ARC I. ☤— So I'll Take The Night Shift. - Blog Posts

SC// @muutos ( price )

she  came  here  because  she  knew  he  wouldn't  flinch.  john  never  tried  to  fix  her.  he  saw  her  as  she  saw  him,  what  war  carved  out  of  a  person  and  didn’t  look  away.  he  knew  the  terrain  because  he’d  seen  the  worst  of  her  and  never  asked  her  to  apologize  for  it.  that  had  always  been  the  unspoken  deal  between  them:  mutual  recognition  without  pity.  she  could  breathe  in  front  of  him,  even  when  it  hurt.

especially  when  it  hurt.

gloria  could  feel  the  pulse  in  her  jaw,  the  clench  of  muscle  that  hadn’t  quite  relaxed  in  days.  maybe  weeks  but  she  wasn’t  sure  anymore.  everything  felt…off.  like  her  skin  didn’t  quite  fit  right,  like  her  body  was  still  bracing  for  impact  even  when  the  threat  was  gone.  attempting  to  be  something  normal,  to  press  healing  into  the  edges  of  so  much  death  she  couldn't  scrub  off  her  hands.  that’s  what  no  one  ever  told  you  about  coming  home  —  you  never  really  came  back.  not  whole  at  least.  like  being  dropped  into  a  quieter  war  where  no  one  was  wearing  a  uniform  and  everything  demanded  something  she  didn't  know  how  to  give  anymore.

she  glanced  at  him  then,  really  looked,  and  something  caught  in  her  throat.  her  hand  curls  around  the  whisky  glass,  all  of  her  frame  leaning  towards  him.  it  was  more  than  memory,  more  than  want,  so  much  deeper  than  anything  she  could  translate  into  any  language.  nights  in  the  field  where  she'd  crawled  beside  him  and  shared  a  drink  in  the  darkness  because  sleep  meant  silence  and  silence  was  where  the  screams  lived.  nights  where  she'd  pressed  her  forehead  to  his  shoulder  and  let  herself  believe,  just  for  an  hour,  that  she  was  still  human.

but  she  also  came  here  because  he  needed  her,  too,  and  it  would  be  a  fine  frozen  day  in  hell  before  she  ever  said  no  to  him.  ❛  i  had  my  shifts  covered  for  the  next  week  and  a  half.  ❜  and  there  it  is,  a  mere  glimpse  of  a  devotion  that  doesn't  know  how  to  let  go.  ❛  you  have  me  on  this,  john.❜  then  comes  the  reach  of  a  hand,  gentle  and  sure  of  itself  as  it  slips  into  his.  ❛  but  if  you  brood  about  how  bad  you  feel  bringing  me  back  into  it,  i  might  take  it  back.  ❜

his  voice  scrapes  at  something  in  her  chest  —  a  familiar  ache  she  pretends  she  doesn't  recognize.  ❛  mad?  ❜  she  repeats,  a  dry  laugh  hitching  in  her  throat,  it's  more  breath  than  sound.

she  turns  finally,  slowly,  deliberately.  her  eyes  roam,  as  though  searching  for  hidden  pains.  the  split  lip,  the  bruises  blooming  under  his  jaw,  the  stubborn  tilt  of  his  mouth  that  makes  her  want  to  shake  him  and  kiss  him  in  the  same  goddamn  breath.  ❛  i'm  not  mad  but  fuck  —  bradley...  ❜  voice  low  and  splintered  at  the  edges.

she  steps  more  into  his  space.  clinical  precision  fades  in  the  gentle  brush  of  knuckles  to  the  side  of  his  face  that  made  it  out  unscathed.  ❛  you  can't  make  me  keep  watching  you  destroy  yourself.  ❜

Bradley would like to be kind to himself and say this is a novel situation, blood dripping after a drink in some dusty bar. It doesn't matter how justified, the sting after, the come down, still fucking sucks.

"It's okay," he shrugs, wincing, breath whistling past swollen lips. "Not my finest hour." Still, Bradley would do this again. He knows he would.

"You mad," he dares to ask, hating that Gloria's still got her back turned. Her voice says enough, but it's her eyes that Bradley wants to see.

🌶️ SC // @pittmade

weight  of  the  day  collapsing  on  her.  days,  really,  the  last  twenty-four  hours  lay  over  her  as  a  shroud,  a  haunting  in  the  shape  of  a  double  shift.  the  door  closes,  and  she  leans  against  it,  sharp  inhale,  and  the  ghost  of  someone’s  last  breath  is  still  stuck  in  her  throat.  the  scent  of  divinity  lingers  in  the  air  from  his  cooking,  the  sterile  horrors  fade  with  the  warmth  of  home.  by  all  accounts,  she  should  eat,  she  should  sleep,  she  should  tuck  this  grief  against  the  cage  of  her  chest  for  another  time.  it's  not  enough,  it's  not  the  kind  of  sustenance  she  needs  to  survive  right  now.  she  needs  more,  she  needs  real,  she  needs  him.  gloria  sought  out  jack  like  a  sinner  pines  for  redemption.

she  didn't  say  anything,  didn't  have  the  words.  she  just  reached  —  hands  fisting  into  his  shirt,  dragging  him  down  to  her.  she  kissed  him  like  she  wanted  to  tear  the  breath  out  of  him,  like  regular  oxygen  wasn't  enough  to  keep  her  lungs  satiated.  fingertips  gliding  through  silver  speckled  curls,  gentle  urgency  that  builds  within  her,  begging  for  reprieve.  between  their  lips,  she  breaks  with  a  sundering  force  and  jagged  breath.❛  i  don't  want  to  think.  ❜  forehead  falling  against  his  as  she  clung  to  him  like  he  was  the  only  reason  she  could  face  it  all  again.  ❛ just  need  you  inside  me.  ❜

🌶️ SC // @weaponid ( bucky )

she  wasn't  entirely  sure  what  parts  of  herself  were  even  human  anymore.  she's nothing  but  want  and  wreckage  spinning  out  of  control.  her  mind  a  cruel  reverie,  reflections  of  war  plastered  across  her  psyche,  gunfire,  blood,  mistakes  she  couldn't  fix.  if  bloodletting  worked,  she'd  have  knelt  in  a  pool  of  poison,  waiting  until  every  drop  was  expelled  from  her  veins.  instead,  she's  here  with  her  head  tilted  back,  throat  exposed  like  a  doe  with  carnivorous  teeth,  presenting  the  prize  of  willful  subjugation.  wild  eyes  pleading  from  where  she's  draped  across  his  sturdy  thighs.

