reds-writings

[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)

[reds-writings]

actually just reblogged some lovely prompt lists from @scealaiscoite that i wanna try out!!

-three word prompts

-whump

-300 one word prompts

(begging pleading crying for asks/requests I’ve missed everyone lmao)

gonna finally reply to asks that have been collecting dust over the past several months today!! sorry for the wait!!

also i’d love some blurb/prompt list requests (can be found in masterlist) involving:

crash & birdy (newest fic)

old man rust & sunny

90s/2002 rust & jj

to get back into the groove of writing and be able to map out details/background for these individual timelines/stories! 🌀

[reds-writings]

.☽༊˚ three hundred one-word prompts

¹⁾ balcony

²⁾ sunlight

³⁾ voicemail

⁴⁾ hillside

⁵⁾ tent

⁶⁾ lavender

⁷⁾ candle

⁸⁾ hipbone

⁹⁾ bandaid

¹⁰⁾ wrinkle

¹¹⁾ scar

¹²⁾ curtains

¹³⁾ armory

¹⁴⁾ shell

¹⁵⁾ bouquet

¹⁶⁾ necklace

¹⁷⁾ shotgun

¹⁸⁾ apricot

¹⁹⁾ cheek

²⁰⁾ floorboards

²¹⁾ jacket

²²⁾ bruise

²³⁾ flight

²⁴⁾ streetlight

²⁵⁾ carafe

²⁶⁾ lipstick

²⁷⁾ scars

²⁸⁾ poolside

²⁹⁾ cockpit

³⁰⁾ petals

³¹⁾ mirror

³²⁾ lawyer

³³⁾ cloudy

³⁴⁾ butcher

³⁶⁾ bleach

³⁷⁾ sawdust

³⁸⁾ crib

³⁹⁾ ribbon

⁴⁰⁾ wallet

⁴¹⁾ pearls

⁴²⁾ steam

⁴³⁾ chain

⁴⁴⁾ deckhand

⁴⁵⁾ whiskey

⁴⁶⁾ frost

⁴⁷⁾ lace

⁴⁸⁾ camping

⁴⁹⁾ bakery

⁵⁰⁾ traitor

⁵¹⁾ cherries

⁵²⁾ lightning

⁵³⁾ hide

⁵⁴⁾ tattoo

⁵⁵⁾ bonfire

⁵⁶⁾ reverse

⁵⁷⁾ passenger

⁵⁸⁾ speedboat

⁵⁹⁾ bare

⁶⁰⁾ concrete

⁶¹⁾ lieutenant

⁶²⁾ chili

⁶³⁾ tiptoe

⁶⁴⁾ office

⁶⁵⁾ skull

⁶⁶⁾ bikini

⁶⁷⁾ cabinet

⁶⁸⁾ lumber

⁶⁹⁾ laboratory

⁷⁰⁾ paint

⁷¹⁾ arch

⁷²⁾ bitter

⁷³⁾ staircase

⁷⁴⁾ priority

⁷⁵⁾ cell

⁷⁶⁾ subordinate

⁷⁷⁾ tapes

⁷⁸⁾ mangoss

⁷⁹⁾ bralette

⁸⁰⁾ whiplash

⁸¹⁾ syringe

