reds-writings

[reds-writings]

girl you’ve done it again. constantly raising the bar for us all 🙂‍↕️

worthy

andrew “pope” cody x female reader

summary: you tell andrew you want to start a new life with him— away from the chaos of his family, and he agrees with another future promise on his mind

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, a sprinkle of angst & a dash of fluff but almost entirely smut, pope with a nasty breeding kink, lots of pregnancy talk, reader has hair but no explicit description of it’s appearance, gut wrenching intimacy, fingering, cum play, we’re doing cowgirl AND mating press buckle up baby!

word count: 3.4k

author’s note: hi hello, i am HEAVY on my pope cody shit rn, and i know we’re all longing to give that man a baby, so i thought i'd take one for the team and write this little fic. let’s just imagine this is some kind of alternate universe where pope gets a happy ending, and a family of his own.

Wet curls gather at your fingertips, as Andrew’s head burrows deeper into your chest. Your hand passes through his hair, absentmindedly following the pattern of his curls, as he concentrates on the sequence of your steady breath underneath his cheek. 

“Long night?” A soft whisper leaves your lips as you continue threading your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. 

He doesn’t respond, just subtly nudges further into your touch. 

You let a blanket of silence fall over the room. 

He’d been gone most of the day, out on a job. When he finally got home he walked straight past your frame laying in bed, heading directly for the bathroom, barely acknowledging you before turning on the shower and filling the room with steam. 

You gave him space, letting the water wash the remnants of his remorse down the drain. 

Solitude played a pivotal role in Pope’s ability to process his actions after a particularly long day. You’d learned to give him time alone when he came home from a job, knowing he’d seek out your comfort when he was ready— when he felt worthy of your silent forgiveness. 

He’ll always remember the first time his feet carried him up the stairs of your front porch in search of your nurturing exoneration. Him and his brothers had just pulled off an incredibly intricate heist, one that he should’ve been proud of— relieved by the success of their endeavors. Instead, he strayed from his family’s celebration, finding himself on the doorstep of the girl he’d been seeing for the past few weeks. A girl he had no business keeping in his life. In fact, every moment he spent with you up until that point had been laced with worry and hesitation, scared that he’d taint you with his unruly lifestyle. But you were unlike anyone he’d ever known, never running out of compassion and holding yourself steady with a soft disposition, it drew him to you. The magnetic field of your aura calling to him, as his heavy hand knocked on your door, still shaky from the adrenaline and regret coursing through his veins.  

You didn’t ask any questions, just helped him get cleaned up and pulled him into bed next to you. His body fit perfectly beside yours under the thick fluffy linen of your duvet. All he could think about the entire night was that white comforter, and how it was far too pure to envelop someone like him.

Neither of you said a word, he just laid with his head on your chest while you ran your fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. Limbs intertwined in the same way they would be every single night after that. 

Now your house was just as much his. His clothes in your drawers, his toothbrush next to yours by the bathroom sink, his shoes by the front door; it was his home too now- you were his home. 

Pope never knew anything other than the life handed to him by smurf. His perception of the world was dark, hopeless, primitive. He’d been raised that way. Never thinking he could be anything other than a bomb on a detonator just waiting to self-destruct. He was destined for a life full of pain and deception— destined to be Pope Cody. 

But then he became your Andrew. 

Despite everything you learned about him— you stuck around. Never using the nickname assigned to him as a kid, instead exclusively calling him by the name given to him at birth, the name graced upon him when he was still undiluted, clean of the mess waiting ahead of him. 

He’d never loved someone the way he loved you. He never even thought it was possible. But when he came home to you at the end of a long night, with his head on your chest, listening to the smooth beating of your heart as you graced him with your gentle touch, he found redemption. There was vindication in your forgiveness— an unspoken, yet absolute commitment to him.  

“Maybe it’s finally time for us to get out of here.” Your voice was still quiet and your hands continued their movement at Andrew’s scalp as he laid on your chest.

“We could go up north, get a house somewhere…” You begin devising a plan as he relaxes further into your touch, his face hidden from your view, making it impossible to see his reaction to your words. 

“maybe the mountains…” Your voice is mild, matching the soft rhythm of your strokes through his hair.

“Nothing extravagant, just two or three bedrooms. We could start over, on our own.”

The words trail out of your mouth, thoughts spewing as you look down at the man laying on your lap. You knew he thought about it— leaving. The two of you had talked about it before, yet here you were.

“We could be free from all of this. You deserve a normal life Andrew.”

He doesn’t.

That’s all he can think as you continue petting his hair, your touch keeping him in a trance, acting as a mirage of warmth and protection washing over him. Showing him a vision of a man deserving of love. 

“I don’t know about the mountains.” His tone was gruff, words fighting against his throat as they slipped into the air. 

“You don’t do well with the cold.” You couldn’t see his face but you knew there was a slight smirk on his lips by the sound of his voice. 

“When should we go?”

His question was simply spoken— genuine.

For the first time that night, your fingers paused, intertwined in the deep auburn of his curls as you sat in silence.

The lull in your movements was rectified by his own fingers toying with the hem of your panties. It wasn't inherently sexual, but rather tender, as his fingertips traced the skin at your waist, dipping under the material just enough to coax a shallow breath from your chest. 

“Andrew…” You whispered his name, spoken like a quiet warning underneath the gasp at feeling his touch trailing lower inside your underwear. 

“Tomorrow? Next week?” The questions mumble from his lips as he keeps his face smushed into the material of your shirt.

With a hand inside your underwear, his middle finger comes to a resting position on your clit. You instinctively curl your fingers into his scalp at the feeling of him rubbing small, delicate circles in between your thighs.  

“I’m ovulating.” Another warning from your lips as you sigh from the relief of his touch on your body. 

You tracked your cycle religiously. It had become your primary form of birth control, definitely not the most foolproof, but it hadn’t failed you yet. 

He didn’t stop at your warning, just kept pressing soft circles into your clit.

“We should stop.” You tug on his hair a little as the words leave your mouth, trying to confirm the seriousness of the situation.

“Yeah?”

He rustles in his spot until his face is peering up at you, wearing an expression of pride. 

“So, just you and me in that two bedroom house then?” 

His big soft eyes bore into yours with your hands still holding onto his hair, frozen at the implication on his lips. 

The feeling stirring in his chest was foreign. 

A sudden longing for something he’d never had.

A family. A baby. Your baby. His baby. Not given to him, not found, but born. A piece of him brought into the world in the most pure form, built from a place of unconditional love. A promise of what could be. It was so daunting- the idea of it, but he couldn’t shake the anticipation coursing through his veins as he stared intently, watching your eyes widen upon hearing his words. 

“Are you serious?” Your lips curl into a smile at the implication— him wanting to get you pregnant. He’d never once mentioned having kids. Never once came in you with the intent of knocking you up, so the topic catches you off guard.

He takes your wonder-struck grin of infatuation as disbelief— possible amusement that he’d ever think you’d want to have a baby with him.

