❛  We're  Not  Going  To  Fight  Her,  She's  The  Devil.  And  You  Don't  Dance  With 

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.

Gloria’s preference for older lovers has never come from a weird insecurity or lack of personal relationships…it’s competency, it’s leadership, it’s attraction to someone with life experience and that scratches the intellectual brain and becomes sensual.

                        𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙𝘌 𝘈𝘙𝘌 𝘔𝘌𝘕, 𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙𝘌 𝘈𝘙𝘌 𝘎𝘖𝘋𝘚, 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙𝘌 𝘐𝘚 𝘉𝘙𝘜𝘡3𝘙.

ADRIA ARJONA as Madison Figueroa HIT MAN (2024)

❛ you are my salvation. ❜ price @muutos

she  wants  to  be  his  salvation,  wants  it  in  a  way  that  terrifies  her  enough  to  believe  him.  it’s  not  flattery,  it’s  not  sweet—it's  the  weight  of  meaning  because  john  price  doesn't  utter  a  single  syllable  he  doesn't  stand  behind.  it  lands  in  her  chest  like  a  round  at  close  range,  and  for  a  second,  all  she  can  do  is  feel  it:  the  honesty  of  it,  the  need  of  it.  fingers  pressed  into  the  hard  edge  of  his  chest,  sliding  up  the  column  of  his  throat  like  she’s  checking  if  he’s  real,  if  he’s  still  warm  under  her  palm.  he  is,  off  course  he  is.  a  man  always  burning,  always  ready  to  fight  someone  else's  war.  the  perfect  soldier,  the  selfless  leader,  giving  until  there's  nothing  left  and  still  never  staying  down.

she  leans  in,  her  forehead  pressing  into  the  curve  of  his  temple,  mouth  a  whisper  over  his  own.  her  frame  straddled  his  lap,  as  if  by  miracle,  she  could  ground  him  there.  ❛  john.  ❜  like  she's  something  soft  and  not  buried  beneath  devouring  violence,  like  she  wasn't  haunted  in  every  step  she  took.  how  could  gloria  deny  him  that  refuge?  she  wants  to  say  it’s  too  much,  that  salvation  is  too  big  a  word  for  what  she  can  give  but,  it  doesn't  change  a  long-standing  truth.  at  doesn't  change  the  fact  that  he's  her  salvation,  too.  bloodstained,  battle-worn,  but  hers.  ❛  i'll  be  anything  for  you.  ❜  her  teeth  tug  at  his  bottom  lip,  testing  reverence  with  a  flick  of  her  tongue.  it's  almost  cruel,  the  way  her  words  tremble  against  him,  how  her  nails  trace  his  jaw.  ❛  but  i  need  you  to  take.  i  need  you  to  be  selfish,  i  need  you  to  want  this  more  than  you  decided  on  your  own  grave.  ❜

❛  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

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.

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

an non - spicy starter call so a regular one ? ( obvious subject for existing ships that it to be shippy if that’s the direction I go in )

© * ᴵᴺ ᴬ ᴴᴼᵁᔆᴱ ᴼᶠ ᴹᴵᴿᴿᴼᴿᔆ ᵞᴼᵁ'ᴿᴱ ᴺᴱⱽᴱᴿ ᴬᴸᴼᴺᴱ - WELCOME HOME!