#tanks of blood | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

joannasteez · 1 month

Text

tanks of blood (1) - circa '09

pairing: biker!roman reigns x black reader warning: this chapter contains detailed explicit content and alcohol. mentions of violence. the perspective changes oddly towards the end but who gives af, this is for funsies authors note: been sitting on this first chapter for a hot minute. its a flashback! just a little establishment of feelings and dynamics. word count: 3k tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @spritelucozade @gg-trini i suck at keeping up who wants tags for what. but let me know if you want tags for just this story, roman stuff, cody or everything.

circa '09—

pensacola summers are muggy. sticky thick air that binds to the skin. and even beyond this nasty little inconvenience, pensacola night life rages with a thundering sort of spirit. wood floors groaning under worn shoes, and the walls bleeding with a little taste of everything that's been spilled onto them—overflowed shots of smooth vodka, ice cold tequila cocktails, crisp foamy beer, and the poor stain of some too-slow-to-swing-back assholes blood — till the bitterness steeps into the grain. and this here is no real complaint, because the dross of it is the essence. the thing that stokes the fire of the night till it's a bursting flame.

and stubbs' dive bar is a staple for all the no good, almost-there-degenerates of pensacola, florida. for not so humble street royalty. but stubbs' dive is only popular because the guys made it that way, what with the vicious rumbling of their dyna's and their cruisers. stainless steel a smooth sharp glisten under the moonlight. and they are as rowdy as their engines, a dirty heavy symphony bordering impatience always. with a mounting lust for the grime of life, inherited surely, from the fathers and uncles and elder brothers who they bore their names from.

but maybe its nature. the heat of the day simmering quieter men to act upon deep seated urges till their thoughts roam fiery and less ashamed. and maybe thats why randy orton does what he does, acting upon desire with a selfishness, like it's a right born to him. but your indulgence is no better. intrigue rife in your skin till its heating your cheeks. his broad fingers warm, adjusting the pool stick you bend over so prettily to angle with. and if randy is nothing else he is, easy. goes about everything with a deftness that tugs your younger curiosities. so when he touches, just for the sake of touching—because all forbidden things are so damn appealing—the fearlessness in him radiates. excites the skin till its fluttering wild. pulsing. a quick shiver through the spine. the soft of your leg slipping against his rough jeans.

"easy on the back end here. don't underestimate that hit".

you jitter. his breath warm over exposed skin. "don't underestimate this stick up your ass if i miss this".

"a little pain is still a good time", his voice low and rumbling. seducing. free hand traveling lower, from the back end of the pool stick to the tender skin of your waist. the easy slip of his playful touch hidden by the shadows covering the back corner of the dimly lit bar. his thumb stroking soft. forcing from you deeper breaths, for the sake of even a little control.

"randy", you warn.

"call the pocket sweetheart".

his thumb feels good, in that forbidden way that urges blood to rush and desire to simmer. untamed and existing messily against your skin. threatening to cause an undoing chaos. he would hate this, and you should too.

"left corner pocket".

his fingers curl in, more similar to a deep kneading till it's caught firm, just above the denim band of your skirt. and it's a small show of the fire in his fingers, of the possibilities, choosing a tenderness that compels you closer to acting on mere curiosity. and then he's off you. your hand forcing the pool stick to clack against the cue ball. the eight ball falling into the pocket despite his teasing. your heart hammering, refusing to still. hand out as you wait. a hundred dollar bill, ever the simple prize—carrying the weight of such palpable tension—slips in your grasp. and when all six feet and five inches of him move in to crowd your body, you feel the swell of heat that breaks off him. a lulling force that makes breathing hard. and he doesn't speak as you pocket the money. the low sit of his eyes —mischief in them not so dissimilar to a viper— sharp.

and the others are too rowdy and liquored up to notice, and maybe for both of your sakes it's best. because he would hate this. could possibly even become violent over it.

randy's thumb, the one that'd so sweetly slipped over your skin, raises to do the same to your cheek till its sweeping over and under to your chin. skimming easy to line your bottom lip. plump and glossed and tempting. and he's considering you, the burn in your eyes, attempting to decipher whether the heat of them is fear, desire, or a mixture of the two.