❛ take  it,  take  it  all  from  me,  please.  ❜  control.  unspoken  and  kept  in  the  way  she  whines  like  a  battered  hound  of  war  asking  to  be  put  down.  gloria  hates  herself  for  it,  how  slick  and  hungry  the  prospect  of  ruination  makes  her.  the  desperation  louder  than  the  ragged  edge  of  a  breath  she  couldn't  catch.  enough  that  her  body  counters  vulnerability  by  drawing  blood  from  his  lips  with  her  teeth.  enough  that  her  palm  flattens  and  cracks  along  his  jaw  to  initiate  a  surge  of  pain  she  craves  tenfold.  ❛ all  of  it,  bucky.  ❜  claws  threading  through  his  hair,  pulling  and  soothing  over  all  at  once.  she  ground  down  onto  him,  rough  and  frantic,  chasing  the  sharp-edged  friction.  chasing  the  violent  shudder  that  tore  up  her  spine.  ❛ please.  ❜

🌶️ SC // @weaponid ( frank )

no  words,  no  hesitation.  not  anymore,  not  when  they'd  spent  so  long  trying  to  rationalize  and  stay  away  or  convince  one  another:  never  again.  his  mouth  crashed  against  hers,  the  taste  of  smoke  and  sweat  and  adrenaline  still  roaring  hot  beneath  his  skin.  she  lets  him  take.  let  herself  take  what  wasn't  hers.  fingers  curled  around  the  chain  that  marked  them  both  as  numbers  and  cannon  fodder,  yanking  him  down  like  it  wasn’t  fast  enough,  never  fast  enough.  she  could  still  smell  the  blood  on  him,  on  both  of  them.  could  still  feel  the  ghost  of  the  fight  buzzing  under  her  skin  and  gnawing  at  her  nerves.  strung  so  tightly  she  might  shatter  if  she  didn’t  have  something  to  ground  her,  to  hurt  her,  to  remind  her  she  was  alive.

frank  didn't  ask  and  neither  did  she,  that  fucked  up  tether  keeping  them  soulbound  in  ruin  speaks  for  them.  gloria  shoved  him  backward  with  a  snarl  caught  in  her  throat,  pushing  until  the  back  of  his  knees  hit  the  bed.  it  wasn't  grace,  it  was  instinct  as  she  pried  his  belt  open  with  the  same  frantic  dexterity  it  took  to  pull  a  tourniquet  tight.  feral  tangle  of  limbs  and  need,  clawing  at  flak  and  cotton,  scraping  at  skin  and  trying  to  tear  him  apart  just  to  feel  something  through  the  noise.  just  to  have  him  destroy  her  in  return.  she  straddles  him,  fingers  digging  into  his  shoulders,  nails  biting  down  hard  enough  to  leave  moons  in  battered  flesh.  marks  that  will  wither  with  time,  but  for  now  she  wants  him  to  wear  her  like  the  agony  that  lives  between  her  ribs  when  he  isn't  inside  her.  ❛ i'm  sorry.  ❜  teeth  tugging  at  lips,  tongue  tangled  up  like  she's  prying  hell  through  the  gates  of  heaven.  ❛ sorry  i  can't  stop  needing  you.  ❜  

🌶️ SC // @washsins ( russell shaw )

she  didn’t  think.  she  couldn’t  think.  by  the  time  she  had  crossed  the  threshold  past  his  door,  gloria’s  hands  were  shaking.  not  from  fear,  not  from  the  cold,  but  from  something  hungrier,  meaner.  something  she  couldn’t  scrape  out  of  her  chest,  no  matter  how  hard  she  tried.  it  had  been  gnawing  at  her  for  days,  weeks  maybe.  that  hollow,  bone-deep  need  that  curled  under  her  skin  and  made  her  feel  too  tight,  too  human,  too  breakable.  heart  hammering  against  her  ribs,  adrenaline  stabbing  at  the  base  of  her  skull the  way  it  used  to  before  firefights.

only  this  was  worse;  this  was  personal.

gloria  doesn't  give  russell  a  second  to  breathe  or  contemplate  the  brokenness  she  carried  in.  she  was  already  on  him,  grabbing  the  collar  of  his  shirt  and  dragging  him  down  to  meet  her  mouth.  it  was  desperate,  waking  up  the  part  of  her  soul  that  had  been  warped  into  something  caustic  and  fractured.  her  teeth  caught  on  his  lip,  fingers  yanking  at  the  fabric  over  his  chest  like  she  could  tear  her  need  out  by  force  if  she  just  clawed  hard  enough.  she  needed  someone  real.  someone  solid,  someone  that  could  pin  her  down  when  the  world  spun  out  and  she  couldn’t  catch  her  breath.  ❛ please.  ❜  gloria  heard  herself  say  it  like  a  disembodied  entity  haunting  the  room.  a  hoarse  whisper,  nearly  unrecognizable.  she  hated  the  sound  of  it,  the  crack  in  her  own  voice,  but  she  needed  him  more  than  she  needed  pride  right  now.  

she  doesn't  waste  another  glance  on  the  brewing  storm.  she'd  spent  enough  years  tending  the  aftermath  of  ego;  split  lips,  shattered  knuckles,  the  kind  of  hurt  that  clings  long  after  the  blood  dries.  the  pressure  built  from  years  of  silence  and  pushing  war  down  your  throat  because  it's  not  man  enough  to  admit  it's  there.  so  the  marines  punch  the  Green  Berets  and  the  SEALS  knock  both  of  them  to  the  ground.  on  and  on,  like  all  traditions  of  broken  systems  and  the  bodies  they  leave  behind.  it’s  an  old  but  familiar  ache  now,  a  quiet  grief  for  how  easily  people  throw  themselves  into  ruin,  knowing  there's  nothing  she  could  do  to  stop  it.

