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[333creolelady]

"you close sweetheart?", the term breaking into your skin uncomfortably. the sweetness of it odd and unusual. the sincerity hard to handle, leaving you wedged into silence. something he doesn't like. something he quite hates.

we’ve had many conversations about my suspicions of him being absolutely disrespectful. I see a glimmer here. I am MOST intrigued!

#mytheory #he’saslappah! #possiblespitter?#degradationkinkloading?

heat

pairing: cm punk x reader warning: explicit content below. yes, me indulging myself again. filth. minors dni pls. authors note: nothing really. just fully invested in the brainrot right now. word count: just a little 600er tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @2-muchsauce

there is nothing particularly ceremonious about this. his teeth feathering your ear, a graze to heated skin before the violent prick of it. a sinking in as he pulls. an exacting pain. something like a grudge. fingers ringed with cool metal and tattooed and handling your throat. a grip there formed with intent. to control. to steer and regulate the force of your hips. body delirious and sweet feeling as you melt into lust. the tiny cram of these supply closet tryst benefitting only the rush of adrenaline born from a terrible contempt shared for one another. it is the only thing shared. that and your penchant for pain. for little nipping tears into the body and the harsh work of his hand about your throat. 

and the juxtaposition is jarring. his confusion laced with amusement always. "you're a fuckin hypocrite if i've ever seen one", his voice coarse. words breathing hot into your skin. the birth of a deep throb in your spine at the noise of him. the slip of his tongue jutting over to wet his lips, slipping against your ear. a moan trembling faint. "all that sell out bullshit you keep spewing about me, around the locker room". the air funneling to your lungs, waning. head swimming. a featherweight feeling. delirium pure. 

and he feels delicious. hard and mean and thick. his body still and oddly patient as he lets you work yourself to release. lets you drive yourself to madness as you fuck against him. a low, unstable moan, dropping off breathy as it leaves you. the harsh rhythmic pulse in your clit a simple precursor to the bright spill of release that awaits you. 

"but look at you", he taunts. laughing dirty. mocking. his mouth ghosting its touch along your neck. a simple little kiss that works in opposition to his thoughts. "sittin and fuckin yourself so prettily on me". 

you do well in tainting the floor. arousal dripping lazily. a slick line from your pussy as it goes, tipping off to collect at your clit before it releases to the floor. the stretch of him, mind numbing in the best way. the feed in of him this sweet splitting open that aches your belly. a deep coiling there that works fervently to be undone. 

a steady tread upon a tight rope. the build before the break. your skin damp and his lips suckling your skin. the high palpable enough that your tongue throbs to taste it. 

"i-", the brilliance of words, of stones and little dagger sharp phrasings all done away with. "fuck", drawn and desperate. breath hitching as he sucks harder. the gift of a bruise. 

his free hand smoothens till its sweeping around and down sweltered skin. a slow venture over the supple plain where your inner thigh meets the mess of your pussy. deft, long, fingers finding the pearl of your clit. a tender roll of his touch there, wet and persistent. "you close sweetheart?", the term breaking into your skin uncomfortably. the sweetness of it odd and unusual. the sincerity hard to handle, leaving you wedged into silence. something he doesn't like. something he quite hates. "i'm talking to you", his fingers pinching. that bundle of nerves caught sharply between the action of it. slips of pain and loads of pleasure rippling about.

"yes", you give. like a sob. a plea. "yes". 

"c'mere", his mouth searching for yours. lips angling to meet his. hot tongue sweeping in. a tender slick twist as he rolls over your clit still. "let me help you some". his body flushing you tight against the wall. a wet lush stroking in as he goes. warm and hard still as he works his hips. 

his throat hums. dick feeling the deep tremble in your body as you step into the beginnings of a release. your voice bright and high pitched as you plead for him. as you call his name. 

"atta girl", he gives. delicate and consuming. a temporary wasting away of that faithful contempt.

[333creolelady]

Only she ^ 👆🏽 can make pure filth feel like ur reading a scripture

sweet things

pairing: cm punk x black reader warning: filth. me indulging myself. minors dni pls. explicit content blow. authors note: he's gotta stop it with the donuts during the press conference. like i can't deal. word count: 1300 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake (if and when i write more punk in the future, let me know if you'd like a tag!!!!)

his indulgences are born from bouts of mischief. sweetening his blood after his actions sour another's. doling out his rewards and punishments on the basis of who he thinks worthy of them. and drew tore is fucking arm. delighted in his suffering even. a fire lit in the straightedged superstars eyes thereafter. so he believed this mischief, this little evil to be true. the scottish wrestler deserved every bit of that nasty, tart, sour taste of incompletion. and punk would celebrate with his little show of confectionary treats every time. nonchalance riddling his tone as the cameras recorded and flashed. questions thrown and waved away as he reveled in the taste of victory. because the donuts would always be a show of strength. a teasing performance of indulgence only taken after the exercise of his hatred. a spoil after battle. the tips of his fingers meeting his tongue to suckle and lick the remnants of sugar off his skin. 

but his indulgences never ended. even after the doing away with of cameras and questions. bright lights and the roaring scream of fans chanting his name. his urge to be rewarded for his mischief flowed over, boundless and rushing and possessive. finding himself worthy of reward. 

his tongue, his palate seeking other things. a desperation clinging to his bones evenly as he rushes to make the trip back home. your skin supple and sweet smelling. waiting to be indulged in. 

text message| in coming: im almost to you. be ready please

text message | outgoing: ready for what exactly?

text message | in coming: for me. 

the gentle marriage of silk and lace. a shimmering powdery pink pastel over warm brown skin. something indicative of the sweetest treat. thats what he meant. and his requests were always given so pleasantly, never wanting to taint the air even as revenge sullies his blood. hot tongue slipping into your mouth fast, with a clear cut urgency. lust in his blood pure enough that it fills him to the brim. his movements quick and near brutal. touch on the precipice of nailing into your skin. hungry eyes taking in the beauty of his latest reward. taking a knee into the push carpet as he pulls you to the edge of the bed. hands warm as he goes. digging into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. 

lips wet as they kiss. a hint of a lazy sort of lust as they bleed into the skin. time illusive. slowing for him and his desires. tongue slipping up to lick. nipping with teeth and his fingers kneading. blood sweetened, rushing before it boils headily. light little tremblings flaring up your body, knowing of this sort of touch. the possibility of pleasure enough to spark the beginnings of becoming undone. your fingers taking rooting in his not so slicked back hair. gentle and soothing, an encouraging touch that incites him to run his nose along the lace of your panties. daring teeth pulling, teasing. his grip tightening on your thighs, spreading them. 

he groans. the breath of it dusting over hot. body working to nestle into the sheets as it trembles in the wake of anticipation. a whimper breaking up soft. the tune of it pliant and asking. nails curling into his scalp. the point of his nose running faint over your clit. 

your body working on its lonesome. off the strength of lust and the beautiful ache imbedding its way under your skin. "if he keeps you coming home like this, then maybe i owe drew a thank you". a hiss playing through your teeth and he sinks into the skin. nipping and tugging at your inner thigh enough to feel the threat of pain.

a kiss there at such supple flesh, in the wake of a show of his little grudge. wet and tongue led. a silent punishment and apology. "he's an obsessive little bitch. letting him hear your voice won't do me any favors. it'll just encourage him to fuck with me more". 

you giggle. reveling in the placement of his lips on your skin. fingers pressing over your panties. a firm go against the lace that works to keep the steady rise of your arousal. hips canting forward into the teasing done by your own hand. "obsessed? you flew out the country on some petty shit. i think the feeling is mutual no?" 

a simple truth he can't afford to attest to, you're sure of it. invested too heavily in the pleasure mounting the temperature of your body. a sweet radiating heat that draws him forward. wetting his tongue anew and setting a twitch about his hands. hunger ready to be remedied.

"he deserved it", he cuts out. his lips brushing over your fingers as you sooth against the lace still. anticipation dressing his tone. "let me see you". 

"say please". 

his eyes bold and dilated. peering up and slipping over your face. over the plush of your lips. "please". 

and the reveal aches his teeth. livens his penchant for sweet things once more. your fingers deft as they peel your panties to the side. a slow, ceremonious unveiling. your greed for such consuming attention great as it flows about your skin. touch dipping to collect your arousal. coating prettily along your fingers. sinking in to the heat of your pussy before it retreats to rub against the pulse of your clit. a throbbing little thing of a pearled nub, slick and pink and glistening as it calls to him. calls to the work of his tongue. a moan dripping off your mouth, his eyes bewitched. the heaviness of his gaze pressing in to a suffocating degree. "c'mere", words slipping sweet into the air before it floods his ears. your fingers pushing tenderly into his mouth. touch stroking on his tongue. allowing him the opportunity to taste. 

a little action that only seems to weaken him well. lost and groaning as he savors your fingers. impulse shaping lax and patient. that urgent spirit of mischief broken down to the bone till he falls into something new and subduing. 

the gentle work of your fingers slipping away to trail up the fever of your body. nudging and tweaking at the sore awful ache of your nipples. a heady, intoxicating swim of a sensation rolling about your head. throat singing, drawing out something lovely as it moans, his tongue laying over to lick through your folds. tasting to savor deeper. to indulge. another little spoil after victory. his tongue curling thick as it presses in, deft and working patient. stroking along a heavy clench, arousal collecting messily as it drips and steeps along his palate. 

"fuck me". a thin little cry. a plea that breaks over his skin. fingers impatient, holding your thighs to keep them open for him. for that sugary violence he doles out so easily. your body greedy for release, hips working to form a rhythm against the heat of his mouth. pleasure holding over your bones so good it forces you to tremble. clit aching and desperate for more. "...love how sweet your tongue gets for me...", delicate words passing over the thick air. like kindlings for a fire meant to burn the mantle in his belly. 

your body damp, sticking to the gentle cool sheets. words melting to nothing. reduced to fragile, high pitched chanting phrases. "yesyesyes", and the cutting gasp of a breath before it trails out and draws deeper. coarse and sultry. hips rutting forward. his tongue steady and invasive. a sharp "fuck", cutting up harshly before it dissipates. his lips suckling at your clit. tattooed fingers slipping in to have their fill of feeling how good and tight the clench of your pussy is. a curling, experienced touch that works to give you a delicate stretch. 

the spilling over of his reward. the richness of it tonguing over and sweeping messy. drunk off the headiness of your arousal. off the broken song of your pleasure. skin soft to the touch and smelling sweet still. a perfume staining the skin that encourages the work of his mouth. a performance made to satisfy his penchant for sweet things. 