"randy", you warn again.

because you were spoken for. even if the words were silent, known only through secret but not so secret tongue kisses and lingering stares. through wind rushing rides on the back of his dyna and the burdening curl in of his fingers. possession like a nail, screwing into the skin.

randy's thumb leaves your lip, swiping off a streak of the glossy balm. a sugary cherry on his tongue. your blood beating in your ears, fingers twitching, small and inching towards something that feels like neediness. he knew what he was doing. but he grins, surrendering with silence to the natural order of things. to unspoken rules and terms of engagement. he stalks away, taking with him that burdening heat. the sensation of his touch lingering as your lip tenses through your teeth. eyes floating away and else where to forget that small bout of rebellion against the quiet but ever present force of him. of roman.

maybe a shot will help the uneasy heat in your belly? or perhaps make it worse? liquid courage possessing its own bursting flame of possibility. no. tequila would be no good. a step in a worser direction. randy's viper eyes still slipping slow over your curves and balmy brown skin, watching the swing of your hips with a quiet admiration, bordering the thick edges of lust that threaten to take him in. but he's smart about such quiet desires. settles for sipping at the chilly beer nestled easy between street scarred fingers.

you call the bartender. "water please". fingers running anxious over the bar top.

"still playin' with fire?" the bar loud, the guys and other patrons swelling up the space with laughs and drunk jeers, but nothing stops the recognition of that voice. slightly lisped and ever playful. cody rhodes, oddly dashing for the messy biker life and more judging than the worst gossiping grandmother you've ever met. blue eyes piercing. always looking for something.

you sip. "still mindin' my business?"

"if not me, who else?"

"you're such a mom". fingers dipping in to flick the icy water at him. because if cody is nothing else, he's a perpetual pest.

"and you, a child".

"fuck you rhodes".

he snorts. snatching your water to finish it. "it would be fun i'm sure but for my own safety i'm gonna have to pass".

and the music is louder somehow, cody leaving you to step further into the storm of men he'd pulled himself from. their shot glasses empty, scattered and growing still by the hour. voices yelling higher somehow over the hard thumping bass of music. leather littering the bar booth cushions, and any other loose chairs it can find. the worn material sewn with patches, not so dissimilar to tiny precious stones stuck to some grand old crown. and though most of the guys were mere prospects, waiting faithfully for that full patch in, the pensacola streets belonged to them still. riding comfortably off the nobility of their fathers. ripping and running. chaos at their fingertips and mischief in their eyes.

but the warmth of the night is inviting, breezes the skin more than the stiffness of the bar. roman standing at the opening of an alley just next to the building, roughing out words, unintelligible, but the closer you get to him the better the timbre is. his big boy, taking care of business voice, you're sure of it. that slight underscoring of coarseness, even at such a young age, steeping chills into your skin. his eyes cutting up, on you now, sticking to the dip in your hips till they find lips, and then your eyes.

he pulls you in, listening to the call still, touch instinctive. possessive. always claiming your body with a certain finesse. a wide palm stretching along your back till its comfortable, slipping into the back pocket of your skirt. and his head tilts, something slight, like he's taking a reading. and his eyes, black pushing against brown, too silent to be anger but silent enough that its uneasy.

you know that look well. he's annoyed.

the call ends. his phone slipping into the back pocket of worn dark denim jeans.

his nose flares. "you smell like him". like randy. because the six foot five inch mischievous piece of shit decided to crowd your space. and you'd decided against the good sense God gave you to indulge him. his spiced cologne staining your top. roman's fingers firm and only becoming firmer, slipping out till they grip into the soft of your hips. a smolder more than a bursting flame in his eyes. composed in his displeasure. "you make it real easy for him to try my patience".

your eyes roll, feet trailing away. the lamp post a blinding yellow that forces you to see his annoyances too clearly. the side of the bar, away from the street corner and eyes of nosy pensacola pedestrians, is much darker. simple dense bricks and gravely ground.