His eyes lose their hopeful glimmer, gaze suddenly growing rigid and darting away from you at the potential doubt lacing your words. Of course you didn’t want to have a baby with him. He was a mess— his life was a mess. 

“Andrew…” You draw out his name in a soft, sweet breath as you attempt to get him to look at you, but he’s already lost, wandering the maze of remorse and self-doubt paved in his mind. 

His hand slips from your panties, and his body pulls into a seated position against the headboard. He refuses to look at you. The disgust on his face is evident, and you know he’s angry— not at you, not at the situation, but at himself.

Throwing the comforter off your body, you sit up, crawling onto his lap, straddling his hips and sitting back on his thighs. 

“Andrew?” The one word question lingers in the air as you cock your head to the side, your hands wandering up his bare chest, until they’re at his jaw pulling his gaze up to meet yours.

His stare is cautious as he peers up, leaning in to your thumbs rubbing back and forth at his cheeks. 

“Do you want to have a baby?” You stare deeply into his eyes, your tone low and serious.

You search his expression, trying to gauge what’s going through his mind. His eyes hold a picture of bewildered hope before he’s crashing his lips onto yours. Kissing you like he’s starving. His hands shoot to your hips, gripping hard as his lips interlock with yours. 

He’s nodding pathetically with his mouth against yours. Not capable of forming words through the adrenaline fueling his actions, he just kisses you harder, shaking his head to communicate the answer to your question. Yes, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he wanted to give you a baby.

He reaches for the hem of your shirt, pushing the material up until one of his hands splays out over your stomach, caressing the skin of your lower abdomen. His pupils are shot as he pulls back from the kiss to look between your eyes, and his hand resting on your skin. 

“Is that what you want?” His stare is focused on his hand caressing your belly.

You nod.

“Say it.” 

His demand is stern as his stare moves to your face- intense and rough.

“I want you to fuck me full Andrew…” 

A soft groan leaves his lips. 

“Want you to put a baby in me.”

His hands immediately find the waistband of your panties, fighting the urge to rip the thin material straight from your body. 

He yanks at them until you’re hovering over his lap, aiding him in getting them down your legs. He pulls his own underwear off, and you're back on his lap. The only piece of clothing left between you is the shirt on your back, which he immediately peels off your torso.

Both of you are completely bare, and he pulls you back to him with his hands threaded through your hair, kissing you with the same hunger as before. Fueled by the thought of finishing in you, filling you with every last drop, and fucking you until it seeps back out around his cock through every thrust. 

His hand comes down between your bodies, two thick fingers at your entrance, circling, but not daring to push in. He lets out a weak grunt, as he plays in the pool of slick threatening to drip down your legs. Amazed by how wet you are, his mind buzzes at the idea of you already being such a mess from the mere mention of him getting you pregnant. He has half a mind to push his dick into you right then and there— to thrust into you to the hilt and pull your hips down onto him over and over again until he’s cumming once, twice, maybe even three times, until you're full and leaking, practically crying from how good it feels, but he wont, not yet. 

Andrew always makes you cum first. Always ensuring that you're shaking on his fingers, or seeping onto his tongue before he gets his dick wet between your folds. Not because it’s the chivalrous thing to do, but because he’s obsessed with it; watching how your body reacts to him, knowing exactly what angle of his fingers makes you twitch. The exact speed to circle your clit with his tongue to have you clenching your legs around his head. It’s the routine of it, the satisfaction in hearing you cry out his name, and knowing he can do it again and again. Treating your pleasure like a game he’ll always win. 

But tonight, you grip his wrist, stopping him before you can feel the ease of his fingers sinking into you. 

“Not tonight.” You move his hand from between your legs, bringing it up to your mouth and placing a gentle kiss to his palm.

“Just wanna feel you.” You mumble into the palm of his hand before guiding it to rest on your cheek. He’s holding your face carefully as you shift your weight until you feel his length nudging at your entrance. 

Sinking down, your cheek pushes further into his palm, and he holds you steady, his chest heaving as he fills you inch by inch. 

You wait for a second before you move, focusing on how deep he feels as you sit there with him pushed completely into you. 

He always fucked you with reverance. Fucked you like he meant it— long deep strokes in purposeful positions where he could see your face, watching your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure. But, in this moment, he was frozen. His hands holding your face, eyes locked on yours, mind echoing with your voice asking him to give you a baby. He lets you take your time, grinding down onto him with little whimpers escaping your throat as you rock your hips. 

Your hands find his chest, bracing against his body as you move over him, keeping a steady pace. In a complete daze, you angle your hips a little differently to bury his dick even further into you, and he watches your face as it contorts in pleasure. Your hips have a mind of their own as they move in a perfectly calculated rhythm. Your eyes are on him, but glazed over with a distant fog while you mindlessly chase your release, riding him with a desperation he’d never seen before. 

He knows you're close. He can see it in the familiar twitch of your jaw, and the focused furrow of your brows. 

He brings a hand down between your bodies, flat at the base of his cock until your clit is gliding across his knuckles. Using the position of his hand to double your pleasure, he watches as you feverishly rub against him, using him for your own pleasure. 

Your fingertips at his chest mount harder, and your head falls back, strangled moans slipping past your lips as your hips move faster. Snapping back and forth until they’re stuttering. 

Andrew’s hands are still on your face, adjusting your head to make your eyes level with his. Making sure he gets to watch you cum. 

Your mouth falls open, eyes zoned in on his as you cum around his cock. Your pulsing and shuttering, the only thing keeping your body from slumping forward into his are his hands still holding your head steady. 

A current of pleasure washes through you, lingering in the spasms of your thighs, as Andrew watches. Giving you a moment to breathe, he lets his hands move from your face, pushing through your hair and trailing down to your waist. 

With his dick still buried deep into you, he maneuvers your body until your back is on the mattress. He brings your legs up until your knees are practically against your chest, trapped under his weight as he hovers over you. 

“What was that you said earlier?” His soft growl is just inches from your ear as he presses further into you. 

“About fucking you full?”

You don’t answer, you can’t. Not with the way his dick is buried so far into you, grinding deliberately against the plush of your walls, tip threatening to kiss your cervix. 

Something must’ve snapped in him while he watched you finish, because Andrew isn’t normally this vocal in bed. He’ll groan and whine, speak a brief praise, or quick command, but he’s not one for extensive dirty talk. Hearing him speak like this, looking you in the eyes while he pulls out slowly just to plunge back into you, is unlike him. 

He’s completely entranced by your body under his control. Unable to think about anything other than giving you all of him. The need takes over his entire body, and he can’t help but vocalize it.  

“Want me to fill you up?”

His head comes down to rest against yours, foreheads meeting as he bucks his hips into you hard.

“Want me to give you a baby?”

You nod with your head pressed against his, a pitiful, whining mess at his words. 

