✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄, 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄, 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 .    (  a

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

gloria, the doctor who will know how every nurse takes their drink. gloria the doctor who can ( and likely has ) probably strong armed a violent patient before security can get there. gloria, the doctor who needs a giant hug and something explicit.

it’s not Sunday and idc cause the world needs to understand that you HAVE to dominate her or she will edge you within an inch of your life and fucking laugh about it and talk shit in your face about it.

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.

INK && SCARS

❛  we're  not  going  to  fight  her,  she's  the  devil.  and  you  don't  dance  with  the  devil  cause  you  get  burned.  also  in  her  case,  because  she  has  no  rhythm  and  her  hands  are  like  little  rat  claws.  ❜

holt & diaz quote starters // @washsins ( this feels like a dean conversation )

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

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.

"I’m   losing   control   here." @werehause

she  hears  the  words,  never  misses  a  syllable,  but  how  they  land  makes  that  pit  of  grief  wring  a  little  tighter  in  her  chest.  a  kind  of  breaking  in  it.  not  loud,  not  dramatic,  just  tired  of  holding  up  the  world.  she'd  always  found  jason  to  be  a  little  reckless,  burning  hot  and  full  of  life,  running  towards  trouble  with  his  whole  heart.  but  this  felt  different,  like  the  hidden  lamentations  of  someone  who  didn't  know  how  to  carry  their  own  weight  anymore.  she  knew  that  feeling.  lived  inside  the  endless  spiral  of  it  every  single  day.  gloria  closed  the  space  between  them  and  placed  her  hand  over  his  chest.  the  old  bits  of  string  braided  together,  adorning  her  wrist,  had  seen  too  much  of  the  world  with  her.  a  palm  that  dances  up  and  cradles  his  jaw,  holding  his  gaze.  and  fuck  —  she  can't  help  it  when  she  looks  at  him.  finding  fragments  of  the  same  wide-eyed  boy  who  used  to  meet  her  by  the  swamp  beds  at  dusk.  she  still  had  a  collection  of  skipping  stones  and  gator  teeth  tucked  in  a  box  of  memories  beneath  her  bed,  and  she  thinks  about  showing  him.  wonders  if  it  might  do  good  to  steady  the  brewing  storm  she  could  feel  beneath  the  beat  of  his  heart.  to  know  how  much  it  stuck  to  her  soul,  tiny  glimpses  of  a  simple  slice  of  something  heavenly  before  she  walked  through  hell. 

❛  hey,  look  at  me.  ❜  it's  a  gentle  husk,  but  no  less  commanding.  ❛  talk  to  me,  jason.  i'll  help  you  figure  it  out,  whatever  it  is.  ❜

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.  ❜