[333creolelady]

send this to ten other bloggers that you think are wonderful. keep the game going, make someone smile!!! 🌸

💋💋

[333creolelady]

So glad that I have tomorrow off so I can catch up on all of the wonderfully delicious fics I've been tagged in.

also gonna catch up on @333creolelady 's LOTBB so I can be all caught up when she posts part 8. If y'all haven't read it...please do. It's so good!

[333creolelady]

This chapter probably got the most visceral reaction from me thus far. This story has me in my fucking FEELINGS uhkay. There’s something deeply nostalgic about it more so than any of your other stuff. I’ve never connected with a “reader” type of story in this way. I feel her avoidance like it’s my own and it’s only shined a light on some things I most certainly need to work on IRL. Buttt…That’s besides the point.

The connection you made between readers father and Cody and the way she almost falls into this role of domesticity and care in his presence has not been unnoticed. The connection you’d made almost feels like when you catch yourself acting in the way your parent did and you catch yourself in that moment. It feels unavoidable at times to end up acting like your parents. “Should I be worried”—genius. I really like Cody..I adore him actually, despite him not being very present in this chapter. You complete the circle of this story from past and present so flawlessly.

The way you characterize Roman makes him seem like a dark angel almost. You’ve made him a force and that’s extremely hard to do for anyone who isn’t aware. This sort of story could only come from someone who’s heavily studied his persona on stage. Thissss

“ it seems even thinking of the devil causes him to appear” and the anxiousness i feel as I visualize the sound of his boots walking down the hallway and getting closer. Ohhhh don’t make that serve.

“ the heat of him, then, different as it sought to consume. brazen in how it dared to bring about affection. not like now, this flame threatening to flare, to show the lengths and widths of its destruction.” I already texted you about this. Amazon lobotomy kit in route

#yearnerhours

Btw

“ you got some audacity too though, considering i could've half assed that clean up enough for a little infection to settle in". … I laughed out loud. Like yesss let’s play the bitter bitch games. Gag it !

“ and the way he holds you here, cradling your neck just at your nape. keeping you where he wants you to be. his eyes falling over slowly—at your nose and your cheeks and your lips—lingering as if he's gone down the path of a deep remembering”

He’s a sick bastard !! What is his problem?? Like I’m losing my mind at this shit. I have so many mixed emotions about this dude idk….

tanks of blood (6) - the trouble was always here - part two

pairing: biker!roman reigns , biker!cody rhodes (mentioned) warning: mentions of violence and explicit descriptions of blood. dialogue and descriptions pertaining to guns. roman talk to someone without being a jerk challenge. slight non-con moment but turns consensual quickly (its a kiss)! authors note: if ya'll ever watch sons of anarchy... you’ll know, im stealing little pieces of plot lmaooooooooo. imma give yall a spicy little flashback after this, i promise. will also attempt to not make the following chapters as long. just so that they remain relatively digestible. i'm working on being more precise with words. all the medical stuff in this chapter is half done research and my own brain. this chapter picks up where i left off in chapter 5. ALSO… if you want or dont want tags on this fic let me know! word count: 3k tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @sortudademais @gg-trini @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce

-wednesday night. the first week in june-

that marriage of ignorance and bliss did not last long. having to suffer as a lone soldier amidst silent dinner table battles. displeasured dispositions and their eyes performing like the greatly sharpened edge of well smithed daggers. and then came compromise, toiling through the thick of it to wave it's white flag. a surrender of a promise. your mother and fathers union holding as much sanctity as a soon to die vehicle's tank, holding its last dregs of oil but whose fuel gauge reads empty. running still, a quick speed into the darkness, wheels tired and the road too coarse to bare. an abrupt end of the engine as it slips against the asphalt at full speed. a collision terribly par for the course. their rings fettered to their fingers, pretty diamond but a prison, making forever impressions upon the skin. that marriage of ignorance and bliss did not last long. dying with the useless wear of wedding rings, and redeclaring itself with the overwear of leather kuttes. 

because there was more to the life than just that simple enthusiasm for motorcycles. your father transforming before the eyes. leather slipping over his shoulders, not so dissimilar to the tough metal, shrilly chime of chainmail. custom rings taking their homes over the marred skin of his knuckles. fingers worn and always just barely healed. scarred from one brutal splitting open after another. his eyes working to harden. the keys to his bike clutched in hand. 

"should i be worried?", your mother asking right on time. examining his pace. the work in and change over of his demeanor. 

and he never answered. never dignifying her question enough to speak to it. because then the trouble would be true, so much so that it would live, breathing well to make room in their home. no. KG, your father, only ever lingered by the door, a slip in of hesitation before he turned to kiss your mother gracefully. the small appearance of a forever ago passion. an i love you without the weight of words. and then he went, heavy steps leading out the door. 

so its almost second nature. those faithful coming together of words. cody slipping on his leather near the door. shoulders squaring as the material adjusts to his body. demeanor unsoftened. the ease of the words as they leave you filling your stomach with a burdening weight. memory working tedious and so terribly true. 

"cody, should i be worried?" 

he sighs. cold blue eyes hesitating enough to take the time to commit your face to memory. his palm warm as it cradles your cheek. kissing you firmly before he leaves. 

-early friday morning. first week in june-

there was, is, and will never be a time too early or too late for violence. for blood and that faithful nerve warp of adrenaline. and maybe that's why the hospital is so easy. old, early moments in your youth, piercing your fathers skin with a needle, sewing together split skin as he washed his tongue with the burn of his favorite liquor. a warmth in his belly till the pain from the prick of your fixing turned numb. a simple pressure in the skin there at his arm, turning inevitably, to pressure in his leg, a slit at his thigh from a brawl with which he gave no further information. bruises and gashes and deep cuts to him, more by the day, by the year. near quiet grunts and the emptiness of the house loud enough to swallow you both whole. cleaning his marred skin and bandaging the area's as best you could. the slow to ease push and pull of his breaths. his hands smelling like iron as he cradled your face, mouth kissing your forehead. "thank you", but a whisper, before falling into sleep. 

maybe that's why the hospital is so easy. the color of blood and caked earth, the silver of knuckle rings and the black of over worn leather more familiar than summer green trees. 

text message | cody r: in an emergency. need your help. 

it shouldn't come as a surprise, but the sudden rush takes you all the same. a deep plunge of the heart in your chest, something odd creeping beneath the skin and fevered steps. making to call cody quickly. a ring, and then a second, before he's answering. breaths labored some as he goes. "can't say much about it but it's medical. how soon can you get to the clubhouse?" 

you assess the long hallway. the trauma unit, quiet. a squeak in your sneakers that makes you cringe as you move to collect things. only minutes from the end of your shift. "uhm, in like twenty minutes". a series of grunts and yells that indicate the messiness of a situation he's all to willing to abruptly rope you into. "cody what's going on?"

he sighs. his patience a thinning thread. "what did i say before about becoming an accessory?" 

"you gotta give me something", you stress. continuing an awfully secretive journey to where you could gather some other helpful supplies. "i can't just show up not knowing what for". 

"think the worst". 

"that doesn't help-"

the call dropping on his end. the angst sticking to your skin making room for an easy to settle in frustration. like you were an early twenty something again. attempting too diligently to remedy that divorce of ignorance and bliss. a tedious washing away and stitching together, performing so well now that the pungent smell of iron threatens to stain your skin again. and here does the soldier pay the price for wielding a double edged sword. for pensacola was home, is home, and forever will be home, the desire to return running too wild beneath the skin not to act on it. but there are things here. vicious rumblings above sunburned asphalt and the bitter steeping of blood between the cracks. the dross and the dregs that stick so loyally to the air and the skin just after a brutish performance of chaos too commonplace to live without it.

trouble taking up permanent residence, riding in over the clouds and rolling in with the heat. 

and the clubhouse looks haunted amidst the beginnings of the friday summer sunrise. the dark colored build of it dreary against the beauty of the sky. the heat yet to reach its full potential but your scrubs and the exhaustion of a twelve hour shift do all too well of making you live with that thin sheen of sweat breaking over your cheeks. your car parked not too far from the clubs neat line of stationed bikes. true in how they've always done well to remind you of the clubs presence. after so long, living here and far away, that grimy power behind the roar of an engine, ever inescapable. 

the clubhouse doors swing open as you make to leave your car. a small bag of supplies in hand as you rush up. cody's hand slipping at the low end of your back to guide you in. a small "thank you", leaving him breathy as you make way to pass through the double doors of the "church". a room that never seems to lose its luster from the looks of it. the sanctity of their meetings as important as the shine of a new chrome fender finish. men and their worried eyes flitting over your entrance as you approach the church table. seth laid out face down, with his pants at his ankles. his skin wet with sweat and an awful paleness. bloody cloths surrounding him and randy's finger lodged in where all the blood could possibly be spewing from. a small metal tin cup resting in the corner, holding the whole of a bullet. 

dean taps seth's cheek. waking him up a little less than tenderly. "look alive sweetheart, the doctor is here to see you". 

"nurse", you correct, to which dean just winks. 

cody and a host of club members file out through the double doors much to your pleasure. 

initial shock of your current state of affairs rolling off your shoulders as you settle into the routine of caring for the wound. gloves slipping on before you're tossing the box to dean. his take up of them swift and unquestioning. because it was never unusual to spend a night—especially in their youth—caring for cuts and bruises and wounds, before turning to do the same for another. a task as regular as breathing air. 

seth groans. the drawl of it stressing the pain in his leg. "i don't know if you've noticed but i went to some extreme lengths to see you", he jokes. his little laugh coarse and overworked by the weariness of getting shot. 

you laugh. an attempt to break the over work of tension in the air. "what an interesting way of saying you love me seth". sliding up to stand next to randy. his demeanor as quiet now as it was during richie's funeral. 

you look to dean. "once randy removes his finger, you're gonna help me pack the wound, and then i want you to keep pressure on it till i'm ready to wrap it". 

"you know what you're doing?", randy asks. the dark color of his eyes disrupted with little slivers of worry. 

"no randy, i just wear the scrubs for fun". peering up at the hard set of his face. older now but his visage still holding that silent menace to it.  

"can we banter when seth isn't bleeding out by the pint?", dean asks. so obviously done with the whole situation. 

