Discover Top Posts Tagged with #personal best

Mar 1

Personal Best 19

🤍 Pairings: Coach!Cody Rhodes x Female Reader

🤍 Summary: Are we prisoners, or are we free? It's a thin line.

🤍 Warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI!, Explicit Sexual Content, Power Imbalance (coach/athlete), Strong Language, Implied Age Gap (but age appropriate, as always), Workplace-Adjacent/Semi-Public Settings, Slow Burn

🤍 Word Count: 5.1k

🤍 Links: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

You don’t think about what you’re wearing until it's too late.

The door swings wide open. He’s right there in his trademark fit. Red track jacket, zipper pulled halfway down, black joggers, trainers. Unmistakably him.

And you are… very obviously still in your robe.

His eyes drop right away, starting at your face and moving down just enough to notice the outline of your breasts, the tie at your waist, and how the robe hangs open at your thigh.

Then they come back up. Slowly.

You lean against the doorframe, acting like this is totally normal.

“Hi.”

He blinks, almost like he needs a second to process, then brings one hand out from behind his back.

He’s holding a bouquet of deep red roses, arranged with little white flowers and a soft white bow tied around the stems.

“These are for you,” he says. “Congratulations.”

The soft, sweet scent of roses fills the space between you. Almost enough to mask the clean, familiar smell of him.

You can’t help but smile. “You brought me flowers?”

“You won a championship,” he replies. “Felt appropriate.”

“They're beautiful.” You take them from him, careful not to crush the petals. “Thank you.”

He watches as you step back inside, your robe swaying with each step. The door closes softly behind him. He didn’t hesitate at all.

You head to the kitchen counter and grab a jar to use as a vase.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say, adjusting one of the white flowers.

“Every champion deserves flowers,” he replies.

You look down at the bouquet, suddenly very focused on getting them to sit just right.

He shifts his weight, arms folded, watching you. You catch him in your peripheral vision. The apartment feels different with him here, like the space is adjusting to him. He fills the room in a way nothing else does.

“I wanted to give them to you at the meet,” he admits. “But… I wasn’t sure how that would go over.”

You snort softly. “Yeah. Probably a little suspicious.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Would it be weird for a coach to give their athlete flowers?”

The roses sit between you on the counter like proof of something that’s no longer hypothetical.

“Not sure,” there's an obvious pause when you meet his eyes. Realization that you're not only here together, but you're here alone. “But you’re not my coach anymore, so...”

You say it like it’s no big deal, but the words hang in the air, something new between you.

The edge of your robe slips down your shoulder a little.

“You're right, I'm not.” His eyes linger there for a second, his hand flexing at his side. He lets out a quiet breath, almost to himself. “…thank God for that.”

You move closer, your hands settling on his chest and then his shoulders. For a moment, you both just try to breathe.

“You’re really here.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

His hands find your waist without thinking, like they’ve been waiting to be there again. Silence settles in the honesty of it.

You take a small step forward.

He follows without thinking.

“Wow,” you say. “No hesitation.”

“None,” he replies. “Dangerous, I know.”

Another step forward. He matches it.

“We should probably acknowledge this is happening,” he says. “Before we lose the ability to form sentences.”

You tilt your head. “Want to schedule a meeting?”

He laughs softly. “Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

“We are.” You meet his eyes and guide him another step. “I’m done pretending this isn’t where we were headed all along.”

He studies your face, then nods once. “Okay, same.”

“Very professional discussion,” you say, giving his chest a light pat.

“Very,” he agrees, eyes drifting down to where you’re touching him.

“For the record,” he says as you guide him forward, “I don’t want to sneak around anymore. I just want this—with you. I don’t care who knows.”

You nod. “Good, because Jaylah already knows everything.”

He groans. “Yeah, that ship sailed in the parking lot.”

He exhales, the last bit of tension leaving his shoulders. “You’re sure you’re okay with it not being a secret?”

“Yes,” you reply, as you slowly step forward again.

He looks at your face, and something warm settles in his expression.

“Okay,” he says again, quieter. “Good.”

You keep moving.

So does he.

You guide him step by step until the back of his legs bump into the couch. He glances back, realizing too late what you’re up to.

“Oh,” he says softly. “We’re—”

You give his shoulders a gentle push. He drops onto the couch with a surprised laugh, hands coming up to catch your hips as you straddle his lap. The movement draws a quiet sound from him.

You lean in and kiss him.

He responds just as quickly, one hand spreading across your back to pull you closer. The couch shifts under you, and a pillow slides to the floor.