⁸²⁾ cinnamon

⁸³⁾ tequila

⁸⁴⁾ garden

⁸⁵⁾ cigarette

⁸⁶⁾ sofa

⁸⁷⁾ rain

⁸⁸⁾ teammate

⁸⁹⁾ oleander

⁹⁰⁾ boss

⁹¹⁾ pillar

���²⁾ amethyst

⁹³⁾ footpath

⁹⁴⁾ driver

⁹⁵⁾ massage

⁹⁶⁾ stitches

⁹⁷⁾ jeans

⁹⁸⁾ brand

⁹⁹⁾ blackout

¹⁰⁰⁾ sunglasses

¹⁰¹⁾ lunar

¹⁰²⁾ velvet

¹⁰³⁾ captain

¹⁰⁴⁾ afternoon

¹⁰⁵⁾ ivy

¹⁰⁶⁾ salty

¹⁰⁷⁾ portrait

¹⁰⁸⁾ strawberries

¹⁰⁹⁾ torn

¹¹⁰⁾ cocktails

¹¹¹⁾ roommate

¹¹²⁾ bridge

¹¹³⁾ table

¹¹⁴⁾ hotel

¹¹⁵⁾ jasmine

¹¹⁶⁾ armchair

¹¹⁷⁾ satin

¹¹⁸⁾ bedsheet

¹¹⁹⁾ hedgerow

¹²⁰⁾ thigh

¹²¹⁾ cliff

¹²²⁾ gravel

¹²³⁾ apartment

¹²⁴⁾ keycard

¹²⁵⁾ coffee

¹²⁶⁾ babysitter

¹²⁷⁾ fire

¹²⁸⁾ chalk

¹²⁹⁾ hurricane

¹³⁰⁾ crickets

¹³¹⁾ amber

¹³²⁾ sherriff

¹³³⁾ lamplight

¹³⁴⁾ flag

¹³⁵⁾ airport

¹³⁶⁾ gasoline

¹³⁷⁾ cherub

¹³⁸⁾ clementine

¹³⁹⁾ scalpel

¹⁴⁰⁾ motel

¹⁴¹⁾ parish

¹⁴²⁾ lighter

¹⁴³⁾ highrise

¹⁴⁴⁾ crowbar

¹⁴⁵⁾ sundress

¹⁴⁶⁾ newspaper

¹⁴⁷⁾ screws

¹⁴⁸⁾ uniform

¹⁴⁹⁾ gold

¹⁵⁰⁾ buckshots

¹⁵¹⁾ coast

¹⁵²⁾ handcuffs

¹⁵³⁾ gunpowder

¹⁵⁴⁾ badge

¹⁵⁵⁾ orchids

¹⁵⁶⁾ chef

¹⁵⁷⁾ levee

¹⁵⁸⁾ tea

¹⁵⁹⁾ helicopter

¹⁶⁰⁾ cemetery

¹⁶¹⁾ ice

¹⁶²⁾ heirloom

¹⁶³⁾ tarpaulin

¹⁶⁴⁾ rural

¹⁶⁵⁾ sergeant

¹⁶⁶⁾ tsunami

¹⁶⁷⁾ lemon

¹⁶⁸⁾ debt

¹⁶⁹⁾ skyscraper

¹⁷⁰⁾ caramel

¹⁷¹⁾ hottub

¹⁷²⁾ rum

¹⁷³⁾ pet

¹⁷⁴⁾ tradition

¹⁷⁵⁾ perfume

¹⁷⁶⁾ bracelet

¹⁷⁷⁾ secretary

¹⁷⁸⁾ degree

¹⁷⁹⁾ braids

¹⁸⁰⁾ prescription

¹⁸¹⁾ invitation

¹⁸²⁾ cocoa

¹⁸³⁾ ransom

¹⁸⁴⁾ boxers

¹⁸⁵⁾ theatre

¹⁸⁶⁾ mascara

¹⁸⁷⁾ sand

¹⁸⁸⁾ collar

¹⁸⁹⁾ shoulder

¹⁹⁰⁾ lipgloss

¹⁹¹⁾ membership

¹⁹²⁾ heatwave

¹⁹³⁾ disco

¹⁹⁴⁾ cabin

¹⁹⁵⁾ popcorn

¹⁹⁶⁾ altar

¹⁹⁷⁾ radio

¹⁹⁸⁾ bayou

¹⁹⁹⁾ bodyguard

²⁰⁰⁾ glitter

²⁰¹⁾ mustache

²⁰²⁾ protector

²⁰³⁾ contacts

²⁰⁴⁾ bullets

²⁰⁵⁾ groceries

²⁰⁶⁾ raspberry

²⁰⁷⁾ microphone

²⁰⁸⁾ coconut

²⁰⁹⁾ villain

