A  Twitch  She  Won't  Snap  Up  In  Her  Maw.  The  Way  He  Says  The  Word  CAMOFLAUGE 

night shift makes sense for her because she's a night owl to begin with. night terrors are relentless even with meds, even with therapy ( clearly night terrors can't get you in the day time soooo ). her body, her brain and internal clock were re-wired in the military; she can survive off minuscule amounts of sleep and still be high-functioning. that never leaves her, but that doesn't mean she isn't perpetually exhausted. it makes her ability to pull working doubles very frequently seem superhuman.

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?"

If I gave back her dead fiancé tho !?? What then ? It would absolutely be more angst, I know but it would solidify her choice to leave the military cause it was brother, KIA , best friend KIA, fiancée, bombed by American weapons while working for Doctors Without Borders so you know….how mean can I be to her ?

❝ 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.  ❜

please just let me help you. @pittmade

the  adrenaline  still  pulses  like  mortar  fire  in  her  ears,  the  sheets  had  tangled  tight  around  her  waist,  unravled  in  the  abruptness  when  she  lept  from  bed.  her  breath  comes  in  short,  calculated  bursts,  the  kind  meant  to  hide  the  panic,  not  soothe  it.  A  SURVIVAL  RHYTHMN,  a  trick  she  learned  in  tents  and  triage  units  under  foreign  skies.  eversteady  hands  tremble  and  fumble  with  the  script.  that  emergency  bottle  to  sit  beneath  her  tongue  and  chase  away  reflections  of  war.  she  hasn’t  cried,  she  doesn’t,  not  even  now,  but  her  body  feels  like  it  wants  to.  not  out  of  fear.  not  anymore.  but  exhaustion,  a  deep  marrow-tiredness  that  never  fades,  just  gets  buried  under  scrubs  and  charts  and  too  much  coffee.

please  just  let  me  help  you.

it’s  the  way  he  says  it,  like  a  quiet  promise  in  the  dark,  like  he’s  offering  her  a  place  to  land  instead  of  a  spotlight  to  stand  under.  guilt  tears  through  sinew  and  soul.  no  one  had  ever  seen  her  like  this;  the  burden  she'd  refused  to  unleash  upon  the  unknowing,  the  unwilling.  she  slept  so  well  beside  him,  no  issues  arising  until  the  inevitable  push  against  her  ribs  to  recall.  her  eyes  meet  his,  not  fully,  not  yet,  but  just  the  edge  of  him  in  the  ambient  light  of  her  bathroom.  honey  eyes  far  away,  attempting  to  find  her  HOME  again.  the  bottle  nearly  crushed  in  her  hand  as  she  followed  the  sound  of  his  voice.  she  caught  the  warmth  of  his  scent  and  reached  for  him.  something  in  the  most  broken  parts  of  her  being following  his  imprint  of  energy  like  a  ship  to  harbour  in  a  winter  storm.  ❛  jack.  ❜  a  voice  so  raw,  so  haunted,  crawling  back  to  life.  gloria  is  pressed  to  him,  instinct  of  spirit  sought  and  driving  action.  ❛  i'm  sorry,  i'm  sorry.  ❜  muffled  against  his  chest,  but  she  breathes,  finally.

okay this is a sc for a spicy one. this is a filthy sc.

darker vibes

❛ i would let you rip me apart if it meant loving you. ❜

❛ this fear you feel? it won’t last. ❜

❛ you are my salvation. ❜

❛ i revolt you, don’t i? ❜

❛ get the hell away from me. ❜

❛ i want to sink my teeth into every inch of you. ❜

❛ i’ll be your dirty little secret, if that’s what you’re into. ❜

❛ worship me. until i tell you to stop. ❜

❛ don’t you know how sick with love i am for you? ❜

❛ fucking hit me already. ❜

❛ i would burn the world for you. ❜

❛ i don’t want to be good, no matter how hard you wish it. ❜

❛ i don’t know how you’ve bewitched me, but it needs to stop. ❜

❛ fix me. ❜

❛ they die for love, you kill for it. ❜

❛ you are mine, whether you agree or not. ❜

❛ do you like it when i bleed for you? ❜

❛ i will keep hurting. i will keep killing. anything to protect you. ❜

❛ i’m starved for you, morning and night. ❜

❛ now i get to ravish you. ❜

❛ i am your god and your executioner. ❜

❛ you are doing so well, my pet. ❜

❛ you’re my sweetest poison. ❜

❛ let’s do something about that mouth of yours. ❜

❛ your fascination with me will be your death. ❜

❛ you’re the monster that’s enticed me into your bed. ❜

❛ all you can say are pretty lies. ❜

❛ the fucked up thing is that it isn’t enough to just love you. ❜

❛ you’ve broken me. all i can think about is you. ❜

❛ you’ll beg for more. ❜

❛ an eternity with you would never satisfy me. ❜

❛ i would gladly let you drag me to hell. ❜

❛ everything i’ve done.. every horrible atrocity, it’s been for you. ❜

❛ you’re a fucking nightmare. kiss me. ❜

❛ feel grateful that i allow you to touch me. ❜

❛ every time your lips touch my skin, you burn me from the inside out. ❜

❛ there’s no black or white, only gray. ❜

❛ no one touches what’s mine. ❜

❛ make me indifferent, make me horrible. ❜

❛ i could never be the one to love you. i can only be the one that kills you. ❜

❛ your lips are poison, your laugh a curse. ❜

15.     bookcase. // HC @owestwind

BOOKSHELVES// she has a habit, a collection that rivals her record one. two points in her home have dedication to her literature. - a corner in her living room and a good portion of her bedroom. every single book is one she's read at least once before and there are favourites she revisits often. many copies that have seen combat and deployments and gotten her through difficult times. she's a fast, thorough reader and her taste varies, but this is a little snippet of some of her favourites.

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? ❞

ADRIA ARJONA as Bix Caleen ANDOR | S02E03 “Harvest”