"you make getting bored very easy".

when you turn he's there. thick chest pressing into yours. easing you into the dampness of the bar's side brick wall. loose tendrils of hair falling against his face, inky and fine. you reach to touch, his own fingers catching yours to fold over them and in between. slipping till his thumb presses your palm. you wrap about his touch there, with soft fingers, void of rebellious intention, before pulling him in by his arms. and he's not so taut here but the wild strength and warmth in him is clear. a radiating heat that lulls you forward. and yes randy's intensity is subduing, maybe even fearfully so, but roman has a familiarity to him. a safety that makes falling into his touch easy.

his thumb finds your cheek. caressing over the apple of it. a sweet trail over your lips, chuckling at the pitiful little kisses you give it, eyes peering up from below your lashes. ever coy and ingratiating. and down it goes, a slow stripe over your throat, before its up and over to rest at your pulse. his nose knocking tender into yours, lips faint. you can nearly taste the beer he's had.

"you're not bored". confident in that fact. lips daintily taking yours. barely a kiss. a peak of his tongue after that forces something desperate and feathered to break from you. "just greedy". thumb smoothing into your pulse. "i gave you a little something for the first time a few weeks ago and now you don't know how to act".

you smile. drunkenly. his scent heady. "so we both agree, this is your fault".

"everything is my fault". his mouth retreating to tender skin. pulling at the gentleness of it. leading with the slip of his tongue till his lips begin to lay claim. a heated suck that's all possession.

you moan. "m'happy you know this".

"if you're happy then fine".

and if not for the kiss itself, you'd hate the crisp hoppy flavor of his tongue, but the slip of it is too comforting to ignore. the light summer breeze and his warmth, swaddling your skin till it's arresting your bones. an excitement dancing your nerves. and he's holding you tightly, a hand splayed against your back, pressing into him as he's pressing you further into coarse brick. the other roughing and kneading its way over and under your skirt, feeling up the exposure of your inner thighs. the heat there revving the pulse in his blood. surely it wouldn't take much to slip between your panties. to touch you firmly till you came. his legs long, stout, angling wider to trap you in.

it reminds him of some few weeks ago. his birthday. the day had been loud and crazy. gift after gift, and who would expect anything less for the prince of pensacola. whose father birthed the bloodline. and so that night had went on, you tucked under him by his own wordless request, lingering eyes and his hands searching for comfort in your skin, till you could no longer avoid the heat of them. and so they'd dug and littered pleasure harshly. a greedy taking. a years long build released suddenly and so terribly blissed. sounds he'd never heard before from you, wanting to hear them now all the time. tremblings in your skin that'd bruised the harsher parts of him to a softness.

the now midnight air streams against your skin, easy but chilling. his touch hot as it fingers past your panties to slip over your slit. and the sudden invasiveness of it is maddening, a sweet rolling over, wet and firm at your clit. your blood taking to a wild thrumming as his tongue licks wide into your mouth. everywhere that he finds himself, embraced over the whole of you, steadied and controlled. a fervor that weakens your knees.

the honk of a car reminds you of where you are. the coarse bricks of the wall he's fastened you to. the too bright lamp post not so far away. the guys, rowdy in the bar still, and the possibility of a passerby.

"were-were outside". your voice rushed and whispered.