Then he drives into you. Serving you deep, deliberate strokes as he keeps your legs folded against your body. Thrusting with a melody of raspy, breathless groans at his lips, his hot breath fans over your face as he fucks you. He loses all control, taken over by a primal need to fill you with his release— to see you carrying his child. 

He’s relentless. Letting the way your nails drag down his back, spur on the sinful slapping of skin on skin that fills the room. It’s not fast, but intentional— purposeful. Each thrust a promise of your future as he keeps his eyes on you, Telling you he loves you in the intimacy of his body colliding with yours. 

“Please Andrew.” The two words are whispered from your lips, begging to feel him soak into you, asking for him to give you everything. And It’s all you have to say for him to completely come undone.

He cums with a string of strangled moans, the weight of his body completely crumbling into you, his forehead still resting against yours.

His body is heaving, dick still buried inside of you- nearly quivering. You bring your hands to his hair, playing with his curls as he comes down from his high.

He pulls back after a few seconds, sliding out of you, and sitting up, freeing you from the weight of his torso on yours. You raise up onto your elbows, watching as he kneels between your legs.

He puts a hand on one of your thighs, prying your legs further apart while he watches your pussy, messy and swollen underneath him. 

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look up at you, just stares down between your legs, parted for him. Waiting. Standing by in anticipation to see himself dripping from your core. 

You feel it, thick and warm as it seeps at your opening. 

Before it can pool on the sheets beneath you, Andrew brings his thumb to your entrance, thick and sturdy, and pushing into you. His finger sinks in to the knuckle, a low moan leaving your mouth as you both watch between your legs as he fucks his spend back into you. Stroking a few times before making his way back up your body, hovering over you until you feel his dick, still hard and throbbing, gliding through your folds.

“Andrew…” You feel light headed as you pant out his name, and it almost sounds like a cry. 

“Thought you wanted me to keep going till I knocked you up?” His voice approaches a playful tone as he raises his brows along with his words. 

He doesn’t say anything else, just pushes all the way back into you, thrusting nice and slow, determined to fuck you through the night if that’s what it takes. All he knows, is that this time next month, you’ll be pregnant with his baby.

[reds-writings]

howdy!

after a long break from writing i’m finally trying to get back into the swing of things (let see if this sticks lmao but i’ve missed everyone! 💔)

thank you for all the love on my recent pope fic! animal kingdom has me obsessed and i find myself in the thick of the shawn hatosy renaissance

i’m currently working on two lengthier fics for pope but while those are cooking up i’d love any asks/requests regarding him or jack abbot (for that old man has stolen my heart as well)

i apologize for the wait on more rust fics but i’m, in all transparency, a little uninspired/burnt out from writing in the jj universe at the moment. they will return sometime i swear and i’ll do my best to respond to any blurb requests in my inbox to keep my rust writing muscle strengthened!

(prompt lists are linked in my masterlist!)

[reds-writings]

i’m not sure how active you are nowadays or if you do these posts anymore so feel free to ignore:

i’m working on a little thing with an oc of mine and i’m very curious to what your thoughts would be on how rust cohle would handle meeting a woman that is just a little too similar to him. that sort of level of almost unhinged tenseness, similar views on the world, things like that. and how he’d feel if she reminded him of dora lange, in a way

Omg it would be an absolute whirlwind.

Rust already struggles with people that oppose what feels like every integral part of his peculiar nature.

But meeting his exact match? His mirror image??

It’d be a disaster filled with emotional self-flagellation followed by intense yearning.

Being confronted with such a stark example of his own behavior would be a jarring experience that I don’t think he’d even remotely be even able to handle well. It’d challenge every aspect of his self-ideation.

I think at first he’d react negatively, or at the very least impassively like he does with most people even though being confronted with a version of himself in another individual would eat him alive on the inside. Perhaps he’d even be increasingly avoidant or unnecessarily pigheaded on every issue (more than he already is.)

This isn’t someone he can fix. This can’t be a new obsession that he delves into with the intensity of a thousand suns. They’d both be a devastating tragedy waiting to happen no matter how much he may secretly want different. He’d be a hypocrite to think/try otherwise.

But it can’t be helped that he’s drawn to them like a moth to a flame. They understand. More than anyone ever will. And maybe there’s some comfort in that despite knowing that someone else had to go through unspeakable things to end up just like him.

In short, as much as he’d try, there’d be no way he’d actually be able to stay away. They’d have a chance at bringing out the better in each other as much as they could bring out the sickeningly ugly.

Whether they crash and burn is a caution thrown to the wind.

[reds-writings]

black nitrile gloves are the hot accessory of the summer

[reds-writings]

the in between

(pairing: andrew 'pope' cody x fem!reader)

summary: pope cody doesn't allow himself much, but after a harrowing job, all he wants is the gentleness that is you...

warnings: hurt/comfort, nakedness, slight horniness but that ain't the point of this, 18+ just in case, smurf mention, canon-general violence/injury, pope's aura, etc

word count: 1.6k

a/n: been watching animal kingdom with my sister and shawn hatosy has bewitched me mind, body, and soul. let me know how you enjoy me trying to write for this freak ass mama's boy who just needs some tenderness and normalcy in his life

It didn’t take much to surprise you these days, but the last thing you expected after an impromptu girls’ night out was to find a slew of medical supplies strewn around your en-suite bathroom.

Amid the mess, stood one Andrew Cody, hardly conscious behind the steam-fogged glass of your walk-in shower. Your heart jolted as your gaze settled on an unsettling amount of blood-soaked gauze left haphazardly on the vanity’s counter. 

You remember somewhere back in the muddled mess of your sobering mind something about a job that was supposed to go down tonight. He didn’t make it a habit to let you in on much when it came to his family’s work, but you didn’t think it was supposed to be that much of a complicated take this time around, despite his current stature clearly depicting otherwise. 

There must have been some sort of colossal fuck up along the way if he came back like this. To get away and be with you, of all people, instead of with his brothers or even by himself.

If he’d noticed you by now, he made no move to acknowledge your presence. 

With a small sigh, you bend over and grab the small waste basket nestled next to your bathroom cabinet in order to gather the soiled supplies to make room for any patching up that’s sure to take place post-shower. 

When the space is made to your satisfaction, you waste no time wriggling out of your itchily glittered cocktail dress, thanks to Shauna’s insistence on wearing, along with the rest of your dainty undergarments, before grabbing some towels to set aside. 

Making it into the shower cubicle, the mottling of bruises and severe scraping that decorated the expanse of his back like a morbid modern art display has you at a momentary standstill. The delicate freckling of his shoulders could hardly be made out, and it was a challenge to swallow the growing lump in your throat at the sight. 

Your eyes drifted to one of his hands resting on the seaglass mosaic that made up your accent wall. His knuckles were marred with the discoloration of an altercation, serving as a stark contrast to the soft colors of condensating tiles. 

Pope always seemed to appear slightly out of place whenever he turned up here. The complete opposite of your graceful disposition. The lived-in warmth of your home.

A makeshift weapon. A guard dog. A Criminal.