"on my three", you start. the both of them coming to a shared focus. "one...two...three". 

thick blood springs upward, randy's finger dislodging quick. dean rushes in with your guidance, packing the wound as instructed. your hand taking the reins of the procedure as you allow dean a moment of reprieve. the little levee of seth's composure rupturing as his body goes taut, his mouth loose and lax as he curses his fill into the shined up wood of the church table. groaning wearily as dean holds the pressure against his legs, randy lifting it casually, allowing you to wrap the middle of his leg with a fresh dressing. a dead silent relief settling the room then after, before you're moving again. running on the extra dose of adrenaline. 

you discard your gloves, peeling them off your fingers. picking through your bag to give dean a bottle of pills. "vancomycin, it's an antibiotic", you start. "give him two now and another two later tonight. keep going with that dosage for no less than a week". 

"our lovely little savior". dean's boots heavy as he closes the distance to kiss your forehead. "thank you. go get cleaned up". 

randy gives a quieter acknowledgement. a simple nod of appreciation that does you just fine. the double doors of the church room creaky as they swing with your exit. all the worried faces you'd met upon your arrival, taking up every inch of the clubhouse. their bodies drowsy and torn through by the chaos of an oh so terrible possibility.

your feet mindless as they walk down the infamous hallway gallery of framed photos. your last walk through of the area filled with a particularly horrible play of strife. twisting the knob of one of many of the little dormitory rooms to access it's bathroom. a deep breath releasing as you make to wash your hands, a slow thorough trail up over your arms to rid your skin of seth's soon to dry blood. your scrubs somewhat ruined and your shoes showcasing nasty little streaks of red. 

but it is only exhaustion that takes you so brazenly. a sleepy sinking feeling in the body and nothing else. hands used to providing all the remedy's it can. 

well maybe not nothing else. a fast to slip in weariness amidst the quiet. because he couldn't be too far away, lurking to siphon what he could again of the air about you in a means of suffocation. that faithful ability once upon a time, a favorite of yours for how sweetly it sought to consume you, now possessing a quality that unfurls something disdainful in your belly. a prick of a man seemingly beyond reproach, what with his positioning among all the others. surely it was never your simple exit making him this mountain of hubris, that streak of his character impossible to climb and overcome for the sake of reasoning with him. or even for the lesser sake of some cordiality. it was so obviously everything else—the grime and the chaos—giving the once duller edge of his pride a sharper corner. enough to will him into an endless keep of a grudge. 

heavy thudding steps strip you clean of wandering anymore into thought. it seems even thinking of the devil causes him to appear. his disposition reminiscent of some weeks ago. shoulders squared and seeming too tall for you now to bare without feeling small. and he says nothing, attempting to take his kutte off without the inconvenience of pain but he grunts regardless. grimacing as he rids himself of his shirt as well. 

a gash running against his naked arm, almost like it's purposefully found a heap of muscle to tear into. wanting to humble the strength of him. blood caked and running down tawny skin. 

"i got grazed". 

voice tired but oddly delicate. like the weariness of it is making him just that more fragile. 

you point to the bathroom, eyes never really having the courage to part from him. "sit over there". 

and your feet rush. tunnel visioned as they make to gather whats left of your little collection of supplies. fingers feeling less sure, and your body teeming with something akin to an unworkable angst. a realization long ago understood, and buried for the sake of a then wanted peace, unearthing itself to bring about a renewed sense of understanding. for he has always been the manifestation of this double edged sword. of home and of violence. wielding itself always but never one without the other. the slip of his skin over familiar in its warmth. doing your resolve the greatest amounts of violence as you clean his wound tenderly. the double edge of him piercing so well that you feel the damning effects. his eyes sharp, cutting over your face in a silent means to examine. like the appraisal of a curious stranger attempting to settle within themselves the validity of your existence. 

the soft tender pads of your fingers remember him well. gloves and all. slight throbs that liven the nerves. 

"you came straight from work", more like a statement than a question. 

"i did". 

he flinches. his arm flexing as he bares the pain. "thank you for being here", he gives. “for seth", like a thankfulness that includes him would hurt his pride too much to be made known. 

"i'm sure that took a lot to say", you joke. feeling light in your head. drained of the will to keep up a proper guard. "you’re welcome though". 

a hum of an acknowledgment is the only thing he gives you. and in an effort to savor the easy going nature of the moment you keep yourself occupied with dressing the wound splitting his skin open. your work of caring for it doing well enough that the bleeding has stopped. memory faithful as it nags, the wound of a forever ago accident pulsing to life about your hand. the scars there still, though faded, serving as a reminder of the former things. the heat of him, then, different as it sought to consume. brazen in how it dared to bring about affection. not like now, this flame threatening to flare, to show the lengths and widths of its destruction. 

you finish. gloves in the waste basket. making tedious work of washing your hands. to rid the skin of such an indicative sensation. 

his body does well in blocking the bathroom door. the whole of him bigger than the last time you saw him. scrutiny set some in his gaze. trailing over the ink that lays permanent at your neck. 

"you still have it"

"it's a tattoo". feigning nonchalance as you dry your hands. "you never really plan to get rid of them". 

he smiles mirthless. "well y'know, i figured a cover up, for you, would be worth the pain". 

as in, forgetting him would be worth the pain. which couldn't be more further from the truth. 

"and here i am doing a nice thing", laughing tired. "still gettin hit with the bitterness", a slow easy step that leads you closer to him. the own brazen make of your actions suffering you to fall into the scent of him. the note of it strong even as it lives amidst the pungency of blood. "you got some audacity too though, considering i could've half assed that clean up enough for a little infection to settle in". 

"but you didn't".

"and why do you think so?" 

creaks against the floor. the weird pitch of it roughing up against your bones. his body closer, forcing your back against the wall. his thumb reaching to graze against the ink tattoo at your neck. pulse thrumming harshly at the play of his touch. 

body outdone by history. 

and the way he holds you here, cradling your neck just at your nape. keeping you where he wants you to be. his eyes falling over slowly—at your nose and your cheeks and your lips—lingering as if he's gone down the path of a deep remembering. 

"for the same reason you still got the ink". 

unable to ever let yourself part with it, with the history staining your skin. the prick of a needle and the pain of it made simple for a full and the most earnest performance of devotion. your breaths shallow, overwhelmed by the thought and the domineer of him. 

his thumb running to sweep at your skin. hot with an intention you can't place. 

you make to warn him. “roman-”

but his tongue is quick, works with a faraway familiar passion as it curls between the soft seam of your lips. exhaustion and adrenaline, an effortful pair as they go about the task of stripping away your resolve. a return of this sudden fever of a feeling as your tongue makes to snake against his. lapping lazily, a mindless seduction as you fall into old ways. his throat groaning, surely taken by his own bout of reminiscence. nails racking dull over his naked skin, over the taut muscle at his belly. his palms cradling your face to deepen his kiss in spite of the pain. leaving you little room to breathe, his body fastening you harshly to the bathroom wall. making to suffocate you with the flick of his tongue and the fire of his touch. 

his teeth prick you mean, biting into the supple flesh of your lip. suckling the pain with the tender pull of his mouth. 

the harshness of it causing a whimper to break. instinct taking hold. subdued in an instant. 

and it is only when he breaks for breath that you remember where you are. pushing at his tired body enough for a full separation. 

you leave saying nothing. out of the bedroom, down the hallway and through the clubhouse doors. letting the silence of it speak for you. 

lol we might need a roman pov after this huh… smh

[333creolelady]

Just shameful! 😬I seriously need to do better but I just moved guys. I’m in a new place and I’ve been writing. Chapter 8 is very close to being finished. I didn’t anticipate such a long break from writing LOTBB. If anyone is still out there waiting for an update just know that it’s coming. I wouldn’t leave a passion project like this unfinished. Thanks for the support and all the sweet DM’s about the story.

Hiii I'm sorry for asking for updates but I'm still so invested in LOTBB! Is the next chapter being released soon? Hope this ask finds you well🩷🩷

No problem ! Yes I’ve been slowly working on it. Expect the last two chapters to be released by the end of this month. ❤️

[333creolelady]

Hope the family is doing alright

"My dad was an hard man because he had to be" - Joe Anoa'i (Roman Reigns)

[333creolelady]

Need

he's so real for this 😌

[333creolelady]

Beast

A/N: my lovely @harmshake asked me what the "beast mode" that journalists attribute to Roman is for me. I have a clear idea, because he has already talked about it, but I wanted to try something in a sort of headcanon/imagine, a type of fanfiction I hadn't tried yet here. [warnings: 18+ smut, jealousy, protective prompt}

Between the two of you, the one with the more visceral attitude was you and it was not surprising considering every woman is forced to fight for everything on a daily basis. Roman, not the Tribal Chief the crowds was used to, was a man it was simple to feel at ease, great listener, good manners and hypercritical mind on a personal level. He was a mama's boy, not because he was spoiled - even if it was true -, but in his ability to understand, give and care, qualities every man should have and which unfortunately were lacking in most boys. However there were moments, scenarios, in which he too gave in to the less soft side of himself and when he finally snapped, it was like facing a beast that had forgotten had been tamed.

#Jealousy

Your relationship was his top priority, his jealousy didn’t come from insecurity or doubts and for this reason perhaps it would have been more appropriate refer to it as territoriality, rather than jealousy. Seeing you admired, at work as much as in private life, filled him with satisfaction and pride, for him there was no pedestal too high for you. When admiration became something more though, that part of him less inclined or not at all to tolerate woke up in full force, pushing him to mark and protect what was his without worrying about anything else.

The overly insistent glances put him on alert, the whispered proposals in an effort to lure you away from him made his mouth twitch, but it was the attempts to invade your personal space that drove him crazy. He knew you were capable of taking care of yourself, he never stood by though and watched when some mr. nobody put a bad idea into practice and it didn't matter if there was too many drinks or an agreement between sides where it was necessary stay cordial to justify it. It was then that his hands found you, sliding along your back or pulling you by his side in an intimate touch to show he was the only one chosen for such a privilege. You would have recognized him just by the touch, even blindfolded, but it wasn't necessary because with his hands, all his presence came: solid body pressed close to reassure, shield you and intimidate anyone who thought could get over him and his voice, so soft, caring in your ears as he made sure you were okay and threatening to anyone unfortunate enough to deserve direct confrontation.

- "Back off" – the target almost never understood what was happening, staring in silence.

- "You heard me. Take a step back, two and three, all the way until you get back from wherever you came from. Or maybe you want a lil help, hm boy?"

The few who had tried to resist intimidation, even assert themselves, had regretted it the moment next, ending up in a match they could never have won and which they quit at the first serious grab as you said your prayers to bring Roman back to his senses.