²¹⁰⁾ earlobe

²¹¹⁾ purse

²¹²⁾ flood

²¹³⁾ shot

²¹⁴⁾ windbreaker

²¹⁵⁾ granite

²¹⁶⁾ highway

²¹⁷⁾ eggshells

²¹⁸⁾ hoarse

²¹⁹⁾ chocolates

²²⁰⁾ trembling

²²¹⁾ buttercream

²²²⁾ rings

²²³⁾ holster

²²⁴⁾ briefcase

²²⁵⁾ wrist

²²⁶⁾ piercings

²²⁷⁾ cowboy

²²⁸⁾ ashes

²²⁹⁾ ankle

²³⁰⁾ neroli

²³¹⁾ orchard

²³²⁾ tires

²³³⁾ salmon

²³⁴⁾ peaches

²³⁵⁾ rooftop

²³⁶⁾ toast

²³⁷⁾ gala

²³⁸⁾ sage

²³⁹⁾ graduation

²⁴⁰⁾ reporter

²⁴¹⁾ belt

²⁴²⁾ antidote

²⁴³⁾ ship

²⁴⁴⁾ officer

²⁴⁵⁾ wine

²⁴⁶⁾ corridor

²⁴⁷⁾ cold

²⁴⁸⁾ hangover

²⁴⁹⁾ fingertip

²⁵⁰⁾ vintage

²⁵¹⁾ cupcake

²⁵²⁾ saviour

²⁵³⁾ gentleman

²⁵⁴⁾ loan

²⁵⁵⁾ hostage

²⁵⁶⁾ evergreen

²⁵⁷⁾ denial

²⁵⁸⁾ housewife

²⁵⁹⁾ riverbank

²⁶⁰⁾ marshmallows

²⁶¹⁾ books

²⁶²⁾ hockey

²⁶³⁾ lizard

²⁶⁴⁾ silver

²⁶⁵⁾ dinner

²⁶⁶⁾ pear

²⁶⁷⁾ bound

²⁶⁸⁾ waiter

²⁶⁹⁾ tender

²⁷⁰⁾ fallen

²⁷¹⁾ banquet

²⁷²⁾ announcement

²⁷³⁾ roast

²⁷⁴⁾ sneer

²⁷⁵⁾ exes

²⁷⁶⁾ stovetop

²⁷⁷⁾ brass

²⁷⁸⁾ clay

²⁷⁹⁾ valet

²⁸⁰⁾ schoolbus

²⁸¹⁾ exhausted

²⁸²⁾ field

²⁸³⁾ hoodie

²⁸⁴⁾ sugar

²⁸⁵⁾ palmtree

²⁸⁶⁾ burnt

²⁸⁷⁾ diner

²⁸⁸⁾ snake

²⁸⁹⁾ fever

²⁹⁰⁾ domestic

²⁹¹⁾ plaid

²⁹²⁾ wreck

²⁹³⁾ courtyard

²⁹⁴⁾ dozen

²⁹⁵⁾ earphones

²⁹⁶⁾ blueberry

²⁹⁷⁾ anklet

²⁹⁸⁾ shower

²⁹⁹⁾ venom

³⁰⁰⁾ lover

[reds-writings]

.☽༊˚ three word prompts

¹⁾ “it’s getting late”

²⁾ “you look terrible.”

³⁾ “who did this?!”

⁴⁾ “i feel awful.”

⁵⁾ “they’re all lying.”

⁶⁾ “let me help.”

⁷⁾ “try to eat.”

⁸⁾ “i’m so tired.”

⁹⁾ “just tell me!”

¹⁰⁾ “it’s for you.”

¹¹⁾ “i tried calling.”

¹²⁾ “this is fucked.”

¹³⁾ “here- try this!”

¹⁴⁾ “you’re a nightmare.”

¹⁵⁾ “can’t sleep either?”

¹⁶⁾ “you never answer!”

¹⁷⁾ “…that’s my shirt.”

¹⁸⁾ “i’m running late.”

¹⁹⁾ “here’s my number.”

²⁰⁾ “you look amazing.”

²¹⁾ “it’s work, again.”

