#by looking for Cody content to post

[codychristiantreasures]

Someone who works on the team for one of my clients just sent me a very unnecessary passive aggressive email calling me out for something that isn’t even an issue. Its one thing to send me an email asking me why something is the way it is if you don’t understand but to CC someone who isn’t even my superior and has NOTHING to do with my clients and saying things should be done how they do it because they dumb it down for you is the icing on the cake. They picked the wrong day to piss me off. I am 🤏🏻 close to sending them this picture and nothing else.

[abbotjack]

The House She Left You

Content Warnings : 18+ MDNI explicit sex, grief, family trauma, complicated sibling dynamics, references to addiction and overdose, emotionally repressed Pope Cody behavior, morally gray choices, sexual content in emotionally charged contexts, kitchen sex, emotionally manipulative undertones, references to Pope’s canon instability, emotionally explicit dialogue, light dubcon tension (consensual but fraught), emotionally unhealthy power imbalance, unresolved trauma, unprotected sex,

word count : 6,637

a/n : Here’s the Pope fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for weeks. Not my favorite, but I figured I’d share it anyway since I probably won’t be posting much until after finals.

Summary : She’s dead. You have her kid. Her house. Her ghosts. And now—Pope. The man you were never supposed to want, who never once looked at you when he was hers… but who saw everything. He shows up when the fridge hums and the silence grows thick, and what starts as confrontation splinters into confession, then into violence you asked for.

Time: One week after the funeral Location: Oceanside, California — your sister’s house

You don’t turn on the lights when you come in.

The house doesn’t deserve it.

It’s not yours. Not really. Not yet.

Not even after the state handed you a stack of papers, stamped and signed, with your name on the last page and hers on the death certificate. Not even after the little girl sleeping down the hall said “mommy” in her sleep two nights ago and you had to step outside so she wouldn’t hear you lose it.

You shut the door behind you and breathe in the dark. Not a big breath—your chest won’t take it. Something’s been living there the past week, curling in your ribs like an animal, biting at your lungs whenever you try to hold too much air. You let your back hit the wood, keys still in your hand, eyes adjusting to the same stale shadows.

The kitchen light is off. You left it that way.

But the fridge is open.

At first you think it’s just the door not sealed right, some crack letting the compressor hum like a breath. But then it moves. A shape. A shoulder shifting. A figure standing there like he never left.

Pope.

Just his face in the cold light, slack and unreadable. Forearms braced on the counter. Staring into the fridge like there’s something in it worth seeing. He doesn’t look up when you walk in. Doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t apologize.

And why would he?

You flick the switch by the door. Harsh, overhead light floods the kitchen. It hits him like a slap. He barely blinks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it slices. Dry. Defensive. You’re not ready to see him. You weren’t ever going to be.

He shuts the fridge slowly. Leans his hip against the counter.

“You left the back door unlocked.”

You stare. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d check on the kid.”

“You already did that. Three days ago. She doesn’t even remember.”

“She’s seven.” He finally looks at you. “Of course she does.”

Something in you tightens. You cross your arms to keep it from showing. “You can’t just let yourself in.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” you snap, voice sharp, teeth bared. “Because it’s her house? Because you used to live here? Fuck her on that couch? Eat breakfast with her daughter like you weren’t already halfway out the door before the coffee was done brewing?”

He doesn’t flinch. Not even a blink. And that’s what infuriates you most—that nothing you say ever seems to get under his skin.

You want him to react. You’ve always wanted him to see you.

“She’s gone,” he says flatly. “You’re here now.”

You let the silence settle. He always had that talent—the kind that made people fill the quiet just to get rid of it. You don’t give in.

He pushes off the counter, stepping around the table. Slowly. Like he’s giving you time to adjust to his shape in the room. Like he knows how he fills it.

“You get the paperwork?”

Your eyes narrow. “You don’t get to ask that.”

“She wanted—”

“She wanted a lot of things.” You throw your keys in the bowl by the door harder than necessary, like the sound might drown out the ache in your throat. “She wanted to be clean. She wanted to live. She wanted to be a mom.”

“I know.” His voice is still maddeningly calm, like nothing ever rattles him. “I was there, too. You think I didn’t care?”

“I think you cared like it was a job,” you say, eyes flicking to the spot on the floor where he used to drop his boots. “I think she used that. I think you liked being needed until it made you hate her.”

A long pause. Then—

“You blame me,” he says. Not a question.

“I blame her,” you bite out. “I blame me. I blame everyone. What does it matter?”

He nods once, slow. Walks toward the sink. Opens the cabinet, finds the glasses like it’s still muscle memory. Like this place remembers him even if you wish it didn’t. Even if you still catch yourself standing in doorways, waiting for him to look back.

“Water?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t pretend this is normal.”

He drinks anyway—slow, deliberate.

“I’ve been watching,” he says—low, rough, worn down at the edges. “Not just her kid. You.”

You don’t know whether to be angry or scared. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it’s just that old pulse again—buried too long under everything she took before you ever had the chance to want it.

“Why?”

He sets the glass down carefully. Like he doesn’t want to startle you. Like he’s still trying to be the man your sister needed.

“Because I know what this house does.”

Your throat catches. Tight. Dry.

“She let it rot,” you whisper, voice small and shaking and too full. “She let herself rot in it.”

He nods. Once. Quiet. He doesn’t say it out loud—he doesn’t have to. He saw it too. He stayed, and you ran. That’s always been the difference.

You shift your weight, heart pounding like a truth trying to claw its way out. “You don’t get to show up and act like this is yours. Like you’re the only one left who gets to carry her.”

“I’m not,” he says. Looks at you like he means it. “You are.”

And it shouldn’t feel like a punishment. But it does.

Because he’s right.

She left the mess—but she left it to you. The wreckage. The weight. The child. The smell of smoke in the walls. The goddamn silence. Pope? He gets to haunt the corners, slip in and out like a ghost with no leash. But you—you—have to stay and live in it. Scrub the stains out of the floorboards. Pretend the pain doesn’t sound like his footsteps in the hall.

You turn away, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. You won’t let him see your eyes. Not now. Not after all these years of swallowing the part of you that wanted him first.

And that’s when he says it. Quiet. Gentle. Like it matters now.

“She said you were the only one who never lied to her.”

You go still. Stiller than still.

“She said it like a confession,” he continues. “Last time I saw her. Said she couldn’t look you in the eye anymore. Not since the baby. Said you were the only one who meant what you said. Even when it hurt.”

Your hands grip the edge of the sink. White-knuckled. Nails biting down into laminate. Not to ground yourself—no, you know where you are. You’re trying not to shatter. Not to let him see that part of you that still wants to believe him.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because she never said it to you.”

Silence. Heavy. Sacred. Dangerous. It drips down the walls, clings to the space between your shoulder blades. It makes the house feel like it’s listening.

You stare at the wall above the sink—the same place your sister used to hang grocery lists she never followed. Where her handwriting used to live. You used to read them just to imagine what normal might’ve felt like. You used to watch him read them, too—pretending he didn’t already know how it would all fall apart.

“She wasn’t always cruel,” you say softly. Too softly.

“I know.” His voice is closer now. Closer than you’re ready for.

“But she knew how to gut you.”

“She had a gift.”

You turn. Slow. Like the weight of it might crack you.

And there he is.

Watching you like he’s seeing the ghost and not the girl. Like he knows what it costs to keep surviving her. But more than that—more than any of it—he’s looking at you the way he never used to. Not when she was here. Not when you were just the sister on the couch. Not when you burned for him and bit your tongue raw.

“Are you staying?” you ask, barely above a whisper. “Or just passing through again?”

He doesn’t blink. “Do you want me to?”

And that question—God, that question—lands in your chest like a knife you’d still let him twist. Because you don’t know. Because part of you wants to fold into him and forget the rest. Part of you wants to scream in his face. Part of you has wanted this for years, and none of it came the way it should’ve.

But the worst part?

Is that you don’t want to be alone in this house tonight. And he’s the only one who’s ever made it feel like it could be home.

Time: That night, 2:37 a.m. Location: Your sister’s house — hallway outside her old bedroom

You don’t sleep. You just lie there and sweat in the dark.

You’ve been doing that a lot lately—sweating through sheets, through your shirt, through your teeth clenched so tight you wake up with a headache. It’s not the heat. It’s not even the grief.

It’s the house.

It holds things. It holds her. You swear to God, it holds him too.

You roll over, check your phone. 2:37 a.m.

The silence feels off. Stretched too thin, like it’s holding its breath. You sit up slowly, pulse already pounding. You’ve lived in enough shitty apartments to know the difference—between a house settling and a house remembering.

You don’t turn on the light.

It’s easier not to see.

You press your feet to the floor and step into the hallway barefoot.

The wood is cold beneath your toes. The air feels heavier than it did an hour ago—like the house knows something you don’t.

You pause outside your niece’s door. Still shut. Still quiet. She sleeps the way she used to when she was small—after long days, after heartbreak. But now it feels different. Now it feels like retreat, not rest. Like she’s learned the same trick you did: vanish first, before anyone can ask why.

You move toward your sister’s door.

You should go back to bed.

It’s been almost a week since you stepped inside her room.

That had been your one boundary.

You cleaned the bathroom, scrubbed the grout with shaking hands. Rearranged the kitchen so it wouldn’t feel like a mausoleum. But the bedroom? You left it untouched. Shut the door like sealing off a limb you couldn’t afford to feel.

Because walking into that room was like crawling back into a wound.

And you’ve bled enough.

But tonight the door is open.

And the light is on.

You don’t call out. Don’t make your presence known. Because part of you already knows who’s in there. You can feel it in your chest—the static. The heat. The wrongness. The himness.

Pope.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his head bowed, elbows on his knees like he’s praying to something he’s already lost.

He doesn’t look up when you stop in the doorway.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you say—quieter than you mean to.

His voice doesn’t move. “Neither should you.”

That makes your breath catch. Not because he’s wrong, but because he knows. He always fucking knows. Even when you never said a word.

You cross your arms, lean a shoulder against the doorframe.

“Thought we had a rule.”

“We didn’t.”

“I made one.”

He finally glances over. No surprise in his face. Just that same quiet—dead sea eyes, nothing on the surface but too much beneath it.

“She used to leave the door open when she wanted me to crawl back,” he says. “You remember that?”

You nod once. You were eighteen. Maybe nineteen. You remember everything. The way the door would crack just wide enough for his shadow to slip through. The way you’d sit awake across the hall, listening for the sound of his boots.

“She’d scream at me for two days. Throw my shit out in the yard. Block my number. And then the door would be open.” He gestures around the room like it’s a stage. “Light on. Bed made. Like nothing ever happened.”

“She knew how to make you beg,” you mutter.

He looks at you, sharp. Not angry. Just clear. Like he sees straight through you, down to the part that still aches when he walks into a room.

“I didn’t beg.”

“No,” you agree. “You didn’t. But you always came back.”

He leans back, palms flat on the comforter. Hands spread wide like he needs to feel the fabric beneath him to remember where he is. Who he is. Who he isn’t.

“So did you.”

And it’s true. God, it’s true.

Because you were always there—behind the door. On the stairs. In the silence between fights. You never left. Not really.

You just weren’t the one she asked for.

You push off the doorframe, walk two slow steps into the room.

“She was my sister,” you say. Like it explains everything and nothing at once.

He watches you. “You were kids together.”

You sit in the armchair near the dresser—her dresser, still covered in tarnished rings, tangled necklaces, the half-burnt stick of incense she lit the night before her last relapse. Everything left exactly how she abandoned it.

“She hated when people felt sorry for her,” you say. “That’s why she lied so much. Said she was clean when she wasn’t. Said she was sober on Christmas Eve and then passed out on the stairs an hour later.”

“She didn’t want to be seen like that.”

“No,” you murmur. “She wanted to be loved like that.”

Pope doesn’t respond. Just stares at the floor like it’s safer than looking at you. Like he’s afraid of what your face might give away.

You lean back in the chair, exhale slow. “We were so close, people couldn’t tell where I ended and she began. Thought we were twins. Then she started sleeping with my boyfriends, and suddenly the resemblance didn’t feel so flattering.”

That earns the faintest flicker of a smile. The kind that barely crests his mouth before it dies. But you see it. You always see him.

“She was always louder. Always got the attention. I’d do everything right—get good grades, make curfew—and she’d show up high at dinner and still get the last word.”

“She was fire,” Pope says. “And fire burns.”

You look at him for a long time. Too long. Like the ache in your chest has a shape now, and it’s him.

“She told me you were her last chance.”

He shifts. Slight. But you notice.

“She said that a lot.”

“But she meant it with you. You were the only one she ever… stayed clean for. Even if it never lasted.”

His voice drops. Quiet. Flat. “It was never real. The clean part. Not with me.”

You blink. Your breath catches. “What?”

“She’d lie. Say she was sober when she wasn’t. Tell me she wanted to go to meetings, but only if I went with her. She’d drag me to church on Sundays just to play house.” His hands curl on the edge of the bed. “I knew she was using again before you did.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because she’d already started using me, too.”

The room holds its breath.

Then you whisper, “She loved you.”

He shakes his head.

“She did. In her own way.”

“That’s not love,” he says. “That was ownership.”

You don’t argue. You don’t need to. You both know the kind of damage she did.

“I used to watch you,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Pope lifts his gaze slowly.

“I’d sit in that hallway when she was yelling. Just out of sight. I’d wait for the part where you’d yell back. Where you’d leave.”

He doesn’t speak.

“But you never did.”

“She needed someone who wouldn’t.”

Your throat goes tight. Your whole body stills.

“So did I.”

The words fall like glass. Sharp. Irretrievable.

And the silence after is deafening.

Not empty.

Just full of everything you never said.

Pope’s jaw tightens, like he’s grinding something down before it slips out. His fingers twitch against the bedspread—like they want something to hold, something to do. His gaze drops—traces the curve of your knees, your bare feet curled into the carpet like you’re bracing for impact. He doesn’t look away fast enough.

You feel it like a flare in your chest. Hot. Gnawing. Old.

He exhales, long and low. “She was scared you’d love me the way she couldn’t.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

You just sit there in the dim light, your sister’s walls pressing in like old ribs, her scent still soaked into the sheets, the air, the skin at your throat. Pope sits three feet away, looking like something half-ruined and still dangerous. Like grief only hollowed out the parts that could’ve stayed soft.

And for the first time since she died, you feel like you’re finally mourning her.

Not just because she’s gone.

But because this—this—this fragile moment between you, this silence filled with things she always took before they could be yours… this is everything she never let you have.

“I was always cleaning her up,” you say. “Not just the mess. Her. I’d hold her hair back. Cover her arms. Wipe blood off her teeth and pretend it was from brushing too hard. I lied to Dad. I lied to the kid.”

Pope leans forward. Not fast—like something’s pulling him. “You didn’t clean up,” he says, voice low. “You parented.”

The word hits somewhere deep. Somewhere sore.

You shake your head. “I loved her. That doesn’t mean I didn’t hate her too.”

He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He knows—fourteen months apart, same house, same hell.

“She got everything first,” you murmur. “Boobs. Boyfriends. Bad decisions. I got the leftovers. The fallout. Hand-me-downs and scars she never even noticed she left. And every time she lit a fire, I was the one putting it out.”

He leans back, eyes steady on yours. “That’s why you never liked me.”

You hold his gaze. “That’s not why.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just waits. He’s always been like this—danger wrapped in quiet. And you’ve spent years avoiding this exact moment.

You hesitate. One breath. Two.

“I didn’t like you,” you say, “because you made her worse. You let her get away with shit no one else did. And every time she got clean, it was just to keep you.”

You pause. Let it simmer.

“But I couldn’t stop… wanting you anyway.”

There it is.

Hung in the air like smoke. Like confession. Like sin.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

He just sits there, wrecked and unreadable, and you think maybe that is what undoes you—that he’s finally hearing it, and not turning away.

“Say that again,” he says.

You rise to your feet.

And the ache follows you up like it’s part of your spine.

The room holds its breath as you cross the carpet, slow and deliberate—each step measured like you’re approaching something wild and damaged, something that might bite if startled.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the tension radiating off his skin. Close enough to touch, but you don’t. Not yet.

“I wanted you,” you say again. “Even when I shouldn’t. Even when you were fucking her. Even when she made sure I saw it.”

His breath stutters, caught somewhere in his throat.

You lower yourself between his thighs, fingers grazing the inside of his leg—slow, certain, like a fuse being lit. Careful. Knowing. The kind of beginning that doesn’t end clean. The kind that ruins.

“She used to tell me I was boring,” you whisper. “Too clean. Too smart. Not the kind of girl men ruin.”

Pope looks down at you like you’ve just become a threat—like you’re something holy and reckless, the kind of woman men do ruin, and never recover from.

“I wanted to be ruined,” you say. “By you.”

And that’s what breaks him.

His hand twists in your hair, rough and unrelenting, dragging you up with the kind of desperation that doesn’t ask—it takes. Like he’s been holding back a storm and finally lets it swallow him whole.

The kiss is unholy. Starved. His mouth crashes to yours like a blasphemy he’s longed to speak aloud, all spit and heat and something darker—like he’s tasting damnation and begging for more. Like your ruin is sacred and he’s ready to bleed for it.

It’s violent with need—ten years of silence burning on his breath. He pulls you into his lap with a force that borders on frantic, devouring your mouth like he’s been fasting on guilt and grief and this is the first thing he’s allowed himself to want since she died.

His hands are on your back, your hips, your ass. Gripping. Claiming. Consuming. Like he’s trying to memorize you by force. Like he doesn’t trust this moment to last.

“Tell me you hate me,” he pants against your mouth, lips brushing yours, voice torn and desperate.

You shake your head. “Can’t.”

“Tell me this is a mistake.”

“It is.”

You kiss him again—harder this time—so violent it nearly topples you both. It’s not tenderness. It’s a confession in blood.

He groans—full-throated, ragged. Like it’s been trapped inside him for years. His hips jolt up, grinding into you with a heat that burns through the cotton between you.

You grind down, shameless. Raw. He’s already hard—thick, aching, leaking beneath the fabric of his sweats—and you feel the exact shape of everything you’ve ever wanted.

His hands fly to your face, rough with urgency, and he pulls you back to him like he needs to look at you. Like he can’t breathe unless your eyes are open.

“You want it slow?” he asks, voice cracked and wrecked. “Or just the part that hurts?”

"Both."

He lifts you off him in one swift, breathless movement—your body dragged from his like it wounds him to let go.

“On your knees.”

You obey.

Not because you’re submitting. Not with him.

With Pope, it’s not power—it’s surrender. It's history. It's wanting so badly it’s become a kind of religion. You crawl to the center of the bed, fingers sinking into her old comforter, and arch for him with instinct and ache, every breath shaking loose something you’ve buried.

He kneels behind you. Doesn’t touch you at first. Just breathes.

Then his hands are on your hips, tugging at your waistband—not rough, not rushed. Like every inch he bares is something he’s never thought he deserved. He slides everything down your legs in one slow motion.

You exhale like it hurts.

He stays there for a moment, hands resting on your skin—like if he moves too fast, he'll ruin you. Or himself.

You hear his breath catch. Feel his heat press up against your back.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. Wrecked. “So fucking pretty like this. Can’t believe she ever called you weak.”

“She said a lot of things,” you whisper, voice trembling. You’re already unraveling.

His hand traces your spine, palm flat. “She said you were off-limits.”

You look back over your shoulder. Voice like a dare. “And are you good at following rules?”

His eyes meet yours. Burning. “No.”

He drags his fingers through the wet heat of you. Slow. Possessive. Like he’s confirming something he already knew.

“Wet already,” he says, voice guttural. “You were waiting for this.”

You nod, breath shallow. “My whole life.”

He doesn’t pause.

He fists his cock—thick, veined, flushed dark—and brings it to your entrance, dragging the blunt head through your slick with deliberate weight. Like he’s about to take something he’s been denied for years.

And then—he freezes.

“You sure?”

You glance back again, hair falling into your eyes. “You don’t get to be gentle now.”

That’s all it takes.

He drives into you in one slow, brutal, soul-tearing thrust.

You gasp—lurch forward—and arch. Nails digging into the mattress. Breath punched out of you.

And he doesn’t move.

Just stays buried, impossibly deep. One hand locked on your hip, the other pressing down at the base of your neck—holding you there, grounding you, steadying himself like this is the only way he won’t fall apart.

Like you’re the first thing that’s ever made him believe he’s real.