His fingers slide up from your waist, tracing your side and the curve of your chest until they reach your throat. You freeze without meaning to.

“Someone's nervous,” he teases.

“I am not.”

“Mm.” He brushes his thumb under your chin. “Sure.”

His hand drifts down the center of your neck. You feel every second.

Okay, maybe you are a little nervous.

His fingers reach the point where your robe crosses at your chest. Slowly, they slide beneath the edge of the fabric.

You let out a sharp breath.

“See?” he says softly. “That right there.”

“What?”

“That little breath.”

“I didn’t—”

He hums like he’s already reading you, and likes what he sees.

His knuckles brush between your breasts, the fabric parting a little, then drift down your stomach.

He finds the sash at your waist and toys with the knot.

“This outfit is irresponsible,” he says, eyeing you slowly.

You laugh. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” he replies, “You look like you’re trying to cause a distraction.”

“You’re the one who showed up unannounced,” you remind him. “This is perfectly normal for being at home.”

“Hm.” His eyes travel down and back up. “Feels like a trap.”

“And you walked right into it.”

“Gladly.” He grins. “Actually, I think I found your new uniform.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He hooks a finger inside the knot. “And you know what the best part of any uniform is?”

“What?”

His blue eyes meet yours and stay there. “When you finally get to take it off.”

He gives the knot a gentle tug.

The knot loosens, and your robe falls open.

“…oops,” he says under his breath.

But he doesn’t look the least bit sorry.

For a moment, he just looks.

His eyes travel down, then back up. Pausing in places long enough to make your skin feel hot.

His hand shifts, barely grazing your newly exposed skin. The touch is light, but it feels anything but casual. His other hand slides forward, just exploring, testing the space.

Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

The adrenaline rushing through you feels like stepping onto the track again.

Your whole body knows what’s coming.

Suddenly, it’s like you’re back on the field, bracing for the moment.

Your eyes close, time pausing as you take a deep breath, waiting for the signal.

Ready?

Set.

GO.

Mouth. Tongue. Breath.

Hands.

His hands are everywhere.

Pushing the robe down your shoulders. Coming up to cup your face as you lean in. Guiding your hips as you grind against him just to test how hard he is.

And he absolutely is.

His hand slips between your legs. Just to check. To feel the slick mess coat his fingers.

Confirmation.

A low moan into your mouth.

Acknowledgement.

His teeth catch your bottom lip briefly before he drags his mouth down your jaw.

“You have no idea,” he breathes. An unfinished sentence. The first of many.

His palms warm against your skin as his mouth finds your neck. Messy kisses landing there, then lower. Lingering against your chest, tongue flicking out, mouth sucking until your breathing breaks.

“Look at you,” he groans, like he still can’t believe this is real.

Then you’re lifted, hands at the back of your thighs. Weightless for a heartbeat.

The door kicked open.

The mattress dipping beneath you.

For a second, he just hovers there, breathing a little heavier than before. Assessing. Watching you like you’re something he’s about to dismantle.

He unzips the jacket and shrugs it off, letting it fall somewhere beside the bed. Underneath, a grey cutoff tank. You’ve seen him in one a hundred times. But not like this.

His arms look bigger than you remember. Shoulders broader. Veins protruding along his forearms. The fabric clings to his chest and stomach in a way that makes it obvious he hasn’t exactly been taking it easy these past few months.

Your eyes track the movement of his hands as he drops the jacket, then come back to his arms. To the way the muscle shifts under his skin when he plants his palms beside you again.

“What?” he asks, breathing unevenly.

Your eyes drift again. Down. Back up. Taking him in.

It hits you all at once how much space he takes up. How contained he’s been around you.

How much he’s not containing himself now.

“It's just…” Your thumb traces the line of his arm. “You got bigger.”

His jaw flexes faintly. Not embarrassed. Pleased.

Your hand squeezes lightly, testing the firmness of his bicep. “Looks like you’ve been… working through some frustration.”

You like that you’re the reason.

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower. “Something like that.”

“Did it help?”

He leans closer to your mouth, bracing one hand beside your head. The mattress shifts again under his weight as his knee nudges yours open slightly.

“Not really.”

You lift your hand again without thinking, fingers settling lightly on his forearm. Following the line of one vein, then another.

“Can I help?” you ask, voice softer than intended.

He goes still, watching your fingers on his arm like he’s deciding something.

Then he laughs. A quiet, controlled exhale. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, baby,” he says slowly. “You can help.”

He lifts you halfway, posting you up against the pillows.