❛ smart.  ❜  once,  she  might  have  stayed.  might  have  tilted  her  chin  up  and  thrown  herself  into  the  fray  out  of  pride  or  stubbornness,  to  prove  she  could  survive.  it's  almost  worse  knowing  she  can.  worse,  even  that  she  might  have  tried  to  if  she  had  felt  the  spark  of  violence  gather  close  enough  to  the  surface.  gloria  was  grateful  for  lizzie's  presence.  a  tether  to  the  femininity  the  former  combat  medic  nurtures  within  herself  as  though  it  might  undo  every  terrible  act.

❛ not  just  that,  i  have  a  bottle  of  zacapa  if  you  think  you  can  handle  it.  ❜  it's  a  gentle  nudge  of  words,  limbs  slipping  into  her  jacket,  purse  tucked  high  beneath  her  arm.  gloria  bids  the  rabble  behind,  leading  out  the  door.   

lizzie dons a mask of careful ambivalence,   holding the brewing fight in her peripheral as her sights languidly cycle:   her present company,   her empty glass,   the fine lace of condensation wound along its surface.   a tattered slice of lime sits at the bottom,   sprawled over half-melted ice.   she prods at it with the end of her straw,   quietly indignant of the acuteness of her awareness so deep into the night,   but she avoids the bartender’s eye.   tries to stifle the way she stiffens as egos swell,   boisterous voices teasing the bounds of violence.   she knows this game.   could,   theoretically,   understand its basest appeal:   the thrill of a fight projected.   life rendered in adrenaline bursts and broken skin.   finds herself,   suddenly,   inwardly,   grateful gloria doesn’t seem to share in this interest.   

“not much of a gambler.”   only in the company she keeps,   if murmurs were to be believed—   diluting their business to the simple whim of gangsters and murderers.   as if she were any better.   but,   stealing another glance over her shoulder,   lips pursing in careful assessment,   lizzie inclined to agree.   with a little over a foot of difference between them,   they weren’t exactly entering on even odds.

“yeah?”   she smiles at @medicbled's choice of word,   obnoxious,   shouldering her purse in silent acceptance.   

she  finds  silence  after  a  non-committal  hum.  unreactive  and  broken  into  far  worse  over  far  less  because  at  least  he  wasn't  swinging  fists  over  care.  antiseptic  soaking  into  broken  flesh,  the  scent  of  it  filled  the  air;  sharp,  clean,  trying  too  hard  to  cover  the  deeper  wounds  underneath.  like  it  always  did.  ❛  in  the  job  description  to  make  at  least  a  bit  of  fuss.  ❜  gloria  doesn't  offer  a  forced  line  of  reassurance  to  coddle  irritation  or  pride;  she  grasps  the  local  syringe  instead  and  warns.  ❛  you'll  feel  a  pinch  and  some  burning.  ❜

no  softness,  no  special  kindness.  just  the  flat,  practiced  efficiency  of  someone  who  had  seen  too  many  men  tear  themselves  apart  trying  to  prove  they  didn’t  feel  anything.  no  time  was  wasted,  of  course.  needle  unlodged  from  muscle  and  bone,  discarded  with  a  twitch  of  her  jaw.  ❛  depends  on  a  few  things  because  if  you  caught  someone's  tooth,  you'll  need  more  than  just  a  couple  stitches.   ❜  pattern  of  movement  like  the  most  practiced  dance,  no  hesitation,  no  inadequacies.  she'd  learned  the  moment  she  exchanged  one  war  zone  for  another;  overseas  or  cityscape,  there  was  no  room  for  mistakes  or  squandered  seconds.

❛  nothing  bubbled  up,  so  you're  in  the  clear.  still  need  stitches.  ❜  she  paused.  standing  to  snap  off  an  old  pair  of  gloves  for  anew.   ❛  assuming  you  want  dissolving  stitches,  save  you  another  trip  and  time  wasted.  ❜

he held no ill-will against her personally, it was the vulnerability of being exposed that made his jaw clench & his skin crawl. even with a quiet voice, he felt a tingle in his spine. a reminder that he couldn’t do this on his own. sighing through his nose, calloway raised his hand & grimaced at the movement, but it was more at the sight of the angry skin that was flushed with shades of pink & red.

his eyebrows twisted as he pinched his lips into a thin line. “ it ain’t that bad. no reason to make a damn fuss, y’know. ”

it had been his fault. calloway conveniently left that piece of information out when he came to get things checked over. but why would he admit that he lost control over his temper? the station knew he had a short fuse & it often got shorter when he was put in a room with people who pushed his buttons. if anyone was to blame, it was the suspect who went too far, but as captain jones reminded him, calloway should have been in more control. it was the same old song & dance only this time, he not only injured a suspect, he also injured himself.

“ this isn’t gonna take long, is it? ” he asked as his jaw tightened as the lights overhead buzzed in his ears making him shift in his seat.

her  jaw  tightens  with  the  kind  of  tension  that  comes  from  holding  too  much  in.  too  much  blood,  too  much  memory,  too  much  of  that  awful,  helpless  ache  that  comes  when  it’s  a  kid  on  the  table  and  the  universe  dares  to  keep  spinning.

at  the  sound  of  mel's  voice,  she  turns  to  face  her.  there’s  always  the  undertone  of  something  haunted  in  her  gaze,  but  it  doesn’t  waver.  not,  when  the  junior  staff  are  looking  at  her  like  she’s  supposed  to  make  it  make  sense.

❛  yes,  doctor  king,  please,  ask.  ❜

Mel doesn't like this. She doesn't like when it's kids; she doesn't like when there are parents, and siblings, just a few steps away.