²²⁾ “not here, please.”

²³⁾ “please, don’t cry.”

²⁴⁾ “it’s all over.”

²⁵⁾ “you’re safe now.”

²⁶⁾ “come to bed.”

²⁷⁾ “let me help.”

²⁸⁾ “fancy a drink?”

²⁹⁾ “i didn’t! swear!”

³⁰⁾ “oh, fuck me.”

³¹⁾ “no-one’ll hurt you.”

³²⁾ “it’s pouring out!”

³³⁾ “take my coat.”

³⁴⁾ “come here, idiot.”

³⁶⁾ “are you alright?”

³⁷⁾ “c’mon- try this.”

³⁸⁾ “what’s the time?”

³⁹⁾ “my back’s sore.”

⁴⁰⁾ “lean on me.”

⁴¹⁾ “take a picture!”

⁴²⁾ “please, let go.”

⁴³⁾ “how’d you remember?”

⁴⁴⁾ “that’s not fair.”

⁴⁵⁾ “got my flowers?”

⁴⁶⁾ “it’s so cold.”

⁴⁷⁾ “take my bed.”

⁴⁸⁾ “do you care?”

⁴⁹⁾ “where’re you from?”

⁵⁰⁾ “you look exhausted.”

⁵¹⁾ “argh- you’re freezing!”

⁵²⁾ “it’s not safe!”

⁵³⁾ “don’t go there.”

⁵⁴⁾ “that tastes… different.”

⁵⁵⁾ “this shouldn’t hurt.”

⁵⁶⁾ “you’re so warm.”

⁵⁷⁾ “your hair’s soft.”

⁵⁸⁾ “where’d that happen?”

⁵⁹⁾ “…that’s not mine.”

⁶⁰⁾ “i never lied.”

⁶¹⁾ “is that mine?”

⁶²⁾ “the lock’s broken.”

⁶³⁾ “the path’s stopped.”

⁶⁴⁾ “… cake? seriously, now?!”

⁶⁵⁾ “another cold case?”

⁶⁶⁾ “i smell smoke.”

⁶⁷⁾ “pick a movie.”

⁶⁸⁾ “we just kissed.”

⁶⁹⁾ “peach lip gloss?”

⁷⁰⁾ “i missed you.”

⁷¹⁾ “your mascara’s ruined.”

⁷²⁾ “the trail’s cold.”

⁷³⁾ “i run hot.”

⁷⁴⁾ “take my hand!”

⁷⁵⁾ “vodka at midday?”

⁷⁶⁾ “you started it!”

⁷⁷⁾ “your cooking’s phenomenal.”

⁷⁸⁾ “the dog’s cuter.”

⁷⁹⁾ “there’s one bed.”

⁸⁰⁾ “it’s too hot.”

⁸¹⁾ “i’m too old.”

⁸²⁾ “it’s a mistake!”

⁸³⁾ “the motel’s closed.”

⁸⁴⁾ “my ring’s missing.”

⁸⁵⁾ “he isn’t answering.”

⁸⁶⁾ “oh. i’m sorry.”

⁸⁷⁾ “have you eaten?”

⁸⁸⁾ “ah- that’s enough.”

⁸⁹⁾ “what’s wrong now?”

⁹⁰⁾ “you’ve been crying.”

⁹¹⁾ “let me drive.”

⁹²⁾ “nice uniform, dickhead.”

⁹³⁾ “the ladder’s gone!”

⁹⁴⁾ “that’s gonna bruise.”

⁹⁵⁾ “fuck- you’re sick.”

⁹⁶⁾ “i made breakfast.”

⁹⁷⁾ “careful, it’s hot.”

⁹⁸⁾ “got a lighter?”

⁹⁹⁾ “just- why him?”

¹⁰⁰⁾ “you’re safe here.”

¹⁰¹⁾ “we’ve gotta leave.”

¹⁰²⁾ “there’s sand everywhere!”

¹⁰³⁾ “you fell asleep.”

¹⁰⁴⁾ “your birthday’s tomorrow.”