Despite all the titles he shouldered, he looked so small. As if he could break down every particle, every atom of himself, and disappear down the drain that rested at his feet.

Just wash away. Dissolve. Be nothing. 

A subtle shudder rippled along his shoulders as he took a breath. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Your voice was small, afraid to shatter the quiet that lay heavy in this little corner of the world. 

He shook his head no. 

Things had certainly gone wrong in some way, shape, or form tonight, and as usual, it looked like he took the brunt of it all. 

It was times like these when you really, really hated Smurf. 

You didn’t need to voice that, though. You’d end up standing here all night until your face ran blue. He knew how you felt. 

For he felt the same. 

Except he’d never been confident enough to have the strength to break away. To be free. 

At this point, he’s not even sure if he deserves it. A life without his wretched mother in it. One without pain being inflicted upon himself or others. It’s all he’s ever known. 

It was as if his inescapable tie to that woman seemed to serve as a form of some tragic, indefinite penance.

With you, though, there’s an uncharacteristic selfishness that takes over whenever it comes to stealing a slice of unguarded peace at your mercy.

At first, he made it his mission to just stay away. Be alone. Let the weight of his existence, his sins, build up and let him drown without anyone there to bear witness. 

But you were so good. So lovely. So real. 

You’ve never been scared of him. Always just scared for him. 

You weren’t naive about his past or present, but he kept his family life and whatever this was as separate as humanly possible. He was sure the poison of the Cody's corrupted Midas’ touch would eventually reach you some way, somehow. That it would take you without any warning, just like everything else, when it came to anything he allowed himself to want. All he could do was continue to slip away and revel in the warmth you offered in between the small gaps of time and space the universe felt generous enough to provide. 

Sometimes knowing this type of fragile affection, this love, made him sick to his very core. 

He still struggled with accepting that you didn’t hang around to use him. That every gesture, every touch, wasn’t some twisted way to gain control. 

You existed in his orbit not for leverage, but because you cared. You had no ill will in picking up his many broken pieces. You did it because it felt right. You were selfless by nature.

“Where did you go?” The meek rasp of Pope’s voice finally filled the stretch of silence between you two. 

“Shauna dumped her asshole boyfriend this morning, so Cassie demanded we go out and celebrate her new chapter of freedom.” You inched forward to loosely wrap your arms around his torso, taking extra care in trying not to disturb the darkening marks settling on his ribs.

 The hand resting on the shower wall came down to gently drape over yours, squeezing lightly to ground himself in the fact that it was you resting your soft, damp skin against his, fitting like a puzzle piece against the curve of his worn spine. His chest was starting to redden from the heat of the water so he took it upon himself to switch places with you to give himself a break, making sure to twist the knob as he did so your skin wouldn’t scald under the spray. 

Facing him, you were now able to get a good look at his face. There was a small split in his cheekbone with a blooming stain accompanying it, but nothing else nearly as bad as the rest of his frame. 

“Tough night?” You gently cupped his jaw, running a thumb over the pale pink of his bottom lip as reddened hazel took you in. Being out for hours crammed in hot spaces didn't make it surprising to see that some of your makeup was starting to run and flake a bit, but there was nothing else more beautiful.

You, in all your glory, trusting him to take up space at your most vulnerable.

His heart ached, trying to jump out of his battered ribcage at the look in your eyes. The intensity of your love, tainted by worry, as you tried and failed to tamp it down because you knew how much he disliked being fussed over. 

“Just needed a moment away.” His hand lifted to encompass the back of your head to bring you forward, kissing your forehead so sweetly you felt a sting of tears press behind your eyes. The path of his delicate affections made way down the slope of your nose, the corner of your eye, then finally, like a stalled breath let free, the awaiting line of your lips. 

It was a kiss driven by sheer want. The addicting rush of relief bleeding through. 

He’s still here. You’re promised another day as few and far in between as they come. 

You feel the hard line of him pressing between the wet slick of your bodies, growing warm and heavy at the base of your navel as palms blindly wander over skin. Sighing into his mouth, you adjust yourself to reach down, mind thick with the heady idea of putting all of your focus into taking care of him, but his gentle grip on your wrist stops you from traveling further.

He softly shakes his head, mumbling something incoherent, something about just needing you, before guiding your hand back up on the nape of his neck and diving into your embrace with renewed desperation. He wanted to be present for more, but the day’s misfortunes could only allow for this, and you’d never fault him for it. You’d never push. 

His lips drew themselves down the length of your neck, barely teasing with the soft scrape of his teeth, granting a moment for you to both retain some much needed air. The water was starting to grow lukewarm, nudging you out of your joint daze. 

“Want me to help you wash?” Your fingers carded through damp curls, letting your fingernails scrape gingerly at his scalp. He let out a soft hum of approval, so you made the move to grab one of the loofahs hanging on a shelf, his own personal one that you bought for him of course, and carefully started scrubbing away any remnants of frustration or fatigue. 

Once you were done, he insisted on returning the favor, though you playfully rushed him as the water’s decreasing temperature was the annoying causation of rising gooseflesh spreading rampant all over your body, and you couldn’t stomach it for much longer, as much as you appreciated his silent doting.

Drying off, you settle in the best set of pajamas you could find for both of you and sit him back down to make sure that the rest of his wounds are clean. The tenderness in which you did so almost made him melt into a pathetic puddle.

Settling a butterfly bandage on his split cheek, you lean forward to stamp a warm peck along the tender bone. His strong arms were quick to hold you there, relishing in the small action as if it could make him somewhat whole again. 

“C’mon. Take these, then we need to get you snug and asleep.” You press another kiss to his lips, then pull him up to give him a couple of painkillers in hopes he wouldn’t feel like he got hit by a bus as bad in the morning. 

Following you like a lost stray into the oasis that was your bed, you intertwine your limbs with his from behind, pressing close as if you could mend together and be one. 

Nothing can touch you here, he decided in that moment. 

He’d ensure it. 

[reds-writings]

i could fix him !! (our relationship with each other would be that of a shakespearean level tragedy filled with an intense amount of suffering and his final boss of a boy mom would certainly get rid of me bc #competition)

[reds-writings]

Soak

Summary: Jack knows how to cure the remnants of a difficult day.

[Jack Abbot x Doc!Fem!Reader] [WC: 3.8k]

Warnings: 18+!, themes of The Pitt and ED happenings, established relationship (married), non-sexual bathing, heavy angst, Jack is a romantic through and through and a total wife guy, mentions of therapy and trauma related to work.

You thought you’d long forgotten what it felt like to be loved—to be in love.

That intangible feeling of knowing that the nervousness of devotion meant something further omitted itself, taking residence in catacombs of empty recollections. It was amassing eons of ashes without realizing how quickly time had passed because sorrow strikes with a heavy hand.

