Laundry Room Living
3.3K | self indulgent fluff | Cody Rhodes/Fem Reader
"Once you've extracted as much of the strangers laundry as you can, you stick your head into the washer to check for stray socks stuck to the ceiling, this ain't your first rodeo. But instead of a sock you find… a speedo? A black shiny spandex speedo? With… words on the butt!?!
You gingerly peel the garment off the wall, reminding yourself over and over that it's freshly washed! It's clean! It's fine! Only to be rewarded with the word ‘Nightmare’ sprawled across the ass in gold letters."
~~~
KnottyRoses posting out of nowhere after almost a year with a totally new beefy hunk? More likely then you'd think!
I apologize if this is nonsense, it's me trying to get back in the writing groove and figure out how to write Cody. Be nice!
Hope you enjoy this silly goofy romp <3
TW: y/n briefly thinks Cody is a sex worker (idk if that needs a tw but sure why not)
AO3 Link if that's more your speed
~~~
It’s not a big deal. It’s really not. It’s just laundry!
Yet, you find yourself staring up at the dingy grey basement ceiling taking deep breaths like you've just uncovered a crime committed against you.
And maybe you’re over reacting, maybe you should just pick up your basket of dirty laundry, go back up to your apartment, and try again later. Maybe that would be a more level headed thing to do, but damn it, you need to do laundry! The situation is dire, you are currently wearing underwear that you should have thrown out long ago, but still have for emergencies such as this. There is no rage quite like ill fitting underwear induced rage.
So instead of trying again later, you take a deep breath, open the washer, and scoop up the damp laundry you'd found abandoned by some stranger in your apartment. If you were feeling nice, you'd put it in the dryer. But you're not feeling nice. You're feeling like your underwear is a size too small and your arms are full of a stranger's damp laundry. So you dump it on top of the machine.
Sorry buddy, welcome to the cut throat world of the apartment laundry room!
Once you've extracted as much of the stranger's laundry as you can, you stick your head into the washer to check for stray socks stuck to the ceiling, this ain't your first rodeo. But instead of a sock you find… a speedo? A black shiny spandex speedo? With… words on the butt?!?
You gingerly peel the garment off the wall, reminding yourself over and over that it's freshly washed! It's clean! It's fine! Only to be rewarded with the word ‘Nightmare’ sprawled across the ass in gold letters.
Well, okay then. There are simply some things you don't need to know about your neighbors. This is one of them. Good god, you're never going to be able to take the elevator again. Every person you see in the building could secretly be walking around rocking ‘Nightmare’ on their ass.
What kind of person wears this?? It has to be a kink thing right?
You’re putting your laundry in the machine purely on muscle memory at this point. Your brain focused on nothing but trying to picture the man –you assume it's a man based on the regular looking boxers and other dude clothes in the pile –who would own this speedo.
Maybe he's a sex worker! This is work gear. Okay. That's fine you can live with that. Can't begrudge a man getting his bag. It's also a much better visual than someone walking around where you live secretly rocking black spandex ‘nightmare’ speedos.
You scamper out of the laundry room, set a timer on your phone, and try not to spend the next hour imagining which of your neighbours is a sex worker.
Going back down into the laundry room feels like God's greatest challenge, but your timer is going off and you are determined to be better than Mr. Nightmare who left his wet clothes to be other people's problem.
You spend the entire trip down telling yourself it's deeply unlikely Mr. Nightmare will be there. The laundry room is always empty. In fact you've magically managed to never run into anyone in it before. So it's fine. You'll be fine. You just have to run in, throw your shit in the dryer, and then run away! You can do that. Mr. Nightmare’s not real, he can't hurt you!
Except he is real. He is very real and he's crouched down in front of the dryer pulling his stuff off the top, where you unceremoniously piled it, and tossing it into the dryer.
As you stand it the doorway contemplating running away, you cannot help but be struck by how built this mother fucker is. His back practically blocks the entire dryer, he’s wearing a loose tank top and every time you watch him reach up for more of his clothes you get a view of very well muscled arms.