“You feel that?” he rasps, voice raw and shaking. “That’s me. Inside what she said I could never have.”

He pulls back.

Then slams forward.

You cry out, high and sharp, and he fucks you like he’s punishing himself for every year he pretended he didn’t want this. Like he’s finally taking what he buried alive.

The rhythm is merciless—hips snapping into you again and again, the sound obscene, wet, relentless. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your ribs, pressing you down like he wants to keep you there forever. He’s panting against your back, mouth open, breath ragged, murmuring broken things:

“Mine.”

“Should’ve been you.”

“Fuck—take me, just like that.”

You’re moaning, gasping, shaking, eyes blurred from how deep he is, how wrecked you feel. You brace your hands harder into the mattress as your body tightens around him—clenching, spiraling, gone.

When you clench, he growls, a low sound that vibrates into your bones.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Just like that. Let me wreck it.”

You nod, barely breathing, tears slipping hot down your cheeks—silent and unstoppable.

He leans over you, chest heavy on your back, and one hand slides under your stomach—ruthless, focused—fingers finding your clit with practiced cruelty. He rubs tight, filthy circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. It's too much. It’s perfect.

“You gonna come for me?” he mutters against your ear, voice thick, ruined. “Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod frantically, whimpering. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snarls. “Come on. Give it to me.”

“Please—” you gasp, high and cracked.

“Let me ruin it,” he whispers. "Let me be the one who breaks it."

And you do.

You come with a sob—full-body, wrenching, your orgasm ripping through you like a scream you’ve been holding back for years. You clench around him, trembling, crying, coming apart with his name in your mouth.

He follows seconds later—slamming in deep, one final thrust that splits you open—and groans, long and guttural, like it’s killing him to let go. He spills inside you with a curse and your name dragged raw from his throat.

Then he collapses over you.

You’re both shaking. Breathing like you’ve survived something. Still joined. Still trembling.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays there—chest flush to your back, mouth pressed to the curve of your shoulder, fingers tangled in your hair like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that’ll keep him from going under.

“Was it worth it?” you ask, voice broken, raw.

His answer barely makes it past his lips.

“Ask me when I lose you too.”

Time: 8:19 a.m. Location: Kitchen. The morning after.

You wake up to sunlight, and the first thing you feel is him.

Not his body—he’s gone. Just the dent he left behind in the mattress. The scent of him on your skin. The ache between your legs that’s part soreness, part memory. You feel raw. Wrung out. Touched in ways you’d spent years trying not to imagine. You feel like her.

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. The images are branded behind your eyelids: Pope’s hand tangled in your hair. His voice in your ear. His body holding you still like he needed to memorize your shape before he could live with himself.

Let me be the one who breaks it.

You roll onto your back, and it hits you all over again—he fucked you in her bed. Not just sex. Not a mistake. A collision. A choice. A lifetime of looking and aching and staying silent that finally snapped loose. And now?

Now he’s gone.

You sit up slowly. Your thighs stick to the sheets. You wipe at the sweat on your chest. You look like a girl who got wrecked and abandoned.

You look like someone your sister would have mocked.

You dress in yesterday’s clothes and follow the scent of coffee.

You hear them before you reach the kitchen.

Her voice—small, familiar, sharp enough to gut you.

“You made them wrong,” your niece says.

Pope grunts. “There’s no wrong way to make pancakes.”

“Mom used to put bananas in.”

He doesn’t answer.

You stop at the edge of the doorway.

He’s there. At the stove. Same hoodie from last night. Hood up. Shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller, vanish into the steam. He doesn’t look at you, but his whole body goes taut the second you enter—shoulders pulled tight, jaw locked.

He knows you’re there.

He always knows.

You used to think it was a sixth sense for violence. Now you think it’s guilt. Or longing. Or both.

“Morning,” you say, voice low.

Your niece lifts her fork and waves. “He’s making breakfast. But it’s not the way she did it.”

You look at him.

He still won’t look back.

The silence is brutal. Ticking. Loaded.

You take a step in. Measured. “Can I talk to you?”

His hand flexes on the spatula. Tight enough to crack it.

“Not now.”

“You don’t get to do that,” you snap.

That gets him.

His gaze cuts over his shoulder—sharp. Brief. A warning behind his eyes like the ones he used to give her before everything went to hell.

“Do what?” he says.

“Pretend like last night didn’t happen.”

He turns now. Fully. Slowly. Like he’s squaring up, not facing you.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he says.

But it’s too fast.

And it doesn’t sound like him. Doesn’t sound like a lie he’s practiced. Sounds like it burned his mouth to say it.

You stare. Your voice softens, but it’s no less dangerous. “That how you’re gonna handle this? Just another Pope Cody vanishing act?”

His jaw ticks. That old, silent rage moving beneath the surface.

“There’s a kid in the room,” he says, dead flat.

“Don’t use her as a shield.”

His mouth tightens. No comeback. Just a low simmer. That silence that always came before the damage.

You step closer. Cross the kitchen tile like it’s a line he’s dared you to walk.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t feel it.”

He doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because he can’t.

Because for the first time in years, you touched something real—and so did he.

And now he's too much of a coward to hold it in daylight.

You wait while she eats—sloppy bites of pancake drowning in syrup, her small hands sticky and careless, bare feet kicking at the air beneath the table like she’s still too light to be touched by everything that’s broken.

Pope doesn’t speak. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t blink. His jaw is clenched. Shoulders coiled. He watches over her like it’s all he knows how to do. Like standing still might hold the world in place a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t look at you.

When the bus honks outside, she shoves her plate away, grabs her backpack off the hook, and bolts out the door without looking back.

“Bye!” she calls.

The screen door slams.

And then—nothing.

No syrup chatter. No footsteps. No excuse left to not look at each other.

That’s when the silence gets dangerous.

He’s already halfway to the door when you stop him.

“Say something real,” you breathe.

He stops. Doesn’t turn. Just stills like an animal in a snare, waiting for the next shot.

“Last night… that wasn’t some mistake. That wasn’t about her.”

He shakes his head once. A sharp cut of movement. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He turns. Slowly. Like it hurts. His face is unreadable—not empty. Buried. Like everything he’s ever felt for you got pushed somewhere too deep to dig out without bleeding.

“You think I wanted it?” he asks, voice low and cracked. “You think I planned that? I touched you in her bed.”

You fold your arms, fingers digging into your sides. “You wanted me before she died.”

He twitches like it’s a bruise you just pressed too hard.

“I saw it,” you say, breath tight. “The way you’d leave the room when I laughed too loud. The way your eyes caught on my hips when I wore her clothes. You were scared of it.”

“Of course I was scared,” he bites out. His voice splinters. “You were the only good thing left in this house.”

You blink.

The words hit harder than they should. Like a wound breaking open from the inside.

“I’m not good, Pope.”

“You are,” he says instantly, eyes locked on yours, voice ragged. “That’s why I came back.”

You blink. Again. Slower.

“I didn’t come back for her,” he says. “I came back for the kid. And for you.”

You step forward. Slow. Breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your spine.

“You kissed me like you hated yourself.”

“I did.”

Another step. “You fucked me like you were trying to forget her.”

His jaw clenches. “I was.”

And another. “But you held me like you didn’t want to let go.”

His breath catches.

And now—you’re in front of him.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest. Close enough to see the blood pulsing in his throat. Close enough to see what he won’t say in the tremble behind his eyes.

And that’s when he shatters.

Not loud.

Not explosive.

Just shatters—like a man who’s been grieving too long, loving too hard, and finally let himself want something he was never supposed to touch.

Like you’re the only thing he ever wanted that didn’t ask him to disappear.

He grabs your face. Not sweetly. Desperately. His palms are rough, trembling against your skin like he’s holding a live wire. Like this—you—is the thing that’s going to burn him alive, and he’s asking for it anyway. His forehead drops to yours, and he exhales like it hurts to be this close.

His hands are shaking.

“I don’t know how to want things without destroying them,” he breathes. Voice low. Fractured. Like it’s been stuck in his throat for years.

“I’m already broken,” you whisper.

“I know.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not clean. It’s not even careful.

It’s devouring.

Too wet. Too fast. His mouth misses yours and lands on your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he’s trying to bury himself in you. Like he wants to wear your skin, hide inside your ribs, press himself so deep he can forget what loving her did to him. What not touching you did to him.

His hands shove under your shirt—urgent, reckless—palming your ribs like they hold answers. He fists the back of your waistband, yanks you toward him, and lifts you up onto the counter with a grunt, breath ragged in your ear.

You gasp, sharp and startled.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. He drags your pants down to your thighs like he’s furious they were ever on you in the first place.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he rasps, every word a confession he doesn’t want to survive. “I keep seeing you—bent over her bed. Your hands in the sheets. Your voice in my mouth.”

He pushes your legs open, staring down like it kills him. Like the sight of you is both prayer and punishment.

“I woke up hard this morning,” he chokes. “Had to jerk off in her shower. Couldn’t stop hearing you.”

You moan. Soft. Shaken. “Pope—”

He grabs your face again, rougher now, like your voice just undid something he was barely holding together.

“You wanna be mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“I don’t do gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip. A tremble beneath the violence.

“You say stop, I stop.”

You nod. Breathless. “I won’t.”

And that’s it.

He shoves his sweats down, rough and clumsy, teeth clenched. His hands lock around your thighs—hard, claiming—and he lines up, flushed and thick and aching.

No teasing. No question. Just one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out—your whole body arching, splintering, as he drives deep into you.

Your sound echoes off the cabinets. The floor. The silence she left behind.

He doesn’t apologize.

Doesn’t slow down.

He fucks you like it’s survival. Like he means to stay. Like this is the only way he knows how to say I’m here—not with promises, but with ruin.

Like he thinks he can erase her memory by burying himself in yours.

Your hands claw at his hoodie. He doesn’t take it off. Doesn’t even kiss you again. He just fucks you harder, like he’s chasing something down inside himself—guilt, grief, hunger. Maybe all three.

You moan his name and his grip tightens until your skin burns.

“I can’t stop wanting you,” he growls, teeth bared.

“Then don’t.”

He thrusts harder. Rougher. You fall apart with a sob—full-body, breathless, undone—your orgasm ripping through you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going until he’s gone too—slamming into you deep, groaning like it’s killing him, his release pulsing inside you, your name dragged raw from his throat like it’s the only thing he still believes in.

The kitchen is silent again.

Except for your breathing—shallow, broken. Except for his—louder, rougher, like he’s still trying to catch it. Like he’s still somewhere inside you.

Pope doesn’t move.

His forehead rests against your shoulder, breath hot where it hits your skin. One hand grips the counter beside your thigh, the other still buried in your hair. He’s trembling. Not from the cold. Not from shame.

From the fact that he’s still here.

That you’re still here.

When he finally pulls out, it’s slow. Careful. Like it hurts him to leave.

You wince, but don’t pull away. You don’t move at all.

He tucks himself back into his sweats with one hand, the other never leaving your skin.

You expect him to speak. To backtrack. To run.

He doesn’t.

He stands between your legs, eyes closed, hands now resting on your hips—thumbs rubbing slow circles like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s trying to learn what staying feels like.

You whisper, “What now?”

He opens his eyes. Bloodshot. Devastated.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I don’t want to leave.”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

“I won’t make you promise anything,” you say.

“Good,” he mutters. “I break those.”

A pause.

Then—his hand lifts. Brushes your hair behind your ear. Fingers trembling.

“I don’t know how to be what you need,” he says quietly.

“You already are,” you answer. “You’re still here.”

His jaw clenches.

And for the first time in years, you see it on his face—not guilt, not rage.

Hope.

Tiny. Fragile. Flickering.

But alive.

He kisses you again. Slow this time. Like thanks. Like maybe, if he’s careful enough, this won’t burn too.

And when he rests his forehead to yours again, he doesn’t shake.

He breathes.

And so do you.

[bellychaser57]

Third Cody post of the day! lol Look at him pull his shirt down to cover his expanding belly! He was doing that the whole livestream, obviously he needs to size up(hoping he doesn’t of course).

Sorry if some pics are repeated, there was just too much content for me to sort thoroughly😁

He’s gonna get HUGEEE this summer.

[stellamarielu]

I am LOVING the pope and neighbor drabbles! how do you think he would feel if she showed up at one of the wild parties? like he arrives late to find her just standing there looking so out of place, i think he'd probably go crazy wanting to get her out of there immediately because she's just so innocent and shouldn't be around these people

i think you are 10000% right! also, i've decided to tag all of my thoughts for this duo with neighbor!pope cody so if you click on that tag under any of my posts you can follow along with all the little drabbles— kinda like a series but much less official!

content: alcohol consumption and fluffy mutual pining

The boys take notice at how Pope is always at your place; the way his body stiffens when they bring you up over dinnertime conversation.

His very obvious interest in you, leads Craig to invite you over to one of the parties erupting in their backyard. It’s not massive, just some friends getting together over good music music, and some drinks. At least that’s what he tells you when you pull into your driveway that night, as he somehow convinces you to come by.

You're on your second beer— or maybe third— definitely your third, and far more talkative than usual. The giggles erupting from your lips are practically unsolicited as you talk to the youngest Cody brother, sitting across form him at the table on the back patio. There’s people surrounding you— taking shots, doing lines, one of them just got thrown into the pool— but you’re just sitting, sharing a beer with Deran, and despite the chaos unfolding in every direction, you feel comfortable.

Your moment of contentment doesn’t last long as a brooding figure looms over you, broad and sturdy. Andrew is almost statuesque, the way he stands before you blocking your view of the backyard.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His presence is sudden, and his voice is steady as he speaks down at you.

“What are you? Her keeper?” Deran's voice cuts between you from his place across the table, his beer bottle waiting on his lips through a smile.

Andrew’s stare shoots daggers at his brother, nostrils flared.

“It’s fine! Craig invited me, I'm having fun.” The giggle trailing your overly excited sentiment makes pope’s stomach turn. You’re drunk.

“C’mon I’ll walk you home.” He doesn't take his eyes off Deran who’s still smirking into his drink.

You glance between the two brothers, neither of them backing down in their unspoken stand off.

“Ok boss.” Unbeknownst to you, your voice slurs as you stand up from your chair.

The alcohol in your system causes you to miscalculate just how close you are to Andrew. There's a slight wobble in your stance, and you're practically fumbling into his chest.

His hands shoot out to your waist, holding you steady before you've even realized your own instability. You look up at him through your lashes, hiding the chuckle that threatens to pour from your chest at your sudden clumsy demeanor.

With Andrew's grip still on your body, you turn your head to the side, nodding at his brother who’s still watching the two of you with the same smug smile pushing at his cheeks.

“Goodnight Deran.” The warm look you send his brother’s way unleashes a familiar fluttering in Pope's chest, as he uses his hold on your waist to maneuver your body so you're walking with him toward the back gate.

He keeps a hand on you as you make your way across the street. Even though you've gained your bearings, walking with confidence and a heavy stride, he cant bring himself to let go of you. Shamelessly indulging in the feeling of your soft skin under his fingertips as your shirt rides up just an inch.

“Your brothers are nice. That’s the most I’ve talked to them…”

You nearly trip on the curb in front of your house as you try to talk, proving you’re incapable of multitasking in your drunken state.

His fingertips tighten at your waist, holding you steady as you traipse through your front yard.

“deran especially, I like him.”

The spill you almost took at the curb doesn't phase you as you continue talking, coming to a pause at your front door.

“Told him I’d go to his bar sometime. Maybe you could take me.”

The words run together as they leave your mouth, and he feels your hand brush against his bicep. Your eyes peer up at him, heavy lidded and hopeful, and his heart nearly stops.

"You shouldn't be around them." He changes the subject slightly, circling back to his brothers, and refusing to acknowledge the way his heart nearly leaps into his throat at the way you’re touching him.

"Why?”

"They're stupid."

"Isn't everybody a little stupid?" There's a silly smile on your lips as you tilt your head to the side, keeping the conversation lighthearted with the sweet tone in your voice.

"They're dangerous."

He ignores your attempt at whimsy with a blunt delivery, and a straight lipped expression.

"I don't want you to get hurt."

This time, his words are more timid— almost kind.

"I'm a big girl Andrew, I can take care of myself."

How ironic, he thinks reminiscing on the past ten minutes that you've spent stumbling over your own feet.

"Plus I've got you around, and you make me feel safe."

Your hand is still resting on his arm, your fingertips applying slight pressure as you offer him gentle smile along with your words.

"My knight in shining armor."

Oh you really must be drunk, because you would never say something so outwardly clichè in a sober state of mind, but the words just slip out, and you don't bother trying to stop them.

You're used to the way Andrew stares, direct and unabashed, but right now, he's looking into your eyes with a softness you'd never seen before. You stare back, trying to read the unfamiliar emotion hiding in his gaze, but then he breaks it, looking away and shaking your hand off his arm.

"You should get some sleep."

He's abruptly wishing you a good night, and stalking off toward his house, disappearing across the street without a single glance back in your direction.

You’re left tipsy and confused on your doorstep, the feeling of his rigid muscles underneath your hand still lingering on your palm.

[silens-oro]

Chicken Hawk (Well Enough Alone Companion)

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader (nicknamed Hawk) Prologue Cut the Loss (companion piece) Part I Part II Part III

Masterlist Pope Cody Playlist

General Synopsis: J learns how Hawk got her nickname. Word Count: 791 Content Warning: typical Animal Kingdom warnings; drinking; drug use A/N: I juggled with whether I should post this or not and just said fuck it. Please comment & reblog :)

“I’ve never really thought about it, but why does everyone call you ‘Hawk’?” J’s innocent question brought grins to Baz, Craig, and Deran’s faces. The group, minus Smurf, were hanging around the den after a “successful” job. Hawk didn’t want to know the details, so Pope kept it at that. Spirits were high, nearly as high as Craig was after his second line of coke that he was not shy about doing in front of anyone. The heat from Pope’s side brought her comfort, so Hawk nestled even closer to him, bringing her legs up to curl behind her. She was working on her third beer as they reminisced about the past. 

“You had to have been, what? Thirteen? Fourteen?” Baz asked, bringing his attention to Hawk. His eyes were glassy after so many beers and his grin was easy-going. 

“I was thirteen,” Hawk mumbled over the lip of the beer bottle she brought up to her mouth. The memory brings up the feeling of humiliation and it turns Hawk’s stomach just as it did when she was a teen. 

It was the summer before her mother died. Julia let her borrow a very racy bikini, one a newly thirteen year old had no business wearing, so they could tan poolside. Hawk was very aware of the eyes on her from Baz, Craig, and Pope. In her brain it was innocent attention -attention that a young teen thinks she wants, but Hawk’s naivete made her shake her now grown head at the memory. She learned the hard way that not all attention was good attention. Her newly growing confidence was shattered after this series of events.

“Right, so Craig and a very young Deran, in their infinite wisdom, thought it would be really funny to toss a snake at Hawk and Julia while they were tanning outside or some shit. The snake landed on Hawk and got caught in her bikini top, so when she went to yank the snake off, the whole top came off with it when she flung the fucking thing across the yard,” Craig was howling. “Your tits were the first I ever saw that weren’t in a fucking magazine, Hawk. Kept that in the bank for at least a year. Thanks for that, by the way.” He tipped his bottle at her and she felt Pope tense under her. She brought a hand up to his thigh to let him know he didn’t need to get worked up, but it did little to stop the look he was directing to Craig.

“If only I had a fucking gun, Craig,” She threatened as she turned her head to hide in Pope’s chest. This caused Craig to laugh even harder. 

 “Anyway, her scream was so high pitched-” Baz continued explaining to J, clearly enjoying the show.

“-It sounded like a chicken hawk.” Hawk glared at Baz as she cut in. “So Baz decided that’s what he was going to call me during my formative high school years after I had been traumatized. These assholes were merciless about it, to the surprise of no one. I didn’t wear another bikini for years. And I still hate snakes.” Hawk mumbled that last bit. 

“The name got shortened to just Hawk after a while, and it’s been that way ever since. I don’t even remember what your real name is,” Baz dodged a throw pillow with a laugh. 

“You’re a real comedian, Baz.” Hawk snorted.

“I didn’t think it was very funny,” Pope spoke up, glaring at Craig. Pope’s arm tightened around Hawk’s shoulders. One of her hands absentmindedly scratched against the denim on his thigh. 

“Holy shit, I forgot about that!” Baz howled from his spot on the opposite sofa.

“We can just end this here,” Craig said, rolling a joint on the table, not wanting to dredge up the payback he received. 