Eyes daring between Dr. Robby's still frame and the boy on the gurney, Mel wonders what's keeping their boss from sharing a few words of guidance. Whether it's a reassurance or next steps, she'd like to hear it.

But Robby remains silent.

"Uh, Dr. De Lima," Mel tilts her head to the hallway. "Can I ask a question?"

❛  are  you  saying  you  want  to  secretly  perform  scientific  experiments  on  your  friends  and  coworkers  to  increase  efficiency?   ❜

holt & diaz quote starters // @vanhornrn

❛  you  can't  let  other  peoples  opinions  get  in  the  way  of  what  you  want  especially  because  other  people  suck.  ❜

holt & diaz quote starters // @jennifershepard

❛  i'm  going  to  wait  until  i'm  on  my  deathbed,  get  in  the  last  word  and  then  die  immediately.  ❜

holt & diaz quote starters // @walkeddeath

❛  never  is  not  just  a  crater  on  mars.  of  course,  it  is  a  crater  on  mars.  ❜

holt & diaz quote starters // @putrefacerem

❛  all  due  respect  sir,  it's  how  i  was  trained.  you  mess  up.  you  get  made  fun  of.  ❜

holt & diaz quote starters // @bychuck ( bobby )

❛  i  don't  know  why  you're  telling  me.  i'm  not  involved.  you  made  that,  very  clear.  ❜

holt & diaz quote starters // @bychuck ( frankiiiieee )

honey  gaze  scours  the  delicate  clutter  of  tools.  all  foreign  to  her  knowledge  and  oddly  comforting,  as  if  by  some  extension  of  who  he  was  could  quell  pockets  of  unrest.  the  tightness  in  her  chest  loosened,  just  a  little.  she  keeps  so  many  horrors  there,  unearthed  like  a  vandalized  mausoleum.  gloria  follows  the  sound  of  his  voice,  leans  back  into  the  warmth  of  his  presence  behind  her.  her  fingers  hover  over  the  spools  before  settling  on  one  —  a  dusky  blue,  like  the  swirling  sky  of  a  storm.

❛ this  one.  ❜  she  murmurs,  voice  low  enough  to  keep  it  steady.  gloria  focused  on  the  feel  of  it,  every  sensation  of  lips  adorning  skin  and  distracting  racing  thoughts.  ❛ don't  go  too  easy  on  me.  ❜

@medicbled

"here, let me show you something." voice and touch are gentle yet firm as he ushers them to his work desk and tugs gloria down, wooden office chair squeaking in protest under their combined weight. before them stands a rotary vise fixed around a fishing hook and a collection of colorful threads, feathers, flash, and beads kept in organized chaos. there's a storm brewing in that head of hers and this method, distraction and redirection, has always been effective in quieting his own busy mind.

"we'll do an easy one," josef begins, reassurance offered in the form of a squeeze and pecks against the slope of her shoulder between sentences. "pick a thread."

her  hand  lingers  on  his  chest  longer  than  it  should.  like  she’s  not  sure  whether  she’s  holding  him  BACK  or  holding  him  UP.  the  heat  beneath  her  palm  is  blistering,  not  from  his  rage,  no...she’s  felt  that  before,  watched  it  shatter  men  like  glass.  it's  something  older,  deeper  —  that  relentless  ache  between  them  that  never  stops,  only  roots  and  blooms  stronger  than  the  last  time.  there's  nothing  made  of  coldness  in  her  eyes,  they  never  are  with  him  and  maybe  that's  part  of  why  she's  letting  it  all  CRUSH  her.  they’re  tired,  though.  tired  in  that  bone-deep  way  that  comes  from  years  of  standing  just  outside  the  life  she  maybe  could’ve  had  by  some  shift  of  luck.  but  that's  not  made  for  people  like  her,  rewards  for  unforgivable  deeds.  ❛  no...  fuck,  i  don't  know!  ❜

and  there  it  is.  that  band  hitting  the  dim  lighting  just  enough  to  coax  every  bit  of  guilt  eating  her  from  the  inside  out  to  the  surface.  gloria  stares,  choking  down  penance  and  letting  the  barbed  wire  cut  into  her  throat.  the  worst  part  was  that  it  never  stopped  her.  not  once.  she  pulls  her  hand  back,  cradling  it  like  a  third-degree  burn  against  her  chest.  a  step  back,  but  it  doesn't  matter  how  far  she  goes,  he'll  always  HAUNT  her  and  she'll  always  let  him.  ❛  i  don't  know  what  to  do,  you're  not  mine.  ❜  the  fight  in  her  voice  is  gone,  and  what's  left  is  so  much  worse.  a  quiet  devastation,  worn  thin  at  the  edges.  trembled  in  dewy  honey  eyes,  her  arms  thrown  up  with  a  defeat  she  can't  escape.  she  could  imagine  it  as  some  surge  of  fading  adrenaline,  from  de-escalating  impending  dread.  from  the  even  more  fucked  up  part  of  her  that  wanted  frank  to  pummel  that  handsy  fuck  into  the  dirt.  but  it's  so  much  more  than  that.  ❛  i  don't  do  it  to  hurt  you.  ❜  almost  a  plea,  entirely  mournful.  ❛  i  have  to  remind  myself  that  there's  a  world  outside  of  you,  frank,  cause  if  i  don't,  i'll  keep  drowning  in  you.  ❜

anger   doesn't   just   simmer   inside   him,   it   boils   over   —    violent,   clawing   at   his   chest   like   something   alive.    one   minute   he's   nursing   a   drink   with   the   squad,   laughter   buzzing   around   him.    the   next,   he   spots   the   brunette   locked   in   some   stranger's   orbit,   their bodies too close.    he   watches   the   guy's   hand   slide   from   her   arm   to   the   curve   of   her   waist,   and   something   in   him   snaps.    now,   he’s   the   center   of   gravity   —   surrounded   by   too   many   eyes,   all   waiting   for   the   kind   of   show   that   starts   with   a   punch   and   ends   with   smears of blood on the asphalt.   it   doesn't   come   to   that,   thanks   to   gloria.