#Dangers

As with jealousy, his patience reached the bottom even when you found yourself, as he said, in potential dangerous situations. Organizing and planning was part of your job duties, it wasn't often that something was beyond your control, but unexpected events happened on trips and was when plans changed that Roman didn't like it, especially if he wasn't physically there with you to deal with whatever what’s going on. A delayed flight at an inconvenient time, an impromptu hotel in an unsafe city triggered a chain reaction you most often tried to avoid, managing it without warning him or giving too many details. But Roman seemed to have a sense, reading between lines and then calls and messages began, to know where you were and what or why was happening, ending with an epochal argument on the phone when you finally confessed - even if in the end it was resolved all for the best -.

- "This isn't up for discussion! Im going to come between you and anything bad in your damn life! You should have told me!"

It wasn’t a mania, but real concern and the only reason why you put up with his outbursts. The idea in his mind of not being there when you could have needed him made his blood boil, see things more dramatic than expected. You had gotten into real problems years before, a few bad moments that had taught you a lot and for which he had jumped on the first available flight or in a car, forgetting to rest even after too many hours of work, consuming miles to even reach the other coast of the country. The beast that thundered, opening his mouth, going head-to-head against everything and everyone, turning everything and everyone upside down, had made you feel small then, but it had come to your rescue.

#Job

Comments didn't affect him, he had heard too many boos during his career to be impressed, but he channeled disappointment into his training and it was when he gave everything. For Roman it wasn't about preparing, it was about trying, testing his endurance, pushing himself for when the moment came. His returns had always been epochal events, changing the direction of the entire industry. His impact was unique because regardless of whatever people's opinions were out there, Roman had always left his mark for better or worse and he did it knowing he could. You supported him, assisted him as you could, but there was a part of you always worried it could have been too much and things could fall apart.

He had never really fallen though and if it had happened, his mindset had put Roman back on his feet immediately, proving to you over the years that nothing could really bring your man down even fighting the worst challenges. When the goal became clear in his mind, when he focused, there was nothing and no one that could push him down another path or make him change his mind. He was ready to crush any obstacle, overcome limits that he himself had previously drawn, see what others could not. Roman tenacity went beyond physical strength, it was mental, psychological, a terrifying confidence that brought out the part of him that made him so special. He didn't believe he could do anything, he knew he was capable of it and in one way or another Roman always found a way to do it, shaping himself and everything around him to realize his vision. Another species of man on another level of greatness.

- "Is perfect, take a break" – you tried to convince him and he nodded, but you saw it in his eyes even before you heard it.

- "One more time."

#Love

Sweaty body, heavy breathing, a man working hard to satisfy you.

You had your love adventures, but comparison with those who had been there before and Roman wasn't even a comparison. You had never felt so much love and lust in someone's arms, never had you felt so precious and fragile at the same time, like a flower pressed between the pages of a book, while he crushed you between the sheets. Sloppy kisses on your lips and delicate ones on your forehead, hands moving a lock of hair from your face and then sinking into the flesh of your thighs, turning you upside down as he pleased.

- "I'mma fuck my name in your head sweetheart, don't run, you ain't going nowhere" – promises that sounded like threats and made you tremble, a wave of pleasure washing over as you felt him go deeper – "you're stuck with me, quit it."

You whimpered, clinging to him like your life depended on it, shaking your head, begging, but Roman knew you better than you knew yourself and his grin always came right on time. When you felt like you were at your limit, he would increase the pace, pounding until he took air out of your lungs to kiss you and fill them with himself. Your body melted in his big hands, tears and sweet moods, climaxes following one another to the rhythm of your heartbeats and his brown eyes adoring and consuming you. Moans then became silent, pleasure intense to the point you couldn't feel anything else, you curled up giving in, abandoning yourself to his imperative desire to claim you. Only then did Roman slow down, bending you over, going beyond that sweet spot that he had tortured for the whole night, chasing his own pleasure this time and the perversion in his mind that made him go feral to fill you with his seed. Then he buried his face in your neck, between your breasts or behind your shoulder blades, hips pressed against your skin, nutting right into your soul and everything around you both fell silent to let the beast finally rest.

Tag squad: @sunnyfleur23 @alyyaanna @expert-texpert @romanreignsdefencesquad @romanstheory @claymorexpunisher @keybladeofsteel @msbigredmachine @nayys-world @gobbersworld @utika151209 @cumxxslutt @civildawn @romanmydaddy @triscillal @papireigns-05 @helensanders92 @darqchilddaydreamz @meggylynnloves @unfriendly--blvck--hottie @nicolewoo @joannasteez @reignsx @kianaleani @daguenoire @extra-11 @333creolelady @snowpanda18 @brattyfics @mzv11 @romanreignseater @dreamsinfocus @vebner37 @depressedneedingrevenge @cyberdejos2 @mahi-wayy @jxtina-86 @harmshake @southerngirl41 @smile1318 @headoftheetable @sortudademais @bookuce

[333creolelady]

The Pacific islands are a group of islands located in the Pacific Ocean. Samoa specifically is located in the south central Pacific Ocean. Samoans descend from austronesian people. They are also considered indigenous to the land much like the people who make up the other islands in the PI’s. I felt like I should say this because I’m seeing some strange stuff.

[333creolelady]

Chapter 8 is halfway done. Chapter 9 is written in pieces. Everything is going well and I’ve been having a spark of creativity lately. I appreciate the patience ❤️

[333creolelady]

Cody…. OUUUUUUUU BABBYYYYYYYYY. BAE I LUH YOUUUU. YOU MY EVERYTHANG *sexy red voice *.

Yeah… this chapter was needed. You told me that you would convert me and you did. He’s…so…idek. A sweetie pie?! …..Which is polar opposite of the violence I’m sure he and everyone else in that club is, has, and will be capable of. He’s sharp too. He ate Roman the FUCK up. Shut his ass up YAWP.

Absolutely love how giddy he gets when he goes over for dinner. Buddy was daydreaming about a house and a picket fence in that moment. And thank goodness he finally got some play.

Your characterization feels very authentic. He has a sweetness to him. Cody himself and his persona on TV—as edgy and abrasive that his persona is (the bright hair/colors/flashiness) he has a kindness to his eyes. He looks like someone who thinks deeply about things but doesn’t necessarily voice them and you did well with incorporating that. Love the connection they have through loss. It seems like Cody gets a more stripped down version of reader. The fact that he could bring up her mother without her immediately closing up. Everyone deserves the kind of relationship where they leave their bullshit (and leather *wink wink*) at the door. I like the space and emotional safety that they’ve built for each other.

And he’s firm with her too. He didn’t just eat Roman up but her too. He fixed her attitude with the quickness and it was needed. Almost like a (you can try that on everyone else but not with me). Every moment of this chapter was intimate.

I almost want to add that you I like how you’re making a clear contrast between Cody and Roman’s attitudes/habits/personalities. You mention that Roman can basically swallow up the light in the room with his nasty attitude having ass😂😂😂 but no really— it was brilliant. Because during the reunion chapter, Roman did JUST THAT. Much like irl and the characterization of his wrestling persona. Roman will flip in a minute and he has a way of almost leading you into false safety. He’ll laugh and smile to throw you off and then basically destroy you. But nothing gets past you because you’re a brilliant writer.

I just loved this chapter. It was a literary feast for the senses. Im excited to see what’s in store and something tells me it’s gonna get a lil more angsty before it can start to get better. You’re the only person I’ll endure the pain for 😂

tanks of blood (5) - the trouble was always here

pairings: biker!cody rhodes x black reader, biker!roman reigns x black reader (mentioned) warnings: FLUFF! descriptions that imply stalking. explicit descriptions of blood and violence. dialogue and descriptions pertaining to guns. cody being kinda simpy (he’s so adorable) roman being a jerk still (he’ll come around) authors note: a present day chapter!!! w/ a full cody perspective because we haven't gotten that yet. finally a little cody and roman interaction. thanks for 1700 followers btw!!! word count: 8800 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @sortudademais @gg-trini @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce

...m'not tryin to cause trouble for you...

...you don't wanna cause trouble anymore...

cody had felt the premature slight of his own words then. those few weeks ago, amongst the wordless overly cool diner air and lukewarm food. and then felt it again as he said it. your eyes tired and cautious—dim and slipping into sleep just after the end of a twelve hour shift—suddenly veering off into something less meek and weary.  indignation a bright flare as it woke you up to be less inviting. and cody was still suffering the trickle down effects of that somewhat exhaustive empty diner reunion, along with the onslaught of a new torrential down pour of bullshit caused by his president's drunken tantrum. the diner situation was a mild disagreement. a brakeless drive of frustration that he meant, but did not mean to say. and he'd said the thing that you'd always hated. "don't be dense". a stupid fucking move on his part. it made maneuvering the funeral—God rest's richie's soul—a few days after, awkward and God awful. cody hoped it was something worth leaving to cool off. a dissipation that would make way for a fresh slate. and he'd made headway, little as it was but he was getting his footing again with you. but roman. oh his president and fearless fucking leader. he just had to muddy the water.

and all of that humble, earnest desire—despite the hesitancies—to return back into the fold that was the world of the bloodline, to go generally unscathed, had been destroyed. by whiskey-beer inspired words and the wrath of a bruised man. because yes, roman had performed so well in chilling over since their youth, that now he was bruised. marred and undone, that much cody knew. a spoiled over bitterness that sometimes made for thick and difficult to breathe in air. a siphoning of the room to please him self. to revitalize whatever'd been lost. and unfortunately, to your credit, you'd done well at stealing away such heavy grief, turning the funeral into a reunion. but roman couldn't just sit still in his shit. he had to spread and smear about his anger. a tantrum that sent you home quiet. a silence cody was made to suffer through because he'd taken it upon himself to be your ride to and from such an event of a funeral. made to suffer because he cared. 

but that service and burial for richie, in the grand scheme of cody's long anxious waiting, had been just two weeks ago. two long weeks of silence. and yeah maybe it was partially on him. mostly roman's doing but maybe him too. 'you don't wanna cause trouble anymore', the overripe cherry on top of already stale cake. 

in essence, you were doing his bidding. because avoidance of the bloodline meant free from trouble, as scathing as that thought feels to him. but cody isn't above admitting it. the forming of something harsh and sickly in his belly. a hollowness that drains his skin. not hearing from you is odd. something he hates. 

