𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 .    (  a  collection

a tender glimpse beneath the surface

❝ i'll always protect you. ❞

❝ i never meant to get this close, but now that i have i can't let you go. ❞

❝ i live for the moments when you look at me. the rest of the time i'm just existing. ❞

❝ i don't like how you make me feel. but i like not being around you even less. ❞

❝ i wish you wouldn't look at me like that. when you look at me like that i...it makes me wanna do things i shouldn't ❞

❝ there's no line i wouldn't cross for you. don't you realize that? ❞

❝ i did this for you. no one else. ❞

❝ i don't like it, but i'll do it for you. ❞

❝ i wonder how much of myself i'll have to give to you—how much i have to lay bare—before you realize how much you're taking. ❞

❝ i'm not trying to fix you. i'm just trying to be your friend. ❞

❝ i'm not um, real good at thank yous. or sorry's. but if you ever need me, i'm there. i owe you one. ❞

❝ i've seen you at your worst and i'm still standing here. ❞

❝ you've seen me at my worst but you're still here... ❞

❝ you can be mad at me, i can take it. i'd rather you be angry than shut me out. ❞

❝ i'm not angry, i'm just scared. ❞

❝ i know you love me, but do you like me? ❞

❝ do you think i'm a good person? ❞

❝ do you think i care for you so little that betraying me would make a difference? of course i'm helping you. ❞

❝ tell me what i can do to show you how i love you. i will give you anything you ask for. ❞

❝ you don't have to keep apologizing. just be here. day in and day out and prove that you're gonna keep showing up. that's all you have to do. ❞

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

❝ i don't want an apology i just want to understand. ❞

❝ i could actually use a hug right now. ❞

❝ i want everyone else to go away, but you can stay. ❞

❝ i actually do care what you think about. you're probably one of the only people whose opinion matters to me. ❞

❝ you always seem to know what i need. ❞

❝ you always seem to know just what i need to hear. ❞

❝ i want you to call me when you need someone. i want to be here for you. ❞

❝ you're the one i wanna call when i need someone. ❞

❝ seems like i always want you around when everything feels all fucked up. guess that means something. ❞

sometimes i really think you have a death wish . @rbnvtch

there's  a  break  in  every  human  being,  a  line  of  resiliency,  of  ENDURANCE.  outside  of  medicine,  she'd  be  trained  to  find  that  point  and  push  past  it,  to  crawl  beneath  wire  with  broken  limbs  and  keep  going.  it's  wired  into  her,  vigilance  kept  home  from  spine  to  gaze.  her  smile  is  still  warm,  the  chuff  of  laughter  like  a  breeze  of  life.  a  spark  of  intimacy  behind  the  weariness  of  honey—  maybe  she  was  starting  to  lose  her  edge,  exhaustion  seeping  into  her  bones  like  that.  maybe  that's  the  most  tragic  part  about  it,  was  how  she  could  still  soldier  on  for  another  double  if  someone  asked  her  to.

❛  death  hides  when  he  sees  me  coming.  ❜  god,  she  wished.  she'd  BEGGED  AND  BEGGED  so  many  times,  screamed  into  an  empty  sky,  bled  herself  dry  and  still  kept  fighting.  she  tucked  the  iPad  under  her  arm  to  give  him  her  undivided  attention.  perhaps,  too  much  as  she  reaches  for  his  coffee  cup  (  he  brews  it  better  than  anything  around  here  ),  and  takes  a  sip.  not  too  tired  to  mess  with  him.  ❛  working  two  doubles  in  seven  days  isn't  that  bad,  michael.  i'm  almost  done.  unless  you're  going  to  drag  me  out  kicking  and  screaming.  ❜  a  playful  glint,  another  sip  and  her  index  points  in  silent  accusation. 

❛ you’re a fucking nightmare. kiss me. ❜ / dex @weaponid

it  doesn’t  sound  like  desire,  it  sounds  like  a  dare.  gloria  stands  there,  breath  tight  in  her  chest,  jaw  working  like  she's  chewing  down  a  scream.  maybe,  once  upon  a  time,  she  would've  flinched.  denied  it.  tried  to  scrub  the  blood  off  her  hands  and  weigh  the  scales  of  morality,  not  anymore.  it  isn't  something  she  can  just  outrun.  it  wouldn't  matter  how  many  lives  she  saved;  she  still  took  without  mercy  when  the  orders  were  given.  never  hesitated,  never  uttered  the  realization  that  she  liked  it.  gloria  laughs,  and  it's  a  caustic  thing.  like  she's  clinging  to  the  last  fragments  of  dignity  before  she  inevitably  begs  him  to  dish  out  pain  as  personal  penance.  ❛  aw,  am  i  keeping  you  up  at  night,  dex?  ❜

it’s  been  a  long  time  since  anyone’s  looked  at  her  like  she’s  something  real.  not  a  saviour  or  a  soldier.  something  he  doesn’t  want  to  fix,  maybe  even  something  he  wants.  her  hand  finds  his  jaw,  fingers  rough  from  the  violence  of  trying  to  hold  onto  softness.  from  too  many  nights  spent  stitching  other  people’s  wounds  while  ignoring  her  own,  she  tilts  his  face  down  and  meets  his  eyes  with  something  broken  and  burning.  her  thumb  brushes  his  cheek  with  the  barest  touch  of  reverence—or—warning.  it's  a  slow  melt  into  him,  but  not  an  ounce  of  hesitation.  gifting  him  the  taste  of  something  sweet  before  her  fingers  curl  roughly  into  his  hair,  and  teeth  graze  his  bottom  lip.  a  fucking  nightmare  made  flesh  if  he  wanted  it.

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

❝ you’re gonna lose a finger if you don’t get outta my sight right now. ❞ // frank @weaponid

of  course,  frank  would  show  up  like  this.  LIKE  A  THREAT,  like  a  memory  she  hadn’t  invited  but  couldn’t  forget.  gloria  doesn't  flinch,  she  never  does.  not  for  violence,  not  for  men  like  frank,  and  certainly  not  for  words  spat  like  warning  shots.  but  still,  there’s  a  shift  in  posture,  a  tension  strung  too  tightly  in  her  spine,  her  jaw  locked  up.  the  man  was  smart  enough,  at  least  reading  the  tone  far  from  idle  in  the  promise  of  action.  he  walked  off  with  a  bruised  ego  and  utterance  of  a  half-assed  apology  in  his  wake.  gloria  doesn't  watch  him  go;  her  eyes  are  on  frank.  ❛ fuck  sakes,  frank,  you  don't  get  to  do  that!  ❜

her  palm  is  firm,  flat  against  his  chest  and  pushing  back  on  the  immovable  force.  she'd  gotten  good  jabs  in  before,  but  there  was  no  need  to  cast  a  larger  spotlight  on  them.  and  she  presses  into  that  rage  humming  inside him,  steps  in  rhythm  and  away  from  prying  eyes  and  forming  bodies  around  the  commotion.  the  part  of  herself  that  still  aches  for  him  wrestles  with  the  anger  towards  that  feeling.  past  bone  and  marrow,  cutting  into  her  dna  and  whatever  the  empty  sky  deemed  sufficient  for  a  soul.  it  all  stirs  beneath  her  ribcage,  something  that  wants  to  remember  instead  of  survive  on  scraps.  ❛ you  can't  threaten  everyone  that  breathes  near  me,  you  don't  have  that  kind  of  privilege.  ❜

indefinite hiatus.

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 ?

30.     netflix watch history.  // HCS @pittmade

28.     five most recent sent text messages  @pittmade

Honestly, I can't even do five cause this is it.

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.