guncontrcl-blog

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tag drop.

» i believe there’s evil in the world and i want to fight it and win.     mike. » outta my way. we’re family.     charlie. » be a problem solver. be mexcellent.     johnny. paige. » it’s a wax on wax off sort of thing.     briggs. » i'm like a chocolate jesus.     jakes. » to our merry merry band of misfits.     the house.

» do your frickin’ job.     ari. there’s that scared smell again.     sid. carlito. you are a man. a solider.     bello.

» from this moment on your lies are your life.     verse / season one. » for the next eight weeks you guys’ll be working for me.     verse / season two. » i’m sorry and i forgive you.     verse / season three. » that’s the last in a long line of wrong decisions.     verse / season four. » smooth the descent and easy is the way.     verse / shadowhunters. » everything will be okay in the long run.     verse / cxrrera ; main.

» hector’s tacos. shit’s real!     ooc. » we don't guard graceland. graceland doesn't guard us. we guard each other.     answered. » you know what a heat run is? i know you do because it's in the book.     headcanon. » i know it may not look like it but i have this under control.     meme. » to home and the people that matter.     aesthetic. » hey yo; you got some of that baby?     commentary.

» there are no heroes here.     important. » screw the book. it wasn't written for you.     music. » thank god for savior complexes.     references.

» she could tell my heart was somewhere else.     mike / paige. » mike / abby. » mike / charlie.

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“you realize that i’ve been here three years and i still haven’t had any of charlie’s sauce?” it’s small talk, safe. mike doesn’t dare speak anything even remotely controversial with briggs -- their relationship is much too rocky for that right now. 

@marredset / starter call.

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mike warren: big bad fbi agent also mike warren: tucks his napkin in his shirt so he doesn’t make a mess

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mutuals - like this for a canon graceland starter! bonus points if you drop a specific season or plot you’d be interested in writing in the replies to this.

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RANDOM MIKE WARREN GIFS: 172 / ∞

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RULES: answer the questions & tag as many as you like~ TAGGED BY:  @marredset​ TAGGING: you!

name: sam

zodiac sign: aries

favorite food: anything with bread or pizza.

favorite season: autumn

jeans or shorts: jeans

where are you from: new york

last book you read:  one of the outlander books, i can’t remember which

favorite movie: i don’t think i have an actual favorite movie :x

dream vacation: scotland

natural hair color:  brown

height: 5'4″ish

introvert or extrovert: introvert

tea or coffee: water

do you work out regularly: i’m trying

favorite beverage: water

do you have pets: my dog sophie lives with my mom 

your ideal day off: never getting out of bed ever ever 

in a relationship or single: single

something unique about me: uh this is like the “what’s your name, what’s your major, what’s one fun fact about you?” crap from high school 

if you choose to, post a selfie: uhhh i posted one on @oftheridge earlier so here u go

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RANDOM MIKE WARREN GIFS: 142 / ∞

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i have answers. i just don’t know what the questions are.

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RANDOM MIKE WARREN GIFS: 143 / ∞

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11/10 would give my left arm for a charlie so that mike can actually enjoy sauce night for the first time ever please and thank you.

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Big fan. Stan hard from a distance, just thought you should know you're actual quality! Okay bye!

i’ve???? been here like three times in the last week and a half and missing in action from writing mike for like two years before that so i don’t know what i did to deserve this i’m just gonna go curl up in a small ball and cry happy tears ;_; thank you friend

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@spencerzschau requested: mike yelling at paige in 3x07

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RANDOM MIKE WARREN GIFS: 154 / ∞

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mutuals - like this for a canon graceland starter! bonus points if you drop a specific season or plot you’d be interested in writing in the replies to this.

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Of all the things that Melinda Warren was capable of doing, loving someone was not one of them. She was very good at keeping her home, she prided herself on her cooking skills, and she had excellent manners. But love? No. While Melinda had once claimed that she married for love, that emotion had long since left her body and the effort of pretending it was still there was too much for her to deal with.

Her husband, Gregory, had wooed her in their younger years with his accounting degree and his budding career on Madison Avenue. He was going to be an ad executive, he said, and he was going to bring home the big bucks (his words, not hers). They would have a little family of their own, live north of the City so as not to feel congested, and they’d have a wonderful life together.

Melinda, who had gone to college and had made an aborted attempt at a fashion degree, believed him. But she never truly loved him. No, she married him for the money, and she was sure that he knew it. They moved into a tiny apartment together at first, but once Gregory landed the partnership of a lifetime, they were able to afford a house, an actual house in upscale Riverdale, NY.

It was in Riverdale that their two sons were brought up–Nicholas first, and then four years later, Michael. Their lives were straight from a story book; they went to the nicest schools, had the nicest clothes, and always had birthday parties where everyone in their class was invited. And Melinda thought things were different; maybe her heart had softened, because she felt something for these two boys, her sons. Was it love? She wasn’t sure, but she hoped it was.

