You Call THAT A PLAN ? / Tommy Kinard @decryptids

a  twitch  she  won't  snap  up  in  her  maw.  the  way  he  says  the  word  CAMOFLAUGE  like  he  knows  what  she’s  been  trying  to  outrun  it since  the  first  time  someone  shoved  a  tourniquet  in  her  hand  to  save  a  man  already  half-dead.  like  he  can  see  the  thing  coiled  behind  her  ribs and  how it gnaws  when  she  lets  her  guard  drop. and  she  knew  he  could see it.

❛  well  then  i'm  paying  too  much  for  mine.  ❜  she's  been  dissected  by  people  in  far  colder  rooms  than  this:  by  doctors,  by  superiors,  by  the  mirror.

her  throat  tightens.  ❛  i'm  not—  ❜  hungry?  she's  a  terrible  liar.  he’s  not  wrong,  and  that’s  the  worst  part.  she  just  hates  how  much  she  agrees,  how  he  can  unravel  the  tireless  labour  of  moral  acrobatics  at  the  promise  of  FEEDING  THE  ROT.

❛  bleeding  is  easy,  billy.  ❜  she  presses  words  and  invades  his  space.  she  isn't  a  threat...she's  always  a  threat;  a  labcoat  won't  change  that,  but  she's  offering  resistance  by  tenderness.  it  lands  as  a  bruise  and  traces  the  veins  in  his  forearm.  ❛  i  want  to  know  what  they  do  when  the  wound  closes.  ❜

❛  but  be  honest  again,  querido.  ❜  a  sharp  hum,  a  burning  sort  of  melody,  amusement  becomes  a  strange  sickness  brought  back  from  the  gallows.  ❛  is  that  the  only  time  you  trust  me?  when  you  make  me  bleed?  ❜

there's a subtle twitch behind his lashes—barely there. you'd miss it unless you were hunting for it. and someone like gloria? she always seemed to be hunting for something.

    ❝ suppose a psychologist would call that behavior 'camouflage'—if they were ditching the clinical lingo and leaning into something we’d actually recognize. ❞

he tilts his head, as if parsing her—like she were a wound to be stitched or a bomb to be disarmed.

    ❝ uniforms aren't made to make saints. scrubs, fatigues—shit, even the suits, gloria. all they do is color the appetite. but the hunger? it’s still there. ❞ he studies gloria, eyes locked into hers—too long, too knowingly.

    ❝ but if i gotta be honest... i trust people more when they're bleeding. at least then, you know what color they really are. ❞

@medicbled

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? ❞

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 only "support your troops" that matters 🫡

 ❛ i've  have  enough  of  the  universe,  and  it's  people's  mindless  games  ❜  any  raised  anger  is  not  directed  towards  him.  never  him.  helpless  hands  work  over  the  exoskeleton  of  a  blaster,  which  once  belonged  to  her  father  and  his  before  him.  on  and  on,  counting  the  memories  she  might  lose,  of  a  world  that  no  longer  exists.  ❛  i'll  never  be  the  same.  ❜  and  the  galaxy  spins  on  uncaring,  would  twist  her  into  dust  and  decay  without  a  second  thought.  so  she  keeps  an  unfinished  war  between  her  teeth,  a  readiness  notched  between  her  ribs,  an  ache  she  couldn't  scare  away. 

LYRICAL SC // @muutos ( garrus )

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 )

“Get a load of this guy”

Gloria: I’m trying to

›       TENSION   LINER   PROMPTS     

"I   dare   you   to   try."

"Do   you   always   get   close?"

"You’re   pushing   my   limits."

"Stop   looking   at   me   like   that."

"I’m   losing   control   here."

"You   have   no   idea,   do   you?"

"I   can’t   resist   you   anymore."

"Stay   back,   or   don’t."

"I   know   what   you   want."

"This   is   getting   dangerous   now."

"You’re   too   tempting   for   me."

"I   shouldn’t   want   this,   but…"

"I   don’t   play   fair,   remember?"

"Careful,   you’re   testing   me."

"You’re   just   making   it   worse."

"You’re   too   close   for   comfort."

"Do   you   always   push   buttons?"

"Stop   before   I   kiss   you."

"You’re   making   it   too   hard."

"I   can’t   stop   thinking   about   you."

"I   want   you   too   much."

"You   know   exactly   what   you’re   doing."

"I’m   not   playing   games   here."

"You’ve   crossed   the   line   now."

"Keep   pushing,   and   you’ll   regret   it."

"This   is   dangerous,   isn’t   it?"

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"Don’t   make   me   regret   this."

"You’re   playing   with   fire."

"You   don’t   know   what’s   coming."

"I   shouldn’t   be   this   close."

"We’re   getting   dangerously   close   now."

"I   can   feel   the   heat."

"Don’t   test   me   right   now."

"I   want   you   too   badly."

"Don’t   make   me   chase   you."

"You’re   distracting   me,   you   know."

"I   won’t   fall   for   this."

"I   want   you,   but…"

"What   do   you   want   from   me?"

"I’ll   never   give   in."

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"You’re   playing   with   my   patience."

"Don’t   make   this   harder,   please."

"I   can’t   stop   this   feeling."

"I’m   already   in   too   deep."

"You   won’t   walk   away   unscathed."

"You’re   walking   a   fine   line."

"I’m   trying   to   stay   calm."

"What   are   you   doing   to   me?"

🌶️ SC // @weaponid ( bucky )

she  wasn't  entirely  sure  what  parts  of  herself  were  even  human  anymore.  she's nothing  but  want  and  wreckage  spinning  out  of  control.  her  mind  a  cruel  reverie,  reflections  of  war  plastered  across  her  psyche,  gunfire,  blood,  mistakes  she  couldn't  fix.  if  bloodletting  worked,  she'd  have  knelt  in  a  pool  of  poison,  waiting  until  every  drop  was  expelled  from  her  veins.  instead,  she's  here  with  her  head  tilted  back,  throat  exposed  like  a  doe  with  carnivorous  teeth,  presenting  the  prize  of  willful  subjugation.  wild  eyes  pleading  from  where  she's  draped  across  his  sturdy  thighs.

❛ take  it,  take  it  all  from  me,  please.  ❜  control.  unspoken  and  kept  in  the  way  she  whines  like  a  battered  hound  of  war  asking  to  be  put  down.  gloria  hates  herself  for  it,  how  slick  and  hungry  the  prospect  of  ruination  makes  her.  the  desperation  louder  than  the  ragged  edge  of  a  breath  she  couldn't  catch.  enough  that  her  body  counters  vulnerability  by  drawing  blood  from  his  lips  with  her  teeth.  enough  that  her  palm  flattens  and  cracks  along  his  jaw  to  initiate  a  surge  of  pain  she  craves  tenfold.  ❛ all  of  it,  bucky.  ❜  claws  threading  through  his  hair,  pulling  and  soothing  over  all  at  once.  she  ground  down  onto  him,  rough  and  frantic,  chasing  the  sharp-edged  friction.  chasing  the  violent  shudder  that  tore  up  her  spine.  ❛ please.  ❜