LOCATION  BASED  SMUT  PROMPTS

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.

you call THAT a PLAN ? / tommy kinard @decryptids

it's  a  look  of  amplified  outrage  afforded  for  the  closest  of  friends.  two  exist,  and  ONE  STANDS  BEFORE  HER.  ❛  i'll  have  you  know,  i  blew  off  a  date  with  my  couch  and  a  new  documentary  for  this,  so  maybe  a  little  decorum.  ❜  time  was  a  currency,  a  luxury  she  didn't  have,  but  no  matter  how  weary,  she  held  herself  up.  she's  been  slacking  on  this  end,  maintaining  facetimes  and  the  occasional  run-in  through  emergency  where  they  can  spare  a  moment  between  the  chaos  to  catch  up.  ❛  and  i  don't  need  to  get  laid.  ❜  need  and  want  are  two  different  animals,  she's  only  half  lying  there;  a  want  and  a  need.

❛  do  you  just  need  me  to  keep  you  from  making  a  terrible  mistake  again?  cause  i  can  rally  for  that.  ❜  she  teases,  a  shoulder  nudging  tommy  as  she  brushes  past  him  in  the  kitchen.  a  smile  perked  up  tired  honey  eyes,  wine  glass  half  empty.  ❛  you  know,  you  could  have  just  started  with  what  you  wanted  to  do.  typical  fucking  pilot.  ❜  she  snickers.

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.

“Get a load of this guy”

Gloria: I’m trying to

INK && SCARS

#MEDICBLED 

an   independent,   highly   selective   and   private   original   former  special  forces  combat  medic  turned  emergency  room  physician  (  and  mercenary  in  alt  verse  )   DOCTOR  GLORIA   DE   LIMA.   established   in   2018,   revamped  2025.   this   blog   features   trigger   themes   about   war   and   its   aftermath as well as medical triggers. 

this   does   NOT   make   this   blog   or   mun   pro-war,   in   fact,   but   it   is   meant   to   highlight   the   infliction   of   trauma   and   chaos   to   individuals   involved.   this   blog   will   not   shy   away   from   subject   matters   such   as;   ptsd,   self-reflection,   violence,   and   mentions   of   enduring   sexual   and   verbal   harassment   as   well   as   the   plight   of   women   and   minorities   in   the   armed   forces   and   the   de-construction   of   patriotism   and   imperialism   by   disillusionment.   it   should   be   remembered   that   gloria   is   a   work   of   FICTION   and   while   her   inspiration   comes   from  many   sources   it   is   still   very   much   that.   please   DNI   under   21. heavily affiliated with : @pittmade

further   exploring   themes   of   ;   poets   make   the   best   soldiers,   the   legacy   of   duty,   the   ghosts   that   follow   home   from   war,   for   whom   the   bell  tolls,   hard   to   be   soft,   tough   to   be   tender,   persisting   in   a   man's   world,   endurance   beyond   limitations,   healers   have   the   bloodiest   hands,   you   take   care   of   everyone   else   but   who   takes   care   of   you?

CONNECTIONS.  @weaponid ( ship/exlusive frank castle. ) @ujima ( affiliate ) + @bl4ckdevl ( ship exclusive) , @muutos ( ship/exclusive cpt. john price )

CAARD.   PLAYLIST. AES.  SIDEBLOG. NSFW  SIDEBLOG.

❛ 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.  ❜

gloria's cool date idea: a fucking nap and you pretend like she didn't drool on you a little bit cause she's comfortable with you.

few  could  possibly  understand  the  depth  of  it  all,  the  uphill  BATTLE  made  of  claws  and  teeth  and  admitted  spite.  ❛  hard  to  be  soft,  tough  to  be  tender.  ❜  of  standing  toe  to  toe  with  men  twice  your  size  and  coming  out  alive  and  higher  up  than  any  of  them  could  possible  imagine.  gloria  knows  she  understands.  enough  for  her  to  offer  up  the  adage  of  something  stronger  than  beer. 

lyrical sc// @w4rwhispers

i wish to write filth