in all this. the only struggling survivor, hell the only survivor really. amina's face feening to look written in a perpetual state of guilt which was complete, utter bullshit. but then again disingenuous was her forte. and roman was sure that the divorce lawyer was the happiest they'd ever been. maybe even eating off the money they'd made at the expense of his failed marriage. but who knew. at this point, who fucking knew. 
his glasses give the ring clarity. a shine. making his jaw twitch and his foot shift till his knee jumps. all of which are involuntary. and this burns his core, the very base of his belly, because why does the discomfort take him so wholly?   unsullied and lacking compassion as it travels his skin. 
he can feel her eyes fixing into him. screwing hot over every line and detail of his freckled face as she waits. and oh does roman make her wait. letting the silence drown the room till theres nothing but the whipping spin of the ceiling fan and the warm lamps singing with a buzz.
"are you gonna say something?"
and all he can remember is his bed. the distress of the sheets and the boiling heat in his body. her moaning and then the absolute fright. the guilt as she forced her body away into the wall, the sheets surrounding her, drowning her up to her neck. his fingers cold from the breeze. 
the ring still on her finger. why even keep it on?
something in roman's skin flares. a burning irritation. an anger bought on by the existence of anger itself. because why should he be reduced to something this wild and ill-controlled? why should he be the one suffering, feeining stability. why should a simple ring bother him so much. he was, is, better than this, better than the pity written in her eyes. he hated this. why didn't she just fucking sell the damn ring. 
"hows terry doing?", that name like poison on his tongue. the whole memory of it coming up to dry his throat till he's tasting bits of bile. his fingers flexing as he takes to fingering over the stacks of papers at his desk. "still enjoying my headboard?" 
"don't do that...", amina's eyes averting. guilt, guilt and more guilt. "...don't, don't bring him up like it's on him". 
"oh?". a scoff but a laugh too. disgust and amazement. but he's irritated too. surprised. "is this accountability? are we in the end times finally?" 
she sighs exhausted. "roman". 
"amina", exhausted too but wryly so. to dig into her skin in any way he could. 
and when she takes her beat, which he finds annoyingly dramatic, staring into his eyes with all the sincerity drawn up from her gut to say "i'm sorry", he still can't find the will to care. 
and he tells her as much.
"i. don't. care", pushing the ring with his finger over toward the edge of his desk. the fast motion threatening to knock it off the surface if not for amina snatching it mid drop. "take the ring back. pawn it. sell it. shove it in an envelop and burn it", rising from his seat to take a stack of book at the side of his desk to the deep shelf wall. his body tall and wide and rife with anger. "i don't give a shit. i don't want it". 
he can hear her shifting to get up too. her heels clicking small. cautioned steps. not so far but not too close. and now he's sees that's just been the regular state of affairs for everything concerning them. an arms distance of romance. 
"it belongs to you". 
one of the books tighten in his hand. a hard cover stress ball. "the simple fact, that i keep saying i don't wan't it, and you keep shovin' it in my face, really just lets me know you’re here to twist the knife". he shelves the books impatiently, the slotting of them ending, each, with a thud into the wood. "just give me this one thing. listen to me this one time". 
amina takes her turn to bristle. to advance at him and laugh. mirthless and mocking. 
"you wanted the wedding in the summer, so we planned it for july. you wanted to move back home, so i followed you", each click of her heel harsh against his office floors. straining to creak till it's edging into his skin. "you wanted the bigger house and you didn't want me to work and you didn't want me to hang around certain men. i always listened to you". 
'no', roman thinks. whipping away from the shelf. his ears scorching. "wrong", his pointing finger toughing into his chest. "i didn't want you around terry because he was a dog in fucking heat every time you were near him. and everything was always negotiable. i never forced anything". his blood pumping sharp and wild. "you liked me making decisions. you liked being taken care of. i made shit a playground for you, and you ran it to hell till you got caught". 
"negotiable? really?", amina's voice shrill and wavering. "like its a fucking business deal? well so much for a fucking merger of equals”. the ring clutched in her fist, her balled fingers pushing into his chest as she clicks up to him. no longer an arms length away. "you just knew that you knew what was best all the time". 
and when he refuses to accept her forcibly pushing against his chest, the ring falls. 
"and the one thing i didn't know?", his face a breath away from hers. the warmth of vanilla filling his nose. making his screen cringe and his jaw tighten. "that my wife was getting fucked cervix deep in my bed by terry, every other weekend since the night of our wedding". 
"it wasn't every other weekend". 
he laughs. from his belly and with a soft trembling in his nerves. his body uncomfortable still. bothered by the shake of his own anger. "but it was in my bed, in the sheets i bought".
she sneers. her eyes rolling harsh.
"everything with you is always, i and me". 
"yes amina", his tone patronizing. "because you cheated on me. you never even tried", his head shaking. "im not the villain in this". 
her eyes glisten. welling to threaten the breaking out of tears. 
"i had no voice. no say. no room to make mistakes with you. everything was always handled. i couldn't breathe". 
"why not say something?"
"you wouldn't have listened". 
he scoffs. "you don't know that", walking briskly to his desk. collecting the stacked papers to shuffle them inside the thick leather of a messenger bag. he needs desperately to leave. to come from under the thick air of the room. "because you never considered trying. and thats the one thing you can never say i didn't do. i always tried to make you happy. making things comfortable". 
"being comfortable isn't this good thing you keep making it out to be". 
he was over it. over the heat boiling his skin. over the aching in his chest. the lumping in his throat. the sharp pricks in his eyes. the mindless way his jaw twitched to tighten. and he was over seeing amina. he needed something liquid, strong and relieving. and he had papers to grade, he didn't need this. not now. not ever again. 
"if no one has ever told you before, i need you to know that you are filled with a concerning amount of bullshit". 
amina snatches up the things she came to his office with. being sure to leave the ring. "well look at us being two peas in a pod". 
her heels click out of his office. the silence enveloping him again. his shoulders heavy and his eyes tired, from the lateness of the day and the threat of tears. 
and the ring is still there. still and unmoving. his fingers curling to fist but lacking the heart to pluck it from the floor. 
his phone buzzes. angel's name popping up against the screen. a warmth fighting greatly to overtake him as he opens up an image she's sent, but it fails to do anything worthwhile. the chill in his bones icing over so easily that his nerves feel beholden to deaden with a cooling. 
text message | angel : ready when you are
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and the heart to reply was void in him. more piqued that amina had destroyed his mood so much that it'd left him hollow enough to leave you unanswered. and God was the urge there, just not great enough to overcome the anger pushing deep in his skin. 
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333creolelady · 1 month
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Arsema Thomas as Lady Agatha Danbury in Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story (TV Mini-Series, 2023).
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