-monday. the first week in june-

text message | incoming: need your help

text message | cody r: ?

text message | incoming: car is fucked

text message | cody r: glad to know i can hear from you if you need something

text message | incoming: 12 hour shifts are a bitch. so sorry for not checkin in every second of the day...was trying to keep away from all this trouble i'm apparently causing. my bad. 

text message | cody r: where are you?

text message | incoming: the house

text message | cody r: be there soon. 

and maybe it's the june heat getting to him, the bare down of the sun muddying his sensibilities till they roll over and form newer with these streaks of entitlement. an entitlement he'd never profess outwardly. never claim to outside of loose thoughts and the nagging linger of other truths kept unsaid. but cody—and God does this sound awful even as he thinks it—much prefers you away from pensacola. away from home. because in those times, his willingness to please you was nothing more than some shapeless desire. something he would do if he could. a possibility. the distance keeping the brunt of his feelings at bay. but having you here—as much as it makes him happy—seems to cause more issues than he'd like. because issues mean a loose fumbling grasp at things. a lack of control. because now he'll actually have to acknowledge the burn in his belly when you look at him. the prick of heat over his skin when you say his name. your anger influencing discomfort till he makes it right. he'd have to—amidst such a cryptic life—be honest about deeply buried thoughts. the hidden things he's always promised to himself to keep hidden. 

and maybe thats why his words slipped out so loose and fast and inconsiderate. 'you don't wanna cause trouble anymore', because bits of that trouble include a deep unearthing of his own shit. 

because roman isn't the only one troubled and undone about you. 

cody's teeth suck. a quick, easy, manifestation of displeasure. because he doesn't stay put and he doesn't drag his feet either. he moves with purpose. present mechanic duties forgotten along with the old and janky BL AUTO sign behind him as he shifts his weight up and into a tow truck. displeasure because maybe his selflessness is more than just a base line compassion. but servile? no. cody isn't that. but as he backs out with a reverse and drives off to meet at your place, your parents old house, he feels his stomach coil up in a way that burdens him wholly. a feeling that has only performed well enough on rare occasions. a tight ball settled at the base of his belly, his chest going on with an irregular beating and cody thinks it's all so damn pitiful. years and years of a slow simmering, never quite getting to the rapid chaos of a boil but hot all the same. but if not for the tease of it than what else was there to have? what other possibility could there be for him besides the grand swarming performance of butterflies. his eyes rolling as he drives. twenty something again. with this particular thing, he still isn't ready to name, cody is in a perpetual state of being that twenty something guy. 

the blare of a horn pulls him up and out of his harboring. the street light apparently green for sometime. 

and he decides—because he's in control, he swears—to leave it be. to allow his body to process the sensations. an attempt at emotional extraction from the physicality of it. because it's not butterflies if you don't call it butterflies. because names give things meaning. a process he's done time and time again. evasion easy and efficient. 

because he's towed plenty of cars. fixed plenty of cars. this would be the same as the others. no emotional weight and ancient histories involved. because cody has the control to will it so. 

and the settling of this process gives him freedom. enough to slip back into the familiar. something that lacks such sentimental complexity. cody observes. the roads, the weather, the cars. taking a fine tooth comb through the details. 

"the underestimations is what gets you son. don't let em get you". 

dusty's voice curling about his left ear. riding just under the flow of a summer breeze. and cody never knew his father to be wrong about anything. 

"always take note of the scene son".

the regularity of the day but a facade. sunny and warm and unsuspecting. but cody knows enough to know that the mere face of a thing is not the representation of the inward parts. that if you look well enough for a thing, it will appear with a clear exposure. and the drive to your fathers house is both familiar and burdening. the pensacola heat and the sentiments of faraway memory attempting with much fight to dull his senses. streetlights he's passed and roads he's turned down before. the only difference now being your presence. and there goes the curl in of his belly. his words refusing to form into truth even inwardly still, to spell out the feelings. feelings he thought quelled. it's something he so obviously needs to work on. his eyes flitting to his rearview mirror, breaking away from those too ardent thoughts. 

a gray chevrolet ss maybe? the model he's unsure. but he's fixed many a chevy to know that its a chevy. 

cody turns a corner, and with him turns the chevy. something he doesn't think much of. giving the wheels of the tow truck an easy ride for a few miles or so. but the chevy remains a comfortable distance behind him. cody takes a test turn. an abrupt right that veers him slightly off course. 

but his truck isn't a pain to follow. the size of it easy to make out. losing the tail from such a spur of the moment turn before it appears again. behind him and steady. the windows tinted. 

his ears burn warm. fingers itching. 

cody rolls into the beginning of your block. double parking several doors down before quickly exiting the tow truck. his fingers slipping out his shades as his feet kick up loose gravel. the tint of them blocking the harsh beat down of daylight. the chevy rolling by at a slower pace, something done to very obviously piss him off, before it continues down the block and out of his sight. his eye looking to catch the plates. 

C47-6BQ. repeating it to himself for good measure. 

and something in cody jostles. a squick sinking in his belly as his nerves go on disturbed. twisting to perform well in his gut. a sickening swim of intuition. the weight of an impending viciousness. a feeling he knows all too intimately well. amidst the quiet breezy heat of the afternoon, the tips of his ears warm and his fists balling. thumbs working to skim his knuckles. always restless and ready. but the quiet is nothing if not the surface of a deepened well, endless in its depth and muddy. filled with slow to die creeping things. problems thought fixed rearing with an ugliness. but these are the worst of his worries. the what if thoughts that take over him. making him restless, but ready. cody is always ready. headaches persistent from an overworking. C47-6BQ. florida plates. a gray chevy ss that drives slow. to what? to taunt him? a warning maybe? 

an acknowledgement. 

he hadn't agreed that night to do what they did. feeling the inner parts of him growing soft and malleable. but messages need clear words. there was, is, never any room to mince words when so little of them were at their disposal in any useful way. actions more concrete than anything that could ever be said. 

KG's house, your house now, closer to him. his feet growing slower. knuckles working still in tandem with the blooming of a familiar knocking in his skull. 

he'd voted for something more diplomatic. a message that read like an advisory. some agreed. seth and jey and sami. 

"this ain't the fucking UN. we ain't working to save face on foreign affairs".

roman had spat that out. riled up and the ball of his fists demanding. and he couldn't be persuaded otherwise. 

and that particular tasting of whiskey was hell to swallow. these slivers of guilt nestling along the bite of it. the bottle passed from man to man and mouth to mouth. a partaking sip that was as vicious as it was fraternal. a dirty burn at the back of cody's throat, before the bottle was poured out over nico jeff's back. dean's fingers working to bring about the quick flick of a match before it'd been tossed hot. the soul crush of a scream and the sizzling singe of skin. and maybe this gray chevy SS is the beginning results of a lack in diplomatic flair. and maybe it isn't. maybe cody's restlessness has finally deadened his intuition, his edge. but cody is his fathers son. and cody has never seen his father be wrong. even beyond death and the grave. 

it'd been reckless. an eager show of power where such theatrics need not exist. but cody's opinions have not had room for proper growth in sometime, especially not now. 

and as cody twists the house key into your front door—a key he acquired sometime after KG's death—he feels that bursting in his belly. that pulling, nagging feeling. skin skittish and his eyes taking to the quiet of the block again. waiting for what? well he's not sure but he waits anyways. painstaking seconds where the dread feels most sure, amidst the stillness, just before the coming in of the storm. 

he wants to be wrong about this. strong, tired fingers twisting the knob to step over the threshold. and he wants to be wrong about his preferences too. wants to feel the guilt of his entitlement, of not wanting you here. but even that wars with other desires. fingers itching to touch you. to hear your voice without the disruptive tone of radio waves.

his head ache taunting him. playing about his skull easy. your movements swift and urgent as you move about the living room. seemingly on a mission. heaps of moving boxes everywhere still. the house cluttered and undone by such abrupt use after years of loneliness. 

cody knocks. stepping in fully. 

your attention shifting just barely. a half of a half of an acknowledgment that plummets the ball in his belly. doing well with this little game of silence. a large box in your arms as you move it to the corner of the living room.

"forgot you have a key", your eyes not meeting. occupied. a finger throwing away a gesture toward your car keys on the coffee table. "the car is right out front. i think the alternator is bad, the battery keeps going-"

"it's fuck me i guess".

and cody can't help the uncomfortableness of this. the skating around and the avoidance. the way you maneuver about and refuse him. a first time of it all that makes him bristle. because when you were in new york, he never had to deal with such bouts of silence. never had to wade through the terrible water of your indignation. there was never anything tumultuous or gut wrenching about this, playing a part in the skull knock of a headache and the overwhelming process of sifting through untouched, un-talked about feelings. it was easy and nice and shapeless. a private little thing to call his own. and God was it good and selfish. and shit what a fuck load of entitlement its caused. so very obviously existing on both ends of whatever this is. because you'd just expected him to perform. and he'd gone about it up til now without a syllable of push back. 

"what?" 

and the way you say it. like a sudden cluelessness of it all has so suddenly taken you. makes his nerves itch. a scratch he can't reach. his arms folding instead. a little more solid and upright. "some courtesy would be nice", a slow stride up to where you move about. his path blocked by boxes. "y'know considering the state of fucked your car is in, a hi or how you doing would be good to hear". his nerves still itching, face warring with itself not to grimace. the shuffle of boxes nearly sending him over a wall. and God after years, you knew still just how to set him off. silence eating him whole. "i'm doing fine by the way if you're wondering". 

you sigh deep. like you're being inconvenienced. "are you good now? got that off your chest?" 

its an abrupt movement. something he's barely processing till he's halfway through it. snatching a stack of boxes from your hands and setting them recklessly over the couch. his eyes hard. irritated. 

"is there something here? what am i missing?" 

because the tension of it unsettles him whole. 

you side step and he's following diligently. patience thinning. he gives you no where to go.

"cody i just want my car-"

"the car stays unfixed until you talk to me. none of this icy, boxin me out shit". 

your eyes cut to him. "i can do without the hostility". 

"be upfront". 

making him live in silence again. amongst the clutter of boxes and bright near blinding daylight. because this part of you has always been a process. something surgical and proving to need a little bit of method. a little bit of time. but cody's patience wears on him. thins his resolve. and such tiredness in of itself can only come from the deep well of care he's got stored in himself for you. and at this present moment 'care' is the word he chooses to commit to. a silent agreement. a word that explains the tensity of headaches and borderline nausea. butterfly's corralling in his belly to sicken him. an uncomfortableness in his body that only wanes with the slipping off of that face of disinterests you've worn so well till this second. 

your eyes softer. struck with bits of pain. 