“Actually, Craig,” Hawk sat up. Pope’s arm fell behind her, but he always kept a point of contact by flattening his palm against her lower back. “I want to hear what this is about.” Hawk had no idea what they were talking about and was incredibly interested in what Pope was insinuating. 

“Two or three days after these two idiots throw the snake, Craig wakes up in the middle of the night screaming.” Baz began with enthusiasm, “Naturally we all ran in to see what the hell's going on and when Smurf flips the light switch on, Craig’s bed is covered in snakes. I’m talking some Indiana Jones shit. And he was so freaked out, he pissed himself!” Hawk, with her jaw dropped, turned to look at Pope who shrugged, -cool as a cucumber- and simply stated:

“Thought he liked snakes.” Then took a sip of his beer. 

please comment & reblog :)

[classiccowboy]

instagram j.b.

summary: follow along with joe and his wife evie as they go through his football career

*face claim is yasmin quintana*

series masterlist

evie

liked by joeyb_9, millyg, and 809,295 others

evie: i love you, don’t act so surprised.

view all 3,739 comments…

user: you’re the cutest

millyg: beautiful beautiful bestie

> evie: miss you so much mills 🥺

user: you deserve the best, we love you too.

joeyb_9: no surprise here.

> evie: big head

> lahjay10_: brother is full of himself

> user: yall have a situation on your hands

user: a post without joe? that’s the only reason i follow you.

> evie: jb content coming soon.. if you’re lucky.

bengals

liked by simonebiles, evie, sam_hubbard_ and 561,738 others

bengals: guess who’s back 🎶

view all 10,836 comments…

evie: i ain’t mad, i just think it’s fucked up you don’t answer fans.

> joeyb_9: i meant to write you sooner, but i just been busy.

> user: this is what i aspire to be when i fall in love.

heykayadams: oh!

user: JOE WHAT DID YOU DO

> evie: he broke the law of “don’t mess with your hair without telling your wife”

user: I can’t believe ev let this happen

> evie: this was out of my control im afraid. i’ve been in mourning since it happened..

user: oh no sirrrr

user: the real joey b

joeyb_9

liked by bengals, evie, and 490,736 others

joeyb_9: kid in a candy store

view all 2,729 comments…

evie: slay

> joeyb_9: everyday 😏

> user: oh someone stop him

user: joe it’s giving bleachella

user: the new hair looks amazing!

user: joey b in his slvt era

user: babe, i thought we talked about this.

user: number make you laugh sometimes (again)

user: blondes have more fun.

> evie: are you telling me i’ve been missing out all these years?

> user: girl.. you used to be blonde.

> evie: that was besides the point……. 😅

evie

liked by joeyb_9, lahjay10_, and 720,189 others

evie: classic cowboy..

view all 8,628 comments…

user: the princess of cincy

> evie: you’re too kind ����

millyg: are those homemade cinnamon rolls??? without me????

> evie: i made them per request by jb.

user: you are obsessed with cowboys.

> evie: it’s all the westerns my grandpa made me watch.. and maybe a little bit of Scott Eastwood in the longest ride…..

> user: she’s just a girl

joeyb_9: arcade showdown: jb-1 ev-0

> evie: i let you win.

> lahjay10_: nah i know you ain’t let him win yall both too competitive

> evie: @lahjay10_ get out my comments! 😭

joeyb_9

liked by bengals, evie, and 830,172 others

joeyb_9: hunting

view all 2,738 comments…

user: it’s that time

user: i’m the prey

> evie: wow.. you don’t look like a championship.

> user: the sass…

user: let’s go king

evie: finish the story, jb.

> joeyb_9: if you make one more cody rhodes/eminem reference im taking away your wifey privileges.

> evie: in the wise words of @lahjay10_ i know you lyin.

> lahjay10_: now don’t bring me into this shit.. me and slim got work to do.

> user: if there’s one thing ja’marr is going to do it’s pick ev’s side. joe are you jealous?

> evie: he is.

user: revenge season.

user: you’re so cutie

evie

liked by bengals, joeyb_9, and 730,002 others

evie: sleeps till gamedey=zero

view all 2,829 comments…

user: go joey b!

millyg: obsessed.

> evie: i love you

user: queen of the nfl

> evie: don’t make me cry rn

user: WTF was that game?? Tell Joe to quit playing scared

> evie: that was the game of a man who hasn’t played full contact football in almost ten months because of injury. why don’t you get down there?

> user: he’s supposed to be a professional, what a loser.

> evie: go cry about it in someone else’s comments.

> joeyb_9: ev, you are my knight in shining armor.

> evie: efff these guys.

user: comments are getting crazy huh?

user: i wanna be you so bad

joeyb_9

liked by evie, lahjay10_, alo, and 821,027 others

joeyb_9: INHALE. EXHALE. RUN. #alorunner

view all 2,810 comments…

user: why you look that?

evie: suddenly i’m very into running..

> user: she’s just like us

> joeyb_9: should we like race?

> evie: no way, your legs are way longer than mine. you’re trying to scam me.

user: looking the best i’ve seen! let’s geaux!

user: love you bae

user: whoa

> evie: same.

user: JOSEPH

> evie: we in fact were not ready..

evie’s stories

[mamirhodessxox]

One request. 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Angry black suit cody. 😍😍😍

That's all.🙃🙃🙃

Ask and you shall recieve shnookum 🤓☝️

Settle Down

Cody Rhodes x Fem!Reader

Desc: Cody fires himself up during his Monday Night Raw promo which results into Y/N having to help calm him down backstage.

Contents: Fluff, Cussing, Y/N being a sweetie, angry cody 🤗‼️ (No smut in this one since next oneshot will include smut)

🏷️ list: @alyyaanna @ginswife @coolpastelartshoe @greatkoalawizard @cokolin044 @kotoriarlert @alicerosejensen @bunnybot55 @agent-dessis-posts @adollonyourshelf @mini-rhodes @southerngirl41 @harmshake @femdisa

{~I'm very serious with you guys interacting with my writing!!!! it would make me so happy & excited, the more comments & reposts the more inspiration i have to write :) likes and comments are strongly appreciated so please COMMENT COMMENT COMMENT COMMEENNTTT the more comments the more content <3!!!~}

“The Rock, took to instagram last week following up with a very entertaining rock concert, too bad he didn’t wanna be here tonight..” the crowd booed “Rock referred to himself as our favorite heel..?” Cody’s voice echoed throughout the arena talking & saying “The nature boy rick flair was a heel. Rock..I don’t think you’re a heel I think you’re an asshole..” Cody scowled directly into the Camera while standing inside the ring as if you two were making eye contact despite the fact you were backstage watching this all go down on the tv that laid against the wall of his dressing room.

“Haven’t you been crying behind the scenes this whole time? I mean once that hashtag came out once they started chanting something else, you went and CRIED to your buddies on the TKO board ‘HEY HEY! This is gonna be some good pr for the rock I need to save wwe’ god knows look at thise house we sure needed saving right?! He said it’s gonna be this great pr for the rock until it wasn’t..” Cody ranted while circling around staring directly at the live camera & you immediately noticed that he was beginning to fire himself up the more he spoke.

“Rock, the TKO folks said to you oh my gosh yes rock yes put on your gucci shirt your muscles will look so big YES YES YES YES! The reason they said it is because they are YES people they are enablers they don’t tell you like it is, so I’m going to.” Cody scoffed as he went on another tangent on how he could admit many things on the Rock but then he pissed himself off so much to the point where he started becoming more verbally agressive “Rock you are also a terrible Salesman a carny succubus and for those who don’t know what that means..Your a whiney BITCH.” He snapped.

Y/N sat in the dressing room staring directly into the fury of his eyes right through the television screen, all this talk about the rock had genuinely started becoming angering to him & bothersome that he somehow managed to upset himself the more he spoke. “You haven’t been in the ring in real time action in YEARS! And April 6th the BELL is gonna ring! What happens rock when it rings? Are you gonna have all that Big Dwayne Energy or LDS?! Little. DICK. Syndrome!” He shouted while all of the fans within the arena started Chanting, Cheering, Shouting waving around their signs while even the announcers chuckled to themselves.

For the rest of his promo he continued ranting, shouting & even going as far as making a sudden deal with The Wiseman Paul Heyman, threatening to pull a Homelander & rip out his throat if he didn’t get to the point which left Paul a little shocked. Once his promo for the night was finished You immediately left the dressing room just as he rushed his way backstage huffing and puffing mumbling with Jey & then approaching you hut you held up your hands that lightly knocked against his chest about to speak but you shook your head

“Cody I can tell you’re pissed off, You upset your own self just by talking about Dwayne alone & before You do anything like take off the suit, get comfortable, go to the bus I need you to grab some water & take a breath.” You spoke softly as you noticed his hands were shaking in irritation and inner rage before he took a deep breath & exhaled while nodding.

“Good. Now let’s get you out of that suit & into the bus before Pharaoh looses his mind..” you pat his shoulder while you two went to the dressing room. You helped him get undressed and for a moment he just legit stood there with boxers on ranting his heart out “Had the nerve on him to mention MY mother y/n and complain about me shedding ONE tear ONE SINGULAR TEAR but this entire time he’s bitching and WHINING to TKO” he started shouting a bit while you folded his suit & packed it away. You turned around & started shushing him softly and pat his chest “Baby your yelling, Settle down okay? I know your pissed hell I would be do if someone talked about my parents like that. But I need you to lower your voice, your throats gonna go raw. Like Monday.”

Cody chuckled at the corny joke you had made to help cheer him up while pulling him into a warm hug as you practiced deep breathes with him “Thank you sweetheart I don’t know what i’d do without you.” You smiled shrugging “I don’t know either.” He snorted and pressed a kiss against your lips “alright now pipe down a bit.” You laughed before giving him one more kiss.

Cody was not an easily angered man, until things like his parents or loved ones getting mentioned but when he had You around? He was going to go a long way when you knew how to calm down in the right ways.

xtripleiiix’s Masterlist

[hellvst]

OFFSEASON – quinn hughes

featuring ; quinn hughes x fmc (sydney gray) & oc!brother

✮⋆˙ warning & content ; swearing

✮⋆˙ word count ; 2.7k

✮⋆˙ series masterlist – next chapter

a/n ; hi everyone, here's the first chapter of 'offseason'! i thought about making this a prologue but decided not to lol. and again, this fic is inspired by the striker by ana huang BUT make it hockey. also note that this was set around the same time as the 2024 playoffs. weekly updates unless noted otherwise and let me know if i'm missing any warnings. not really proof-read so excuse any mistakes & happy reading!

CHAPTER ONE

QUINN

I wasn’t the type to get a wave of anxiety while playing, but something about playing the biggest match of your life really does fuck you over; both physically and mentally.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a tidal wave of noise continued to wash over me. 

My sweat dripped down my face, stinging my eyes. My lungs burned, but the adrenaline rush fueled every muscle in my body. There was no stopping me at this point. I was on a high.

Fans cheered for my team, for me, which always fired me up. I mean, I’ve always dreamed of this moment ever since I started to learn how to skate. Playing in the NHL, competing for a Western Conference title, and hopefully earning a spot to win the Stanley Cup.

It’s every hockey player’s dream. And here I am.

Game 7. A tied series against the Edmonton Oilers in the second round playoffs.

Everyone in this building was putting their faith in us–putting their faith in me to win it.

But in this very moment, I tried not to think about the immense pressure that has been put on me throughout this season. Being the new captain this year had its perks, but more importantly, all eyes were on you.

There were lots of articles and reports about me after announcing my captaincy; wondering if my team’s performance would either sky rocket, or plummet down to the ground with my new leadership in the mix. 

Everyone thought that it was a bad idea to name one of the youngest guys on the team to take on such an important role. I get it. Not a lot of people saw me as a leader since I wasn’t the loudest or biggest guy in the room. But seeing how my team’s come this far into the playoffs, I’d say I was doing pretty well. 

The scoreboard flashes: CANUCKS 2 – OILERS 3.

The game clock ticked down. One minute left. The crowd’s tension in the arena was palpable as they were on their feet.

My grip on my stick tightened when I reached the defensive zone, next to Demmer, our goalie. Eyes glued onto the puck, watching the swarm of Canucks and Oilers trying to battle along the boards for possession. 

Edmonton’s Cody Ceci got a hold of the puck, and tried to wrap around the post in front of me. 

He flicked his wrist. But my body reacted faster than I could process as my stick inched forwards in Ceci’s way. The puck bounces off my stick and rebounds off of Demko’s pads.

Fil dived forwards, swiping the puck loose in my direction.

I swiftly caught it and passed it forward to Conor Garland, racing towards the blue line. 

The Oilers were pressing hard as they closed in. Connor McDavid was breathing down Garly’s neck as he skated down, cutting the ice. He sped up ahead, but stumbled–although a piece of his stick poked the puck just enough out of McDavid’s reach.

I was too far behind, I won’t be able to get there. 

I scanned the ice, looking for anyone to take it.

“The puck is loose! And looks like McDavid will take it–AND THERE COMES SIMON GRAY!” The announcers shouted. 

Simon came out of nowhere in my line of view. 

A few seconds ago he was by the boards, but being a fast skater like himself, he easily swiped the puck and gained possession.

Gray skated towards the blue line, glancing up only to find two Oilers about to press on him. 

I caught up and flanking on his left by the blue line, Garland trailing slightly behind.

He needed to pass it, now.

“Yeah, Gray!” I yelled at him, my stick ready to wind up.

Simon ignored me, eyes kept scanning the ice for Garly or Fil, looking anywhere but at me.

What the fuck?

The clock was ticking down, twelve seconds left. We were still down by one.

I was open, wide open. Why won’t he fucking pass it to me?

Ten.

I heard Tocchet spit out a variety of curses directed at Simon, so did our teammates on the side.

My heart hammered against my ribs, my eyes reeked of desperation.

Eight.

Seven.

Frustration loomed over me and took over. I began slamming my stick onto the ice. Hard. Yelling louder than I ever had, “GRAY! PASS THE PUCK.”

He gave me a short lived glance, fleeting look of annoyance. The two Oilers were basically about to jump on top of him. 

Four.

Simon tightened his jaw as he looked at the net with hesitation. Just give me the puck.

Three.

He lifted his stick, winding it back. The crowd roared in anticipation.

Two.

He fired a wrist shot, and the puck rockets towards the net.

One.

It sailed wide, hitting the post in a sickening thud.

My head drops along with my stick. The air in the arena was thickening, heavy with the weight of disappointment. My team just stood there, appalled, as they stared into the abyss of the Oilers flooding the ice.

It’s over.

We lost.

This was the season I thought we had it; a chance to advance to the Western Conference Final, and a chance to compete for the Stanley Cup. This would have been the year for the Canucks.

Everyone expected a lot from us–from me to bring home a championship, but we lost.

I skated back to the bench, joining my teammates as they gave me consoling pats on the back and helmet.

I looked over my shoulder. My frustrated eyes found Simon, who was still on the ice, staring blankly ahead thinking about what he had done.

He was probably lost in whatever excuses he came up with.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

The game was over. The damage was done.

The atmosphere was tense. Silence filled the air with the exception of occasional clangs of the equipment being tossed onto the floor. 

Nothing was more awkward than coming back to the locker room–when you just lost one of the most important games in your life. No one knew what to say. But there was nothing worse than facing our coach who entered the room last.

Rick Tocchet walking in the locker room was like a storm rolling in–controlled, yet charged with something heavy. He wasn’t the kind of coach who needed to yell to make you feel the weight of his words. His silence did enough.

The room was dead silent as he stood in the center, arms crossed, looking down at the floor. 

I kept my head up, but I could feel the frustration pulsing off him, off all of us. He wasn’t just pissed at the loss–definitely not–he was pissed about how we lost. 

About the selfish plays, the missed connections, the opportunities that were handed to us on a silver platter but let slip away.

Finally, he spoke, his voice even but firm.

“You wanna win? Start playing like a damn team. What I saw out there was nowhere near a team that would win a championship. This is the playoffs for fuck’s sake!”

No one said a single word. We didn’t need to. We all knew exactly who he was talking about.

I slumped into my stall, jaw clenched, replaying the last few seconds in my head like an endless loop. My chest heaves as I stare at the floor. Across from me, Simon leaned back against the lockers, arms crossed, looking unfazed.

Myers shook his head, the first guy on the team to break the silence, “We had them. We just needed one more clean play.”

The others nodded, thinking the same thing.

Those last ten seconds of the game was between me and Simon, everyone in the room knew that. It was just the matter which one of us was going to speak first.

Simon wasn’t going to talk, but when had he ever? 

Being the captain, the team’s eyes fell onto me, I guess I won that latter.

I let out a sharp exhale, then looked up–directly at Simon.

“Why didn’t you pass it to me?”

Simon shrugged, clearly uninterested, “Didn’t see you.”

My brows almost immediately clashed together. Is he being serious right now? A few players exchanged looks. JT Miller, Millsy, scoffed at that, shaking his head. Simon always had a way with his words, clever tongue. There were times when he caught Millsy off guard, he didn’t like that, not one bit.

“Bullshit.”

Simon smirked, spoke in a mocking tone, “Wow. Cap is swearing now? Must be serious.”

I stood up unwillingly, the blades of my skates clattering against the rubber floor. “You know what? Yeah. It is pretty fucking serious. You don’t want to pass it to me? Fine. But you put yourself above the team, and that’s why we’re packing our shit instead of getting ready for the next round.” 

It’s not that he just chuckled, and shook his head as if this was another post-game rant that pissed me off. He looked amused to see me riled up like this. That’s all Simon ever wanted. To provoke me.

I wanted to slap that grin off his face.

“Relax, Hughes. It’s one game.” He said loosely.

As if the air in the room couldn’t be more suffocating, I was about to lose my mind.

I stepped closer, glaring at him, “It’s not just one game, Gray. It’s every damn game. Every shift. Every time you decide you would rather play your own game than be a teammate. I don’t give a shit if you’re a great player–you’re a shitty teammate, and you have been for years now. It’s not helping this team.”

Silence. Simon’s smirk faded, his jaw tightened. A few of the guys shift in their spot uncomfortably.

This was the first time I had to ever do something like this in front of them. I wasn’t really thinking once my mouth started running–which was very out of character for me, but I couldn’t help it, not when I was so frustrated. I could have said much more, but seeing the increasing tension in the room, they got the point.

JT’s voice was low, “He’s not wrong…”

Simon exhaled sharply through his nose, standing up. Both him and I are practically nose to nose now. I lifted my chin, sizing him up a bit. But it didn’t help that he was an inch taller than me. “You don’t like the way I play? Cool. But don’t come crying when I end up with more points–”

“Hughes. Gray. My office. Now.” Tocchet’s stern voice caused my head to whip to him, and so did everyone in the room.

We both traded glances–both annoyed, neither surprised. It was about time our coach pulled us apart. If Gray kept going, my fists would be colliding against his face not a second later. But I kept my cool.

There was no questioning. We just obeyed, dragging our feet to the coach’s office.

Tocchet was already behind his desk, hands firm on the armrest of his chair, eyes burning with barely restrained anger. 

Once the door was shut behind us, it didn’t take long for the man to be straightforward.

“You two have a problem.” He stared at the both of us. 

He was only stating the obvious. It has been like this for years–the moment I arrived here in Vancouver to be exact. Simon got drafted to the Canucks a year before I did, and he did nothing but give me hell, and progressively got worse each season. 

I don’t know what went wrong. There were many conversations–I tried to figure out what his problem was with me. But, he wouldn’t budge at all no matter how many times I asked.

So, I learned to tolerate him. We didn’t need to be friends as long as we worked together on the ice. I was willing and trying, but clearly he couldn’t do that either.

“Ten seconds. That’s all we needed. But instead, I got–” He gestured to the both of us, “–whatever the hell that was. Sims, Hughsy was wide open while you had two guys on you. Hell, he was so loud that the entire fucking arena heard him.”

Simon sunk further down his chair, “Coach, I thought I had it. If I had passed it to Hughes, it would’ve–”

“Would have what?” Tocchet seethed.

He was upset, all three of us were. I stayed silent, staring off into space, replaying what could have been–actually–the worst last few seconds in the season. He knew if he had given the puck to me, then I would get all the glory in the end. But, I don’t care if I had the winning goal, I never cared about that. I cared about the team. And just because Gray was his selfish, arrogant, and–

“But, Coach–”

“Sims, you don’t need to like Huggy, you just need to work together and start acting like teammates. Because next season? This bullshit stops.”  He said pointing at the two of us.