palm   pressed   to   his   chest,   he   tears   his   gaze   from   the   man   walking   away   and   leans   back   against   the   wall,   shaking   his   head   like   it   might   clear   the   heat   rising   in   his   throat.    the words are there,   coiled   tight,   but   they   won’t   come   out — not   when   she’s   looking   at   him   like   that,   not   with   the   weight   of   the   ring   on   his   finger.    “    what   do   you   mean   i   can't?    what   the   hell   do   you   want   me   to   do,   gloria?   you   want   me   to   sit   back   and   smile   while   he   has   his   hands   all   over   you?.     ”    right   now,   he   wishes   the   other   guy   would've   swung   at   him.    it would've given him a   reason   to   let   the   poison   out,   to   crack   his   knuckles   on   his   skull   and   stake   his   claim   on   her,   somehow.    “    why   do   you   always   gotta   do   that   shit   in   front   of   me.     ”    the   anger’s   still   there,   but   it’s   dulled   now — muted   by   something   heavier.    that   quiet,   bitter   frustration   he   saves   for   himself.    the   kind   he’s   been   carrying   too   long, the kind that keeps him up at night with the thought of her.

❛ i  could  have  been  easier  on  you. ❜  admittance  turned  over,  softly  spun  by  the  same  bedside  manner  she'd  developed  since  her  FAREWELL  TO  ARMS.  she  shrugs  gently  and  twists  around  in  the  exam  room,  prepping  her  station  for  sutures.  concern  knits  her  brows,  a  thousand  questions  hiding,  but  nothing  said.  what  bar?  how  far  his  mouth  ran  before  the  fist  hit?  how  many  punches  he  got  in? 

lyrical sc//@frthestars ( bradley )

 ❛  there  ain’t  language  for  the  things  i’ve  seen.  ❜

nothing  follows,  not  yet.  the  words  don’t  rise  so  much  as  settle  as  silt  in  water  after  the  stirring’s  stopped.  HER  EYES  FOLLOW  A  CRACK  ALONG  THE  BAR  TOP.  it's  long  and  jagged  and  reminds  her  of  scar  tissue,  the  mangled  and  crooked  stories  on  her  body  in  phantom  aches.  a  flicker  of  recognition  sharpens  the  corner  of  her  gaze.  not  pity.  not  camaraderie  wrapped  in  cliché.  but  that  rare  kind  of  understanding  that  doesn’t  announce  itself;  it  just  takes  up  space  beside  you  and  doesn’t  flinch.

the  glass  in  her  hand  sweats  against  her  palm.  she  hasn’t  taken  a  sip  in  minutes,  just  holds  it  like  something  steady,  something  to  tether  her.  dinah's  voice  lingers  in  the  air,  heavier  than  the  scent  of  stale  beer  and  old  smoke,  heavier  even  than  the  history  pressed  into  every  inch  of  this  place.  she  exhales  slowly,  controlled  in  how  they  taught  her  to  when  adrenaline  starts  to  eat  through  clarity.

she  shifts  in  her  seat,  the  rare  form  of  an  evening  off  melting  in  small  waves.  not  discomfort,  just  recalibration  as  though  she’s  letting  herself  settle  differently  now.  not  into  the  bar,  or  the  chair,  but  into  the  truth  between  them.  that  unspoken  place  where  blood  isn’t  a  metaphor,  and  memory  comes  with  texture.  the  quiet  motion  of  someone  who  has  bled  and  stitched  and  kept  moving,  who  knows  the  cost  of  softness  and  still  lets  it  in.

not  everyone  exists  the  same.  some  become  the  violence,  some  hide  from  it,  some  bury  it  so  deep  they  mistake  it  for  the  wild  of  grief.  no  matter  how  anyone  attempted  to  keep  it,  eventually  it  creeps  up  and  reminds  you  it's  always  been  in  charge.

❛  sorry.  ❜  gloria  sets  the  glass  down  gently,  a  smile  that  isn't  all  there  lifting  the  corner  of  her  lips.  ❛  i'm  surprisingly  shitty  at  small  talk  for  it  being  a  big  part  of  my  job.  ❜  WAR  WAS  LESS  COMPLICATED  THAN  MEDICINE;  empathy  had  drained  her  then,  and  it  drains  her  now.  an  empty  tank  that  keeps  running  onwards.  ❛  i  also  hate  baseball.  ❜

the place doesn’t announce itself. no sign worth reading. just the dry clink of glass against wood, the heavy drag of a barstool across concrete, the soft static of a baseball game playing overhead on a battered television. the walls carry nicotine stains and the bartop’s been wiped down so many times it shines in patches. most of the men here wear uniforms, or did once. one can tell by the way they sit: spines too straight, eyes that scan the room but never settle.

dinah does not blend. not really, and never by accident. black satin pants skim just above the ankle, the soft grey blouse tucked clean at the waist without a single crease, and red-bottom heels on her feet which she exchanges for an old-pair of sneakers after hours; still yet, elegant, unmistakably out of place. she looks like she arrived from a place built on marble and discretion, where voices are tempered by diplomacy and the real power circulates three doors behind the visible one. and maybe she did. but she was never designed to belong to those rooms. strategically placed in them.

‘ yeah, ’ she says, not just with agreement but with recognition as well, like the words been filed and revisited too many times to come out any other way. like she knows exactly what gloria means because she’s lived it more than once. violence, institutions that reward detachment and demand resilience just to survive, even as pamphlets in the therapist office announce that vulnerability is not a weakness.