"i'm not gonna be in places where m'not wanted. i'm not here to be a punching bag". 

"so then why are you here?"

you bristle. "cody what are you-" 

"i'm being serious. why are you here?"

because his curiosity has never taken him so wholly as to ask. only ever to accept the circumstance. but the validity of his question is true, enough for it to unearth an answer that carries just as much sincerity. 

"this is home cody", you give him. 

simple and plain and affirming all of his little ardent unpleasantries. because if this is home, and he's always been here, does that mean he's home too? does the possibility of that answer extend to others? question's maybe not to be answered today. question's maybe never to be considered outside such shapeless thought for the sake of his own poorly crafted peace of mind. because he can live with possibilities. with formless what if's and maybe's. 

"good". a word that falls quick. full in the way it exists against the air. as sure as all the ones after it. "so fuck him then. don't let him and his bullshit run you out of where you wanna be. don't give him that". 

because roman could shift the temperature of a thing quite easily. rooms and situations and people. could siphon the air to a blue-gray-skinned suffocation if it pleased him. hell he'd done it weeks ago. a harsh ability. so very fitting for him, for his heavy leather and even heavier boots. for the little patch that sew itself across the right side of his kutte. cody's president. his oh so fearless fucking leader. 

but it doesn't mean that other things, other people can't live and last amidst the width and hot take of such pride. 

and you concede. "you're right". looking to him with that full acknowledgment he'd wanted for some days. soft brown eyes warm. 

"i don't think i've ever really been wrong about anything". 

"shut up", a small smile against pretty lips. 

his eyes catching the curve of them more than they should. 

"c'mere". 

and the effects of such a slow, gradual, embrace warm him over better than any afternoon cast over of the sun. relief and then the inevitable fluttering swarm of butterflies. that control he so easily subscribed to having earlier done away with as your arms circle about him. a tight enough embrace that brings about the beginning breaths of a resolution. smelling of autumn inspired things that arrest his senses. and maybe this is where those entitled preferences grow sour in their wrongness. maybe his earlier afternoon selfishness was some petulant, tired, anxious reaction. the coming back to life of twenty something thoughts and ideas. maybe seconds old him was right. more right than that slightly older him. because the rightness of the matter was only ever contingent upon where ever  you were and where ever you wanted to be. and that he can agree with, if it meant an embrace this good.

his hands slip. wide and spreading at your back comfortable and innocent. your hands just the same at his arms. your fingers softly testing the strength of them. a slight press in he's all too aware of. 

"you try to silent treatment me again for two weeks and we're gonna have problems", he plays. smiling down on you.

your eyes play at a roll. "m'sorry", you give him. teeth stuck to pull over your lip. your eyes flitting to his mouth before they return. a quick slip of a movement that does nothing to quell the rise of warmth in his fingers. that he felt and saw. a sensation he'll mull over the validity of later. 

his palms come up to hold your cheeks. a tender hold that leaves you unable to look away from him. gentle eyes delicate in their waiting. your fingers holding his forearms. and this to cody feels like an agreement of the moment. the silent reciprocation of a not so newly born intimacy. the shapeless thing now found to have an edge. a streak of definition. new york and pensacola. the everlasting length of text messages and lasting too long phone calls. strung together words that almost say "i miss you", which could've been said if not for the fear of actually meaning it. and the fear of what meaning it means. 

his thumb runs a streak at your skin. sincerity blooming dangerously pure. "m'very happy you're here. okay?" 

if nothing else, the surest affirmation. cody hopes you believe him. 

"okay". 

and when the tension is far too real to believe in, cody falls away graciously. pulls in his touch and the daze of his eyes enough to regain the lasting bits of his composure. hands feeling empty at his sides before he's crossing his arms up over his chest. stepping over boxes again and making a sluggish path towards the door. 

"i should have your car back by wednesday latest". 

you advance with him. "just let me know how much i owe you". 

his eyes roll. "we just had a nice bit of resolution. don't ruin it".

"cody i'm being serious". 

you both linger amidst the threshold of the door. his eyes slipping over your skin to remember the softness. "i'm unfortunately aware. i'll see you soon".

and he doesn't think. finds even that its better not to harp on the why of whatever he does. and its innocent enough. an easy lingering kiss to your forehead. something terribly gentle. an accumulation of all the unspoken things. and with that he leaves. never giving himself the courtesy of seeing whatever you've decided to express in the wake of something as affectionate as his mouth on you.

-tuesday. the first week in june-

kill them with kindness. it's a pride-less phrase. suffers the body to think and act against itself. against the primitivity of instinct. bloodline born instinct. brass knuckle rings and the broken neck of a beer bottle. the drawing up of wet crimson blood and splotchy bruises to deserved skin. killing with kindness isn't cody's forte, but neither is senseless violence. because things need purpose. they need a reasonable decline into bitterness before that shameless stain of iron can dress his tongue. there has to be proper earthen ground to stand on before the strong, old nature of his leather takes him wholly. 

that childish little shoulder check had been accounted for the moment it happened. along with roman's tantrum that led to your teary eyed bout of silence. and you'd never mentioned what he said, but cody felt the possibility of a violation. a deep splitting open of the skin all for the sake of proving that he could do it. that too had been accounted for. and the more he thinks on it, richie's funeral—though no funeral begins or ends well—was only a few steps from a mess. an uneven state of affairs. touch and go as they say. everything too thinly spread, and the histories now existing with too much distance. which has been, was, and is never good. because unbridged gaps promote weakness in the foundation. and naturally, roman—stuck in whatever thoughts of his own—gives no effort in making it easier. 

and cody can feel it, amongst the swelter of the summer sun. the heat talking, taunting through slim breezes. their time approaching soon. a clashing up one against the other, like the stressing violence of metal against metal. he just hopes time for it is sooner than later. before the foundation is too weak to be resolved. 

it's interesting though, funny even, because cody isn't a grudge keeper. doesn't go all out in the meticulous process of such an angry keeping of the score. but that faithful swarming of butterflies, care and the need to please, they use him well as a champion to do their, his inner, bidding. posing and propping him up as this great defender. 

and roman makes no qualms about going unheard. unnoticed. his body tall, blotting out the spread of one of many lights shinning above your car. lips spreading in that amused way that works to cover up the lesser delighted parts of him. "if i knew we did free work i'd put up a sign or two. let the people know how generous of a business we've become". roman's hands pressing into the car to lean inward. a proximity that performs well to make anybody with sense uncomfortable. "i'm a charitable man cody, but i got my limits". 

cody hums. continues the process of switching out your alternator. because you were right, the alternator was fried, causing your battery to drain. an easy enough fix for him, but roman attempting his little show of dominance didn't do much to help. 

"i guess i'm just a little more compassionate".

roman chuckles. turns to lean up against the car where cody works. arms crossed and relaxed. giving him enough space to perform the fix but not enough to do it comfortably. "being a doormat isn't compassion rhodes. it's just being a doormat. humor me though..." he begins. "what's the little deal you two got set up?" roman's faux interest running annoyingly under cody's skin. "you do a little fixin' here and there and then what? she pats you on the back? gives a little scratch behind the ear? tells you how good of a boy you are for her?"

a dog? really? the abuse of it cutting into one ear and refusing to leave out the other. a deep lodging that slots up and slips in against the warmth of his blood. and yes. it's accounted for. like the ticking scratch of a pencil to check through a box. "i don't know roman you tell me". alternator be damned. the heat of the day sticking to cody ungraciously. "you got it all figured out, maybe you know something i don't. six or seven years, cause honestly who knows or gives a shit, of prior experience on the resume and all. thats a long time for skill buildin, to be wrapped around her finger". 

and cody sees roman falter. the slightest bit of a half step. a small little tell so often easily missed. can feel his chest burst wild and so damn delighted. that subtle jaw twitch beneath his president’s beard. 

roman is close. eyes hard, narrowing over cody's face. "it's nothing you got that's better than shit she's already had. that i can promise you". 

"you keep mistaking me for someone you're in competition with".

"competition ain't a word in my vocabulary, but i'll humor you", smiling mirthless. "if it were, we're still levels apart. it's actual comedy how uneven the paying field is here". 

"and you're so right about that", cody fully amused. "considering just how much she avoids even saying your name, i think i like the level i'm at". 

and this was it. the steady decline into bitterness, fixed only by that warlike clashing. an affair close enough, the phantom taste of something iron, wet and pungent on cody's tongue. because it'd happened before, history always finding a way to rhyme. to unearth already thought to be dead things that were not so lifeless after all. 

"hey!", the far reach of deans voice, echoing over loud against the walls of the shop. "kiss and get a room or break it up!". 

cody is right. killing with kindness is treason against the body. against words and instinct. an esteem-less, pride-less thing. and he quite likes his pride. 

-wednesday. the first week in june-

text message | incoming: are you busy later in the evening?

text message | cody r: shouldn't be. whats up?

text message | incoming: making dinner. you should come by. 

text message | cody r: absolutely. your car is all fixed up btw. need me to bring anything else? 

text message | incoming: just you❤️

it means nothing. it means, nothing. it. means. nothing. and the feeling is juvenile. overly sentimental and spilling over. a losing fight as he urges himself not to break with a smile. because cody is old, or at least old enough not to fall into such thrills reminiscent of early twenty something wish and desire. but that doesn't stop the sickly sweet churn in his belly, nor does it keep his eyes from falling over the short exchange of texts. these little flits across the screen, a short comb over, as if with the third and fourth time the letters will reappear to read something different and new and less intimate. less domestic. because he fixed your car and now he's left with the silly assumption that you're making him dinner for it. not just for him but for him all the same. and its all stupid and oddly sitting under his skin. swarming tight in his belly so much so that he walks awkwardly amongst the cloudy chill of the afternoon air. it means something, but for the sake of his peace it will have to mean all of nothing. 

his stomach growling on a dangerously annoying cue. body ready to make the trip back to pensacola. marianna, florida suddenly too far from home—a mere two hour drive—for proper comfort. 

but his leather keeps him bound to club business. his shoes kicking up the loose dirt of the beginnings of a wide patch of land. a ranch spreading out over for some acres. grass reaching his ankles and the air crisp with the teasing smell of rain. seth and dean marching forward just in front of him, seemingly more focused. void of an ardently born frenzy about the nerves.

and in the distance, just at the entrance of a corned off shack, steve waves them over, before disappearing inside. the scuffling walk over to the shoddy wooden build of it giving cody enough time to steel over his expression and the manner of his disposition. because they were on a ranch after all, surrounded by the easy roam of an abundance of cattle being raised commercially. a job like that surely needing an expert level of perception. perception cody is sure steve austin has. what with the stoic manner of his eyes and the mirthless pull of his mouth. always watching and quietly discerning. even with the satisfaction of good business, cody has yet to see the rancher actually smile ever. cody figures he'll save his musings for another time. 