The simplistic goodness of love became harder to grasp when the abandonment grief stole from it. Love. To be loved, or love, sounded so… childish. Or the need for it, rather, that boiled inside of you like the most warranted reward you could not catch in the palm of your hand. It slipped through, time and again, at the sake of someone or something else you’d never saddle up to. Perhaps love was of importance and priority rather than devotion and emotion. It all hung the same way in the end.

It’s the ghosts that manifest when the whiplash fades away who spur periodic devastation.

When you met with ghosts, it was hard to recall what they had looked like before. Time was a cruel fiend. It masked the memories that had once been placed upon pedestals and marred them with a grisly sheen. Yet when moments of great pain cement themselves to torture you for years, it’s far too easy to remember the lasts compared to the firsts.

But time struck you with a thunderous arrow.

Cracking across the sky for your ears only, it lodged itself in your chest and forced laborious breaths to steady a foundation unearthed by fate. Today had just been “one of those days.”

The kind where you forget that love cocooned around you. Where against devastation, a healer sat in the mist.

The department riddled itself with the calling of a executioner. Perhaps at your hands, according to some of the distraught families that passed through the halls of the ED. But you knew deep down it wasn’t any fault of your own. You tried. You tried so hard to save them. However, when a MVA comes crashing through with three carloads of victims and little hope for recovery, the grim reaper sits in the shadows waiting for the right time of emergence.

And then his scythe cuts the sound of a monitor going flat. The sound never escapes you.

The sound, and the words of the families consumed by grief, also linger far longer when the shift doesn’t seem to end. One turns into two, then three, and so forth until the relief of the day shift greets desolation with a kind smile and knowing statement of “rough night?”

But it’s not enough to make the horror disappear completely. You hear it when you transfer your charts to Collins, in the turn of your lock against your locker. You see their empty eyes behind your lids as they closed at the first sight of sun after twelve long hours. And you feel their hand going lax in yours when Jack’s crosses the center console to try and say “I’m here.”

Yet it doesn’t ground you in the way he had hoped it would. The silence calcifies at a stop light seven blocks from home.

If the radio hadn’t been lowly playing a pop tune, you would have heard the sounds of your blood pumping through your veins. The shallow breathing of chaos; a tense worry growing in your chest that the world was unraveling too quickly.

Jack’s thumb grazed the back of your hand.

“What are you thinking for breakfast?”

You didn’t hear him. Lost in that endless swirl. His voice was gone into an abyss.

“Hey.” Jack moved your hand gently. He said your name as you blinked, clearing away the fog.

“Sorry,” you said sheepishly. “I was… what did you say?”

Jack dismissed your apology. “It was bad day. You don’t need to apologize.”

His hand in yours filled an empty cavern. It filled up like liquid in a jar and made your heart ache at your ignorance. Jack didn’t do anything. He was here. He was trying to comfort you. The bad days didn’t cancel out the good ones and Jack too carried with him the scars of a past he would much rather forget.

But the sun rose again on another day and no matter what, you just had to keep going.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The light still hadn’t changed.

“Not really,” you admitted. “But I’ll probably make an appointment to talk to someone about it.”

Jack nodded knowingly, thumb drawing comforting lines along the back of your hand. The light changed to green and for a moment, you were appreciative that his focus transitioned back to the road.

“That’s good.” Was all he said.

You wet your lips in anticipation of speaking more but the words halted in your throat. Breathing in shakily, your free hand ran fingers over your forehead. Jack squeezed the one he held.

“It’s ok,” he said so softly you could barely hear him over the spin of the tires against asphalt.

It’s ok. Not “you’re going to be ok” or the “situation that is completely not normal is ok” but the “it’s ok” not to be whole. That the cracks under your skin were natural after trauma. Your chin trembled as you became overwhelmed by the agony stored inside of you.

Jack hated that he couldn’t do anything more to soothe the hurt. Because when you loved someone with every fiber of your existence, the pain they carried fused with your own.

Love encompassed something larger, abstruse. It was a feeling buried deep inside of you that only awakened at the moment of greatest necessity and Jack always seemed to let that emotion bloom. It unfurled in the palm of his hand and he held tight on to it knowing what time could do if he was not careful. Jack was cautious. He walked a fine line between giving too much and never giving enough but he tried—and that’s all he was asking of you now. Try. Breathe. Breathe.

And when the tears fell four blocks from home, he let you cry in the car. He forgot about breakfast, about how nice sleep would be in a few hours.

Jack didn’t shush you. He didn’t push you to wrap up your emotional plea for the sake of the car parking in the garage. He turned off the engine and pressed the garage door closed with the remote which further shut away the world beyond.

It was just you and him and your sorrow.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed. Five minutes, ten… but the tears did end like they always did. They dried up and left you empty again.

“I just don’t know,” you started when you felt sturdy enough to talk, “how many more kids I can see die on my table.”

Suddenly, you hated being a pediatric physician. You hated that all of the kids that came into the ED found themselves in a room with painted animals and some of them saw their joyous faces and others never had the chance. You hated that parents blamed you for ending a life that had barely begun and you couldn’t fathom understanding an ounce of why they always seemed to place the blame on you.

You tried. You tried and wasn’t that enough?

“It’s their little fucking hands. Their little fingers and toes and eyes that have the life sucked out of them and I’m the last one they see.”

Jack listened. He didn’t push.

“And the parents today,” you groaned at the thought; sucking in a wet, unattractive noise to clear your senses. He loved you enough not to care.

“God… I’ve never wanted to quit until today.”

“Today was a bad day,” he repeated.

“Today was an awful day,” you corrected.

“You’re going to carry it with you forever.” You knew his intrusive stare was targeting your face but ignored it. “You’ll never forget the ones who don’t get to see tomorrow.”

“I keep thinking,” you shook your head a little with a self-deprecating laugh, “about how I, we, get to go home after a family’s world is changed so drastically. And I pretend that nothing happened and that it’s normal to see this every other day and pretend that when I close my eyes, I don’t see them every time.”

“No one’s asking you to pretend,” Jack reminded you. He didn’t. He just coped differently.

“But I don’t know how to function otherwise, Jack. I can’t separate them anymore and I don’t know how to get back on track.”

“You said you were going to talk to someone, yeah?” He moved his head to catch your attention and those dark, hazel eyes bore into you deeply. He needed that confirmation—that you were listening and understanding him.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

“Then it’s not your job yet. Okay?” He looked at you expectantly. “It’s not your job yet. It’s not going to change without help but until you get that help, talk to someone who knows how to help you, then what more can you do than breathe? I am here, baby. I will always be here.”

You had stacked the tasks. Heal, heal, heal. Find a solution, be “normal”, and find something else to hide your time with while the struggle remained.

Jack brought you back to earth. Back from the endless orbit and to the ground where he could be the one to help for what little hours of peace you were granted.

He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, then the dorsal and your wrist before turning it over and pressing into your palm repeatedly. Back and forth, back and fort, soothingly.

“Just breathe for me, alright?” He mimicked a slow intake of air before exhaling. Jack nodded at you to copy and you did. Once, then twice, and another.