Tocchet grabs two files and tossed them onto the desk. Simon and I immediately gravitate our attention to it. “This isn’t up for debate. You two are a disaster together. So, this is my way of fixing this mess. I’ve set up a mandatory off-season program for the both of you.”

I frowned at that, reaching for the file, “Off-season?”

“What kind of program?” Simon slowly grabbed the other.

“Cross-training. Pilates. Together.”

“What?”

Both Simon and I practically bursted at the same time.

I wasn’t sure if I heard correctly, like my ears were messing with me. There was no way Tocchet was making the two of us spend our entire off-season together. 

There were no rules about how to spend your off-season, players did whatever they pleased during those four months. Some went on multiple vacations, or hung out with friends, and spent time with families. The organization didn’t care where you were or what you were doing–as long as they put in some summer training before the preseason camps starting in September.

“You’re joking…” Simon said.

Tocchet shook his head, “Does it look like I’m joking, Sims? I threw in a small surprise for you too. I was told she was the best of the best. You will be training with Sydney Gray.”

Wait, Gray? As in–

“My sister? No way in hell! I am not training with her.” Simon said, raising his voice a little. The guys on the other side of the door probably heard that, considering how silent it got out there.

“That isn’t fair. There has to be some sort of bias behind that.” I reasoned.

Since Simon rarely talks to me, I didn’t know much about his family–unless I overheard him talking about them. So, I knew he had a sister, and they seemed close the way he talks about her. Therefore, spending my summer with the Gray siblings just means a recipe for disaster.

“This isn’t up for discussion. I talked with her studio and you two are booked in. You will do these sessions with Sydney twice a week. She is one of the best pilates instructors here in the city. That means you will give her nothing but your utmost cooperation and respect.” Tocchet’s voice seemed to have dialed down, but still held some intensity behind his glare. “Because if you can’t show me that you figured your shit out by September, you’re riding the bench next season. That’s final.”

And there it was…the big drop.

I was anticipating him to whip out that card sooner rather than later. But worst of all, I knew he wasn’t joking. Rick Tocchet doesn’t mess around, at least, not with this.

“Understood?”

“Understood.”

Simon and I both sunk further in our seats, as if our world just stopped moving.

I wanted this offseason to be just how I planned. Time with my family, a chance to reset after the pressure of my first year as captain. Instead, I’m stuck with the one guy on the team who would rather shoot a puck into the post than pass to me. 

And now we’re supposed to fix it with fucking Pilates? With his sister, Sydney Gray, training us? 

Yeah…this was going to be a nightmare.

all rights reserved © 2025 hellvst. please do not copy, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[dangraccoon]

Untitled Spreadsheet - PRIVATE

Chapter 13 - Review

Word Count: 1326

Content: the end of the war, clone rights are sentient rights, clones making their own government, a clone cadet accidentally parent-trapping Cody and Obi-Wan, Rex and Padmé getting so excited, both of them finally making a move

For @literallyjustanerd, based on this post

Mando'a Guide Ara'gotenir Tolase - Clone System; essentially the government for the clones Tsad'alor - group leader; something like a senator verd'ika - private (like the rank, although is often used affectionally for a child as "little soldier) orikih - tiny aar'ika - little pain, sting Gar cuy ori'jaon'yc bah ni, ratiin - You are important to me, always jetii'dral - the Force (lit. Jedi power) Ni kar'taylir gar suvarir mando'a, ner jetii - I know you understand mando'a, my jedi

The celebrations lasted several weeks. The ceasefire, peace agreement, and reintroduction to the Republic on the last CIS planet meant an official end to the war, almost exactly five years since it had begun. 

And with the end of the war, the Senate passed the Clone Rights Bill unanimously, and included provisions for housing, work, and back pay, which no one outside the Senate knew about. Cody would never forget the sight of millions of brothers crying out in joy because they were finally free. No, he wouldn’t forget that for the rest of his life.

Cody was free, though he tried not to think about it very much.

The GAR wouldn’t be dissolved completely, but used for aid missions, security forces, and other projects as needed. The clones would be paid for their labor as well as a sum of credits for their service in the war. 

Cody chose to remain in what they’d named the Ara’gotenir Tolase–though they usually just called it the AT–as a representative for those previously under his command. Really, they’d become something of a miniature Republic. 

Cody tapped away at his datapad, sipping his caf. 

“Tsad’alor Cody?” a small voice called from the doorway of his office. 

He looked up to see a cadet, maybe only four or five. “Hello there. What can I do for you, verd’ika?”

The kid fidgeted, looking down at his boots. 

Cody smiled and rose from his seat. “Why don’t you come in and sit down?” He gestured to the small seating area next to his desk. It was used more often for him crashing on the couch after working all night than it was for company, but he was happy for the change. 

“Yessir,” the cadet said as he did, sitting somewhat awkwardly on one of the chairs, and Cody tried not to cringe at the way his “orders” were immediately followed. 

“Try to relax,” he instructed as he sat on the couch. Not directly next to the boy, not far away. “I’m not a Commander anymore. You don’t have to use my rank or my title. You can just call me Cody, if you want.”

The kid nodded, but seemed to find the fabric of the chair far more interesting than Cody. 

“What’s your name, brother?”

“I-I don’t have one,” he mumbled after a moment. “My… my batchmates call me orikih.”

Cody nodded. “But do you like to be called that?”

The boy shook his head immediately. “No, sir! I hate it when they tease me just ‘cause I came outta the tubes all shrunk!”

Cody’s brows lifted. He hadn’t expected the outburst.

“I’m sorry, si– um, Ori’vod,” the boy muttered. 

“No need to apologize, verd’ika,” he smiled softly, scooching to the edge of his seat. “Can I let you in on a secret?”

It was the kid’s turn to look surprised. He nodded eagerly. 

Cody leaned in closer, making a show of looking over his shoulders around his empty office. “I was the little one in my batch and–”

“Really?”

“Yes, I was very orikih, too,” he grinned. “But that’s not what my batchers called me.” 

The cadet watched him with wide eyes. Cody felt his heart warm even more than it had when the boy had come in. 

“They liked to tease me by calling me aar’ika,” he chuckled.

To Cody’s surprise and his utter joy, his little brother laughed. It was a wonderful, musical sound that he hadn’t heard in some time.

“They call you ‘little pain’?”

“They did! Alpha-17 even did for a while.”

The kid’s smile faded as he returned to his quieter nature. His brow furrowed a little, the same way all their vode did. “How did you make them stop?”

He smiled gently. “I won’t lie to you, verd’ika,” he said, very seriously. “They didn’t stop for a long time. Our batch’s twins–Fox and Wolffe–they’re more stubborn than an entire herd of banthas put together, but I did have someone on my side.”

Curiosity lit the boy’s face again. “Who?”

“It was Prime, himself,” a new voice called from the doorway. “And he gave him a new name: Kote.”

Cody nearly broke his neck, turning to see General Kenobi, leaning against the door frame. It had been nearly a year since he’d seen his old General in person, not that Cody had counted. Cody felt like he’d been sent back in time. Kenobi looked all the same and all different. His eyes still sparkled that electrifying blue, his beard still sat neatly around his face, and his lips still pulled in a small smile. He’d grown his hair out though; the auburn locks were tinted with gray at his temples and fell to his shoulders, the top half tied back. 

And Cody was just as taken with him as he’d ever been.

The cadet seemed unsurprised, however, merely looking over and smiling. “Prime?”

Cody pulled himself out of his stun to grin at the boy again. “The very same.”

“Did you ask Tsad’alor Cody your questions, dear?” Kenobi asked. “He’s very busy taking care of you and all your brothers, so we mustn’t take up too much of his time.”

“Master Obi-Wan, he told me to just call him Cody,” the boy chastised.

Cody and Kenobi hid their matching grins.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Just Cody, then.” 

The boy sighed. “I asked Master Obi-Wan if the slowing treatment hurts and he said he didn’t know because he didn’t have it but I really want to know because I… a-and I know we have to be brave because we’re soldiers, but I’m scared, Ori’vod”

Cody’s heart just about broke in two. “I know big things like this are very frightening. I was nervous before I had the treatment and I–” he cut himself off; he didn’t want to frighten the kid with tales of the procedures the first few generations had undergone at the hands of the Kaminoans. “I’ve been through a lot of scary treatments. But our vode jah’ade are the best of the best and the jetiise who look after you all are the kindest there are.”

The boy nodded, but still seemed apprehensive. 

“We don’t always need to be brave, vod,” he continued. “We don’t need to be anything we don’t want to be. Mhi cuy mav jii.”

“Mhi cuy mav jii,” the cadet repeated slowly. It was something many of the clones had taken to saying, like a quiet remembrance for their past and a hopeful prayer for their future. 

After another moment, his eyes lit up. Cody recognized that particular spark. “Cody?”

“Yes, vod?”

“I know my name,” he breathed. “Mav.”

Cody smiled, letting all his pride bleed into it. “It has been so wonderful to meet you, Mav.”

Mav smiled back at him, but then he pounced, wrapping Cody in a tight hug. “Vor’e, Cody!”

Mav ran over to the General, beaming up at him.

“Mav is a good name,” he told him. “It suits you, little one. Will you wait for me in the hallway?”

“Yes, Master Obi-Wan,” Mav chirped, happily leaving. 

“And please don’t wander off this time!” he called after him. “I don’t want to have to send Hound after you again!”

Kenobi looked back at Cody, making his way toward him and they both broke out into light laughter.

“How have you been, General?” Cody asked. “Last I heard, you’ve busied yourself with the cadets?”

“Yes,” Kenobi chuckled. “It seems like an entire war surrounded by your brothers wasn’t quite enough.”

“I’ve been surrounded by my brothers my whole life and I cannot see the appeal,” Cody shrugged. 

The General smiled. “Well, I do admit that not all of them are as charming as you.”

Cody felt that old familiar ache in his chest, like he was being towed in on a fishing line. He breathed a laugh.

Kenobi sighed, turning away. “I’ve embarrassed you; I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Cody stammered. “You haven’t, at all. I guess…”

Kenobi stepped a little closer to him. “You guess?”

Cody held his breath for a moment to keep from sighing. Kenobi was wearing the same fragrance as he had that night at 79s. Warm, hints of some kind of spice, and all too easily flooding his senses and pulling him closer.

“I, um– I guess I’ve fallen out of the habit of receiving your compliments, sir,” he managed. “They’re not unwelcome, of course, just… unexpected.”

Kenobi smiled and chuckled. Cody could feel his heart hammering against his ribs. 

“Cody, I-I feel I must tell you something,” he said, his smile fading slightly. “I couldn’t tell you during the war, and by the end we so rarely saw one another.”

“Yes?” Cody whispered. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Kenobi bit his lip, glancing away, but quickly closed the short distance between them. His lips pressed softly against Cody’s cheek for a moment, then near his ear.

“Gar cuy ori'jaon'yc bah ni, ratiin.”

Cody’s mouth opened with a soft gasp as Kenobi pulled away smiling. Somehow, his mind was simultaneously blank and overflowing with thoughts.

Kenobi nodded a goodbye, then left to find Mav. Cody had spent the last year ignoring the ache of missing General Kenobi, but it came in full force as he watched him walk away, chatting with one of his little brothers.

He kissed him. High Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Negotiator, a Jedi Master and member of the Jedi Council kissed him? Of course, it was only on the cheek, but it was so soft that he could only really describe it as tender.

His shaking hand touched his cheek–where General Kenobi kissed him–just at the end of his scar.

Wait. Wait, did Kenobi–

He replayed the moment in his mind, trying desperately to focus on what happened after he kissed him.

“Gar cuy ori’jaon’yc bah ni, ratiin.”

General Kenobi spoke mando’a, and fluently at that. No mispronunciations, no hesitance. 

Cody moved to his desk, flopping down in the chair and tapping the comm unit to call Rex.

“Hey, aren’t you at work? What’s up?”

“Rex, does General Kenobi know mando’a?”

The line was quiet for a moment. “What?”

“Does Kenobi know mando’a?” Cody repeated.

“Am I a kriffin’ holonet search?” Rex scoffed. “Why would I know that?”

“Ask Skywalker, then,” Cody huffed. 

“Cody, Anakin’s not–”

“Come on, Rex, I can hear his tubies in the background.”

Rex snorted. “The natborns call them babies, Codes. Anakin’s not here, but maybe Padmé will know.”

Cody heard the comm unit click against something and Rex’s retreating footsteps. He could hear Rex and Amidala’s voices, but couldn’t make out the words.

Then there were footsteps, and rustling. 

“Are you still there?” Senator Amidala asked. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “How are you, Senator?”

Amidala groaned. “You know better, Cody. Try again.”

Cody chuckled. “How are you, Padmé?”

“I’m doing very well, thank you, Cody.” He could hear the snarky grin in her voice. “Now, you want to know if Obi-Wan speaks mando’a?”

“Yes,” Cody breathed. He felt like he was very close to the edge of something, but he couldn’t tell if it would be better to stay that way or to simply fall.

“Well, it wouldn’t surprise me,” she said. “That man collects languages like they were rare antiques.”

“That’s an understatement,” he heard Rex scoff in the background.

“And he did spend a year on Mandalore protecting our friend Satine,” she continued. “I’m sure she taught him some mando’a… between everything else I’m sure she taught him.”

Cody’s mind whirled as Rex laughed loudly in the background and Padmé chuckled.

“When did he…”

“Oh, it was years ago, long before the war. They hadn’t even found Anakin– actually, I’m not sure he’d even been born.”

Cody felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. “He… understood mando’a… the entire time?”

“He never said anything?” Rex asked. “The vode talked around him like they did with everyone and he never mentioned it?”

“Kriff,” he said simply. “Oh, kriff.”

“What is it?” Padmé asked. “I thought that would be nice.”

“Rex, do you remember that night we went to 79s and General Kenobi bought us drinks?”

The comm was quiet. “Yeah, yeah, Gregor and I left to give you two some space, but you never told me everything that happened that night. All I know is what you put on that damn spreadsheet you had.”

“I’m sorry, what spreadsheet?” Padmé asked, her voice filled with delight. 

Cody heard Rex mumble something about "you and Ahsoka" and “later”. 

“I gotta go,” Cody mumbled. 

He heard them answer, but he couldn’t quite process anything beyond the short tone that indicated the end of the call. 

Cody sat in his office, brow furrowed, waiting for his brain to actually start working.

Rex: cody 

Rex: when was the last time you looked at your spreadsheet

Cody: What? I stopped adding to it after that night. You know that. 

Rex: yeah okay but when did you look at it

Rex: codes you still there

Cody: Yes; I was thinking. I believe I looked at it near the end of the war, right before we shipped off to rebuild Christophsis. Why?

Rex: you might want to look at it

Rex: like now

Cody: Why?

Event: My dear, oblivious Commander left his datapad unattended on his desk with this document still open

Rational explanation: Cody is once again overtired from working so incredibly hard (as he is wont to do) and simply forgot to power down the datapad, too distracted by his sense of duty and work ethic, as admirable as they are detrimental to his sleep

Irrational explanation: The Commander shares in my affections but is simply so oblivious to my (rather obvious) signals that he feels the need to rationalise our interactions instead of accepting that we are, and indeed have been, flirting

Additional notes: In regard to the above: it meant everything and more to me, my darling x

Cody was getting out of the taxi before he even realized he’d gotten up from his desk. 

He’d accompanied the General to the Jedi Temple on several occasions, but he’d only come here alone once for his Deceleration treatment. Even then, Rex was already there, waiting for him. 

Their security was far more lax than Cody thought it should be, though he assumed their jetii’dral would alert them better than any other system would. 

“Hello,” a soft voice called. “Can I help you find where you’re going?”

He looked up the flight of stairs before him, his heart warming to see a familiar face. 

“Why, Cody,” General Ti smiled. “It’s been some time since you last visited.”

“Too long, Gen- Master Ti,” he agreed. 

“You look like you’re on a mission,” she hummed. “Is there anything I can help with?”

Cody felt his face flush slightly. “Actually, I’m looking for Gen- Master Kenobi.”

She smiled and gestured for him to follow her. “I’m sure it wouldn’t surprise you that Obi-Wan keeps a fairly regular schedule these days.”

“Not at all,” Cody agreed. “During the war, he always said our schedules were like ‘organized chaos’.”

Master Ti laughed lightly. “Yes, that does sound like him. Well, there’s only a few places he would be at this time; I’m sure we’ll find him quickly.”

Cody followed her through the halls until they got to an area labeled “Crèche”. 

A stern looking Togruta met Master Ti as they entered, but soon they were surrounded by cadets and younglings, all clamoring for Master Ti’s attention.

“Alright, alright, I promise I will look at all of your lovely drawings,” she laughed, quieting the kids. “But first, I need your help. Our friend Cody is looking for Master Obi-Wan.”

“He was with the little ones!” one of the kih’vod shouted. 

“Kybuck Clan,” an Initiate added.

Ti looked back towards Cody. “Do you know where their room is? Master Kiish can show you–”

“That’s alright, Masters,” Cody grinned. “You both seem to have your hands full here.”

He waved goodbye to the cadets that had been watching him and continued down the hallway, passing grand doors with elaborate designs with the symbols of the different creatures the clans were named for until he came across a Kybuck.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The rooms were circular, connected to one another in a way that reminded Cody a little of Kamino, but much warmer. And drier. 

Little scraps of flimsi covered practically any surface of the main room, colorful drawings of just about anything a young mind could imagine. They were scribbled and hard to make out, with scrawled lettering Cody could hardly read. His smile grew as he looked at them all the same. 

He heard a soft sigh and approaching footsteps. 

“That’s the last of the down for their naps,” Kenobi said, pulling his robe back on. “I’ll be back tomorrow for–”

Kenobi looked up, his eyes widening when he saw Cody and not whatever jetii he’d been expecting. 

“Hello there,” Cody whispered. 

Kenobi gathered himself quickly. “I must admit I’m surprised to see you again so soon.”

“A good surprise, I hope,” Cody smiled. 

Kenobi nodded. “A good surprise, indeed.”

Kenobi led him back through the crèche, pausing every so often to talk to the various little ones who ran up to him. 

“You’re quite popular around here,” Cody noted, then added nervously “We can talk another time–”

“No, please,” Kenobi said quickly. “I’d like to talk now.”

They were quiet as Kenobi led them up to his room. It was neat and warm, and Cody felt comfortable there almost immediately. 

“Would you like some caf?” Kenobi offered after insisting that Cody sit down at the small table. 

Cody chuckled. “You actually keep caf in here?”

“Anakin visits,” he hummed with a shrug. “And Ahsoka is studying for some exams. Do you still like it black?”

“Actually, I haven’t had as much since the end of the war,” Cody admitted. He could feel his cheeks warming slightly. “I’ve been drinking more tea lately.”

Kenobi lit up, his smile widening as he turned back to face Cody. “Do you have a preference on what kind? Force knows I’ve got a variety.”

“You pick,” Cody smirked. “I trust your good taste.”

Kenobi nodded and quickly turned away, but Cody could see the tips of his ears tinting pink. 

As he sat there, watching his former General as he utilized the small kitchenette, he realized that he had no plan. 

He was a Marshal Commander in the army. He made thousands of battle plans and decisions for two and a half years. He’d spent his entire life before that being trained for it. And yet, he’d read the addition from Kenobi and the only thing he’d come up with was to find Kenobi. He could practically hear every ori’vod and trainer he’d ever had berating him. 

“So you take care of the little ones these days?” Cody piped up as Kenobi brought the kettle and mugs over. 

“When I can,” he nodded. “I’m still on the Council and I do go on missions when needed, but I’ve always enjoyed working with the younglings.”

Cody smiled as he took a sip of his tea, recognizing the taste of spiced fruit. “This is from Alderaan, right?”

Kenobi smiled. “It is,” he confirmed.

“A gift from Chancellor Organa?” 

“Yes,” Kenobi said, seeming somewhat bewildered. “How did you–”

“This is what you brought me before Ryloth,” Cody said. 

Kenobi’s face turned red. “I… I can’t believe you remember that.”

“Of course I do,” he smirked, leaning towards his former General. “It’s like I told you, ‘you’re too important and too beautiful for me to forget anything about you,’ remember?”

Kenobi was speechless and Cody found that he loved being able to have this effect on him. He reached across the table, easing Kenobi’s mug from his hand and replacing it with his hand.

“Ni kar'taylir gar suvarir mando'a, ner jetii,” he breathed, locking his gaze onto those beautiful eyes. He watched as his cheeks turned so red he might’ve thought they’d catch fire. “And I know about your addition to my… stupid spreadsheet.”