"boys", steve greets. reaching his hand to greet them. firm shakes before he's uplifting duffle bags from off the shack floor and placing them atop a wooden table. unzipping them to reveal the disassembled parts of a variety of fire arms. 

"how's business steve?" dean gives, as the three of them look over the contents of the bags. touching against cool, dangerous metal.

"sometimes good, sometimes not so great, but it goes either way", his voice coarse. "m'hopin we can facilitate business well enough without issue". 

"a simple pick up now and drop off later", seth starts. "it's nothing we haven't done before". 

and steve hums. the noise of it short lived and singing low as it considers seth's assurance. a hum so obviously filling itself with disbelief. steve austin unpersuaded as he makes to lean up against the dusty wooden wall of the shack. blue-grey eyes falling over the three of them. "well usually our business isn't accompanied by so much of a ...spectacle, which is never simple". something like mirth taking his expression, forming wryly. "i didn't know pyro-theatrics were in you all's arena of business". 

something in cody winces. a flinching of his memory as it works with a tireless hand of remembrance. smelling now amidst the earthiness of the ranch that pungent burn of alcohol and nico's skin. his screams as the sizzling melt of his flesh sings hot and dirty. the heavy disappointment felt from that night, filling cody whole once more. his insides malleable and undone by discontent. a decision made he'll always hate. 

but dean chuckles the silence off. a lazy, toothy smile along with it. "we're a uh...multi act group. a variety show if you will". 

"i can admire the severity of it, but also, i gotta say...", steve starts. leading them out of the shack and to their parked truck. duffle bags filling their hands as they all make way across the ranch. "...i don't like it much considering it hasn't done nothing for you all but draw some attention". 

and if nothing else causes a failing in the security of cody's nerve, this does. a fast to plummet drop in his stomach and the quick maneuver of his memory once more. a swift to move flooding of curiosity filled with anxious debris. that grey chevy rolling by slowly and the horribly conspicuous tinted windows. not a warning but an acknowledgment. he breaks his silence. "how'd you hear about it?" 

"got a call from a buddy of mine over in tallahassee askin about the bloodline and that boy yall burnt up. apparently he's connected. well enough for some trouble i'd assume". 

which affirms the existence of the chevy. C47-6BQ, the plate number this echoing mantra about cody's thoughts. eager to remember it for use later. a beat of silence falling over them all as they load in the duffle bags. and what a coincidence it is, for the day to be overtaken by that edging smell of rain. not yet willing to unleash the brunt of it's power but settling to tease them all the same. 

"he was trying to set up a base of sorts near pensacola beach, dealing off the boardwalk and out of some local bars, pushing laced shit", dean goes. his vice president's patch catching cody's eye. black fabric sewn against a gray silver to spell out his rank. his thoughts rolling into words, never straying too far from roman's way of thinking. "our city has been free of the hard stuff for as long as we’ve been around. askin nicely didn’t work for this guy. we're just tryna keep our side of the street clean". 

seth nods, catching deans eye, though he's slow to do so. weary still, cody is sure. steve settling over cody, sharp eyes searching. a silent examination. looking for doubts, cody is sure of that too. but he gives nothing. says nothing. 

"an admirable act for sure", steve nods. his eyes appearing more gray than blue as they live under the cloudiness of the afternoon sky. cody feeling the brunt of them still, sharp cuts into the skin of his face. steve looking for an agreement maybe, or the sign of a grievance. and though the discontentment remains sure, cody's loyalty reigns better than the softer parts of him that work to veer off into less agreeable thoughts and ideas. and it will always remain that way so long as his leather sticks to his body. fraternal codes and all that jazz. never letting the outsiders know of such disagreements and presenting a united front. 

"im guessin we feel good about the merchandise?", steve asks. 

dean reaches out for a handshake as he goes to speak. cody and seth gesturing the same. "absolutely. beautiful stuff as always". 

"drop off is the same?'", steve making his way back slowly. 

"yes sir". 

"word of advice from an animal enthusiast", steve starts. slowly walking backwards to face them still. "no more of the fanfare theatrics. if you plan on puttin down an animal, a bullet between the eyes gets the job done quick and just fine".

a thing easier said than done. the free fall of those words—"gets the job done quick and just fine"—growing a torturous distance from the ability he had once upon a time, when such time was endless. because way back when, cody could feel that crunch of gravel beneath his feet everywhere he walked and thought himself untouchable. an inherited hubris for sure. leather over his shoulders like armor and the roar of his engine this endless war cry of invincibility. he took cuts and bruises and the slices of knives as easy as the road would the simple skid of a rubber wheel. but the days grow shorter here in this older age. the memory in his muscle though quick, not as quick to perform as it used to be. his head wild with the outburst of an aching almost always and his body tired. 

and although the trip from pensacola to marianna and back was a usual one, the ride this time seemed to be quieter. those piled up duffle bags of violent metal heavier and the doom in his belly rolling over harsher than normal.

but that burden in cody never eases, only ever turning itself into something different. the cloudiness of the day rolling over into the evening. the sharp smell of rain resting in the air still. teasing him. your house porch light glowing a warm yellow as he steps up to it. keys in hand and that swarming flutter in his belly. hunger and a not yet spoken into the air passion forming this terrible marriage under his skin. leather draped over it all like a second skin. 

he steps into the house, met with a savory warmth. something fragrant that eases the tension. his boots thudding softly over old hardwood floors. music low and melodic to fill in those pockets of dead silence. your maneuvers about the kitchen a little less than fluid. body still coming into a slow to perform remembrance after a great forgetting. 

but you hear him. throwing words over your shoulder. "leather off at the door please". something your mothers used to say to your fathers. trying their best to grasp at control over a life bigger than them all. 

and cody obliges. feels the domesticity of it running rife in him so much till it starts to smoothen out the ache in his head and the weight in his belly. "hey", speaking gentle. unable to help himself as a hand finds the hard work of your arm, a brief interruption where he squeezes tenderly to let you know he's there. "hey", you give back. similar in how warm and delicate it feels against the air. an arm curling his waist as you reach to kiss at that patch of skin thats too close to his mouth to be his cheek, but too far from his mouth to be anything more than what it is. that 'what it is', he has no damn clue. but it feels good. a little more than amazing maybe. 

he stands off and away enough to let you finish what looks to be a dinner thats a little more abundant in nature than he was expecting. leaning up against the counter as you dip a spoon through the heat of a thick gravy. "smells good".

"i hope it taste good", a thread of nerve weaving through as you scoop the spoon. "i haven't made a roast in a while but here, try this", giving up the silverware. leaving cody to nearly melt in the richness of it. reminding him of old times even. bloodline sunday dinners and the simple inconvenience of wanting to be anywhere but with his parents and their friends. "missing anything?" 

"a plate and a drink". 

you smile. reaching above in the cabinets for a yet to be opened bottle. the cold of cody's blue eyes slipping easy as they lay over the skin that peaks as your top rises up with the reach of your arms. and then the quick awkward look away, warmth in his cheeks as he feels the childish guilt of it. 

"is wine ok?"

"s'perfect".

and no he does not mean to stare so deeply. to emphasize the pronunciation of a word that implies such flawlessness, but it happens. makes that meeting of the eyes last a little longer. a lingering that works well enough with low playing melodies that it forces your tell. lip stuck between the pull of your teeth. turning back to the food that waits impatiently, seeking a reprieve. 

you push at him playfull. in a fashion that begs for the air to be a little more breathable again. "ok go sit at the couch", turning back to your accomplishment of the night. "i'll be there". 

a certain pride swelling in his chest as he makes way to get comfortable on the couch. effectively influencing your nerves enough to cause a little speechlessness was more than cody hoped for tonight. taking in the cleanliness of the living room as he waits. the space bursting with earth tones and splashes of green. the smaller details slightly different, but the feel of the house remains, even with the age of it. the glass of old framed photos clearer, having been cleaned. the boxes working to overtake the floor corners no longer there, the shelves decorated with what must be things collected from your time in new york. a small bowl of rings at the center of the coffee table catching his eye so much that cody reaches for it. carved silver rings he remembers your father wearing all the time. so much so that the impressions remained in his skin.

you bring the wine and glasses first. walking back for the plates. sitting a comfortable distance away from him on the couch. close but not too much. enough for the air not to be so thick and consuming. 

"you never told me how much i owe you for the alternator".

the sincerity of that making cody's eyes roll, albeit a little more playful than serious. his fork working over the plate to dig into it. leaving you to hear him hum with delight at the taste. "dinner makes us even". 

another smile riding through to stretch over your lips. a comfortable wordless air settling over. quiet enough aside from the low ride of the music for cody to notice the wane of his headache. never afforded the grace of a full reprieve from such a pain but here, now, it's the dullest it's been for sometime. and he doesn't necessarily want to do the work of thinking over exactly what that means but he can feel the beginnings of that truth. in the heat of his cheeks and the ride up of a tingling over his spine.

"i feel like fixin the car up for me is the latest thing in a long like of things you've done for me", your plate set aside on the coffee table. glass in hand and trying your best to meet his eyes. "i might be cooking for you for a while to pay you back". 

"if it's anything like this, i'll be over here all the time". setting his plate down next to yours. turning to face you more. "for real though, whatever it is, i'm here. i got you". 

and he isn't sure what of what he said does it, but something flashes through the brown of your eyes. like the quick burning soar of a celestial body. working hot to cover the space of your memory before it disappears. your mouth sipping at your glass again. 

"how's your mom?"

a piece of his curiosity cody has held off on revealing for a while till now. 

"she's good". a neutral expression. a less rigid disposition even. "spoke to her maybe three or four weeks ago". 

"did you tell her about coming back home?"

"we spoke about it briefly", your thumb rubbing over the body of the wine glass. "she didn't have much to say about it". 

"m'glad you both found some footing with each other". 