“That’s it,” he encouraged.

You breathed in, then out. Over and over until that tremble of your hands ceased enough that it wasn’t the only thing he felt. Jack pressed the pressure points until your hand was pliable and unfurled with tension.

Focusing your attention, you looked out into the garage through the windshield and looked at the streaking wet remnants of water lingering behind. You hadn’t even noticed it on the way home.

“It rained?”

“Snowed,” Jack said.

“Badly?”

“Don’t worry,” Jack’s voice gained levity. You saw a flicker of a twinkle pass by his gaze when you looked toward him now. “You have the precipitation levels beat today.”

“I’m basically a prune at this point, I suppose.”

“Eh.” He let go of your hand and unbuckled his seat. “You’re a pretty prune then. The most beautiful prune I’ve ever seen.”

You shook your head at him, letting your seatbelt come undone too. “You don’t have to flatter me because you feel bad.”

“I will flatter as I please,” Jack scoffed. “You’re mine and I will compliment even if you’ve pruned the most prune-y you’ve ever pruned.”

Like routine and an attempt to lessen the burden of grief, both of you exited the vehicle and opened the doors to the back seats where your bags stored themselves on the way home. As you met Jack’s eyes across the space, he had both bags gripped in his hands.

“Jack,” you lamented.

“Go inside,” he nearly ordered. “Go change and I’ll meet you in a second.”

You sighed, holding onto the door as if it supported all of your weight.

“I can carry my own bag.”

“I know.”

“Then let me?”

He pondered it for a brief second before disagreeing. “I’ve got it.”

“J—“

“Are we really going to argue over a bag?” He asked. “Go,” he motioned to the entrance to the house via the garage. “I’ll put these away and then I’ll come find you.”

Jack wasn’t going to take the objections stored like ammunition. His stubbornness had faults but good intentions in the moment.

“Fine,” you faltered. “Alright.”

“Good.”

As you lingered a moment longer, the tiredness of it all washed over you quickly. You shut the door and felt a relief take hold upon crossing the threshold into your house. It smelled like the two of you, it felt like the both of you. It calmed when endless cycle of catatonic winters brought forth a dome of doom.

The car door closed with a beep not long after. Jack deposited the bags in the mud room along with his badge that lay in a tray beside the door. He place it atop yours and paused at the pink tint that faded into the white letters of your “doctor” plate.

It carried home. It always did.

The echos of home held sounds of you. And while his hearing wasn’t what it was twenty years ago because of the lingering legacy of service, he still knew what was you and what the ringing was. The sound of the lights going on in the bathroom that left a small hum burn through the room—you. The sounds of shoes clattering to the floor and a drawer opening in the dresser of the bedroom—you.

His life was filled with the symphony of you and even on the darkest of days, he listened to nothing but.

You felt the water run over your fingertips from the faucet. Warm and greeting, it was a luxury of the morning.

The house you had learned to love was a concession made of you both. A sanctuary of space; somewhere to heal and to love and to rest that met the untraditional needs of a unconventional household. The bathroom was one of those places. The vanity stretched across one wall with a golden, warm lighting cascading across its speckled white marble and a Spanish cedar wood beneath it.

It was spacious and accommodating. But as you looked up into the mirror and at your reflection marred from the day, your eyes caught the tub, seldom used, in the background. The porcelain often sat dry—an inconvenience because of its deep edges and lack of grip. Even in your own pampering you avoided it as habit from Jack’s own difficulties using it.

But he had insisted on it years ago. He said that you’d use it one day and yet, still, the days were far and few between.

It caught your eye now, however.

You thought about what it would be like to fill it up and see the steam roll off the top of the water in swirls. The tendrils reaching and floating to the ceiling quietly while your back would rest upon the smooth, cold ceramic.

“The pipes might be rusty.”

Jack’s voice bit through the stream of water coming from the faucet and your eyes darted to the doorway.

He stood leaning against the frame with his arms crossed at his chest. Peering at you with knowing eyes, you half-figured he knew every thought that passed through your mind at any given moment. You turned off the sink.

“I’ll just take a shower.”

“Why?” His brow furrowed. “We have a tub for a reason.”

“Yeah but it’s—“

“A really nice, expensive, tub.”

“And really excessively tall.”

“It’s a soaker.” Jack walked into the bathroom and pulled a towel from a cabinet adjacent to the shower. “They’re supposed to be big.”

You watched him moved about. “If this was another day, I would have made a joke about that.”

“I can’t wait to hear it when a better day comes.”

It was his turn to turn on a faucet—the tub. He knew you liked the water “boiling” so he turned it hot enough to warrant a longer bath. He opened up the shower door and pulled out the stool from inside of it and place it beside the tub and sat down.

“What are you doing?” You pivoted to rest against the vanity while he sat there in his dirty scrubs.

“I’m waiting for you,” he said frankly. “Come on, take off your clothes.”

He saw the way your shoulder’s sagged as your body began to take the brunt of mental pain. You challenged him to change his mind with one look but he wasn’t going to budge. The stubbornness of Abbot men ran deep within his blood.

This is what love was.

He held out his hand from his place on the stool and beckoned. You breathed in, and then out, just as you had in the car. And his hand enveloped yours once more.

“You know,” Jack started lowly, “it’s not a bad thing when someone wants to take care of you.”

His hands traveled to your hips and lifted your scrub top slowly. His touch melted warmly into the skin of your stomach and around the sides of your waist while his legs parted and brought you to stand closer. You loved the feel of his hands on your body. Not now for pleasure, but to know that he was there. He’d always be there if you let him.

“And somedays, all I want to do is make sure you’re ok. So when you’re not, I want to take care of you.”

Therapy was doing wonders for his communication.

“It’s a pity this doesn’t have a door,” you motioned down to the tub as it began to fill near the halfway line.

“Like those old fuckers have?” He looked at you with a joking offense. “I’m gray, not a hundred.”

“You know what I mean.” You knocked his shoulder with your fist. He rocked back then toward you in return. His hands pulled at your top and you helped usher it over your head.

“I would rather not be alone.”

“I’ll be right here,” his eyes laid heavy into yours.

“What if I help you?” You proposition as his grip moved to your pants. He slid them down slowly. “I can help you too. We’ve never tried it.”

“Because I’d rather not end up a patient with a description of ‘one-footed man who ate shit trying to get into a tub not made for him.’ It just doesn’t seem… right.”

You unclipped your bra and handed it to him. He put it on top the pile growing in his lap of your clothes. Instead of ogling you further, as you removed your panties and then your socks, he turned to the edge of the tub and poured soap in. Jack stirred it with his hand as the warm water radiated up his arm and the bubbles began to form around it.

Your hand found his shoulder as you tried to carefully maneuver into the tub without incident. Jack’s other hand shot out, guiding the small of your back into the water.

“Are you sure?”

The softness in your sad eyes poured into his heart. He sighed, admiring the way the bubbles hid you from view as you pulled your knees to your chest and rested your head on them.