“You do?” Kenobi whispered. 

“I do, sir,” Cody admitted. “I’ve been such a fool. I thought I was imagining things or that it was just wishful thinking.”

“You didn’t imagine any of it,” Kenobi said. “In fact, there was a lot you didn’t include on your list.”

Cody chuckled. “Of course there was.” He squeezed Kenobi’s hand lightly, his thumb rubbing across his scarred knuckles. “Can you ever forgive me for how oblivious I’ve been?”

Kenobi smiled widely, setting Cody’s heart on fire. “There’s nothing to forgive, Cody.”

“I need you to know that I still feel the same as I always have,” Cody said. “Even when I pushed you away, trying to act professionally. I was and am completely in love with you. And I always will be, Obi-Wan.”

He’d never dared to say the General’s first name aloud, but the feeling of it in his mouth was addictive. He watched Obi-Wan tremble slightly.

“Oh, Cody,” Obi-Wan sighed. He stood, pulling Cody from his chair and closer to him. Instinctively, Cody wrapped his arms around Obi-Wan’s waist, pulling him tightly against his chest.

“I’ve been waiting so long to hear you say that,” Obi-Wan said, his hand gently cupping the side of Cody’s face. His thumb traced over the end of his scar. “I’m in love with you, Cody. You’ve had my heart from the moment I met you.”

Together, at last, they closed the space between them, their lips meeting softly, yet full of passion and heat.

When they pulled away they were breathless, simply smiling at one another. 

“What now?” Cody whispered. “I love you and you love me, so what’s next?”

Obi-Wan smiled, pressing another soft kiss to his lover’s lips. “Whatever we want, my dear.”

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Thank you all so much for your love and support! I'm so happy that so many people enjoyed this self-indulgent project. Please make sure you go give love on the original!!! 💛💛💛

Thanks for reading! - River

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[codychristiantreasures]

[jetii]

Event Horizon

Chapter Seventeen: Downpour

Chapter WC: 12,129

Chapter Warnings: battle stuff, kinda angsty but compared to last chapter this is nothing

A/N: Once again there is a lot going on here. 💀 I've been looking forward to posting this chapter for ages, so I hope you enjoy!

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Kamino, 21 BBY

It's raining. Of course it's raining. 

You can't even remember a time you were on Kamino that it wasn't. It's a strange world, a planet of extremes. Cold, wet, and miserable. And yet, there's a beauty to it. The way the waves crash against the buildings, the roar of the wind, the smell of the salt water.

It's been over a month since the siege of Null, and you haven't been able to rest. Not truly. Your mind has been racing, the memory of finding Yaddle's things haunting your every waking moment.

You haven't slept for longer than an hour or two at a time, and even when you do manage to fall asleep, the nightmares are worse. The severing you felt the moment she died finds you in your sleep, but it's not her death, it's Rex's. Or Obi-Wan's. Or Anakin's. Or Ahsoka's. They're dead, and it's because of you. Because you weren't strong enough, or fast enough, or smart enough.

And the dreams always end the same.

With the severed bond, with the loss, with the anguish.

It's not fair, and you're angry, but more than that, you're frustrated. You can't bring the evidence to the Council's attention without requesting a hearing, and the Council seems content with keeping you away from Coruscant. They've been keeping you too busy, assigning the 212th to a dozen missions, never allowing you to have a moment's peace. 

And you can't help but wonder if it's because they know. If they know what you have. It's irrational, of course, but the anxiety won't stop gnawing at you, the worry growing by the day.

As a result, you've become increasingly paranoid, and you're constantly checking your belongings, checking the box underneath your bed aboard the Negotiator, making sure everything is where it should be. Obi-Wan's noticed, of course, but he's too occupied with his own inner turmoil over what happened with Duchess Satine to worry too much about yours.

Cody's noticed too, but he's been kind enough not to say anything. You suspect Rex has told him to leave it alone, which you're grateful for. You don't have the energy to explain yourself, not when there's so much else to worry about.

And right now, there is plenty to worry about.

"Sir, look out!"

A trooper in a full white kit grabs your arm and yanks you back just as a stray bolt nearly clips you in the head. You stumble backwards, landing hard on your ass, and you blink, trying to clear the rain from your eyes.

A pair of hands grab you, pulling you to your feet.

"Sorry, sir," the trooper apologizes. His helmet obscures his face, but you can tell he's embarrassed. "Didn't mean to manhandle you."

"It's alright," you assure him. "Better than getting shot in the head."

He nods and returns his attention to the firefight, raising his rifle and squeezing off a round. The droid at the far end of the platform drops, a smoking hole in its chest, and the trooper lets out a satisfied grunt before turning back to you.

"Stay close. I'll cover you," he says, and he moves past you into the chaos. You blink, trying to process what just happened, but then the sound of blaster fire reaches your ears, and you duck, your senses snapping back into focus.

The two of you weave through the melee, the air thick with the acrid stench of smoke and the metallic tang of blaster fire. It's slow going, and the shots are coming fast and thick. More than once, the trooper has to grab you and pull you to the ground, the heat of a bolt singing your ear.

You're starting to feel frustrated, and embarrassed. You should be able to handle yourself better. You've been trained since birth to deal with these situations. And yet, here you are, relying on some poor shiny to drag you around like a baby.

It's shameful.

A blast comes from above, and you throw up a hasty shield, deflecting the energy bolt. The trooper ducks, hissing, and you reach out with the Force, yanking him behind a twisted heap of droid parts at the same time as you shove the sniper off the roof.

"Sorry," you say as you land hard next to him, your knees screaming in protest. "Normally, I'm better at this."

"At what? Being shot at?"

You huff. "Being a Jedi."

The trooper laughs, and then turns and leans around the pile of scrap, firing his rifle. "I don't know, General. Seems like you're doing just fine to me."

"That's...generous of you," you mutter. You lean back, taking a moment to catch your breath. 

It's not easy to focus. Everything is chaos. Screams, explosions, blaster fire. The time you all had to prepare for the siege had not been nearly enough, and the blockade had been brutal. By the time you'd arrived on the planet, the battle was already in full swing. 

You and Cody had only just managed to land before the shuttle had been forced to evacuate, and while he had rushed off to secure the barracks with Rex, you were tasked with defending the training facility with a contingent of newly trained clones. They were an interesting bunch, a little wild and eager, but they knew how to fight, and you'd seen them cut down more droids than their fair share. 

You just hoped that would be enough.

Droids were rising from the ocean like the living dead, and they were everywhere, a sea of metal, their red eyes flashing in the storm. There's little cover on the open platform, and the clones are doing their best to hold their ground, but they're being pushed back, the droids overwhelming them.

"This is fucking insane," the trooper growls, and you glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "Sorry, sir."

"Don't worry about it," you chuckle. "I've heard worse."

He huffs and shakes his head, and then he raises his blaster and fires off another round at the same time as you pop up and throw your shoto in a wide arc. The yellow streak cuts through the air and collides with a pair of battle droids, severing clean through their torsos, the halves clattering to the ground.

"Nice shot," the trooper grunts. You look over at him and grin as you catch the blade, but it fades when you notice his hand clutching his arm, his armor charred and cracked.

"You're hurt," you gasp, reaching out, but he pulls away.

"It's nothing," he insists, shaking his head. "I'm fine."

"Let me see," you press.

He sighs, but he releases his arm, allowing you to examine the wound. The flesh is scorched, but it's not deep. You can't risk applying bacta, not in the middle of a battle, but you can ease the pain, at least.

You place your hand on his arm, and he jerks, his helmet whipping towards you. You meet his gaze and try to smile reassuringly.

"Just relax," you tell him. "It won't hurt."

He hesitates, but then he nods, and he lets out a slow breath. You close your eyes and focus, the Force flowing through you, into him. It's the same technique you used to heal Rex's injury on Null, but the effect is more temporary, the tissue healing slower than usual. You're sure that if Rex knew what you were doing, he'd have a few choice words, but you don't care. These men are under your command, and it's your duty to protect them. Even if that means pushing your own limits.

"Wow," the trooper murmurs. He rolls his arm, flexing his fingers, a note of awe in his voice. "How did you do that?"

You shrug. "I have my ways."

"Very mysterious, sir," he teases, and you roll your eyes. He peers around the pile of scrap, and then turns back to you, his shoulders slumping. "Not gonna lie, this isn't looking good."

"No, it's not," you agree. You take a deep breath, your hands resting on your knees. You feel lightheaded, and a little woozy. Healing him took more out of you than you expected.

"You're not doing so great either," the trooper observes, and you blink, turning to him.

"Excuse me?"

"You're not doing so great," he repeats. He cocks his head, and then adds, "Sir."

You can't help but snort at that, and the two of you share a chuckle. It feels good to laugh, to find a moment of levity in the chaos. The trooper may have been a little awkward and blunt, but you couldn't help but like him. He was refreshingly honest. Or maybe you were just a little delirious.

"Thanks," you mumble. You pause, and then look around, trying to formulate a plan. The platform is surrounded, and the droids are pouring out of the ocean faster than the clones can shoot them down. You've never been great at strategy, but you've survived this long. You're going to have to rely on instinct. And hope.

You raise your blades and stand, a grim determination settling over you.

"Stay close," you say, and the trooper rises to his feet, his blaster at the ready. "We're going to break their ranks."

"Sir, yes, sir."

You nod, and the two of you leap out from behind the pile of scrap, launching yourselves into the fray. For a few moments, everything is a blur. You lose yourself in the movement, the familiar weight of your weapons in your hands. It's a dance, really, the steps as natural as breathing. You duck, dodge, spin, strike, parry, thrust, and repeat. The droids fall before you, their metal limbs scattering across the platform, but it's still not enough.

"We have to fall back," you shout. "Get the wounded into the building and seal the doors. We'll regroup and formulate a plan."

The trooper nods, and he signals the men, repeating your orders. A moment later, they're retreating, falling back to the safety of the training facility. You hold the rear, deflecting shot after shot, the lightning crackling overhead, the wind roaring in your ears. The droids are relentless, and their shots are becoming more accurate. One hits a clone in front of you, and he falls to the ground, his body limp.

"Grab him," you call out. Another bolts grazes your pauldron, and you flinch, nearly tripping over a severed droid arm at your feet. "Hurry!"

The troopers haul their fallen comrade, and they rush back into the training facility, the doors sealing behind them. The one who had saved your life before remains at your side, and together, the two of you hold the line, keeping the droids from breaching the entrance. But even with your combined efforts, the droids are still advancing, and they're quickly gaining ground.

The rain is coming down hard, and the wind is blowing it sideways, soaking through your clothes and chilling you to the bone. You grit your teeth, and continue deflecting shots, the droids' numbers seeming endless. If only Obi-Wan was here. He'd have thought of something clever, something that would have turned the tide in your favor. You, however, have nothing. Nothing but desperation, and anger, and fear.

A particularly well-aimed shot whizzes past your ear, and you feel the heat of it graze your cheek. Another shoots by, and another, and another. They're close, too close, and your arms are starting to tremble, your fingers slipping on the hilts of your sabers.

"Sir, come on!" the trooper urges, grabbing your arm and pulling you back toward the facility. You can barely keep up, your boots sliding on the wet ground. The doors are so close, but they're also so far.

A sudden blast rocks the platform, sending the two of you sprawling. Your sabers go flying, clattering across the duracrete, and you watch the blades deactivate, the metal growing cold and silent. The trooper groans beside you, and then he sits up, shaking his head. You can't blame him for his lack of grace. The world is spinning, and the ringing in your ears is deafening.

"Fuck," you hiss, pushing yourself up. You reach out with the Force and drag a crate to the side, forming a barrier between the two of you and the advancing droids. It's a flimsy shield, but it's better than nothing. You press your back against the crate and close your eyes, gathering your strength.

"I've got an idea," the trooper pants, and his voice sounds like it's coming from a million lightyears away. His helmet tilts your direction, his chest heaving. "But you're not going to like it."

"Try me," you grunt, trying to clear your vision.

He takes a deep breath and exhales, the sound sharp through the modulator. "See that downed trident ship? The one with the hole in the side?"

You turn and look, spotting the wreckage. It's close, no more than a few dozen meters away, behind the hoard of advancing droids. It's a mess of broken metal, the hull twisted and shattered, the observation portals cracked.

"Yeah, I see it," you reply, a hint of suspicion creeping into your voice.

"Can you use the Force to move it?" He pulls a grenade from his belt. "If you can bring it close enough, I can toss a popper into the hole and detonate the fuel reserves."

You stare at him, the implications dawning on you. You're not a demolitions expert, but even you know that blowing up a downed ship in the middle of a battle is a risky move. The explosion would likely cause significant damage, and the fallout could be deadly.

"Do you think you can do it?" he asks, his voice laced with urgency.

"I can do it," you reply, and the trooper gives a short nod.

"Then, let's do this," he says.

"On my mark," you say, and he nods again.

You rise and extend your hand, calling upon the Force. The moment you connect, a wave of power rushes through you, and you can feel the weight of the ship heavy in your grasp. You take a deep breath, and you start to pull, using all your strength. 

The ship groans, the metal creaking and screeching. It's heavier than you thought, and it's hard to focus with the blaster fire coming at you. You grit your teeth, and you throw every ounce of energy into the task. Slowly, the ship begins to move, its metal body scraping against the deck until it lifts into the air.

The droids don't seem to notice the trident floating above their heads, and they continue their advance, their red eyes gleaming in the storm. It's almost comical, how the metal behemoth hangs there twists in the air behind them, its tentacle-like limbs dangling beneath.

The rain is pouring now, the water streaming down your face, and your entire body is trembling, exhaustion threatening to overtake you. It's getting harder and harder to maintain control, and the ship is wavering, the hull swinging back and forth.

"I can't hold it much longer," you shout, your voice straining.

"Almost there," the trooper shouts back. His hand grips the grenade, his finger hovering over the trigger. "Just a little longer!"

You let out a cry and pull with all your might, and the ship responds, jerking forward, the tentacles swinging wildly. He presses the activator, hurling the grenade towards the hull just as it falls from your grasp. It arcs through the air, hitting the edge of the hole and bouncing inside. 

"Get down!"

The trooper grabs you and tackles you to the ground, shielding your body with his. A second later, the trident explodes, a blinding flash of light filling the sky. The shockwave is deafening, the pressure slamming into you, the heat from it hot on your skin. 

Debris rains down, the deck trembles beneath you, and the ground shifts. For a moment, you think it's about to collapse, and the two of you are going to tumble into the ocean below. But then, everything goes still and silent.

You lay there, stunned. Your ears are ringing, and your body is aching, the pain pulsing through you. You're alive, though. And, surprisingly, uninjured.

You turn your head and glance at the trooper, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He's alive. He's alive.

The two of you are silent for a moment, and then, a chuckle escapes your lips. You can't help it, the adrenaline surging through you. He lets out a weak laugh, and you start to laugh harder, the hysteria gripping you. It's insane, all of it, and the two of you laugh until you're crying, your ribs aching, the tears mixing with the rain.

After what feels like an eternity, you manage to regain control, and you wipe the tears from your cheeks, a giddy sense of relief washing over you. The trooper pushes himself up and offers his hand, pulling you to your feet. Once you're steady, you clasp his shoulder, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

"That was insane. Absolutely insane." You can't help but laugh again, the adrenaline still pumping through you. "And I have to admit, pretty damn clever."

He chuckles and shrugs, brushing aside the compliment. "Thanks, sir. But I can't take the credit. That was all you."

"Well, whatever. It was a team effort." You look around, the smoke from the explosion clearing, revealing the aftermath. The droids are scattered in pieces across the deck, their limbs bent and twisted. You know more will come, but for now, the platform is secure.

"You have a name, trooper?" you ask.

"CC-8411, sir," he replies. He holsters his rifle and straightens his back, a sense of pride in his stance. "Though my brothers call me Booker."

"A commander, huh?" You tilt your head, studying him. "I should have known. You have quite the aim, Booker. Thank you for watching my back."

"Of course, sir." He shifts nervously on his feet, glancing down at the ground and back up. "And I, uh, I'm not a commander yet, sir, but I'm working on it."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Booker says. He rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. "Just finished my ARC training. I'm pretty good at shooting, and my scores are high. My CO's seem to think I'm ready, it's just, well, I can't get promoted unless I've had experience leading a unit."

You raise an eyebrow, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. "You don't say."

Booker clears his throat and stands at attention, his gaze straight ahead. "I'm just...I'm looking for the right opportunity, sir."

"Hm," you hum, studying him. You call your lightsabers back into your hands, and you point at him with the hilt of one. "That could be arranged."

His helmet snaps in your direction as you holster them. "Sir?"

"You said it yourself. You have the skills," you point out. "And if your superiors think you're ready, I see no reason why we can't put you to the test. Come on."

You turn and gesture for him to follow, and the two of you make your way back into the facility, the doors opening with a hiss. The rest of the men are waiting inside, their bodies slumped against the wall, the injured being treated. When they catch sight of you, a cheer rises, and the air fills with applause.

You can't help but smirk, and you glance at Booker, giving him a wink.

"Looks like you're already popular," you tease.

"Well, what can I say?" he laughs. "I have a way with people."

"Yeah, I can see that." You stop in the center of the room and take a deep breath. "Status report."

One of the troopers steps forward, and he salutes, his helmet tucked under his arm. His eyes are wide, a mixture of awe and terror, and he swallows, trying to gather himself.

"All troopers accounted for, sir," he reports. "One casualty, but all other injuries are non-life threatening. I've sent word to the barracks, but I don't know if anyone's heard us." He looks around the room, his expression grim. "I think we're on our own, sir."

You nod. You'd expected as much. Still, it's not the news you wanted to hear.

"Very well," you say, sighing. You reach out, placing your hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. "Stay calm. What's your name?"

"Snap, sir," he answers.

"Well, Snap, let's do this one step at a time, okay?" You pat his arm and take a step back, taking a deep breath. "First things first. How many able men are here?"

"About forty, sir."

You bite your lip, calculating the numbers. It's not enough. Not by a long shot. But it'll have to do.

"Alright, listen up," you declare, and the room goes silent. "We need to start clearing buildings. If we can create a clear path to the barracks, we can get our brothers the reinforcements they need. Now, the enemy is numerous, and they're well-armed, but they're also spread out. So, we're going to take advantage of that."

You pause and look at each trooper, their faces serious. Then, you turn back to Booker, giving him a nod.

"We're going to split into teams and work our way through the city, building by building, until we reach the barracks. Our goal is to clear as much ground as possible and take out as many droids as we can along the way. Commander Booker will be leading a team. I'll be taking the rest."

Booker stiffens, and he glances at you. "Sir?"

"Time to prove yourself, Commander," you tell him, and the room breaks into a flurry of excited murmurs. "I want you to lead a team through the east wing. You're a good shot. Take out as many droids as you can."

He's quiet for a moment, and then he nods, squaring his shoulders.

"You heard the General," he says as he turns back to the men, his voice firm and commanding. There's no trace of the nervousness he displayed only moments before. "Form up."

The troopers begin gathering their gear, the room filled with a newfound sense of purpose. You can't help but smile, and a wave of pride swells inside you. They may not be the most skilled fighters, but these men are brave, and they're determined. And if the past few hours have shown you anything, it's that they're smart. They'll be fine.

Booker steps closer to you as the men move into formation, and he hesitates before pulling his helmet off, revealing a face you've seen a thousand times and a crooked smile that's all his own. His hair is dangerously close to being out of regulation for a shiny, and his eyes are bright and full of life.

"I won't let you down, sir," he vows.

"I know," you assure him, and his smile widens. "I'll see you on the other side, Commander."

He gives a final nod, and he jams his helmet back on, turning to the troopers who have assembled beside him. He barks a command, and the group disappears into the hallway. The remaining troopers turn to you, waiting for their orders.

You take a deep breath and steel yourself, feeling the weight of the battle heavy on your shoulders. You wave your hand, and the men follow you down the opposite corridor, their footsteps echoing behind you. 

The halls are quiet, the only sound the hiss of the doors opening and closing as the men file out and the rain pattering against the glass above, the droplets running down the window.

It's dark, the lights flickering, and the building feels abandoned, a shell of its former glory. There are no signs of life, no indication that anyone is left behind, and the silence is unnerving. It's almost like a ghost town. Or a tomb. But the droids are here, lurking somewhere, and you know that the fight is far from over.