‘ well. fuck it. ’ she remembers a man once—older, career army, the kind who spoke like authority was his by birthright. he told her women like her couldn’t possibly understand what it meant to be ankle-deep in blood with the comms down and someone dying under her hands. she said nothing then, nothing even as she cleaned the blood off her own hands later that same week.

her  hand  doesn’t  move.  it  stays  there,  over  his  chest,  over  the  heat  of  a  heart  still  BEATING,  even  if  it  feels  like  it’s  barely  holding  on.  her  fingers  curl  a  little,  as  though  she  could  press  through  flesh  and  bone  and  cradle  it  in  her  palm  with  tenderness.  ❛  what  am  i  without  my  hypocrisy?  ❜  her  smile  is  world-weary,  a  life  lived  before  she  ever  stepped  foot  into  the  emergency  department.  one  she  couldn't  shake  from  her  bones  or  broken  soul.  just  the  same,  she  couldn't  shake  off  obligations,  duty,  her  purpose  in  this  world.  ❛  i  know  we  do,  trust  me  on  that  —  ❜  a  pause  to  relinquish  touch,  if  only  to  toy  with  the  pocket  of  his  hoodie.  ❛  i'm  just  asking  for  a  day.  the  details  of  which  i  will  be  forcing  you  to  relax  and  in  turn  i  will  relax  so  it's  mutually  beneficial.  ❜

tired   eyes   flick   to   the   hand   on   his   chest   like   it's   an   open   wound.    the   warmth   of   it   hurts   and   sears   his   skin,   in   the   way   that   softness   does   when   you're   starving   for   it.    he   can't   afford   to   vanish.   too   many   people   need   him   functioning,   unflinching.    to   unravel is not an option,   not   even   at   the   seams.    “     have you ever thought about taking your own advice? ”  he   offers a small grin before shaking his head.    “     people   like   us.   we   belong   here. ” they couldn't walk away if they wanted to.

the  gun  is  still,  but  her  breath  isn’t.  it  slips  through  clenched  TEETH  as  something  she  doesn’t  trust  herself  to  name.  her  eyes  don’t  waver  and  that’s  the  only  thing  that  doesn’t  betray  her.  everything  else,  every  muscle,  every  nerve  ending  is  listening  to  him.  his  words  coil  around  her  like  smoke  in  a  sealed  room;  thick,  unrelenting,  poisonous  and  holy.

he  stands  in  front  of  her  like  a  revenant.  a  memory  reanimated  into  something  hungrier,  rougher  but  not  gone,  and  maybe  that  was  her  penance  for  unearthing  what  should  have  stayed  dead.  she  watches  the  way  he  leans  into  the  barrel,  like  he’s  inviting  annihilation.  like  he  already  knows  she  won’t  give  it  to  him.

and  that’s  what  tips  her.

gloria  moves  before  thought,  a  surge  of  instinct  and  history.  rage,  ache,  and  hunger  burn  under  her  skin  like  shrapnel  hitting  a  nerve.  she  lifts  her  hand,  the  barrel  close  enough  now  that  it  kisses  his  chin  at  the  juncture  between  flesh  and  mask.  she  knows  he'll  find  her  and  haunt  her, and  she  will  let  him  in  every  single  time.

❛  you’re  right.  i  don’t  want  control  and  i  don't  need  permission  either.  ❜  her  voice  serrated,  low  and  trembling  with  something  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  fear.  her  free  hand  curls  in  his  shirt,  dragging  him  tighter  against  her.  she  wants  to  feel  the  pulse  of  him  and  plead  to  the  man  beneath.

❛  and  you,  what  about  you,  querido?  ❜  she  leaned  in,  her  nose  brushed  his  mask,  mouth  hovering  at  the  edge  of  his  jaw,  and  then  so  suddenly.  CLICK  —  that's  all  it  was:  an  empty  game  of  roulette  she  never  loaded.  a  sound  so  deafening  despite  being  so  small.  She  pulls  back  just  enough  to  look  at  him,  really  look  at  him.  ❛ i  could  always  see  you,  you  know.  all  that  hurt  i  could  sink  my  teeth  into  like  you  tore  into  mine.  ❜

she  holds  a  beat  like  she's  unhinging  her  maw.  ❛  but  you’re  wrong  about  one  thing  ❜  a  push  off  his  frame,  empty  clip  snapped  out  of  the  pistol,  and  the  entirety  falls  to  the  ground.  her  eyes  don't  leave  him,  emotions  too  deep  to  remain  buried  and  twice  as  volatile  as  the  heart  on  her  sleeve.  ❛  i  don’t  want  to  pretend  i’m  better  than  you.  i  want  to  believe  i  wasn’t  always  just  like  you,  but  we  both  know  that's  not  true,  don't  we?  ❜

🔫 [ something tells me it's fucked up but hot though? the one time she can't pull the trigger but should. 🫦 ]

POINT A GUN AT MY MUSE PROMPT. | @waruins

that barrel's not cold. that is what gloria doesn't realize. it's not trembling in her grip. but he can feel the hesitation affecting her. and jigsaw? he feeds on that.

it's not wanton glee or the mockery you'd get from an overperforming circus clown. he has a hunger that lives in the marrow of his bones. the version of him before wouldn't flinch. neither would the one that came back from the mirror.

    ❝ now this—this is the good part. ❞ his voice scrapes out. it's rusted and sharp, like heavy metal dragged across the asphalt. there's a twisted reverence that overrode any delight or scorn he might have derived from his grim circumstances.

his devilish audacity compels him to tempt his fate and step closer. to dare her finger to twitch against the trigger because he invaded her space now, in her head, and still—he’s unafraid of death.

    ❝ oh, go on. ❞ the virtually masked eyes flick to the muzzle that was ready to bark at any second. he wonders what dark whispers it put in her head to make her believe this was the right move. ❝ do it. i’d let you. right here. right now! permission to kill, soldier! ❞

the mask covers the jagged and lopsided grin. it shields her from the ruin, but not the dark dare. his head cocks, wolfish, a second away from acting on the impulse to tear into her for the cowardice alone.

    ❝ i think you want me close. i think you want me to bleed for you. break for you. and maybe even burn you a little and call it worship. ❞ he says it like it was a secret passed between their sinner selves of a previous life. a gospel carved into the wall of some brig.