“It’s kind of lonely in here.”

“Baby,” he let out a small chuckle. “You really want me in there?”

You nodded. The hand he had left in the water retreated and crumpled your clothes into a ball. While he was still preparing his protest, he caught the back of his shirts behind his neck and slipped them off gracefully.

“I might die for real this time.” Only people who faced actual death could joke about that.

“Well then I really don’t know what I’d do with myself,” you turned and watched as he stood to remove his pants.

“Waiting for a show?” His hands paused at the scrub ties.

“I like looking at my husband. Can’t a woman admire a handsome man?”

His lips curved into a smirk. There was a way you always distracted yourself from the flood and it was through him. Jack knew it, because he had been guilty of it too. But there was nothing telling him that when he reached the edge of the tub and you rose with your body dripping with soapy water and helping him the best you could into it, that you were trying to have sex to forget about it all.

It wasn’t healthy, for either of you, to fall into that habit.

Without incident, he slipped into the position behind you and you settled back down between his legs and for the first time, Jack was appreciative of the purchase. It was relaxing and it was peaceful.

You moved the soap bubbles between your hands in front of you as his arms rested on the sides. As he relaxed, he knew that if his eyes were to close for an extended period of time, he’d be out like a light. But you kept the water moving. Mildly lapping with every listless sway of your hand and the cupping of bubbles to be brought back down to the water.

After a few minutes the sounds ceased and though he had closed his eyes, he sensed the way you shuffled back against him and carefully, as if not to spook him, leaned backwards against his chest.

And suddenly, you were at peace.

Love floated into the spaces left cracked from the day. It caressed your arms and folded over your shoulders to hold you tightly together and feel each other in a moment of quiet reflection. A tidal wave breeched your shores again. Jack felt your body trying to ignore it. Tears slipping through your closed eyes as he nudged his head to an angle that now rested against yours.

“Just because we can’t save everyone doesn’t mean we are any less deserving of a good life,” he whispered into your ear.

Your hand cleared itself of soap underneath the water and drew back up to the side of his face, gliding across his features to leave a trail of wet and back to his hair where the strands were still damp.

“I love you so much.”

A beat.

“I love you,” you breathed.

“You are a good doctor, a great doctor,” Jack affirmed. “One day or twenty of them don’t decide you’re not.”

You thought you’d long forgotten what it felt like to be loved—to be in love.

Yet that thought was easily forgettable now.

A/N: jack abbot has been eating at my brain for weeks like a parasite and i needed to write for him so badly - also not proofed yet so don’t assassinate me

[reds-writings]

wasn’t gonna drink today but i miss robb stark like a mf 💔💔

[reds-writings]

life really be putting my metaphorical balls thru the shredder lately

[reds-writings]

so sorry y’all i’m going thru it

[reds-writings]

[reds-writings]

Hi😊

I love how you write and since you were asking for writing requests I have one (for 2012 Rust ofc):

It's possible a combination of 2 prompts?

If it is then:

1-Angst prompt(keeping things from the other to spare their feelings)

And 8- soft kissing prompts ( kissing them while cleaning their wounds)

Thank you so much for writing for us and don't feel pressured to write this if you don't want to!

( by the way have you heard Experience from Ludovico Einaudi? I think it's perfect for the jj series and for TD in general)

“I didn’t know for days.”

“I-”

“Days, Rust.” You cut him off, voice cracking jaggedly as you took in his appearance. Never had he looked so beaten and small, so physically fragile. 

Every part of your nervous system felt as if it was breaking down. You hated being in hospitals more than anything and you were due to crumble any minute now. 

What a fucked couple of weeks. 

“I’ve done enough. Couldn’t bother to ask you here…” He rasped. It was a weak as shit excuse and you both knew it. The scoff you offered in reply was a harsh lashing to his already feeble resolve, 

“You say that yet here you are. Always doin' more and botherin' me more than I can put into words.” 

That was mean. He deserved it. 

Partly. 

You pushed down the rising bile soured with devastation in your throat. You weren’t here to fight, even if that's all you knew how to do now.

“I don’t know if it’ll breach your thick skull but…when Maggie called me about what happened…my heart just about gave out. I mean that.” You said solemnly, shaking hands starting to bunch at your sides.

God, you didn’t know the last time you cried over this man but you remember just how easy he made it.

“Maggie called?” It was almost funny how bad he was at tampering down his shock at that information.

“Yeah. Imagine that.” You huffed dryly, wrapping your arms around yourself as you took a seat in the flimsy chair opposite his hospital bed. You continued,

“I almost didn’t answer. But I figured she wouldn’t call after all this time for nothin’. I made sure of that years ago…” You looked anywhere but him. His window seemed like a portal to nothingness with how dark it was outside. Like reality didn’t exist beyond these four walls. 

Clearing your throat you shifted back toward him, 

“Marty said you need a place to stay so I set up a room for you.”

“No that won’t-”

“I wasn’t askin’.” 

Rust makes no move to speak further.

“Plus if I get sick of you fast enough…I’ll just hand you off back to Marty. Just figured you’d want more breathin’ room than his bachelor pad.”

That gets a wry wheeze out of him, though he looks on the verge of breaking. Marty mentioned something being different now. That something within Rust had shifted during this whole experience that couldn’t quite be explained. 

You’d keep your questions for later.

Sitting in a charged bubble of silence for what felt like forever, taking each other in to the fullest extent, you break it to reach for a clean rag and soak it in a basin that rested close by in the room. 

The care you took in dotting at his marred, tender skin could’ve had him worshipping you at your feet but he wouldn't ruin this with words. A feeling of warmth and hope he hadn’t known in over a decade encased him at your gentle action, leaving him feeling like an exposed livewire.

There was no telling where you’d end up. If things would ever be as they were before. 

But with a barely there kiss to his hairline, it felt like a start to the repairment of a soul tie left buried too long ago. 

[reds-writings]

There's an old interview with the show's costume designer, she said: I felt he walked into a store and said, "Give me two of those, two of those and two of those." He's not going to think about it. And then he'd mix and match every day. If you really watch the show, I just mixed and matched things. They each had maybe four different shirts and three blazers. I just rotated them around with ties.

THANK YOU! That's so cool to know!

The costume designer is such a genius and so real for that 🙏🏻🙏🏻

[reds-writings]

no.3 “who did this?!” from the three word prompts for rust cohle please!

warnings: mentions of violence, misogyny, men can't take no for an answer, language, etc

Your skull throbbed in a way where you felt like if it continued on for a minute longer your head would bust open like some grotesque little jack-in-the-box toy. The dry heat outside did little to aid your predicament as you sprawled out in some beat-up lawn chair Darla stole from some fool’s yard a couple of months ago. The ice you nabbed from the clubhouse had long since melted as you hid away on the outskirts of camp. These men sure could pack a fucking punch.

They’ve also clearly never heard the word no prick at their eardrums, especially not from some ratty, pathetic girl. 