Things were great for the longest time–until suddenly they weren’t.

Gregory stumbled in the front door, reeking of alcohol and a pink slip between his outstretched hand. His firm, the one that had given him the job he’d always dreamed of, had fired him amidst a spectacular collapse that would eventually leave the firm (and Gregory’s career) nonexistant. He’d been given his notice, had packed up his car, and driven straight to the bar, where he’d gotten spectacularly drunk.

Melinda took the slip, her nose wrinkled in distaste, and set it on Gregory’s desk, rolling the top down to cover it so that the boys wouldn’t see. Then she’d gone into their bedroom to pull her husband off of the bed, slapped him on the cheek to get him out of his stupor, and sat him down for a talk.

And so the charade began. Gregory would leave in the mornings as he always did, seeing Michael and Nicholas onto the bus that would cart them off to school. He’d come back soon after, spend his day searching for another job, and then would leave again so that he wouldn’t be home when his sons climbed off the bus and ran into the house. He’d return hours later, usually smelling faintly of beer, but Melinda never said anything about it. It wasn’t her business.

But no one wanted to hire one of the senior partners at a firm that had been cheating people out of money. No one wanted a man who had been fired instead of being allowed to stick it out til the end of the firm’s days. No one wanted Gregory to work for them, because they worried that he would do to their business what it appeared that he had done to his previous employer’s (no matter that he didn’t have a hand in any of it).

Soon he didn’t bother leaving when the boys woke up; soon he didn’t bother pretending to come home late. He sat on the couch, a beer bottle in hand, watching daytime television and slowly growing more and more bitter. As much as Melinda resented him for it, a small part of her understood why he was upset. But she had a reputation to maintain.

The neighborhood that they lived in was an upscale one, and on a weekly basis Melinda walked three houses down to sit around a glass dining room table with a glass of wine and chit-chat about the latest neighborhood gossip. And Melinda knew that when a local family collapsed, their story was spread around the dining room table the next day, voices raised to be heard over the moving trucks as said disgraced family moved to a cheaper part of the City.

She wouldn’t become disgraced.

And so she spent her husband’s money–or lack thereof–as if he was still employed. New shoes ($89.99), new purses ($175.00), a few trips to the salon ($85.00)…

It shouldn’t have been a shock, though, when her husband snapped. He’d been drinking, of course, and the mail had come–and he had seen his account statement. She was glad that the boys weren’t home, and she was thankful for her good foundation ($57.99) to cover up the bruises.

The next time, though, she hadn’t been so lucky. Michael, twelve now, had dropped a glass of water and pieces went everywhere. His eyes had gone wide and he’d gone for a broom, but by the time he’d come back his father stood over him, face turning colors. “Pick it up,” he’d said, his voice dark and terrifying, and Michael quivered and nodded jerkily, unable to make eye contact with his father. Melinda’s manicured nails ($45.00) dug into her palms, and she watched her husband’s hands tighten into fists. Please don’t hit him, Greg, oh please don’t…

This time he didn’t. But when Nicholas talked back to his father two days later, he did. Melinda flinched at the sound of the back of her husband’s knuckles as they collided with her son’s cheek, and Michael broke into tears. Nicholas, though, sat still, as if he was in shock. As if he couldn’t believe that his own father had just smacked him across the face.

Two weeks later it was Michael’s turn, after burning toast. This time, it resulted in a bruised eye, and Melinda dutifully tended to her son’s face as he sat on her bathroom counter, tears running down his cheeks as he asked her why his daddy hurt him. The poor kid didn’t understand, and she couldn’t tell him why.

It continued like this for years—Michael and Nicholas grew up, becoming Mike and Nick, and the two learned how to keep out of their father’s way. They tended to stay out late, or not even come home at all, preferring to stay at a friend’s house instead of coming home to deal with their father. They would go to Melinda’s father’s house on most weekends, her parents driving down from the Adirondacks to pick the boys up and then would return them Sunday night before school the next day.

And Gregory… he was… trying, at least. When he was sober, he was a good father. He came to the boys’ sports games and cheered them on, he would take the family out to eat, and most importantly: he’d found another job. It didn’t pay as much, but it was enough for them to get by and that was all that mattered.

But when he drank, things got bad. Keeping her sons away from her husband meant taking the brunt of the aggression herself, and Melinda couldn’t help but be selfish; sometimes she didn’twant to feel like a human punching bag, and if Mike or Nick was around, she could retreat into herself and pretend as if this was all a bad dream.

When Mike was fourteen, Nick moved to New Jersey to go to college. Melinda couldn’t help but sigh in relief—they qualified for some financial aid (not like she’d tell the women in the community) and Nick would have the loans on his own back and not hers. It was a relief to know that she wouldn’t be responsible for this debt.