“Lay that pretty head down right here,” he says, easing you back gently. “Okay?” he asks softly.

“Open your legs,” he says, slower now.

Your pulse jumps at the shift in his tone.

You do.

Not because he told you to.

Because you want to.

“And watch me work.”

He sits back, grabs the hem of his shirt, pulls it over his head, and tosses it aside. The sight of him makes your breath deepen before you can stop it. The sharp lines of his torso. The result of months of discipline.

He catches that reaction immediately. A slow exhale leaves him as he leans back over you, one hand sliding up your thigh to push it open further.

“Now you’re paying attention,” he says quietly.

His eyes drop to your mouth and back up. Like he’s deciding whether to take something or ask for it.

You lean in before he can choose.

He meets you halfway.

This kiss is slower. He takes his time, savoring it. Hands roam your sides, over your hips, back up your ribs, relearning without rushing.

His mouth moves to your jaw, your neck. Making up for lost time an inch at a time. Savoring the fact that there are no more rules.

The room feels alive with it, like every boundary you crossed all season finally dissolved, like everything you’ve been holding in can finally be let out.

Your hands slide into his hair, down his shoulders, then back again, studying him without the pressure to hide. He follows the movement, mouth drifting from yours to the place below your ear that always makes you lose control.

You feel the shift before you see it.

The moment restraint finally gives way.

He presses one last kiss to your mouth, deeper than the rest, then lets it trail downward. Jaw, throat, the center of your chest. Each touch slower than the last.

You inhale sharply as he moves lower.

His mouth traces a planned path, hands guiding down your torso. There’s something worshipful in the way he touches you and something equally impatient.

You're not afraid to show him. You need to let him know how bad you want it.

You don’t care how you sound. You don’t care how desperate it looks.

All you care about is the way he takes his time, like he has nowhere else to be.

His hands roam. Up your stomach, over your breasts, down your arms. Catching your wrists and lacing his fingers through yours.

The sounds that leave you aren’t words anymore. They’re breath. Pleas. Sharp whimpers you can’t swallow.

He looks up, just to make sure you’re watching. The sight of him between your legs, focused and completely unashamed of how much he’s enjoying this, almost undoes you on its own.

You arrive faster than you expect.

Like the finish line appearing too soon.

Like your body surged before your mind caught up.

Too fast. Until your entire body trembles.

Your hands want to pull free, but he tightens his grip.

“No,” he says gently.

He doesn’t let you hide.

When it finally breaks, when your hips tilt off the mattress and your breath fractures into sharp pieces, he stays there.

Through every aftershock. Every shiver.

Like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have.

When it’s over, you’re barely there.

Floating. Breathless.

You blink, his sharp edges coming back into focus. He’s still between your legs, eyeing you as if he’s expecting applause.

Wow.

“Not bad,” you say softly.

There’s a pause.

“Not bad?”

You shrug, lazily. “I mean… it was good.”

You reach down, fingers threading into his hair, giving it a soft tug. Just enough to remind him you’re still playing.

“Oh,” he says through a humorless laugh. “That’s what we’re doing tonight?”

You open your mouth to answer, but suddenly he’s moving.

He rises, crowding into you, pressing you back into the mattress. Your hand is still in his hair, but now it feels like you’re the one holding on. Fingers wrap around your wrist, but you don’t let go.

“Brat,” he whispers, leaning close enough that you feel the shape of the word against your mouth.

Your breathing stills. That wasn’t the script.

He studies your expression. A trace of surprise, the way your bravado thins.

“You think you’re in charge because you pulled my hair?” His thumb presses into your wrist, feeling the pulse jump. “That’s cute.”

The smile he gives you is slow.

“Try that again,” he says softly.

It’s the softness that throws you off.

You should say something clever. Biting. Anything.

Instead, you tug him toward you again by his hair. Just a little.

His breath leaves him. Grip tightening, restraint fracturing. His hand slides from your wrist to pin both above your head. A shift sudden enough to steal your breath.

“Say it again,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Tell me more about how it was ‘not bad.’”

You try. You really do.

But what comes out is breathless and broken.

“While you're shaking,” he continues.

“And whimpering.”

“And coming.”

You arch up into him without thinking, chasing the fire you just lit. The mattress shifts beneath you again as he presses down harder, knee sliding between your thighs, forcing more space between them.

“Yeah—”

“You can do better,” you interrupt.

He laughs. It’s the most undone he’s sounded all night. His grip tightens when you strain against it. To prove he’s there. That this is real.