Yet regret hadn’t flickered in your chest once. 

“Bird.” Manifested Crash’s voice from what seemed like out of nowhere. Though, this time it didn’t startle you. 

You made no move to take the bag of what was now lukewarm water off your face. There was a telltale click of a lighter, soon followed by the aroma of Camels curling at your nose. The pressure in your head eased slightly with him close, albeit unwillingly.

“Thought you were out with Ginger.” You grumbled. As much as you didn’t mind Crash, you didn’t need any pestering or trouble nipping at your tail with his presence. 

“Plans fell through.” Was all he offered as he lingered near your side, staring out into the wasteland in which you called home as if trying to understand the reason why you were curled away in the heat like some mangey dog licking at its wounds. 

Letting go of the bag with a sad plop onto the dust-beaten ground, you turned toward him with a hand extended for his cigarette. If he was shocked by the gnarly shiner taking up a generous amount of real estate on your face he didn’t show it.

In fact, he took an elongated moment to soak in the grisly sight before speaking, 

“Who did this.” 

He asked it so calmly that surprise prickled beneath your skin, but you went ahead and answered before taking a hit, 

“Walker.” 

Crash continued to stare. His cold eyes unreadable, prompting you to continue, 

“He wanted to get frisky so to speak and I told him no.”

Silence. 

“He didn’t like that. As you can tell.” You handed him back the cigarette, feeling like he may need it more than you now as you saw his fingers subtly twitch by his side, a minuscule action if anything.

Which meant nothing. 

You don’t know why you felt so emboldened during the incident with Walker. Normally you’d just grimace and bear it. Keep people satisfied and continue to keep your head down in the process so as to not draw any more unwanted attention toward you than need be.

You were sick of it. Of all of them. 

Fucking sick. 

Ginger will probably have your head once he catches wind of it but you couldn’t care. Denying that son of a bitch felt good despite what it cost you. 

You felt alive. 

Crash shifted his gaze away from you and back out to the landscape (if you could even call it that). His chest seemed to move in a more restricted capacity than before but you refused to make a true note of it. After one last exhale, his cigarette is tossed and crushed into the earth with the tip of a weathered boot. 

“Get more ice.” Was all he said before stalking off. A response you weren’t quite expecting but what could be expected from someone like Crash. 

You wouldn’t get ice right then and there. Not until the sun had well been set, but once you meandered back into the clubhouse the sight of Walker laid out on the floor looking beaten to hell and back (possibly even dead) with a few other Crusaders fussing around him you stopped dead in your tracks. Ginger looked pissed beyond belief. Crash was oddly nowhere to be found. 

Which meant nothing. 

[reds-writings]

does rust get protective, and how does he act when he feels this way about the reader?

i feel like rust is all about silent acts that speak volumes (for the most part until he's pushed beyond his limit):

he does get secretly protective and it always burns horribly in his chest

he understands you're grown and can handle yourself more often than not (and usually treats you that way) but that doesn't stop him from being ready to pounce on someone at a moment's notice if he feels like you're in danger or being done wrong

for someone who feigns such nonchalance, he feels things so deeply (especially regarding matters he strongly believes in or limited people he'll fight for) that it takes actual effort to stand down and not cause a scene

if geraci was bothering you on the floor he wouldn't hesitate to bitch slap him again even if it meant your frustration and him getting benched

in his head he's leaving things be but he's really standing there looking like:

should anyone ever try to lay their hands on you he's snapping wrists or throttling a bitch fr

he does it with such restrained rage too and gets the message across without having to say much

boy will it hurt but no one will attempt touching so much as a hair on your head that's for sure

also kinda inflates his ego that he totally doesn't have to be able to protect you in such a way and ensure no one can try it with you

[reds-writings]

Hi Red! Happy halloween! What do you think Rust did when halloween rolled around? Ignored the trick or treaters or gave out candy?Maybe Sophia liked the holiday? What if some kids egged or tp his house?Penny for your thoughts? Asking the real questions, you know haha

happy very belated halloween !! ✨

rust is sorta indifferent to halloween since he didn't really grow up celebrating it in alaska and felt too old to when he moved back to texas

claire however loves it and is stoked to create new traditions for sofia !! she loves handing out candy and complimenting everyone's costumes with sophia as her 'helper'

rust lost handing out candy privileges when he would turn kids away who had 'lame' or 'lazy' costumes (or even ones he just didn't understand lmao)

diva does not reward those who didn't try enough in his opinion

claire handmade sophia's costume bc storebought ones were either too big or too creepy for a baby

she gets dressed as a little bat her first year and rust couldn't have taken enough pictures

rust doesn't really dress up (loser) but claire makes him wear crudely drawn-on skeleton makeup or something while she wears a cute dress and a witch hat

he actually enjoys carving out pumpkins and acting like sophia did it all herself (secretly got competitive about it and wanted her to have a better-looking pumpkin than others on their street)

if anyone tp's or eggs their house he'd be so mad 😭

better yet if he finds who did it he's making them clean that shit up themselves he does not care

he'll stand out in his yard, hands on hips, while making sure they get every last scrap

claire finds it a little excessive but he won't be stopped

claire also makes rust watch all sorts of horror movies and gets annoyed that he's not very reactive:

"how are you not scared?? it's literally a killer clown who terrorizes and eats children"

"...it's not real."

[reds-writings]

i've just read through all your Rust fics/headcanons and... obsessed. If you ever have any more 90s Rust headcanon ideas... i am a ready and willing audience haha

the headcanon well may be a tad dry but let's dig!

isn't a picky eater by any means but definitely has issues with certain textures (same king)

i feel like he'd be really good at things like sudoku or word crosses (used to be the type of dad who'd sit and do them in the paper with coffee instead of watching tv or something but now he doesn't bother with them anymore)

used to be a chronic nail biter but his ex wife made it a mission to get him to stop bc it would get so bad (chewed to nubs). he still has an oral fixation out of anxiousness but it just presents itself differently

is a weirdo who practices holding his breath for minutes at a time just to know that he can or in case there should ever be a scenario in which he has to (does it during his jesus/eden reflection time probably)

has only 5-6 outfits in his closet and maybe two pairs of shoes tbh (he doesn't do anything but work so why buy excessive amounts of clothing)

is almost meticulous about self-grooming and laundry tho (does not like feeling dirty)

when he says he hates the cold he hates the cold but would probably suffer in silence out of pure stubbornness if he didn't have the proper attire on for the weather even though he's obviously uncomfortable (Marty just goes 😒)

hyperfixation king !! anything catches his attention (even the most simplest of things) and he's already doing a deep dive on it like a man starved of knowledge

is good at the arts more than he lets on (will never actually showcase it tho)

i feel like he uses Irish spring (or at least old rust does lmao)

super sensitive to sound (just sensory issues galore in general actually)

has only one or two photos of his daughter but he keeps them hidden away (can't bring himself to look at it but is also terrified of possibly forgetting her face and not having something on hand to remember her by)