¹⁰⁵⁾ “you killed it!”

¹⁰⁶⁾ “…this is awkward.”

¹⁰⁷⁾ “you lost, sucker!”

¹⁰⁸⁾ “fuck- you’re bleeding.”

¹⁰⁹⁾ “wear that dress.”

¹¹⁰⁾ “sorry for that.”

¹¹¹⁾ “fucking shut up!”

¹¹²⁾ “my wallet’s missing.”

¹¹³⁾ “the electricity’s out.”

¹¹⁴⁾ “just my luck.”

¹¹⁵⁾ “you’re drunk, honey.”

¹¹⁶⁾ “call an ambulance!”

¹¹⁷⁾ “what’s that smell?”

¹¹⁸⁾ “shit, i’m hit.”

¹¹⁹⁾ “we’ve been made.”

¹²⁰⁾ “it’s so early.”

¹²¹⁾ “what’s wrong now?”

¹²²⁾ “let it go!”

¹²³⁾ “fix your makeup.”

¹²⁴⁾ “the damage’s done.”

¹²⁵⁾ “please, don’t tell.”

¹²⁶⁾ “i didn’t cheat!”

¹²⁷⁾ “how’s the hangover?”

¹²⁸⁾ “i’ll do better.”

¹²⁹⁾ “sh, i’ll pay.”

¹³⁰⁾ “i’m going home.”

¹³¹⁾ “the bath’s ready.”

¹³²⁾ “they loved you!”

¹³³⁾ “that’s your nickname?!”

¹³⁴⁾ “stay the night.”

¹³⁵⁾ “show me. now!”

¹³⁶⁾ “…a ball gag?!”

¹³⁷⁾ “that painting’s… unique.”

¹³⁸⁾ “christ, that’s strong.”

¹³⁹⁾ “my face hurts.”

¹⁴⁰⁾ “the basement flooded.”

¹⁴¹⁾ “your lipstick’s everywhere!”

¹⁴²⁾ “you’re a nutjob.”

¹⁴³⁾ “mind the glass!”

¹⁴⁴⁾ “go to sleep.”

¹⁴⁵⁾ “let me see.”

¹⁴⁶⁾ “it’s so late.”

¹⁴⁷⁾ “cute glasses, dork.”

¹⁴⁸⁾ “you want what?!”

¹⁴⁹⁾ “this is mental.”

¹⁵⁰⁾ “it’s a wedding!”

[reds-writings]

(:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅ a month’s worth of whump prompts ]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅)

¹⁾ blood swirling down a shower drain

²⁾ stitches on a cheekbone

³⁾ fingertips numb from cold

⁴⁾ painkillers and a cup of tea left on a nightstand

⁵⁾ a thick plaster cast

⁶⁾ canine teeth tipped with blood

⁷⁾ a bruise in the shape of a boot print

⁸⁾ dried tear tracks

⁹⁾ an inescapable migraine

¹⁰⁾ sunglasses over a bruised eye

¹¹⁾ scars littering the expanse of a back

¹²⁾ bloodied teeth

¹³⁾ skinned knees

¹⁴⁾ a torn-apart first aid kit

¹⁵⁾ frozen peas pressed against a fresh bruise

¹⁶⁾ brambles and twigs knotted into hair

¹⁷⁾ lipstick and a split lip

¹⁸⁾ an especially improvised tourniquet

¹⁹⁾ blood seeping through clothes

²⁰⁾ a heart monitor

²¹⁾ unbearable nausea

²²⁾ a hoarse throat

²³⁾ blood under fingernails

²⁴⁾ a thermometer between bitten lips

²⁵⁾ hands soothing over a shaking frame

²⁶⁾ a twisted ankle on the side of a mountain

²⁷⁾ cuddling for warmth

²⁸⁾ thin hospital blankets

²⁹⁾ broken glass

³⁰⁾ a knife pressed against a throat

³¹⁾ night terrors

[reds-writings]

[reds-writings]

BARKING !!!

Rust “Crash” Cohle on the set of True Detective (X)