You can’t tell who moves first, only that suddenly you’re both moving. Your fingers twist in his hair. His mouth finds yours mid-breath, the kiss messy and unmeasured. Like neither of you meant for it to go this far this fast.

So much for composure.

Your pulse pounds under his bruising fingerprints. Hands gripping instead of guiding. Bodies shifting without strategy. Kisses that miss and find again. The sharp inhale when skin meets skin. The way your sanity dissolves.

“You wanna get fucked?” he mutters against your mouth. “Huh?”

You try to answer, but it comes out unintelligible.

“Yeah?” He continues. “Oh my god, you need to get fucked so bad.”

Something in you collapses. The careful dominance dissolves into desperation.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he breathes against you.

His hand slides into your hair, pulling you closer, just enough to remind you who’s holding on now.

The brat act melts under the heat. You’re past strategy. There's no room to calculate.

“Yes.”

A breath.

“Please.”

The words hardly form.

He's even worse off. Chest rising sharply. Voice barely whole. Fabric shifting. Bodies bumping against one another. A quiet laugh when your elbow knocks against the headboard.

Rushed in the way people are when they’ve been waiting too long.

Excited. Breathless. Past pretending.

Past the rules you tried to follow but failed.

Past every reason you ever gave yourselves to stop.

There’s nothing left now but skin and breath. The frantic need to be closer.

The rest of his clothes disappear somewhere between kisses. You barely notice when. All you feel is him. Your hand gripping his thick, hard cock and sliding it against yourself as you moan pathetically.

The first moment he sinks into you steals the air from both of you.

It’s slow for half a second, like you’re both just feeling it, registering it between each slow roll of your hips.

Then it isn’t slow anymore.

You move because you have to. Because moving any slower feels impossible. Because “Fuck, yes. Don't stop,” coupled with his skin slapping against yours, sounds so right.

Losing control entirely. The bedding shifts beneath you. Headboard tapping the wall in uneven bursts. The room filled with loud declarations of “Harder,” and “Fuck, baby. Just like that.”

He buries his face against your shoulder, voice coarse and low, words breaking apart as he tries to hold onto them.

You don’t answer with anything coherent. All that comes out are breaths, sounds, and the kind of laughter that only happens when something feels both overwhelming and right.

Your leg hooks around his hip, dragging him closer on your terms. He follows instead of resisting, and suddenly you’re rolling together, the mattress dipping hard beneath the combined weight of it. There’s no clean reversal, no calculated pin. Just bodies chasing contact.

His hand slides from your waist and catches your thigh instead, pulling you with him as you twist, breath tangling, knees knocking, sheets twisting around your legs. You almost end up on top, almost, but he pulls you sideways again.

Every shift feels unplanned. A scramble for skin, for heat, for the exact spot where your bodies fit. You’re not fighting for control anymore, you’re fighting for submission.

When your muscles start to burn, when the pace stutters for a second, he’s there, sitting you on top of him. Pulling you closer instead of letting you pull away. The change sends you both spiraling again, the rhythm picking back up, then slowing.

The world narrows to sensation. To movement. To the feeling of finally letting go.

You lose track of where one of you ends, and the other begins. Lose track of time. Of anything but the way he fills you, stretching you so sweetly.

Arms wrapping around his neck, bodies a steady sway as you swirl your hips.

He says your name.

It cuts through everything.

Instead of chasing the next frantic kiss, you stay there.

Your hands tighten at the back of his neck, but not to pull him closer.

To hold him.

His thumb drifts along your spine. The pace between you unwinds without either of you deciding to slow it.

“We are fucking reckless,” he says.

The chaos dissolves. Your movements shift. Not rushed, but rolling. A shared rhythm instead of a collision.

Your breathing begins to sync.

The room feels quieter, even though nothing’s changed.

You lift your head just enough to look at him, and whatever he sees in your expression softens something in his.

“My neighbors are going to hate us,” you reply.

He brushes his nose against yours.

“Let them.”

His hands rest at your waist. Your palm over his heart.

He studies your face like he’s trying to memorize it before it disappears. Like he’s afraid this soft, unguarded version of you is only temporary.

“I’ve told you this before,” he says quietly.

He exhales, thumb brushing slowly along your side. “But I don’t think I ever said it without fear attached.” His eyes stay on yours.

Your throat tightens, eyes starting to sting.

“I don’t feel scared right now,” he continues with a faint smile.

“I love you.”

There’s no dramatic swell. Just truth.

You slide your fingers into his hair, holding him there.

“I love you, too,” you whisper.