You pass through the training facility, the space littered with broken equipment and shattered glass, the droid corpses scattered throughout. There are blast marks on the walls, scorch marks on the floor, the metal dented and twisted. 

Somewhere, you know Obi-Wan is fighting General Grievous, and you pray to the Force that he succeeds. You'd never say it aloud, but you're glad it's him and not you. Not this time. He's faced the cyborg more than once before, and he's still standing. You can't say the same after your last encounter, and while the idea of having a rematch is tempting, the idea of facing that monster again terrifies you.

It's a selfish thought, and one that Obi-Wan would be disappointed in, but it's true. You're afraid. Afraid of the pain, of the horror, of the nightmares that plague you still. And if you're honest, afraid of the darkness within yourself, the one that lingers, whispering in your ear. The one that you've barely kept at bay, but knows no bounds. You'd tempted fate once, and you'd nearly paid the price.

No, you're better off where you are, facing droids instead of demons.

"Sir," a voice interrupts, and you blink, realizing you've stopped walking. You feel a flicker of embarrassment as you look at the trooper who spoke, his helmet tilted, and you give a quick nod to speak. "We've cleared the building. No signs of life. No droids, either."

You let out a sigh, relief washing over you.

"Thank you," you say, giving him a smile. "Good work."

"Where to next?"

You consider his words, and you weigh the options. You know the barracks are in the north, and you're currently in the south. To reach them, you'll have to fight your way through the city, which is crawling with droids, and there's no telling what they have planned. They could have already taken the barracks, and you'd have no way of knowing until it was too late.

You look at the trooper, and he shifts under your gaze. "What's your name?"

"CT-4398, sir," he answers, his voice wavering slightly. "I mean, um, Dash. Sir."

You give him a small smile, trying to ease his nerves. He's young, barely out of his teens, and it's clear he's never been in the field before. "Well, Dash, what do you think?"

"Me?" he stammers. "I don't... I'm not sure..."

"It's okay," you reassure him. "Just tell me what you're thinking."

"Well, sir, I was just thinking...maybe we should check the control room," he says, gesturing down the hall. "It's just around the corner. We might be able to find out where the droids are coming from, and get some information on the barracks."

"Sounds like a plan," you say, smiling. You clap him on the shoulder. "I need you to man the control room with..." You blink, turning to the trooper next to him. "What's your name?"

"Screwball, sir," the trooper says. You try to disguise the laughter, but Screwball is already shaking his head. "Don't ask."

"Right," you drawl, and you turn back to Dash. "With Screwball. Monitor the communications. Try to raise the barracks."

Dash stares at you, and it’s only when Screwball slaps him on the back hard enough to send him stumbling forward does he finally snap out of his stupor.

"Y-yes, sir," he replies. "Understood, sir."

“I’ll watch him, sir,” Screwball adds confidently.

"Good," you say. You nod to the remaining troopers. "Let's move out."

As you continue down the corridor, you can't help but wonder if you're doing the right thing. If there's even a right thing. There's so much about this war that feels wrong, but it's still the clones, and their treatment, that trouble you the most.

They were created, not born. Taught, not raised. Molded, not nurtured. Their entire lives, they were engineered to serve, bred to fight. And yet, there's so much more to them.

They're men, flesh and blood, and you can't help but feel responsible for their lives. These clones in particular, still so young, still so new. They've barely begun to live. To die now, here on Kamino, would be a waste. A tragic end to bright lives cut too short.

You can't allow that.

You won't.

Ahead, the corridor splits, the left leading to the control room, the right continuing on to the rest of the building. Dash and Screwball peel off, and the group continues. You're not sure what awaits you outside, but you're determined to face it. The odds are stacked against you, but so far, you've overcome the worst, and you've survived. You can do this. You can save them.

As the door slides open, and the rain batters against your face, you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the battle ahead.

Booker and his squad are waiting when you finally meet up hours later, their armor drenched, their weapons hanging at their sides. You can tell they've been through the wringer, but the sight of them is a welcome relief. In fact, every single trooper on his squad is accounted for and then some — a score of fifteen men you haven’t seen before.

"I see you picked up some friends," you tease, giving him a tired smile.

Booker chuckles, and he shakes his head, his armor dripping. "A few stragglers, but I'm not complaining. Thought they might be useful."

"You thought right." You reach out and pat his shoulder, your fingers squeezing his plastoid. "Good work, Commander. I'm glad you're okay."

"I told you I wouldn't let you down," he reminds you. "Besides, it's not over yet."

He's right. You're still not even halfway through the city, and the storm is only getting worse, the waves crashing against the buildings, the wind howling.

You've cleared five buildings so far, and each one has been an ordeal. The droids are everywhere, and they're relentless. Your troops have had to fight their way through blockades, shoot down trident ships, and fend off swarms of B2s. It's been a brutal slog, and your body is exhausted, the adrenaline from the first few hours waning.

The good news is, there doesn't seem to be an endless supply of droids. The bad news is, there's still enough to pose a serious threat.

Your men have been hit hard, and more than a few have been wounded. Some are unconscious, and some are worse. Some were too injured to move, and you've done what you can to stabilize them, but the truth is, there's not much you can do. There's not enough bacta to go around, and there's no way to safely transport them.

It's a grim reality, and it's one that haunts you. Not long ago you'd felt the loss of every death, the pain and suffering washing over you. It had nearly driven you mad. Now, the feeling has faded, becoming nothing more than a dull ache. A reminder.

It's not right. None of this is right.

Your thoughts drift to Rex, and the image of his face is clear in your mind. He's alive, you can sense it. And if anyone can survive a battle, it's him, but that doesn't stop the fear from taking hold. It's irrational, and you know it, but you can't shake the dread that gnaws at you. He's the best fighter you've ever known, and he's faced death a hundred times before, and still, a part of you is terrified that this time, it'll be the last. That the nightmares you've dismissed as just that will become real again.

"You alright?" Booker asks, and you realize he's been staring at you.

You shake yourself free of the thought and look at him, a tight smile pulling at your mouth. 

"I'm fine," you mutter. You run your hand through your hair, pushing the strands away from your face, and you turn to look over the rest of the troopers. “Tell the men to rest for a moment, and then we'll make a run on the barracks. I want a headcount, and we'll need to re-evaluate the plan. I'll brief you in a moment."

"Yes, sir." Booker gives you a lingering glance before he moves away, gathering the rest of the group. As the clones begin to settle down, taking advantage of the reprieve, you find yourself wandering away from them. 

You walk away toward the edge of the platform, and your eyes scan the horizon. The lightning is still dancing across the darkened sky, a beautiful, terrifying sight. It's a reminder of the power you hold, of the power you're capable of wielding, and of the danger that lurks in the shadows.

It's also a reminder of how small you are. How insignificant.

You lift your communicator up and press the button, praying to the Force that Dash and Screwball were able to get the communications back online. When static fills your ears, followed by the voice of the young trooper, relief floods you.

"General, is that you?"

"It is," you say, leaning against the railing, the rain dripping down your face. "Status report."

"Well, uh, we haven't had any success reaching the barracks," he says, his voice shaky. "But we did manage to restore the cameras."

"That's something, at least." You let out a sigh, and you close your eyes, trying to calm yourself. "How are we looking?"

There's a pause, and then a crackle of static. "Not great, sir."

"Define not great," you urge.

"The droids are surrounding the building, and they've got heavy artillery. Our brothers are holding them off, but the numbers are against them. At this rate, they're not going to last long."

"Shit." You open your eyes and stare into the distance, your mind racing. Dash quickly reads out the position of Obi-Wan and Anakin, both engaged in their own duels with Grievous and Ventress, and it's clear from the strain in his voice that he's barely holding it together. You need to get moving. But the question is, where?

"Anything else?" you ask, trying to keep your tone light.

"The storm has caused a lot of damage," he replies, the words coming faster, almost tumbling over each other. "Several buildings have collapsed, and the waves are getting worse. The ocean is rising."

"Great," you groan, letting out a huff. "Just what we needed."

"Yeah," Dash sighs, and there's a hint of desperation in his voice. "We're running out of time."

"Stay calm," you tell him, though the words are meant for yourself. "Just keep monitoring the situation. Let me know if anything changes."

"Yes, sir," he replies.

"And Dash? Watch out for Screwball. Don't let him do anything stupid."

"Too late," the other trooper shouts in the background.

You chuckle, shaking your head. "Yeah, okay. Never mind."

"I'll keep him safe, sir," Dash says with a weak laugh. "Good luck."

You close the connection, and you press the communicator against your forehead, taking a deep breath. The wind whips around you, the rain pelting your body, and the thunder roars above, a cacophony of noise. It's a fitting backdrop for the moment, a reflection of the chaos inside your head. You feel the darkness stirring within, its tendrils snaking their way around your heart, and you squeeze the railing tighter, trying to resist. Trying to fight.

You've never been a good strategist, but even you can tell this is a losing battle. Even if you were to somehow manage to make it to the barracks, there's no guarantee that you'll be able to turn the tide. You'll be walking straight into a firing line, and the odds are stacked against you. Still, you have to try.

After a few more minutes of trying to hail Cody, Obi-Wan, Anakin, anyone, it becomes clear the storm is causing the communications to fail. No amount of trying is getting you through, and you're fighting a losing battle against the frustration. If only you could use the Force, but the sheer amount of energy and concentration to reach out is not something you have the strength for, not after the battles.

With a frustrated growl, you slam your commlink down, the metal casing creaking. It's a pointless action, but it does make you feel better. For a moment, at least.

"Having trouble?" a voice calls out, and you spin around, the hilt of your saber already in your hand. Booker is standing behind you, his arms folded, a smirk on his lips. "Whoa, easy. I come in peace."

You lower your lightsaber, and you shake your head, a wry smile on your lips. "Sorry. Force of habit."

"You don't have to apologize, General." He steps closer and leans against the railing, his helmet tucked under his arm. The storm is picking up, and the wind is blowing his hair in all directions, but he seems unbothered, the rain trickling down his face. He turns to look at you, and he tilts his head. "I'll admit, I didn't think you'd be like this."

"Like what?" you ask, a note of caution in your voice.

"Well, like this." He waves his hand in a vague gesture, his eyes never leaving yours. "I don't know. I guess I just thought you'd be a little more...serious."

"I am serious," you insist, and he snorts, his gaze drifting to the sky.

"No, I know that," he chuckles. "But you've got to admit, you've got quite the reputation."

You sigh. "So I've heard."

"Don't take this the wrong way, sir," Booker says, his eyes shifting back to you. "But a lot of us were a little scared of you. Well, more like intimidated. We'd heard the stories, and we'd seen the footage, and well...you seemed pretty intense."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh? What changed your mind?"

"You saved my life. Twice. And you gave me a chance to lead." He shrugs, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the railing. "You didn't have to do that, sir, but you did. I won't forget that."

"I'm glad," you say, and you give him a small smile. 

"Plus, the fact that you're a general who cares enough about us to save our asses is pretty nice." He pauses and glances at you, and then he looks away, his gaze distant. "Most generals would have left us to fend for ourselves."

You don't respond, not sure what to say. The truth is, there's no doubt in your mind that some of the other Jedi would have done exactly what Booker suggested. They would have seen the clone as sacrifices that had to be made, and they would have moved on. After all, it's not their job to protect them, or to train them. Their duty is to the Republic, not the individual. To the greater good, not the lesser evil.

It's a lesson you're not sure you'll ever be able to learn, not completely. Maybe that makes you naive, or soft, or too emotional. But you don't care.

"I won't abandon my men," you declare, your voice firm and determined.

"Good." Booker nods, and then he pushes himself away from the railing, his expression grim. "Because we've got a battle to win, and we could use your help."

"Sir," a trooper calls, waving you over. "We're ready."

You turn back to Booker, your hands gripping the hilts of your sabers.

“Let’s move.”

It's early morning by the time the battle is won, and the sun is just beginning to rise. You're exhausted, and Grievous and Ventress have escaped yet again, but you're still standing, and Kamino is once again under Republic control. It's a small victory, but one that's earned.

Your clothes are soaked, your body is bruised, and your limbs are aching, but it's a sweet kind of pain, the kind that comes with survival. And despite the loss of many, the clones have never looked more alive.

The storm is finally receding, the rain now nothing more than a drizzle, and the sky is streaked with vibrant hues of gold and pink through the transparisteel windows. You've never seen a sunrise like it.

The view is beautiful, and it fills you with hope, a sense of peace that seems impossible in the wake of the devastation. The sun is rising on a new day, and you know the ones you care about have made it through the night.

You've already spoken to Obi-Wan and Cody, and you can't help the relief that's washing over you. Both are alright, though a bit worse for wear, and the two men are leading the cleanup efforts, trying to restore order and repair the damage that has been done. Anakin is a little roughed up, but he's still in good spirits, and he's taken over coordinating the search and rescue effort, which is much appreciated.

You haven't spoken to Rex, though. Not yet. You haven't even had a chance to breathe, let alone try to locate him. But you can feel his presence through the Force, and you know he's alive, and for now, that's enough.

You’ve dismissed your contingent from your command, but that hasn’t stopped them from approaching you as you walk with Booker toward the medbay. He’s escorting you for your safety. Or at least, that’s what he says.

You can tell he’s lying, and you can tell he’s worried about you. He hasn’t stopped hovering since the battle ended, and he keeps a watchful eye on your surroundings, his hand never far from his blaster. It's an amusing gesture, but you appreciate the sentiment, even if you find it irritating.

He's a good man, and you can't help but feel proud of him. He's young, and he has a lot to learn, but he's also smart, observant, and he knows how to read people. That, combined with his skill with a blaster, makes him an ideal candidate. He'll be a great commander.

But first, he needs some time. Time to recover from his injuries, time to process everything that happened, time to get used to being a leader.

“Almost there, sir,” Booker says, tugging you along when you stop to shake Snap’s hand. He gives the clone a wink, and then nudges you again, forcing you to keep walking.

You laugh as you wave your hand at him. "I can manage, Booker. I'm not that bad."

"Yes, sir," he chuckles. He glances down at you, and you can see his expression shift from amusement to concern, his eyes narrowed. You realize he’s staring at the scar stretched across your palm, the one that has long since healed, and you quickly fold both your hands behind your back. You'd forgotten.

"Sorry, sir," he murmurs. "I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay," you assure him quietly. "I know it looks strange. But it's an old injury. From before the war."

Booker nods, but he doesn't look convinced. You can't blame him. The scars are strange, jagged lines that stretch across the palms of your hand, the skin raised and pale. You've never really gotten used to the sight of them, preferring to ignore their existence completely. But now that you know for sure that Dooku is responsible, you've caught yourself tracing the lines more than once in recent weeks.

Booker clears his throat, and he gestures toward the entrance to the medbay. "After you, sir."

You give him a look as you walk past him and step through the doors, the smell of antiseptic and bacta filling your nose. The room is large, and the white walls and floor reflect the fluorescent lighting, making it feel even bigger. There are rows of beds lined up against the wall, and medical droids moving between the patients. The place is crowded, and the air is filled with the sounds of moans and whimpers.

A Kaminoan lingers in the back of the room, watching with an unblinking focus that unnerves you, and you do your best to avoid her gaze. You’ve had enough of the Kaminoans and their superiority for one day.

“Wise!” Booker calls out as he pushes you gently to sit on an open cot. “Got a fresh one for you.”

A bald trooper currently arguing with a medical droid freezes and turns, his expression sour. 

“Can’t you see I’m busy—" He stops short when he sees you, and the furious glare tempers slightly. "Apologies, sir, I didn't realize. I'll be with you in a minute, okay? Just—shit, put that down!”

"Um, no problem," you mutter. "Take your time." 

You can't help but smirk as he smacks the droid with the back of his hand and turns back to it, berating it for its incompetence. You turn and raise an eyebrow at Booker. "Wise?"

"Short for wiseass," Booker explains, snickering. "But don't tell him I told you."

You chuckle, and you settle onto the bed, pulling your legs up and crossing them. You're exhausted. Your muscles ache, and your head is pounding, but you know you'll have to wait a bit before you can rest. There are still things to do, and reports to write.

You look around the room, trying to distract yourself. The medbay is filled with clones, all sporting various injuries, some worse than others. You see a few you recognize, men who have fought at your side, and a few that were part of the original group you'd saved. Their injuries are mostly superficial, though one has a broken arm. He waves when he catches you staring, and you give him a nod.

“Alright, what can I do for you, sir?” Wise asks, stepping in front of you. He glances down at the carbon scoring on your armor and the gash on your cheek, and he raises a brow. "You don't look too bad, to be honest. Nothing a few bacta patches can't fix."

"Trust me, I've had worse," you laugh, shaking your head.

"I'm sure." He sighs, and he leans against the bed, a grimace on his face. "Listen, I've been working nonstop for the past six hours, and I'm dead tired. I just want to go to sleep and forget today ever happened. So can you just let me take a quick scan and say it's all good, please?"

"Sounds good to me," you say, nodding.

He gives a grunt, and he pulls a small scanner from his pocket, waving it over your body. A beam of light sweeps over you, the data scrolling across the screen, and Wise hums to himself, checking the readings.

You sit there patiently, trying not to fidget. You've never liked the medscanner. You always feel like it's judging you, somehow. And while you know it's just a machine, the sensation of the beam running over your body is still uncomfortable, the feeling akin to that of someone staring at you.

"Well, the good news is, there's no internal bleeding," Wise declares, looking up. He puts the scanner down, his expression serious. "The bad news is, you have a mild concussion, you're dehydrated, your blood pressure is low, and your heart rate is elevated."

"So, normal," you quip.

"She has jokes." Wise sighs and turns, rummaging through the medkit. He pulls out a bottle of pills and a bottle of water. "Take these, drink this, and rest. You can have a bacta patch for that cut, and then you can get out of my medbay."

"That's it?" you ask, frowning. You're so used to Kix's fussing, the fact that Wise isn't nagging you about everything is a bit of a shock.

"That's it," Wise confirms. He presses the items into your hands, his eyes narrowing. "What, were you hoping for something else? Like a kiss, maybe?

You choke, the water dribbling down your chin, and Booker snorts.

"Don't push it, vod," Booker warns, but his words are laced with humor. "She could take your head off."

"And I'd enjoy every second," you add, popping the pills into your mouth and downing the rest of the water. You wipe your lips, a smirk tugging at the corner as the medic rolls his eyes.

"Fine. Just let me take a look at that gash."

Wise moves closer, and his hand rests lightly against your face, his fingers tilting your chin up. He's surprisingly gentle for someone so brash and grumpy, his touch careful, his gaze focused. He hums, dabbing the disinfectant on the wound. You barely feel it.

"Looks like you'll live," he says. He holds his hand out, and a medical droid places a bacta patch in his palm. As Wise applies the bacta patch, Booker moves to stand next to him, his hands clasped behind his back. 

"How are things looking, Wise?" he asks, his voice casual. You know he's checking on the men, but there's a note of concern in his tone, a worry that he's trying to mask.

Wise doesn't bother hiding it. He huffs and turns his gaze to Booker, his scowl deepening. "They're holding on, but not much more." He pauses and glances at you, his expression darkening. "Some of the boys have had it rougher than others, but, well, that's war."

Booker nods, and he glances around the room, his gaze moving over the wounded men. You can't see his expression, but you can feel the shift in his emotions. It’s the first time he’s lost a man, and it won't be the last.

"It'll be alright, Booker," you reassure him.

He's silent, but he gives a small nod.

"If you need anything, I'll be in the back," Wise mutters. He pats Booker's arm, the gesture friendly, and then turns away, walking toward the next patient.

"Thanks," you call. He doesn't respond, and you let out a sigh. "I don't think he likes me."

Booker laughs, a real laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His earlier mood seems to have lightened, and he clasps your shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

"Are you kidding me? He loves you. I can tell," he insists. "That was practically a marriage proposal."

You roll your eyes. "Right. And I suppose you'll be my bridesmaid."

Booker opens his mouth to retort, but his gaze flickers, his attention caught by something. The medbay doors slide open, and a trooper in familiar blue and white armor steps through, his posture stiff, his helmet tucked under his arm.

Rex.

The room goes quiet, every clone in the room turning their head to follow his path as he walks. Rex doesn't seem to notice. He moves with purpose, his eyes scanning the rows of beds, searching.

He looks tired, his armor dented and scorched, his hair damp from the rain. There's a scratch on his cheek, a cut across his brow, and his bottom lip is swollen, split at the corner. But he's alive. He's here, and he's standing.

And he's looking for you.