Now you're not a betting girl, but look, in this moment you'd be willing to bet quite a lot that your earlier assumption is true. Mr. Nightmare is absolutely a sex worker, or maybe a body builder? Body builders wear speedos, but probably not with ‘nightmare’ on the ass. You're not sure. And you don't really want to stand around to ask.
But honestly you’re torn. Because the thing is, Mr. Nightmare might be fucking beautifully built, but he’s also closing the door on a dryer that you need to use! And no matter how pretty a man is he can't compete with your desperate need to get out of these uncomfortable underwear. Which now is suddenly an extra hour away.
You should say something, you should tell him off. He left his laundry sitting around, and now he needs to wait!
You don’t say anything, mostly because you don’t have enough crazy in you to actually start a fight over the dryer. But mainly because while you have been standing in the doorway like an idiot contemplating the best sock related insults to yell, Mr. Nightmare has started the dryer and stood up.
He’s in stupid little red booty shorts, they have ‘Nightmare’ across the ass in matching gold letters.
His ass of course is not a nightmare, nor are his legs. Both are, well, perfect. And suddenly you’re staring at the ceiling because why are you salivating at a man just trying to do his fucking laundry; get your fucking shit together! Plus, what kind of weirdo has booty shorts that match his speedo?? This guy is hot, sure, but he's clearly living some crazy life that you don't want to be involved in.
And why the fuck haven't you run away yet, you idiot?
“Oh! Shit!”
You jump about a foot in the air, as if he’s the one who’s surprised you not the other way around.
He’s got his hand over his heart, probably trying to calm it down after the shock of turning around to find a person hoovering like a fucking weirdo in the doorway.
“Make a noise or something next time. You scared the shit out of me.” He says, but instead of sounding annoyed he seems amused. His face is turning up in a smile as you continue to just stare at him.
Mr. Fucking Nightmare is unearthly handsome. It's stupid. It's a lot to take in.
“That’s my laundry.” You say like the psycho you are, pointing past him to the washer.
He's really smiling now, like your insanity amuses him. And his whole face is lighting up like the fucking sun and you want to smack it off him for reasons you blame on our underwear.
“Ah, I see.” He says smugly, looking over his shoulder and then looking back at you with a raised eyebrow. “So you’re the person who put my laundry on top of the wash.”
You shrug. You will not let this beautiful man make you feel bad, “I’m not going to apologize for that. Everyone knows all’s fair in love and laundry.” You shoot back, seemingly committing to your path down the road to being the strangest neighbor possible.
He chuckles, and you wish you could bottle the sound. It’s deep and rumbling, and somehow instantly sets you at ease.
He holds his hands up in mock surrender, "Can't argue with that. It was a rooky move on my part.” He bows his head with a slightly stupid grin still on his face. “My apologies.”
About twelve nasty things come to the tip of your tongue, probably all sent by your evil underwear, but instead you say meekly, “It’s fine. It happens to the best of us.”
Considering he's a man in a tank top and red booty shorts with the word Nightmare across his ass, he’s handling this entire interaction much too calmly in your opinion. “I can put your stuff in the dryer once mine is done,” he offers with only sincerity in his voice. “It’ll save ya an extra trip.”
Well that's very nice of your hot hunk of a neighbour to offer. Especially considering you had dumped his laundry on top of the machine and then spent the next hour creating crazy stories about his exploits as a sex worker.
Which reminds you that if you were to take him up on his offer you’d have to let this hot man handle your laundry, including all your underwear. Which was not going to happen.
“That’s really sweet but it's fine. It's not like it's a long trip.”
“You sure?” he asks, “really wouldn't be a problem.”
And you almost agree, he just seems so genuinely happy to do this thing for you that it feels rude to refuse. But you resist, and your mind is running a mile a minute trying to process this entire interaction and how to politely refuse this earnest man, and maybe that's why you stumble into saying, “No, I think I'd like the excuse to run into you again actually.”
It's a joy to watch him react to that. He blinks several times and his ears go bright red against the shocking bleach blonde of his hair. You've stunned him speechless, and his pretty little face is painted with surprise.