"it's dark". the wet glide of a finger pushing patient against lush resistance. lips still working over yours, lapping sweetly, to calm the unease of your nerves. "no one will see us", so sure of himself. stroking gentle through the tight clutch of your pussy. groaning in time with the throbbing take you give his finger. and the intimacy here is odd, exposed to a somewhat weirdly lit street corner, but so very isolated still. your hands burying into the loose knot of his hair, breathing ragged against his mouth. the fear of being found and the thrill of release tugging the nerves beneath your skin. and when he's there, deep and caressing, his lips pulling to smile as you curse into the midnight breeze. "and if you're quiet, no one will hear us either".

roman's teeth pry at the part of your lips, sinking into the plush of the bottom one. steeping his fingers into the soak of you as his urges crash into you with an easy willingness. his ears sweetened by every sound that stretches out. fragile and dainty one moment, and then overtaken by something more feverish and raw the next.

"if my birthday is anything to go by though", his mouth at your ear. breath hot. shivering your spine. "then there ain't no gettin you to just shut up and take it huh?"

your belly coils. wrecks your voice. "fuck you"

"whenever you want".

and his persistence is tiring to the doubtful parts of you. the ones that fear sudden judgement and interruption. white heat over your brows, rising in your cheeks. a second finger slipping in with the first, a deep take as they go, stretching with leisure, as if the night has oh so graciously slowed for this moment. and dammit you wish it did, just a little if it meant holding him against you longer. your nails threatening to break into the muscle of him, running mindless over the leather covering his back. black and worn and familiar, smelling of warm amber wood as it works to soak your skin. a strong silent claim.

but there were always other things.

"yoo!", a voice calls.

it sounded like one of the twins. like jimmy.

but roman continues his ministrations. shushes into your cheek before kissing you to drown your whimpering noises. and you curl into him, figuring his broad body will shield you.

and you're nearly there. blood rushing and the heat sharp. pressure in your core, tight and unrelenting.

but jimmy is closing in. "yoo uce!". step after step, grinding the dirt under his heavy feet. "jey in here going at it. we need them hands".

the moment caves in till its collapsing, and roman slips his fingers from you. annoyed and sucking his teeth. fishing for something in his pockets till he's wiping your arousal away with a tissue. "i'm sorry", jaw twitching. a sharp clacking sounding in his other pocket. fishing again till he pulls out two carved rings. he slips them on, looking at you still, your eyes and your lips, searching for tells of anger.

still, he hasn't moved. doesn't want to leave you.

"it's okay", you break from his eyes. pushing him lightly towards where jimmy's voice calls from. "go".

and your legs, despite the thought-numbing heat, are suddenly cooler now. missing the sweet burn of him as they chill up. a breeze whisking to fill in the absence of him. and the circumstances are annoying. frustration rife in your body as it runs with a shiver. but it seems to be a better deal than toughing it out inside the bar. because even from the outside front of stubbs' you can hear the chaos of it all. screaming voices and wood cracking bangs. a fight of some sort. the inevitable unraveling. because who were the guys if they didn't get themselves into some shit. proud about their leather and proud about their pride. it only ever made for rougher nights, especially after the drinks were poured and savored. words back and forth till a fist flew to silence it all.

in the end it was sure to be wordless and bloody, because the guys had a perpetual hard on for mess. and then came the screeching wheels against asphalt and parked cars blaring their own sirens. stubbs' bar bound to be lit up with blue and red because the cops had a perpetual hard on for the guys. a cycle of bullshit indeed.

you wait by their parked bikes. a uniformed line of black and steel. each styled with crimson red fenders. a pout in your lips because tequila sounds like a good deal. something smooth and clear to eat at the unsettling ball in the pit of your gut.

and the street has a ghostly silence to it. an air that is comfortable in how still it is.

your eyes close and for the first time, you settle into the quiet of the night. the nothingness of it all, sweet and new. no rattling engines or clinking metal. neither were there jarring or jeering voices, threatening to break against the skin. no ruptures of the air from sure fated chaos. just a simple lonely breath. you like this.

#roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns smut #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns x black reader #biker au #joannasteez #tanks of blood

80 notes · View notes