You can feel the moment Rex sees you. His eyes widen, and he freezes, his jaw going slack. The wave of relief that washes over him is strong, so strong it's almost tangible. He lets out a shuddering breath, and his gaze moves over your face, taking you in. You do the same. And for a moment, the two of you just stare.

Then, the world shifts back into motion.

Rex starts to move, his steps slow at first, almost hesitant, as if he's not sure he's seeing you. Then the hesitation disappears, and he's suddenly striding towards you, his gaze locked on yours.

“Is that…” Booker straightens, his eyes wide, and he takes a reflexive step back. He gives a sharp nod to Rex as he approaches, and his hands fall to his sides, his fingers flexing. “Captain Rex, sir.”

Rex doesn't even acknowledge him. He stops in front of you, his chest rising and falling, his expression pained. His eyes roam over you, taking in the state of your armor, the gash on your cheek, and then, he finally meets your gaze.

You swallow, forcing yourself to breathe.

"We have to stop meeting like this," you say, trying to break the tension.

It doesn't work.

Rex doesn't say anything, but the pain in his eyes only intensifies, and the look is so raw, so visceral, that it takes your breath away. His mouth trembles, his lips parting, and his hand lifts, hovering for a second before falling to his side.

"General," he says, his voice hoarse.

"I'm fine, Rex," you assure him. You reach out and place a hand on his arm, giving him a reassuring smile. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, letting the air out slowly. When he opens his eyes, the pain is gone, replaced by something softer, and he gives you a small nod, a silent thank you.

“You okay?” you ask, and he gives a tight nod, his fingers flexing at his side.

"Yeah," Rex breathes. "You?"

"Never better."

He snorts, his lips twitching into a smile. "Liar."

"Maybe."

Rex shakes his head, and then, he finally seems to notice the man standing beside you. You glance at Booker, and you realize the clone has gone completely still, his back straight, his shoulders stiff, his expression one of awe and disbelief.

You bite your lip, trying to hide your amusement. You know the feeling. Rex is intimidating when he wants to be, and it's clear Booker is not immune to the Captain's commanding presence, or his reputation.

"Who's your friend, General?" Rex asks, his voice low. He raises an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing, and the corner of his mouth curves into a half-smile. You can feel his amusement, and it's a relief.

"Commander Booker, sir," Booker responds. He hesitates, his gaze flickering to you. "I...was assigned to the general. To protect her."

"Oh?" Rex's eyes shift, and he looks at you, his expression softening. "And did you?"

"I did, sir." Booker sounds almost defensive, and his gaze darts to you, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. "I mean, not that she needs my help. She's a Jedi. She can handle herself. But I was...there."

Rex hums, his lips pressed together, and his gaze moves over the trooper, assessing him. You can't help but roll your eyes. Rex is being difficult, and you know it. But he can't seem to help himself, and he's enjoying the discomfort on Booker's face far too much.

"He saved my life," you add, and Booker lets out a relieved sigh. "Twice, actually."

"Twice, huh?" Rex's eyebrows shoot up, and he looks at the clone again, a new respect shining in his eyes. "Good work, Commander."

"Thank you, sir," Booker says. His posture relaxes slightly, and he lets out a small breath, his shoulders slumping. "It was an honor to serve with the General. She's a good leader."

"That she is," Rex agrees. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like a moment with the General."

"Oh, yes, of course," Booker stammers, and he takes a step back. He turns to you, a questioning look on his face. "General?"

"You're dismissed," you say. "Go get some rest, Booker. You've earned it."

He hesitates, his gaze lingering on Rex, and you can tell he wants to argue. But he's smart, and he knows when to retreat.

"Yes, sir." He snaps a salute, his helmet tucked under his arm. "Goodbye, General. It was a pleasure serving with you."

You smile. "Goodbye, Commander. I'll see you around."

He nods and moves away, joining the group of clones who are standing near the doors. They exchange quiet words, their voices hushed, and then, they disappear.

"I like him," you announce as the door slides shut behind them, and Rex lets out a soft snort.

"I'm sure you do," he says, shaking his head. "He seems...eager."

"Be nice." You roll your eyes and nudge him playfully with your arm. "He fought well today. I’m putting my recommendation in to have him promoted officially. I think he'd make a good leader."

“If he’s got your approval, he'll do just fine," Rex says, his voice quiet.

"You're probably right." You pause, and then, you tilt your head, looking at him. "Why aren't you with the other men?"

"I was, but..." He trails off, his jaw working. Rex takes a step closer and glances at Wise, who's hovering nearby, doing a poor job of pretending not to listen, and he clears his throat. “Is the General clear to go? We have a briefing to get to.”

Wise gives a curt nod, and he waves a hand toward the exit. "All clear, Captain. You can take her."

"Good." Rex looks back at you. "Ready, General?"

You sigh. The last thing you want to do is attend another pointless briefing, but you know it's important. So, you nod.

"Ready."

He holds out a hand, and you take it, letting him pull you to your feet. You sway slightly, and his other hand settles at the small of your back, steadying you. He holds you like that for a moment, and then he releases you, his hands falling to his sides.

"Come on," he mutters, his eyes dark.

The two of you leave the medbay, the silence heavy between you. There's a tension in his posture, a strain in his voice, and a tightness to his jaw that tells you something's bothering him. And it's not just the eyes on the two of you.

"Is everything alright?" you ask.

"Everything's fine."

You study his face, trying to read his expression, but his mask is firmly in place, his thoughts hidden. It's easier to sense his emotions. Anger, frustration, pain, exhaustion, fear. All of it's there, swirling beneath the surface, but the reasons behind them are unclear.

Rex is one of the most self-contained people you've ever met, but you've gotten better at reading him over the months together. The slightest twitch, the faintest tremor, the briefest flicker. There's a whole language in those little things, and you're starting to learn it. And, right now, he's struggling.

You glance around the hallway, noting the curious eyes that linger, the whispers that follow, the stares that bore into your back. But the further you walk, the less people there are, and the quieter it becomes. Soon, the only sound is the steady thud of Rex's boots and the hum of the ventilation system.

“So, where’s the briefing?” you ask, trying to fill the silence. Your arms extend above your head in a stretch, and a yawn escapes your mouth, making you feel even more tired. You can't wait to sleep.

“There isn’t one,” Rex admits.

Your arms drop, your brow furrowing.

“Then why did you…”

Rex stops and turns to face you. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he's standing tall, his shoulders squared, his head held high. He looks every inch the soldier. A perfect example of discipline, restraint, and control.

But his eyes betray him.

He's afraid.

You blink, surprised, and you open your mouth to speak, but Rex shakes his head. He reaches out and grabs your arm, tugging you into a nearby alcove, and you stumble after him. His grip is gentle, but there's a firmness to it that warns you not to fight him.

Once the two of you are alone, Rex releases your arm and takes a step back, and his hands ball into fists at his side. He takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring.

"Rex," you say, trying to catch his attention. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

He doesn't answer. He's staring at the floor, his brow furrowed, his mouth set in a firm line. His jaw clenches, and his lips part, as if he's about to speak, but no words come. 

You watch as his hands flex, the fingers curling and uncurling, and he runs a palm over his face.

"No, I'm not okay," he finally says, a rough exhale escaping him. His voice is strained, his words coming out in a low rasp. "I thought...I thought...for a minute, I..."

The realization hits you, and you close your eyes, taking a shaky breath.

He'd thought you were dead.

He'd thought he'd lost you.

And, judging by the look on his face, the pain he's clearly trying to mask, it's shaken him more than he'll ever admit.

"Rex," you breathe, your heart sinking.

You'd felt his emotions when the battle started, the worry and fear that had radiated from him, but you'd assumed it was because he knew what was coming, and because he was worried about the other men. You never thought it was because of you. Because he was scared for you.

You'd been so focused on your own feelings, on the dread and anxiety that had plagued you, that you'd never considered the possibility that Rex might feel the same way. That his thoughts might drift to you. That he might wonder if you'd made it through the storm.

The realization is painful, and it brings a lump to your throat. You feel guilty, and ashamed.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to worry you."

His gaze drops, and he shakes his head. "No, it's not your fault. I'm the one who's sorry. I should have...I shouldn't have let it get to me. I know better than to lose my focus like that. I just...when I heard the explosion, I..."

He stops and lets out a ragged breath, and his body sags, the fight draining out of him. You step closer, reaching up to place a hand on his cheek. His skin is warm, and his stubble scratches against your palm. Rex leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed, and his head tilts to the side, his nose brushing against your wrist.

"It's okay. You're allowed to be upset." You offer a small smile. "You're only human."

Rex doesn't say anything. He just sighs and covers your hand with his, pressing it closer to his skin. You can feel his pulse beating rapidly beneath your fingertips, and his grip tightens, as if he's afraid to let go.

"You're going to make me cry," you joke weakly, but the truth is, his pain is almost unbearable. It's too close, too real. You can feel it echoing inside you, and the weight of it is almost crushing. You hate seeing him like this. You hate knowing that you're the cause of it.

"Please don't," he mutters. His voice is rough, and there's a raw edge to it that makes your stomach twist.

"Why not?"

"Because I'll probably start crying, too," he confesses, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest as he opens his eyes. "I've had a rough day."

You let out a weak laugh, trying to fight the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You blink, and a single tear rolls down your cheek.

Rex's eyes widen, and his face falls.

"Now you've done it," he grumbles, but there's a tenderness to his words that makes your heart swell.

His hands move to your shoulders, and he gently pulls you close, wrapping his arms around your body. Your face buries in his neck, and his chin rests on the top of your head.

"I'm glad you're alive," he whispers. His grip tightens, his fingers digging into the back of your robes. "When I didn't see you after the battle...I didn't know what to think. I couldn't find you. I didn't know where you were, or if you were even..."

You squeeze him harder, letting him know you're here, and he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. You can feel his body trembling beneath your touch, and his hand reaches up, cupping the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair.

"I'm not going anywhere," you murmur, your voice muffled as you bury your face further into the crook of his neck.

Rex lets out a shaky breath. "Good."

You stand like that for a long moment, the two of you clinging to each other, neither of you willing to let go. You can feel his heartbeat slowing, his muscles relaxing, and his breathing evens out. His grip loosens, and his fingers trail through your hair, his nails scratching lightly against your scalp.

He needs this. He needs you. And, for once, he's letting himself have it

You know the feeling.

The war has taken its toll on both of you, and the weight of it has been a burden that you've borne separately and together. The endless battles, the constant stress, the loss of life. It's all wearing you down. You want to comfort him, to give him the support he so desperately needs, but you're not sure how. Not when your own emotions are so tangled. Nothing seems right, nothing seems enough. And, the words that come out are inadequate.

"We made it," you say, and the words sound hollow, even to you. "That's all that matters."

Rex makes a small noise, almost a laugh, and his hand moves to the back of your neck, his thumb tracing along the base of your skull.

"Yeah," he breathes. “Yeah, we did."

"We're okay," you remind him, pulling back to look him in the eye. You give him a smile, and he returns it, his eyes crinkling. "I promise."

Rex studies you for a long moment, his gaze moving over your face, as if trying to memorize every detail. His expression softens, and his hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over the bacta patch.

"I'm going to hold you to that,” he murmurs. His voice is rough, his tone serious, but the corner of his mouth curves into a half-smile.

"Good. You should.”

"You know, if you keep saying things like that, I'm going to start thinking you actually care," he teases, his fingers trailing along your cheekbone.

You roll your eyes, and your hands move to his chest, pushing him away. He chuckles and pulls back, releasing his hold on you.

"You know what I meant," you say, wiping away the wetness from your cheeks. "And, for the record, I do care."

"I know," he replies softly, his eyes flickering. He clears his throat and glances away, his cheeks flushing, and you can't help but smile.

"I was worried, too," you confess. Rex's eyes snap back to yours, and his eyebrows rise. "About you, I mean. About all of you. I thought...well, I thought a lot of things. And, I'm glad none of them came true."

"Me too," he agrees. "I don't know what I would have done if..." He trails off, his voice fading, and his lips press into a firm line. He swallows and takes a deep breath, his hand moving to the back of his neck, rubbing at the tense muscles. "Sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into an empty hallway just to have a breakdown. I just..."

"You needed a minute," you finish, and he nods, his shoulders slumping.

"Something like that."

"You have nothing to apologize for," you tell him, giving his arm a squeeze. "It's been a rough day for all of us. And, you're not the only one who's a little shaken."

"You're right," he concedes, letting out a long exhale.

You pat his arm and offer him a smile, trying to lift his mood. “Besides, if we're keeping track of emotional breakdowns, I'm still way ahead of you. You're gonna have to try a lot harder if you want to catch up."

Rex huffs and shakes his head, his lips twitching.

"Well, I don’t think this war is ending anytime soon," he quips. "I'll have plenty of opportunities."

"True."

You give a sigh and lean against the wall, resting your head back. You can feel the exhaustion starting to catch up with you, and your body is heavy, the weight of the past few hours weighing down on you. You close your eyes and let out a groan, wishing you could just crawl into a bed and sleep for the next ten years.

Rex moves to stand beside you, his shoulder pressing against yours. The heat radiating from his body is comforting, and you lean into him, savoring his closeness. He turns his head, his eyes searching your face, and you meet his gaze, a faint smile on your lips.

"Thank you," he murmurs. "For letting me have a minute."

"Any time," you tell him, and you mean it. He's done so much for you. He's given so much of himself. You'd give anything to ease his pain, and if a minute is what he needs, you'll give him that. It’s the least you can do.

His lips part, as if he's going to say something, but no words come out. His eyes drop to your mouth, and his jaw tenses, his throat bobbing. Then, he shakes his head and lets out a soft chuckle.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says, and his gaze lifts, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "You're just...you're a good friend, General."

The word friend stings more than you expect, and you bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself not to grimace. You can't blame him for saying it. Not when it's the truth. You are his friend. But a small part of you had hoped...well, it doesn't matter.

"Right," you say, your smile a little strained. "So are you."

Rex gives a nod and turns his gaze away, looking down the hallway. He seems lost in thought, his brow furrowed, his lips twisted, and you watch as he looks left and right, checking to see if the coast is clear. There's a moment of hesitation, and then, he sighs and turns back to you, his expression softening. He looks almost shy.

"I..." He stops and takes a deep breath, as if he's steeling himself for what's to come. "Here."

He pulls up his vambrace, and you watch, confused, as he taps a few buttons. His finger hovers over one of the controls, and then he presses it. 

A second later, your commlink begins to chime. Your eyes widen, and you quickly pull it out to silence it, staring at the display that pops up. You glance up at Rex, and his cheeks flush, his hand rising to the back of his neck as his eyes avoid yours. He's nervous. He should be. He’s breaking about a dozen regulations by giving you his private frequency, and you know it. He knows it. 

And, yet, here he is, giving it to you anyway.

It's dangerous, risky, and foolish, but neither of you seem to care. The war is already hard enough, and the idea of keeping each other at a distance, especially now, is an unnecessary cruelty. So, you don't argue. You save the contact, and you tuck your commlink away, giving him a smile.

"Just in case," he mutters, his gaze finally meeting yours.

"In case what?"

"In case you need me," he says. His voice is quiet, but there's a strength to it, a resolve. "Or, in case I need you."

You stare at him, unable to speak. The look in his eyes is so tender, so earnest, that it takes your breath away. There's something else there, too, something deeper, and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. You have to look away.

"Got it," you manage.

Rex gives a small nod, and he pushes himself off the wall, moving to stand in front of you. His hands settle on your shoulders, his thumbs tracing circles against the fabric of your tunic.

"We'll see each other soon," he promises. "Just...let me know when you get back to the Temple. Okay?"

"I will," you agree.

"Good."

Rex gives you one last smile, and then he releases you. You watch as he walks away, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, before he disappears around the corner, leaving you alone.

You take a deep breath and try to compose yourself, smoothing the front of your robes. Your hands are trembling, and your heart is racing, but you ignore the feelings, burying them. It's just stress, you tell yourself. It's been a long day. You're just tired.

Your eyes trace the panels along the walls, and you stare up at the ceiling, the white lights overhead. You take a deep breath and close your eyes, clearing your mind. When you open them, you feel calm, the momentary panic fading.

There's a sudden ping from your commlink, and you jump, startled. Your fingers fumble with the device, and you quickly bring it up, tapping the display.

Stay safe.

The words make your heart skip a beat, and you type out a response without hesitation.

Always.

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[stellamarielu]

wanted to add a thought to this idea i posted the other day. instead of writing an official series i’m just gonna post little drabbles that exist in the same universe as they come to me, because pope cody with a reader who truly sees the best in him and is removed from the chaos of his world is so special to me…. also the slow burn of it all eats me alive i neeeed it

content: smut, voyeurism kinda, descriptions of masturbation (male & female)

Pope’s fixing something in your bathroom, the one directly across from your bedroom, and he can’t help but peek through the crack of the open door. He’s peering into your space, making note of the way your bed is still unmade from when you rolled out of it that morning. There’s a small pile of clothes on the floor; maybe dirty, or maybe just tossed to the side as you got dressed for the day. 

Then his eyes fall to your bedside table, or rather the apparatus attatched to a cord plugged into the wall— A vibrator. Charging. 

He looks at it for far too long. 

His feelings for you are real— deep. He kept them safe in the privacy of his thoughts, but the warmth that spreads throughout his body at the sound of your voice is impossible to ignore.

He’s had to fight the devil on his shoulder to even allow himself to admit the truth of how he feels for you in the quiet corners of his mind. He likes you. He has for weeks. But he hasn’t dared to think of you in this way— so blatantly sexual. 

It feels wrong, to objectify you like that, but in this moment, his mind can’t help but wander to when you last used the handheld device. Imagining you late last night with your hand between your legs, head thrown back on your pillows with the vibrator pressed against your clit, your body hidden underneath the sheets, half thrown off from the pleasure induced writhing of your limbs. 

What if you touched yourself that morning? What if, before he’d shown up to tweak the bathroom fan, you were chasing a release, racing against the clock to see if you could make yourself cum before he came over. 

What if you thought about him? 

What if you were imagining it was his mouth on your clit, sucking and swirling, not just some monotonous vibrations from a machine. 

No.

You wouldn’t be thinking of him in that way. 

Would you? 

Could it all be an attempt to get him to realize your harbored feelings; the meals prepared in an effort to get to know him, the countless times you gently grabbed his bicep during conversation to show him you were engaged, when you smiled with your eyes shimmering, looking at him like he’d hung the moon when in all reality he was just installing a ceiling fan. 

There was something in your gaze when it was fixed on him. He had taken it for remorse or pity, but maybe it was infatuation masked with compassion. 

He thinks back to that morning weeks ago, when he showed up at your front door with a black eye, you fed him breakfast and then insisted on taking care of his wounds.

He didn’t have the heart to tell you they were just scrapes— minor injuries that he could hardly even feel, and would forget about the next day. The way you looked at him— eyes swimming with worry and care— he would let you do whatever you wanted. 

So he sat at your kitchen island, letting you dab hydrogen peroxide on his cheekbone, and force an icepack into his hand for his eye.

He’d never been so close to you; so close that he could smell the laundry detergent lingering on the cotton of your t-shirt; so close that it was impossible to miss the way your eyes flickered down to his lips while your hand stayed on his face. It was a fleeting moment that played in stop motion, rippling through his mind as your lashes fluttered, peering down to his mouth and then back up.

Your gaze held that familiar haze of affectionate concern, and he held his breath, only releasing a silent exhale when you took a step back, organizing your first aid kit, and motioning to his injuries, telling him he needed to be more careful.

You didn’t think of him that way, or you would’ve kissed him in your kitchen that morning. Right? 

If you didn’t even want to kiss him, you sure as hell weren’t thinking about him while you pleasured yourself. 

He left your bedroom behind him as he walked down the hall, shaking the thoughts of you panting and moaning out of his head, with heavy blinks and quick footsteps.

But the imaginary noises of your pleasure echoed in his mind so loudly that he declined to stay for lunch, instead, going straight home to wash his unpure thoughts down the drain of a cold shower.

The startling temperature of the water did nothing to distract him from the visions of you slipping two fingers into yourself, his name whimpering from your lips.

It only spurred him on while he wrapped his fist around his cock, pumping furiously with his other hand bracing against the cool tile of the shower wall. His grunts and groans were hidden in the rush of water pouring from the shower head. He spills into nothing, wishing it was the soft warmth of your walls enveloping him as he comes down from his high, not his own calloused grip— ruthless and ashamed.