Oh, you've made Mr. Nightmare bashful so easily. He's looking at his shoes, and rubbing the back of his neck and stuttering out something or other incomprehensible. He must not be a very good sex worker if this is how he reacts to being flirted with.
“That, uh, yeah, uh, okay. Good. sounds…good. Great even. Uh…”
Now it’s your turn to try not to laugh, this big strong man had completely crumbled with one pass at him. It was maddenly cute but you also felt bad for the poor guy. He’s just out here trying to do his laundry and here you are hitting on him. But for the life of you you couldn't think of something to say.
Luckily he seems to have pulled himself together, and ears still bright red he managed to look at you, baby blue eyes determined, “My timers set for fifty minutes.”
“I guess I’ll have to set mine for the same.”
“T-minus 49 minutes. Synchronize our watches!” He says with a silly little grin that makes his ears twitch up.
Oh god, he’s a dork. He's a big beautiful dork. You're going to explode. You're going to eat him alive if he lets you.
You fake a mock salute, “Yessir!” Before turning on your heel and practically running away from the laundry room.
Oh, you’re a crazy mother fucker, and now you have a kinda sorta laundry date with the prettiest man in the fucking world who aslo happens to have the word nightmare on his ass. How strange life is sometimes.
48 minutes later you’re headed back down to the laundry room feeling more than a little nervous. What if he isn’t there? What if he’s taken his laundry early to avoid you? What if you’d freaked him out earlier? Fair enough really, considering you'd only said crazy things, hit on him and then ran away.
But no, he was the one who said the stupid ‘synchronize our watches’ thing! And he must like crazy to some degree if he’s willing to walk around in booty shorts with ‘nightmare’ on the ass.
It's fine. This is all good and fine. And either way you need to go put your laundry in the dryer. So suck it up buttercup!
You go to open the door and find it swinging in without you doing anything. You're lurched forward as the door flies open and reveals Mr. Nightmare, laundry basket under one arm, making a hasty escape from the laundry room.
Oh god, he was trying to avoid you.
“Sorry!” you squeak, trying to figure out how to get past him without having to say anything more.
But he's built like a god and taking up the whole door frame and he’s blocking your only reasonable escape route.
Your frantic energy is met with an amused but kind smile, “there you are!”
He seems… relieved? To see you. And the way his face is softening as he smiles down at you soothes some of that frantic energy, at least enough that you’re not trying to find a way to dart past him anymore.
But your eyes flick to the laundry basket under his well muscled arm, and then back to him standing in the door frame, and suddenly he must see how it looks because his eyes go wide, baby blues filled with concern.
“Oh wait! No!” he says, sounding a bit frantic.
You raise an eyebrow at him.
He shakes his head firmly, “No no! I got a call from work, I have to go deal with some stuff. But I left a note for you on the laundry machine with my number.” He gestures over his shoulder with his head as he steps out of the way so you can walk past to verify.
And you do, and he's telling the truth. On the dryer is a note in neat blocky text that says “Sorry I missed you. Call me and I’ll make it up to you.” and then his number.
You round on him eyebrows raised, “What if some other crazy person had walked in here and gotten your number?”
He looks like he’s trying not to laugh, sides of his mouth twitching up as he fails. “I was confident the right crazy person would find it.”
There were about a thousand things you wanted to say to that, but instead you take out your phone.
You can feel Mr. Nightmare watching you, waiting in anticipation for how you’ll respond.
And then his phone rings.
“That's probably work.” He says looking down at his phone balanced on top of his clean laundry.
“You should pick it up.”
And you watch as he does, and then watch the smile take over his face as he looks up and sees you holding your phone to your ear.
“Hey.” He says softly into the phone, eyes crinkled in amusement.
“Hey.” You say back, and can hear the quiet muffled sound of it coming out of his phone.
“Maybe I should tell Jey we can practice tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t get in trouble for me.”
Your eyes are locked on each other, and the small space feels like it's shimmering with electricity. Maybe the laundry machine behind you is heating up the room. Or maybe, much more likely, a man in nightmare booty shorts, with the bluest eyes in the world is staging you down, and making you feel supercharged.