"yeah", you nod. lost in thought. an arm bending to rest up on the couch. you head falling into your palm. "i think after everything with my dad, the door opened up some for us, but a lot of things for me just changed really quick". the music you have playing, a sweet addition to your voice. your eyes finally meeting him. sincerity blooming full but with a pace that notes the fragility of its unfurling. "we sorta, kinda, reconnected after dusty went, but i think after my pops died i understood you a lot more". eyes nearly nailing into him now. a quick difference from the timidity of them just moments prior. "being in new york, i was used to living alone but not feeling that way y'know? like in the back of my mind when he was alive i could eventually just come back home to him, to everything...", your voice dropping off. 

a heavy sigh he can only imagine the weight of. sipping from your wine and resting the glass down before you finish your thoughts. 

"...what i'm trying to say is...is that you understood me in a way that felt good. i didn't have to explain myself because you just knew what it meant to lose like that". 

his hand reaching to hold over yours. body shuffling against the soft leather of the couch to get closer. a comfort he can't afford to deny either of you. thumb circling the skin delicately. a faint touch that waits for acceptance. and when it comes the embrace of your hands are full and nearly overwhelming. fingers tangling as they curl over one another sweetly. 

"it goes both ways though", he gives. "thats why it's so easy to talk to you". a beat of silence. his words so far from a full admission of feeling but the affects of such a release tear through him all the same. heart stuttering and his belly twisting. his hand in yours still, playing aimlessly against the skin. eyes trailing over all the free space. "how you holdin up here on your own? is the house too big for you?" 

and cody only forgets he's without his leather at the feel of your hand trailing up his arm. over the ways of old tattoos and muscle. a faint squeeze to test the strength of it that he can just barely make out. as if to examine a particular quality he has yet to figure out. your thumb pressing into the inner fold of his elbow. "i think i just need to get used to it again. my apartment in new york was small, so it was fine being by myself". your eyes fall over him. warm from the yellow glow of the living room lamps. feeling them drift to his mouth before they return quickly to his own eyes. "it's just a lot of stuff attached to this place. i just need to readjust, but m'pretty used to living alone".

"that doesn't mean you like it", he says. enjoying the soft touches to his arm still. 

"very true".

"let me know though if that changes. we can always find something else for you". 

you smile. "look at you being all worried about me". squeezing his arm playfully before getting up to take the plates back to the kitchen. giving him a much needed cut in such thick aired tension. 

"ice cream?", you call out. 

dishes and utensils clattering in the background. 

he sighs. needing nothing else. "m'good thanks". waiting for your return to the couch. 

a bowl and a spoon in your hand as you pad softly over back to him. legs pressing into the couch as you go to sit with your legs folded under. "can i ask something?" your eyes curious. slipping over him with some hesitancy. 

"shoot". 

your hand plays with the scoop of the spoon, dipping in before you go to taste it. a silence as you so obviously string together words. gears turning. "at the end of last year, you told me you were seeing someone. what happened to her?" 

"why?" 

"you talked about her quite a bit, was just wondering". 

and never has the admission of anything been so burdensome till now. a weight atop his shoulders threatening to fall into his body till it flattened him. crushing bone and that faithful spirit of possibility. cody could live with what if's, could live in the terrible purgatory of maybe's and daydreams. he'd been doing so for sometime even. settling into a comfortability so stagnant that it left him statuesque. but the room is laden with a melodic tune still, the forever ache about his head nearly done away with and the memory of your easy touch playing over thought. maybe now is the time. as he's so terribly subdued by the moment. maybe now is the chance to tether together the words always left unsaid. 

"you want the truth?"

your eyes flit to him. these little flecks of weariness. "why wouldn't i?"

he sighs. ignoring the twist in his belly. "at the top of this year you asked me to make copies of the keys to here because you were seriously considering coming back to florida for good". 

"i hadn't fully decided yet though". 

"the fact that you considered it was enough for me". 

"i see". 

your eyes on the coffee table. forsaking him. or thats what it feels like at least. an awfulness biting into him slowly. ripping into the skin where his stomach lives. his ears warm, the heat feeding into his face till it rises in his cheeks. 

"listen", cody starts. looking to salvage what he can. "i didn't mean to-"

a sugary vanilla taste slipping over his mouth. your lips quite cold but sweet. the abrupt feel of them softer than imagined. the fulfillment of such imaginings only coming into a full registering once the thick heat of your thighs set over. an easy maneuver to straddle him. your palms at his cheeks and your lips firmer. his tongue licking in slow. savoring the milky taste. a moan breaking up quick, his fingers running beneath your shirt to curl lazily into supple skin. working as an extension of memory. using his touch as a tool to stain himself with everything of you. and God does it feel good. relief washing him whole. a goof sort of creep in his spine as your nails run at then nape of his neck. 

his arms embrace you more. the simple hold of your hips slipping into a hug of your body that fastens you to him. another moan filling up his chest before it leaves him, loving the little pick and tug your teeth give his lip. 

a phone rings. stutters the momentum of passion. 

you groan annoyed. hiding your face in the dip of his neck. 

"i think that's you", cody says. palms feeling up on your skin still. working beneath your shirt. getting used to the tenderness. 

you lift up from him. reaching for your phone to tug it out of your back pocket, answering quickly.

"hello", you give. "hello?" your eyes rolling as you end the call. "so damn annoying", you gripe. pulling away from him to sit back against the couch. 

his curiosity piqued. "whats the number?" 

"it's blocked". setting the phone down. mildly irritated. "thats the third time thats happened though". 

it's hard, not to immediately think the worst. "when was the last time?"

"on my lunch break the other day-"

"what day?"

the sudden inquisition of it all gets to you, but it all feels too convenient not to question. 

"i don't know cody", rubbing your hands over your eyes. "monday". 

another ring. clashing terribly against the mellow drive of the music you have going. whatever residuals of intimacy that still lived in the air, now done away with. this time the call blaring from his phone. a shrill noise that brings back the throb of his head ache. he answers quickly, standing from the couch and making way to the living room windows. a peak between the blinds to scope out for anything oddly placed. 

"dean", he gives into his phone. 

"cody quick question". the noise of paper flipping in the background over dean's voice. "i just turned down service on a chevy malibu, the plates looked phony as hell and the girl was being a bit of a weirdo when i asked for the vin. you work on any red chevy's lately?" 

"not that i can remember. you get the plate number by chance?"

"yeah, it was C47-6BQ". 

we gonna stop it there but yeah, the drama is gearing up. some roman next chapter i promise!

[333creolelady]

Him holding his hand is so fucking cute to me lmao 😂😂😂❤️

Saudi already chanting for their Tribal Chief... no one asked and the Bloodline is not there.

[333creolelady]

Neighbor

Warnings: voyeurism.

A/N: tagged by my gorgeous gurl @harmshake for the "May Writing Challenge" 200 words exactly. Another AU, I'd like to call "neighbors with benefits"

Living in a big city, an apartment from which you could go to the office for your internship every morning was a dream came true. The reality behind it, the one your mama had preached for weeks, was that it wouldn't go the way you wished. The apartment was indeed in the rich area of the city, but was a ridiculous studio apartment on top of an unrenovated building, with a kitchen and bathroom separated by a very tiny wall and a bed overlooking, almost touching, the desk. You had smelled something when you managed to secure it, but the excitement of moving had been too much. Now you were surronded by boxes, lost and anxious, with at least ten missed calls from home.

The only positive note was the rooftop terrace almost entirely at your disposal for a break with an amazing city view and-

- Jesus!

Surprise made your taco fly away, but it could also have ended up on someone's head down in the street and you wouldn't have known, eyes glued to the opposite building, where your richer neighbor had just finished to take a shower. Spying was creepy, but no one warned you when you signed up that across the street there was a tattoed hunk of a man at least twice your size walking around half naked.

And they should have because he was definitely worth more than the apartment rent, a walking antidepressant. Probably him and his cake were capable of solving problems you hadn't even had yet and yes, creating worse ones, judging what he kept no more hidden.

- Damn man...

Tag squad: @sunnyfleur23 @alyyaanna @reignsangel444 @romanreignsdefencesquad @romanstheory @claymorexpunisher @keybladeofsteel @msbigredmachine @nayys-world @gobbersworld @utika151209 @cumxxslutt @civildawn @romanmydaddy @triscillal @papireigns-05 @helensanders92 @darqchilddaydreamz @meggylynnloves @unfriendly--blvck--hottie @nicolewoo @joannasteez @reignsx @kianaleani @daguenoire @extra-11 @333creolelady @snowpanda18 @brattyfics @mzv11 @romanreignseater @spritelucozade @dreamsinfocus @vebner37 @depressedneedingrevenge @cyberdejos2 @mahi-wayy @jxtina-86 @harmshake @southerngirl41 @smile1318

[333creolelady]

just a dream

pairing: roman reigns x reader warning: its angst if you tilt your head and squint. smut. so minors dni pls! authors note: i'd been in a bit of a rut but just banged out a part of chapter 5 of TOB and then this was residuals of still being in a writing mood. this is for the month of may 200 word challenge! its a little over 200 but whatever. who cares. tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @kill-the-artiste @thesamoanqueen @empressdede @southerngirl41 @spritelucozade @theninthwonder @2-muchsauce

and what becomes of him? becomes of the man amidst a dream. knowing the failures of such a fantasy, the waywardness that threatens to befall him, and drifting anyways. lost in the soft pillowy press of your kiss and that slight of tongue that curls to sweeten his blood. tongue and breath laying over words sounding not so dissimilar to confessions of a seamless adoration. a forever feeling, palms pressing over his hard body. gentle and resolute. a moan in his ear, slipping over warm and delicate like silk. his fingers kneading desperate. ungracious. at every inch and fold and bend. through the wet drip over of arousal and against that sloping plain of skin that holds your pulse. searching for evidence of life that he can just barely find. his belly tight. restless. ready for release. hips deft and skilled. aching. he breathes into your neck. over warm, tender skin. "this is a dream", aware. frightful of the end. your lips over his. throat singing wispy. charming. the moan of an angel. "then it is a good dream", you whisper. withering above him hard. the heat of you tight and unrelenting. wet and working him possessively to finish. 

roman jerks hard amidst such refined pleasure. comes to himself in the darkness of a hotel room. breaths undone and his body damp with sweat. a clinging ache in his chest. the failure and consequence of living in such a fantasy. 

the gentle touch of your body not real at all. your face nameless, and your voice slipping dutifully from his memory. 

just a dream. 

[333creolelady]

Hiii I'm sorry for asking for updates but I'm still so invested in LOTBB! Is the next chapter being released soon? Hope this ask finds you well🩷🩷

No problem ! Yes I’ve been slowly working on it. Expect the last two chapters to be released by the end of this month. ❤️

[333creolelady]

Sista What u tryna get into??

Kinda need CM punk I fear