It’s Not Sunday And Idc Cause The World Needs To Understand That You HAVE To Dominate Her Or She Will

@medicbled - gloria de lima. combat medic, mercenary, occasional emergency medicine doctor verse pending. @docmohan - doctor samira mohan of max's the pitt. canon & hc driven. @sweets1n - roxana flores. stripper/burlesque dancer, rockabilly baby, religious trauma and heart of pure gold and peach cobbler. @enduredshe - emersyn thompson varela. trafficking survivor, social worker, vigilante and hacker.

making a new oc cause why wouldn’t I ?

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

Hello, consider this my dynamics, mains, affiliate and all that fun stuff call. there’s a couple shippy things I have brewing in my head but they’re not mandatory and she could use other dynamics as well.

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.

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.

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 )

I'm sorry you got pulled back into this.

DAREDEVIL — 1.11 "The Path of the Righteous"

OH SHE ANGSTY TONIGHT. somebody fix it. help. HELLLLP.

"If I'm giving up everything...I want to win. We have to."