    ❝ i think this little gun? ain’t punishment. it’s one of our fucked up foreplays. ❞ because it felt familiar. it seemed like some shit he'd be into with a girl like her in his past. his hand lifts slowly—measured, not threatening—fingers brushing against the side of the coal-black barrel like he’s petting it. like it's her hair. his thumb grazes the slide, the tension point of unceremonious death, and he sighs like he's tasted the most exquisite dish for his last day on earth.

    ❝ you don’t want control, gloria. you want permission. you want to see what you are when you stop pretending you're better than me. as if we didn't fly the same colors for our country. ❞ his other hand reaches—not to her, but to his own chest. he taps it once. twice. thrice. firm. he leans in and whispers rot in her ear:

    ❝ squeeze the trigger. i’ll still come back for you, gloria. even if you break me. even if you kill me. i'll crawl outta hell and find you, sweetheart. ❞ then—he steps back. but it's barely an inch away. it's enough to see her beautiful trepidation in her eyes. enough to see if his words led to them softening or hardening. jigsaw grins again.

 ❝ now what’s it gonna be, angel? you gonna make uncle sam proud? or are you scared it’ll feel too fucking good? ❞

❝ i only sleep well when you're next to me. ❞ @pittmade

jack  says  it  so  simply,  so  matter  of  fact  as  if  reading  from  an  un-refuted  diagnosis  and  for  a  split  second,  SHE  FORGETS  HOW  TO  BREATHE.  she  takes  a  small  step  toward  him,  enough  for  the  edges  of  her  exhaustion  to  melt  into  something  else.  she  reaches  out,  fingertips  grazing  the  hem  of  his  scrubs  like  she’s  grounding  herself.  tense  shoulders  melting  down,  well  into  a  shift  that  dragged  on  too  long  and  left  too  many  ghosts  behind.  she  should  be  immune  to  tenderness  by  now  in  this  environment  but  if  anything,  gloria  indulges  more.  ❛ yeah,  i  couldn't  sleep  before  shift.  ❜ she  admits,  voice  barely  above  the  hum  of  the  fluorescents  and  break  of  morning  light  through  the  automatic  doors.

she's  cradled  a  coffee  that's  been  re-heated  half  a  dozen  times  that  night  alone  in  her  other  hand.  her  frame  titled,  leaning  against  the  counter  but  more  into  him  as  subtle  as  could  be  mustered  for  their  proximity.  there's  no  struggle  to  find  his  gaze,  it's  already  on  her,  already  poking  at  the  faint  hue  of  pink  adorning  her  cheeks.  gloria  didn't  blush  but  she  does  for  him.  she  smiles  then,  the  kind  that  blooms  slow  and  steady  like  something  she  didn’t  think  could  grow  anymore.  ❛ you  know,  i'm  getting  tired  of  packing  a  bag  and...you  always  make  coffee  better  than  mine.  ❜  it's  a  flash  of  movement  so  subtle  that  any  wandering  eyes  wouldn't  thinks  twice  of  the  rogue  kiss  to  his  stubbled  jaw.  she  lingers  with  weariness  and  the  reflection  of  stars  hung  around  him  in  her  honey  eyes.  ❛  from  a  scientific  perspective,  it  seems  that  the  only  probable  conclusion  here  is  to  eliminate  sleeping  apart.  ❜

she  watches  him,  watches  the  way  his  hand  doesn’t  reach.  how  it  lingers  in  the  air  like  an  OFFERING,  not  a  DEMAND.  that’s  it,  isn’t  it?  he  doesn’t  take.  he  waits.

❛   funny  thing  about  wounds.  ❜  voice  low  and  measured.  each  word  turning  over  in  her  chest  before  it  makes  its  way  to  her  lips.  ❛   they  don’t  scare  me  when  they’re  fresh.  that’s  the  clean  part,  body’s  in  shock,  adrenaline’s  high—you  just  move.  ❜  her  hand  finds  his  with  the  sureness  of  a  decision  she  won’t  unmake,  even  if  it  ruins  her.  grasped  too  eagerly,  entwined  too  tightly.

a  flash  of  recognition.  in  the  same  way  those  horrors  play  on  a  loop  when  her  body  wants  to  find  rest,  shiny  snippets  of  lived-in  carnage.  ❛ it’s  what  happens  after  that  haunts  you.  when  you  start  making  room  for  the  pain  and  working  around  it...pretending  it's  not  shaping  every  goddamn  step  you  take.  ❜

his  invading  scent  almost  clouds  every  rational  instinct.  now,  it  mingles  with  warmth  and  the  taste  of  floral  amber  on  her  skin.  honey  and  irreparable  damage  hasn't  left  his  gaze,  but  she  smiles  like  a  ghost  looking  down  on  a  life  she  couldn't  have.  gloria  has  forgotten  how  to  want  anything  for  herself.  it's  too  selfish,  too  indulgent.  she  shrugs  and  it  brings  her  even  closer.  watching  his  lips,  his  jaw,  their  tanged  hands,  anything  else  to  lessen  the  blow  of  unravelling  parts  of  herself  she'd  hardly  admitted  to  the  mirror.

❛ i  was  just  made  to  hold  other  people's  damage  like  it  was  mine.  that's  it,  billy,  the  job.  ❜  THAT  IS  HER  WORTH.

❛ you  say  you  trust  me  when  i’m  trying  not  to  bleed  but  i  don't  know  how  to  do  anything  else.  ❜  she's  quieter  now,  words  flaying  her  open  piece  by  piece.  ❛ i  don’t  know  what  to  do  with  that.  i  don’t  know  how  to  carry  this  kind  of  want  without  running  from  it.  ❜

her  thumb  moves  gently  along  the  line  of  his  palm.  ❛  because  if  or  when  i  love  someone,  i'm  a  walking  wound  that  won't  stitch  shut.  ❜

    ❝ nah. ❞ the word land irrevocably soft. an unabashed verdict handed down between partners instead of a jury. ❝ i trust you most when you're trying not to. ❞

his hand doesn't reach for her own, but it does hover as a palpable presence. if she wanted this contact, she'd find. billy's learned not to ask.