You finally said it the way you wanted. And this time, it doesn’t feel like a risk.

The roses sit forgotten on the counter.

The medal is still tucked inside your bag.

But this…

This goes beyond material desire. Beyond anything of earthly value.

You're shaking now, every gentle continued thrust sending a tide of warmth through your body.

“Stay right here,” he says quietly. Not a command. A request disguised as one.

And you do.

Your hips move more slowly now, bodies swaying together instead of scrambling for leverage. The fire hasn’t burned out; it’s settled into something warm and steady. A slow-building pulse instead of a wild blaze.

There’s nothing left to prove.

Just this.

The feeling of being exactly where you’re meant to be.

And when you kiss this time, it’s not messy.

It’s true.

Lingering.

Like you both finally understand that the real power was never in the chaos.

It was in the peace.

The final stretch.

His hand slips between you.

Your body clenching around him as he guides you both there.

You collapse into it. Together.

After, there’s nothing but breath and heat. The sound of both of you trying to recover at the same time.

For the first time since this started, it feels like you’ve arrived.

He’s still peppering your skin with soft little kisses like he’s proud of what he pulled from you.

Staying there a moment, catching his breath. Then he shifts and collapses beside you with a soft exhale.

Your bed is not built for two people your size tangled together like this. His shoulder bumps yours. One leg hangs half off the edge.

For a moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, breathing in sync without trying to.

Then you turn your head.

He’s already looking at you. He looks… spent. In the best way. Hair a mess. Chest still rising and falling faster than normal.

There’s a stunned softness in his expression, like he’s still catching up to the fact that this actually happened. That you’re here. That he’s here.

You let out a shaky laugh. “You sound like you just ran a marathon.”

He huffs. “I did.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“Well, someone decided the first score wasn’t high enough.” He turns his head toward you fully now, one arm sliding behind his head. “I had no choice but to come back in the second.”

Your jaw drops.

He grins, tired but pleased with himself. “Not gonna lie, I expected a little more endurance from a champion.”

You bump his shoulder with yours. You try to glare at him and fail because you’re still floating somewhere behind that devastating smile and those gorgeous blue eyes.

“Don’t get cocky,” you warn.

“I’ve been waiting all week for this,” he says, closing his eyes for a second like he’s savoring the moment. “I get to be a little cocky.”

That lands softer than the joke.

He opens his eyes and looks at you again.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His fingers brush your wrist like it’s instinct.

“Good.”

You lie there another second, sharing the tiny bed. The warmth. The relief of finally not stopping.

Then you glance at him sideways. “For the record, that was the warm-up.”

He lets out a tired laugh. “Oh, is that right?”

“You’d better pace yourself, Coach,” you tease.

You grin, savoring the feeling of neither of you being in a hurry to go anywhere.

Right here. Now. This moment.

It's all that matters.

Hours later, you’re both redressed and tangled together in the center of your too-small bed. The only light comes from your bedside lamp. One of his arms is under your neck, the other draped across your waist like it settled there naturally and never plans to move.

Your phone buzzes somewhere on the floor.

You snort quietly as you reach to grab it.

“What?” he asks, voice heavy with exhaustion.

“It’s Jaylah,” you say. “She sent a video.”

You tap it open. The screen fills with shaky footage of Jaylah in the middle of some random street, music blasting from a car nearby while she dances like she’s performing for a sold-out stadium. At one point, she yells something unintelligible into the camera and nearly trips over the curb.

He lifts his head slightly to see the screen. “Is she… in traffic?”

“Probably,” you laugh.

The video ends with Jaylah shouting, “TEXT ME IF YOU’RE STILL ALIVE,” before it cuts.

You’re still laughing while you type out a short reply.

He’s watching your phone now, eyes half-lidded but curious. Then his gaze sharpens slightly.

“…You still have me saved as ‘Coach Rhodes?’”

You freeze for half a second.

“Yes,” you mutter.

He lets out a quiet laugh against your shoulder. “Wow. Brutal.”

“I just never changed it,” you defend weakly.

“Yeah,” he says. “Not exactly the vibe anymore.”

You turn your head toward him. “Okay, let me see yours then.”

He hesitates just long enough to make you suspicious.

“Oh, now I definitely need to see it,” you say, reaching for his phone.

He unlocks it and hands it over.

You scroll once and immediately find your name.

“My beautiful girlfriend?” you read aloud.

He gives a small, almost shy shrug. Nothing like the man who walked into your life months ago and burned it down.

He watches your face carefully. “Thoughts?”