“Jey will understand.” He says sincerely, then adds, “plus, you seem worth getting in trouble for.”
It's an interesting experience hearing him say that out loud, and then getting the echo of it with a millisecond delay through your phone.
Which is how you end up with a big beefy man sitting on the washing machine, kicking his feet, as you put your laundry in the dryer.
And then once your laundry is on, somehow you’re laying on the concrete floor looking over at him. Watching the way the muscles of his thighs flex as he slowly bounces his legs, and trying desperately not to follow the line of his legs up too high to the hem of his shorts that at this angle really aren't doing anything.
You try to just stare at the ceiling and listen to him. He’s got a little bit of a lisp that you notice gets stronger when he's excited. He’s got an older brother he’s going to visit this weekend. He’s smart, and funny, and his voice is deep and soothing as you talk. His name is Cody, not Mr. Nightmare.
“Cody?” you ask the ceiling, breaking a brief calm moment of silence.
“Yes?”
“Not to be intrusive.” You shoot a look up at him and see both his eyebrows raised in amusement and decide to continue. “But why is your ass ‘Nightmare’ branded?”
He doesn't respond and you’re so sure you've just asked him to out himself as a sex worker, until you look over and realise he's silent because he's literally biting his tongue to keep from laughing.
You watch the muscles of his jaw work as he tries to hold it together and then loses letting out a rather stupid sounding snort.
“My ass is nightmare branded because I’m a wrestler, and that’s my…thing.”
“Fascinating.”
He's looking down at you like a confused puppy dog, “Why, what did you think it was?”
“Well let’s be honest, Mr. Nightmare.” you say with a taunting smile, “You see a black spandex speedo with ‘nightmare’ slapped across the ass and your imagination can cook up a lot.”
His entire face goes red this time, and his lisp is extra prominent as he says, “fucking shit, I’m never leaving my laundry in the wash again.”
“Oh come on,” you say, staring up at the ceiling. “Something has to spice up our mundane lives.”
“You’re crazy,” he says back with an amount of fondness in his voice that makes you scared to look at him to see what you’d find on his face.
“You like it.”
“Never said I didn't.”
By the time the buzzer goes off signaling that your laundry is dry the two of you are both laying on the floor.
Cody’s laying just next to you, not quite touching but close enough you can feel the heat radiating off him. Every time either of you shift your limbs brush and your heart races and it's so silly. It’s so stupid, and silly, and you feel like your a fucking teenager again.
“Laundry’s done,” you say quietly pointing out the obvious.
You turn your head to look over at him and find him staring back at you, face millimeters from yours.
“Probably should get that.” he whispers back.
But you wouldn't fucking move for the world right now. Not with Cody right there.
“I think” you say, eyes flicking down to his lips for a moment. “I think I'd rather kiss you.”
His ears are pink as he whispers, “you’re going to be the death of me.”
And then he’s closing the gap between you and he presses the gentlest kiss to your lips you've ever felt.
It’s everything. It's nothing. It's driving you absolutely wild.
Before you can pounce on him, he sits up.
Oh, maybe he's not into you like that. Maybe this crazy tension you've felt for the past hour is just self fulfilling fantasy. Maybe you're an idiot.
Cody stands up and then offers you a hand. His face is hard to read, but at least he doesn't look mad.
You take his hand and let him pull you up like it's nothing. In fact he forgets his own strength and pulls you directly into his chest sending you both stumbling.
He steadies you, wrapping an arm firmly around your waist and holding you tight to him. You look up and his blue eyes are blazing.
Okay, never mind, you hadn’t misread the situation.
“I’m taking you out for dinner.” He says shockingly softly for the intensity in his eyes.
“You don’t wanna make out on the laundry room floor?”
“Baby, we both live here.” he reminds you gently pushing your hair behind your ear. “I can take you for a nice meal, and then we can find a much nicer place to make out than a laundry room floor.”
The swoop in your stomach as he speaks threatens to knock you off your feet. Luckily you were still pressed into his very firm body, which, while keeping you from falling down, was actually only serving to make you feel more feral.
“Promise?”
His ears twitch as he smiles in bemused exasperation, “Promise.”