    ❝ don't be silly. i don’t need to make you bleed to trust you, gloria. ❞ his voice dips lower, but it's not tender—just stripped bare, the way cold nights can feel honest when the war's silenced itself for a breath. ❝ i just need to see how you hold the wound. ❞

he grins foxishly—wolf-mouthed in the dark.

    ❝ i know you've seen plenty of people hold a wound wrong. ❞ there's a deep glimmer of memories behind his eyes now—sordid, too close, close-quarters horror folded under surgical instinct gone frantic. he blinks then. the visuals and their effects shut down and thrown behind the doors in the dark recesses of his mind.

❝ what happened when you saw it? they panic, right? they clamp down. they tear it open wider. now you got tragedy all over the floor. ❞

he tsk'd, sucking his teeth. he shakes his head.

    ❝ but you?—❞ he leans in, just enough for her to catch the green apple and vanilla of his cologne, the salt of aftershock in his sweat. ❝ nobody can't tell you shit. you know how to press. how to breathe through it. how to keep your hands steady with someone else's life inside 'em. ❞

    ❝ that’s how i know. so, if i haven't made myself clear before, I'll say it plainly now: ❞ his voice radiates, warm steel. ❝ i don't want you bleeding, sweetheart. i want to see what you do after. ❞

@medicbled

she  isn't  good  on  the  assurance  that  it  all  gets  better,  gets  more  manageable.  IT  DOESN'T,  but  your  body  adapts  as  it  would  in  times  of  duress  (  times  of  war  )   ❛  in  my  mind,  i  can  save  the  boy.  ❜  an  utterance  between  the  rhythm  of  stabilized  vitals,  tedious  beep  taunting  with  a  drop  at  any  given  second.  she'd  brutalize  herself  if  she  couldn't. 

lyrical sc// @frthestars ( mel )

few  could  possibly  understand  the  depth  of  it  all,  the  uphill  BATTLE  made  of  claws  and  teeth  and  admitted  spite.  ❛  hard  to  be  soft,  tough  to  be  tender.  ❜  of  standing  toe  to  toe  with  men  twice  your  size  and  coming  out  alive  and  higher  up  than  any  of  them  could  possible  imagine.  gloria  knows  she  understands.  enough  for  her  to  offer  up  the  adage  of  something  stronger  than  beer. 

lyrical sc// @w4rwhispers

a  twitch  she  won't  snap  up  in  her  maw.  the  way  he  says  the  word  CAMOFLAUGE  like  he  knows  what  she’s  been  trying  to  outrun  it since  the  first  time  someone  shoved  a  tourniquet  in  her  hand  to  save  a  man  already  half-dead.  like  he  can  see  the  thing  coiled  behind  her  ribs and  how it gnaws  when  she  lets  her  guard  drop. and  she  knew  he  could see it.

❛  well  then  i'm  paying  too  much  for  mine.  ❜  she's  been  dissected  by  people  in  far  colder  rooms  than  this:  by  doctors,  by  superiors,  by  the  mirror.

her  throat  tightens.  ❛  i'm  not—  ❜  hungry?  she's  a  terrible  liar.  he’s  not  wrong,  and  that’s  the  worst  part.  she  just  hates  how  much  she  agrees,  how  he  can  unravel  the  tireless  labour  of  moral  acrobatics  at  the  promise  of  FEEDING  THE  ROT.

❛  bleeding  is  easy,  billy.  ❜  she  presses  words  and  invades  his  space.  she  isn't  a  threat...she's  always  a  threat;  a  labcoat  won't  change  that,  but  she's  offering  resistance  by  tenderness.  it  lands  as  a  bruise  and  traces  the  veins  in  his  forearm.  ❛  i  want  to  know  what  they  do  when  the  wound  closes.  ❜

❛  but  be  honest  again,  querido.  ❜  a  sharp  hum,  a  burning  sort  of  melody,  amusement  becomes  a  strange  sickness  brought  back  from  the  gallows.  ❛  is  that  the  only  time  you  trust  me?  when  you  make  me  bleed?  ❜

there's a subtle twitch behind his lashes—barely there. you'd miss it unless you were hunting for it. and someone like gloria? she always seemed to be hunting for something.

    ❝ suppose a psychologist would call that behavior 'camouflage'—if they were ditching the clinical lingo and leaning into something we’d actually recognize. ❞

he tilts his head, as if parsing her—like she were a wound to be stitched or a bomb to be disarmed.

    ❝ uniforms aren't made to make saints. scrubs, fatigues—shit, even the suits, gloria. all they do is color the appetite. but the hunger? it’s still there. ❞ he studies gloria, eyes locked into hers—too long, too knowingly.

    ❝ but if i gotta be honest... i trust people more when they're bleeding. at least then, you know what color they really are. ❞

@medicbled

she  isn't  someone  who  flusters  easily.  could  withstand  the  force  of  a  thousand  storms  and  still  hold  her  ground  against  the  CARNAGE  AND  CHAOS.  ❛  i've  got  a  hundred  thrown-out  speeches  i  almost  said  to  you.  ❜  she's  at  a  loss  here,  in  over  her  head  and  overthinking  because  it's  not  as  simple  as  locking  into  task  or  mission.  her  heart  wears  too  close  to  her  sleeve  and  clawing  its  way  into  his  hands. 

lyrical sc// @pittmade

it's  always  a  question,  always  attempting  to  understand  what  it's  like.  WAR  &  TRIAGE,  too  similar  in  how  her  spine  remembers  instinct.  ❛  it's  the  terror  of  knowing  what  this  world's  about.  ❜  she's  too  casual  about  it,  a  shrug,  a  chuff  of  amusement. 

lyrical sc// @jennifershepard

it  comes  from  a  place  she'll  never  have  for  herself  -   CONCERN,  sincerity  cornering  him  with  tenderness.  ❛  take  the  phone  off  the  hook  and  disappear  for  a  while.  ❜  there  with  a  gentle  palm  against  his  chest,  a  smile  that  aches.  ❛  it's  alright,  you  can  afford  to  lose  a  day  or  two.  ❜

lyrical sc // @rbnvtch