You don’t answer right away. Looking back down at the screen, then back at him.

A smile spreads across your face.

“…Yeah,” you say softly. “That sounds good.”

You hand his phone back and tuck yours against your chest for a second, like you’re holding the moment there.

“Guess I should update mine,” you add.

“Yeah?” he asks. “To what?”

“My annoyingly hot…”

He arches a brow. “Strong start.”

“Stupidly handsome…”

“Facts.”

“Incredibly smug…”

“Now that one feels personal.”

“Smart, thoughtful, sweet, amazing…”

He squints at you. “Wow. We really circled back to flattery, huh?”

“…boyfriend.”

He goes quiet for a second. Just taking it in like it means more than he expected.

“…boyfriend.” His arm tightens around you for just a second.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That sounds right.”

You shift closer under his arm, pressing your face into his shoulder. He presses a quiet kiss into your hair.

“Your turn,” you mumble against him.

He exhales through his nose like he’s pretending to think hard about it.

“First of all, stubborn,” he starts.

“Rude.”

“Unreasonably competitive.”

“Accurate.”

“Ridiculously talented.”

You hum approvingly.

“Dangerously addictive.”

You smile. “Keep going.”

“And,” he adds, nudging his nose lightly against your temple, “the only woman I’ve ever fallen this hard for.”

Your heart swells at that. You’re still smiling when he rolls slightly, so he’s hovering over you again.

“One more thing,” he says.

You look up at him, all soft, heart-eyed, and completely unguarded.

“Bossy.”

You gasp. “I am not—”

“You’ve been steering me around all night,” he says, grinning. “Guiding me to couches. Beds. Multiple precarious positions. Very suspicious behavior.”

You roll your eyes. “You like it.”

“You’re right,” he says, voice lowering just a fraction. “Actually… I think I might love it.”

His thumb hooks lightly at your waist.

“You should tell me what to do more often.”

Your pulse shifts instantly.

“Really?”

He leans down just enough for his mouth to hover near yours.

“Yeah.”

You tilt your head, brushing your lips against his without fully kissing him.

“How about right now?”

Something flashes behind his eyes. Playful, heated, already halfway to meeting you there.

“You sure you wanna start giving me orders?”

You lift your chin slightly. “You sure you wanna question me?”

His mouth curves.

He leans closer, not kissing you yet. Just staying right there. Letting the anticipation build.

“You can tell me whatever you want,” he continues softly. “Just don’t forget who’s gonna make you beg for it.”

Heat rushes low in your stomach.

“Oh?” you manage.

He brushes his thumb along your jaw, slow, possessive in a way that’s still tender.

“Yeah,” he says. “You wanna try giving me a command?”

His mouth grazes the corner of yours. Teasing. Withholding.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“Hands on the counter,” you whisper, voice dimming. “Sound familiar?”

He goes still for half a second, then laughs, low and surprised.

“Oh, you think you’re funny.”

You tug him down toward you.

His laugh dissolves into something warmer as his mouth finally claims yours.

The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft light on tangled sheets.

Outside, a car passes. Somewhere down the hall, a door shuts.

And eventually the light clicks off.

No big declarations. No dramatic speeches.

Just the quiet, steady sense that whatever this is… It’s real now.

Outside, the world keeps moving, aware of all its wrongs.

Inside, everything finally feels right.

🤍 Last | Next 🤍

No Pressure Tags:

@harmshake @coyotegirl-ramblings @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @smile1318 @southerngirl41

@eringobragh420 @aureliacorvina @bigreddaddymachine @beibigirl124 @vampire-allin

@coyotegirl-ramblings @sageispunk @kdawgiedawg @the-whatever-22 @amandairene88

@yuuwoods @brie-mode-activated @nightmarekade @mightypocketcow @alyyaanna @cdyrhodes

@isabella-2025 @frenchwrestlinggirl @ariitheedonn @nlghtmarerhodes @masterjedikenobi @sgt-peppers-coffee-club

@speakingincodes-blog @rissaboo29 @clomo12345 @jane-the-virgin0

@xnightmarexpunkx @speakingincodes

#cody rhodes #cody rhodes fanfic #cody rhodes fanfiction #cody rhodes imagine #cody rhodes smut #cody rhodes x you #cody rhodes x y/n #cody rhodes x reader #cody rhodes x fem reader #cody rhodes x female reader #original fiction #college au #forbidden romance #coach x athlete #slow burn #fantasies #fiction writers on tumblr #fiction #new chapter #coach rhodes #personal best

femdisa