[silens-oro]

Well Enough Alone: Baby Blurb #5

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader (nicknamed Hawk) Animal Kingdom Masterlist Pope x Hawk Playlist Well Enough Alone Baby AU Masterlist

General Synopsis: Hawk and Pope have a rivalry going -all in good fun, of course. Word Count: .9k Content Warning: no warnings. this is sweet from start to finish. AN: back to back posts because I love you. please comment & reblog :)

“Have you thought about any names?” Pope rasped out one night while they were in bed, tucked under the covers and cuddled together. His hand always found its home on her rounding stomach, and it was a constant source of comfort for Hawk. 

“A few. You?” She tilted her head back to look up at him. 

“Yeah.” Pope was nervous about what Hawk would think. “I got a few.”

“Girl names?” Hawk questioned with a knowing smile. A bashful grin lifted the corners of Pope’s mouth as he breathed out the affirmative. “You’re so sure they’re gonna be a girl?”

“It is. I can feel it.” He said as if he was saying the sky was blue.

“Which is crazy because I’m the one who’s pregnant here.” Hawk laughed out. 

“So what, you’ve got boy names picked out?” He asked with a brow raised in challenge. And it wasn’t that Hawk wanted to be a boy mom in particular (her skin crawled when she thought of Smurf). It had become a tiny, well meaning rivalry between her and Pope as they settled into their new roles and they both wanted to be right. It was a win either way, but bragging rights were bragging rights. 

“I sure do. How about this,” Hawk grunted as she rotated to face him. Pope’s hand moved to support her hip so she wouldn’t put weight on her stomach. “We both narrow our lists down and if the baby is a boy I get to pick the name, and if they’re a girl, you get to pick?” 

“You’d let me name the baby?” Pope’s face was all soft vulnerability and it made Hawk’s heart flutter something fierce. Yes, she was the one who was pregnant, but he immediately jumped into his role as a father to be and their collective protector in all things (more so than when it was just Hawk and Lena he had to keep an eye on) and Hawk include him in everything if he wanted to be included in, especially naming the baby. 

And he did want to be included. 

Desperately so. 

“Of course, but there will be a vetting process to narrow down the two names for each that we’ll go through together. Whatever names remain that we both like, the winner will get to choose.” 

“Deal.” Pope kissed her forehead and Hawk reciprocated by tenderly kissing his lips, then his chest as she got comfortable against his side. 

The following night, Pope brought the subject of baby names back up while they were getting ready to go to bed. Hawk was in the en-suite brushing her teeth when he brought the conversation back up. 

“I’ve narrowed my list down.” Hawk’s head peaked around the doorway, her toothbrush dangling from her mouth. She made a sound that he assumed was ‘and?’, so he continued. 

“I like Thalia…or Iris.”

“Botanical names?” Hawk questioned after she spit out a mouthful of toothpaste, rinsing her toothbrush off.

“Too on the nose?” She could hear the self consciousness seeping through his question as she swished with mouthwash. 

“Not at all.” She reassured him as she stepped out of the bathroom and over to Pope’s side of the bed. He was sitting with his legs over the side and she inserted herself between his knees, her hands coming up to cradle his jaw, his ears nestled between her thumbs and index fingers as she soothed the flesh of his cheekbones with her thumbs. 

The way Pope leaned into her touch never got old to Hawk -when he’d close his eyes and sigh, like she was taking a weight off of him, it was euphoric to her. “Both are beautiful names and I’d be very happy with either one.”

“Yeah?” He placed a chaste kiss to one of her palms as the tips of her fingers toyed with the hair that curled behind his ears. 

“Mhm,” Hawk leaned down to kiss him, letting her lips linger for a moment. “It’ll be a real shame, though, when we find out the baby’s a boy.” She teased. “I’m thinking of either Micah or Lewis.”

“Good names…”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’…” Hawk narrowed her eyes. 

“But we won’t be needing Micah or Lewis.” She rolled her eyes playfully. "Not this time, anyway." Hawk leveled Pope with a look.

“This time? You want more?"

"Only if you want them." He said softly, leaning down to kiss her covered bump.

"Let's just get through this one first, then we'll talk about the possibility of more of your spawn running around this place. Besides, only a few more days until we find out I’m right about this one.” Pope guided Hawk on top of him, straddling his waist as he rubbed her back. “God, you have no idea how good that feels.” Hawk jolted, eyes wide and a sound of surprise flew from her lips. Pope’s eyes widened in panic when her hands came down to rest just to the right of her belly button. 

“Everything okay?” Pope was getting ready to lift her with him when a smile broke out on Hawk’s face. Wordlessly, she grabbed his hand and brought it to where hers was. Nothing happened for a few moments, and then…Pope gasped, pressing his palm more firmly against her. 

“Feel that?” Hawk’s smile beamed down at Pope as he kept flirting his eyes between hers and where his hand was held. The baby kicked once more, and if Pope wasn’t concentrating on it, he would’ve missed it. 

“Oh my god.” He breathed out. Hawk laughed, bringing her forehead down to his. “Shh," He silenced her, craning his neck between them as he started at her bump, then lifted his head back to lay on the pillow. "She said she liked Thalia out of the two, by the way.” Hawk cackled, pulling away, but Pope kept his hand on her, feeling another kick. “See?” 

“You are insufferable.” Hawk giggled against his lips. 

[zaceouiswriting]

The Delinquent

Character: Theo Raeken x male reader

Universe: Somewhere in Teen Wolf

Warnings: Smut

Authors Note:

I know I'm a month late for my annual Theo Raeken Appreciation Month. But better late than never, right? On this blog, we know that Theo Raeken doesn't get the recognition he deserves (Or Cody Christian, his actor). That's why me, myself, and I have made it my mission to fill this world with as much Theo Raeken content as possible. I may not post every day (honestly, even posting once a week would be a treat at this point), but I promise to get out as much as humanly possible. And there will be a lot of smut. A lot of smut.

Please forgive me. As an apology, I'm including a GIF of this handsome man so nobody forgets how good he looks!

It had become much more intense than even you could have imagined in your wildest dreams. The same hands that punched you in the stomach that morning and that later punched you in the face were now holding your bare ass up. He had been in such a hurry to rip off your pants and underwear like an animal, that they would likely not be useable anymore. If you think about it, he was an animal but only in all the right ways.

His rough, large hands felt heavenly on your bare skin. You never knew what you were leaving out when you didn't get intimate with someone. Even though it wasn't love by any means, you don't think it could feel any better. It was clear that Theo was not just experienced but a master at it. Each thrust was meticulous, like a well-oiled machine, even if he didn't look at you.

You had heard - as everyone else - that he would fuck anything on two legs, but he was only seen with girls. It made you hope to be the first guy he fucked.

Only half of his cock was pushing in and out of your hole as it was much, much bigger than you expected. And even though you prepared for it every night - as you knew deep down it would happen someday - the thought of him couldn't prepare you for the real deal.

Suddenly, Theo jolted you out of your thoughts by forcefully slamming your back against a row of lockers. It was almost as if he wanted your undivided attention, but wasn't willing to reciprocate with the same. The openness of your activity made it even more tempting to you. Up until this point, you didn't even know you had this kink - to fuck in the open hallway of your school.

As he turned his head back to the side, you felt shame welling up. Fed up with his gamey, with your left hand, you grabbed his sharp jaw and forced him to look at you. The moment your eyes met, you saw nothing but contempt in his hazel, almost innocent-looking eyes. They were so beautiful when he was angry, but right then they sent a wave of excitement down your spine.

“Look at me while you fuck me,” you whispered to him, barely able to contain your lewd moans. You wanted nothing more than to scream, moan and groan. But you kept it to yourself, not wanting to show him how much you loved the feeling of his cock in your hole, how his hands were holding your ass so tenderly, spreading your cheeks and the roughness of his skin, or the way his eyes made you feel with the obviousness anger contained within them. The hopelessness of the situation in his glaring eyes made you stay hard.

“Fucking faggot,” he muttered angrily, but there was more that you couldn't pinpoint.

Smiling, you looked straight into his beautiful eyes. “Last time I looked, you were fucking me.”

He paused for a second, disbelief running across his face, just before he stopped being gentle and entered you fully. You could have sworn you felt something tear, but the way he hit that one spot inside, you couldn't feel pain or even think about it. Theo began to thrust upwards like the wild animal he was, which in return made him move closer to you. So much so that his head came right next to yours, panting heavily. He obviously liked it at least as much as you did, but his ego and pride surely wouldn't let him show it, which made him look even hotter in your eyes.

“Shut up, fucking whore!” Theo whispered in your ear. The closeness of his voice caused an obvious shiver throughout your body, coupled with his warm and moist breath tingling the fine hairs on your ear and neck. It finally broke whatever resolve you had. You started to moan loudly, and your hands buried themselves in his perfectly styled hair, to try holding onto him for dear life. “Do you like that?” he asked teasingly, an audible grin in his already teasing voice. But when you tried to answer, he thrust up at the first note, making you moan instead. “Fuck! You feel so good and you sound so fucking needy.”

The dirty talk was finally enough for you. As you came without touching yourself, you moaned in deathly embarrassment, one shot after another coming from your cock, which didn't go limp afterward.

“Fuck, stop milking me!” Theo moaned, not realizing he had made you cum. It wasn't until he moved his head back and saw your fucked out face, partially limp, with your head against the locker and not against his neck where it was just a second before. Theo looked intrigued, at least as your blurry eyes suggested. “Shit,” he muttered, pausing in his movements, “If you had shown me your naughty side earlier, I would have fucked you long ago,” he said to you, chuckling darkly.

He suddenly removed his right hand from your ass but somehow managed to hold you up with just one hand since you couldn't wrap your legs tightly around his waist anymore. Out of nowhere, he touched your face and gently caressed your cheek. Without a word though, he stuck his fingers into your mouth. Noticing it a second later, you slowly closed your lips around his strong fingers and licked them like they were a lollipop. But Theo forced it further down until his palm was against your face. You didn't gag or anything.

Realization hit Theo a few moments later. But still, in disbelief, he pulled his fingers out until a soft 'pop' was heard. He moaned at the sound so loudly that you thought he was coming. But just as suddenly as before, he started fucking you again, more relentlessly than before. Clearly excited about what he had just discovered. Somehow you knew it would lead to many more wet and slimy encounters.

Theo's hand went to your throat where he tightened his grip, restricting your breathing. But the only thing it did to you was make you want him to fuck you senseless.

Your eyes must have betrayed and you believed him starting to grin again. After all of that, it didn't take long for Theo to come. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth in ecstasy. Just a second later, he groaned loudly, filling your insides with endless amounts of his warm cum. With one particularly powerful spurt, his swollen cockhead pressed against your prostate so hard that you came a second time.

He collapsed against you as you felt his cum painting your insides like a masterpiece while simultaneously painting the outsides of him and yourself a similar color. As he carelessly breathed heavily into your neck, you became excited again. But when you heard a low rumble from him that almost sounded like a chuckle, you looked at him. You caught his big, scheming eyes staring at you, which made you blush.

He slowly lowered you back to the floor where you almost collapsed, but Theo was there to hold you tight. Your legs had never hurt so much. It took a few minutes, but when you were able to stand alone, Theo asked for the test answers, immediately, staring at you darkly again with his blank, murderous eyes, which he used for his gang activities, even though you believed he would someday build a massive underground empire. You just knew that you couldn't be on his wrong side. To comply with his request, you stumble towards your backpack and retrieve some documents. As you turn back to him, you notice his surprised expression.

“You had them with you the whole time?” he asked exasperated.

“Of course,” you replied plainly, hiding a grin. “I know you like to get your deals done quickly, so I finished it after my morning beating. All the answers to all kinds of questions,” you told him before hobbling away.

***

It was a week later when you were cornered by Theo again, his cronies were nowhere to be seen. Knowing why, you didn't show fear, even when he left you hanging in the air by your collar. You seemed like a lightweight to him, but you couldn't be mad about his fury, after all, you outsmarted him.

“Why the hell did I get an “F,” you fucking idiot?” Somehow, you imagined him as a foaming-at-the-mouth wolf, ready to attack you and rip your throat out. But the next moment you imagined him naked and only with dog ears, you immediately blushed. “What’s there to laugh about, faggot? I'll make you feel how stupid it was to-"

“I’m sorry,” you interrupted, eyes closed, preparing yourself for what was to come. But when you opened them again, there was nothing but self-confidence to be seen inside them, which confused Theo. You placed your right hand on his and looked deep into his hazelnut eyes. “You won’t hurt me anymore!” you told him calmly. 

It seemed like an order, which infuriated Theo even further, causing him to question whether you comprehend the power imbalance between the two of you.

Before Theo could argue, you pulled out your phone. You were about to say something and held the screen up to him. When Theo played the video and heard the lewd moans, he immediately shut it down, horror visible in his eyes.

“You filmed us?” he asked. Swallowing loudly, he waited for your answer, but you just grinned. “You stupid faggot,” he muttered crestfallen, his face in his hands.

“That’s funny,” you replied arrogantly. “The only person who's actually fucked another guy is you, and to be honest, from the way we're standing in the video, it looks a lot like... you know. What if people see it? Do you think they would see the same thing?”

You never thought you would see defeat in his eyes so quickly. Until then, you thought he would destroy your phone and think it was over. But he seemed to have realized that you were smarter than that, which you were since you had a dozen copies of them at home. You weren't ashamed of admitting to jerking off to it multiple times if he asked.

“What do you want?” he finally asked, his head bowed and his voice staggering. He wasn't attractive the way he was right then. Pushing him lightly so that he would have no other choice but to put you down again, until you stood strong before him.

With your free hand, you ran over his burgundy shirt, feeling every muscle of his - as you knew - divine body down to the edge of his pants. Without hesitation, you undid his button, as he simply stares at you, unable to say anything.

“I’m about to suck you off, but first I’d like to make a deal with you.”

Theo was already breathing heavily. It made you smirk, knowing you made a certain, rather lewd impression on him. Massaging his big, soft cock, it grew faster than you thought. But you decided against teasing him about it.

"The deal is that you'll be intimate with me every day until the end of the school year, for me not to show the video to anyone, and I'll help you leave this place as a straight-A student for me getting a favor in the future. But you would have to change your behavior a little or the teachers might think you were cheating.”

"What do you- Ahhh, damn it, tighten your grip- Yes, that's right." Theo was already in heaven and seemed to have forgotten the conversation you were having. But somehow he snapped back after a few seconds. "What do you mean?" He finally finished his question, albeit loudly swallowing.

Smiling, you scoffed at him. “Do you really think they would believe that a delinquent like you would suddenly become a great student?” You removed your hand from his, still on your collar, and pulled him by his collar closer to you. “But don’t worry, I’ll teach. But I think I deserve something special now.”

Theo looked confused, his eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes filled with many unanswered questions. You didn't feel like answering any of them, so you pulled him closer and kissed him. His lips tasted like mint, and before either of you knew it, your tongue was already entwined with his, dancing in perfect harmony.

[Masterlist]

[anacondavise]

introduction post 🩷

Hi! I’m Lydia, and I’m looking for mutuals who are into professional wrestling (specifically WWE)!

I’d love reblogs and replies to this post or even a follow if you post the following content:

(Bold text indicates extra emphasis/interest. Pink bolded text with hearts represents those I love the absolute most)

individual wrestlers:

CM Punk 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

Cody Rhodes 🩷🩷🩷

Drew McIntyre

John Cena 🩷🩷🩷

Randy Orton

Rhea Ripley 🩷🩷🩷

Bianca Belair 🩷🩷🩷

Jade Cargill 🩷🩷🩷

Liv Morgan

Lyra Valkyria

Zelina Vega

Naomi

Seth Rollins

Sami Zayn

Jey Uso

Solo Sikoa

Dean Ambrose (Jon Moxley)

Montez Ford

Becky Lynch

Bron Breakker

ships:

sethpunk 🩷🩷🩷

punkena 🩷🩷🩷

punkintyre

rollintyre

sethpunkintyre 🩷🩷🩷

centon

candy

punkody

codena

liv4brutality 🩷🩷🩷

rhea/bianca

rhiyo

iyonca

roman/cody

samijey

Any combination of ships in the Shield or them as a throuple … and if you add in the Big Boss™️ Punk…

PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT WITH ME if you’re a minor, seeing as I post NSFW content and jokes often.

I’m looking forward to meeting and befriending you all!! :) 💞 Cheers!

xoxo, Lydia

[mamirhodessxox]

😭😭 need a fic of him just in interrupting reader while baking ( reader could be a baker and trying new recipes to add to their menu )

Cherries On Top

Cody Rhodes x Baker Fem!Reader

Desc: Y/N is trying to focus on adding new sweet treats to her bakery’s menu but her husband tends to be a distraction.

Contents: Fluff, Cody being a little annoying but in a tolerable way, SMALL indications of smut, Y/N being a lil cutie Patootie!

🏷️ list: @alyyaanna @ginswife @coolpastelartshoe @greatkoalawizard @cokolin044 @kotoriarlert @alicerosejensen @bunnybot55 @agent-dessis-posts @adollonyourshelf @mini-rhodes @southerngirl41 @harmshake @femdisa @kabloswrld @claymoresofinfamy23 @jeysbvck

{~I'm very serious with you guys interacting with my writing!!!! it would make me so happy & excited, the more comments & reposts the more inspiration i have to write :) likes and comments are strongly appreciated so please COMMENT COMMENT COMMENT COMMEENNTTT the more comments the more content <3!!!~}

Before Y/N & Cody established a relationship between them Y/N had a small little bakery filled with alll sorts of sweets & treats! Once a month she would spend an entire day whipping up pies & cakes and many other scones & sweets to add on the menu at her little bakery & do cooking youtube videos & Today was that day.

Y/N was in the middle of recording in the kitchen, Cody would walk by every now and then or stand behind her and watch over her shoulder to see what she was doing. But then he became more vocal.

She was currently working on a bourbon pound cake. “Don’t you need measuring cups for this part?” He questioned while his hand ran up and down her back while his wife shrugged “I’m just gonna add like a few shot glasses worth of bourbon.” He shot open his eyes and looked over at her camera set up and shook his head dramatically “She’s gonna get me drunk with a cake.” Since he was video bombing Y/N she decided that she would put him to a little work and start stirring the cake mix while she poured bourbon into the mix very carefully & poured him a small shot as a reward which he pridefully took

Y/N was instructing her future viewers how to carefully put the mixture into the pan & how long to leave it in the oven but Cody randomly popped back into the kitchen “Check out my gun.” She looked up as he interrupted her speech & smiled “It’s a salt shooter my dad got it for him.” “Maybe next time I make steak I can season salt onto it with my cool gun yeah?” She shook her head “No because you’re gonna break something. Just use your hands.” He glared for a second and sassily shook his head “I won’t break anything.”

6 minutes later Y/N worked on another small pastry while the cake was in the oven & suddenly the lights started flickering & she laughed a little before he walked back into camera frame “What are you whipping up now?” “Blueberry crois-“ “Hold on wait I have a quick question what did 50 cent do when he was hungry? 58.” “Your not funny.” He shrugged with a smug smile “I’m actually very funny.” She hummed nodding slowly “whatever helps you sleep at night my love.” He raised an eyebrow and looked at a bowl full of flour.

Hmmmm…….

Interesting…..

What if he just….

“CODY GARRET RUNNELS GODDAMNIT I’M GOING TO KILL YOU IN YOUR SLEEP!” Y/N stood there frozen as he actively poured flour over her head while letting out a mischievous laugh “uh ohh she said the full na-“ she splashed him in the face with water “well deserved.” She glared up at him & picked up her bowl filled with yet to be stirred eggs while grinning to herself as her husband backed up and raised his hands in defense “No���Y/N….” She squinted and nodded “your right that would be to messy.” She sighed while he let out a chuckle of relief but she caved & poured the eggs all over him making him gasp and look at her while she giggled & grabbed the flour bag before shaking what remained inside all over him before he turned starring at a glass of milk that sat on the counter next to one of the bowls it was supposed to be inside of.

Eventually she gave up on the video she tried making & giggled while playfully kissing her lover while he grinned biting her lip a little & grip at her waist “You sure you don’t wanna take it any furth-“ she nodded immediately and pulled away before prancing up the stairs to get clean “C’mon Codes your filthy.”

This was just the Cherry On Top for Cody, he immediately tossed away the kitchen towel & followed behind her before giving Y/N a light smack on the butt chuckling

“The shower is your best idea yet sweetheart.”

“Pervert.”

mamirhodessxox’s Masterlist