Living with them, his mother who just stood by and did nothing, turning the other cheek when his father had too much to drink and punched him in the gut a few times, and his alcoholic mess of a father, was almost too much for Mike to take. He begged his grandparents over and over to let him move in with them, to let him stay there—he’d cook for them, he’d clean their house, whatever it took so that he didn’t have to go home to his parents.

When his grandmother reached out to set a hand on his shoulder and he flinched, they knew that something was horribly wrong. It took one look at the bruises littering Mike’s torso for his grandfather to open his safe and hand Mike a locked box. Inside was a gun, a small gun but a gun nonetheless, with the instructions to never use this unless it was absolutely necessary.

(Meaning: if your father is going to kill you, you need to kill him first.)

Two years later, Mike’s grandfather died in his sleep. It was unexpected but he went peacefully.

The next morning, Melinda awoke to the sound of her phone ringing and her mother’s quiet sobs in her ear when she answered. She collected herself, her own emotions, and hung up the phone after speaking with her mother for what felt like an hour. She had to tell her son, and she didn’t want to.

For the past few years, the relationship between Melinda and Mike had been almost nonexistent. The boy only spoke to her when he needed something—and even then, he’d find other ways to get what he needed, mostly. He’d call up a friend for a ride, he’d work at the store down the street for pocket change, he’d do something other than ask her for it. And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, she didn’t mind the quiet around the house. Gregory got drunk less when Mike wasn’t home, mostly because Melinda had learned how to walk around on tiptoes around her husband and how not to set him off on a rampage.

She got out of her bed and slipped her feet into a pair of socks, then walked slowly down the hall to her son’s room. He’d spent the night at home for once, and she knocked twice on his door lightly before pushing it open.

His bedroom was painted blue, and all of his sports medals and trophies were displayed on the walls. Gregory had raised an athletic son—while Nick was more of an analytical type, Mike was athletic, and played football, baseball, golf… Gregory was the most proud of him for the golf, as it was something that he had done growing up, but had never gone far in. Seeing his son succeed in the sport enough to have him be considered for going professional was enough to make the man’s chest swell with pride.

Mike lay in bed, his phone pressed to his ear, and his eyes squeezed shut. His grandmother had beat Melinda to the punch—in the time it had taken her to summon up the energy to get out of bed and walk down the hall, her mother had dialed her son’s cell phone number and got there first. But maybe that was a good thing. Melinda knew that Mike would want to hear the news from his grandmother first, over her, and while that should have made her heart ache, it simply felt like it was one less burden she had to bear.

“Bye, Grandma—" Mike’s voice shook as he ended the call, and he opened his eyes to see his mother standing before him in her designer nightdress and her Louis Vuitton slippers. His face was red, eyelashes clumped together from the tears that flooded his eyes.

“Mom—“ It was all he had to say before she hurried over to the bed and gathered him into her arms, a sudden rush of maternal instinct telling her to hold him as tight as she could. She rocked him back and forth as he sobbed in her arms; it was the first real death that he’d experienced, and of the most important people in his life, and he was falling apart.

She felt her own eyes, damp with tears, and she tightened her grip on her son. Maybe she did feel love, after all.

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cxrrera‌:

@guncontrcl​

THERE’S A CHAIR IN THIS SMALL ROOM, and an even smaller window far beyond Sally’s reach. The door to the room is locked, and there was no way she was digging through the dirt floor to the other side. It would take too much time.

She needs the chair to reach the window …but she also needs the chair to break the glass. She has nothing on her person other than her phone, and she can’t decide if she can call 911 without tipping her “friend” off.

I’m so stupid, she said to herself. Why didn’t I just leave? Why did I agree to help?

She took a second against the wall, and let herself breath in and out. Five second count inhale; five second count exhale.  Then …she came up with her plan.  Call 911 quickly and make sure to whisper, and use her GPS on her phone to give location. Then use the chair to get up to the window.  She would have to punch the glass with the last bit of strength her adrenaline gave her …but she could do it.  Even if it meant having a bloody arm.

She dialed the phone …and then heard the knob of the door move.

She sank her phone back into her hoodie pocket, and gasped, grabbing the chair as quickly as she could and pulling it in front of her.  The legs of the chair aimed at the man who came in through the door, and she snarled.

“Don’t get ANY closer!”  She warned.  “I will harm you.”

She took note of what the man looked like for her police report.

Tall; white male.  Chiseled jaw; brunette …or a dark blonde perhaps.  Blue eyes.  

“Get back.Get back!”

“--woah woah woah, hey, hang on a second--” mike’s hands are up, showing that he’s unarmed. he’s not here to hurt her -- just the opposite, actually. “my name is special agent mike warren, i’m fbi, i’m here to get you out.”

they’d been tracing the solano cartel for what feels like years, even though it’s only been eight weeks since mike had been captured and nearly suffocated by carlos solano’s hired thugs. he wants nothing more than to see the man locked in a prison cell for the rest of his mortal life, but first mike needs to figure out a concrete link, something he can bring to his superiors. as much as his mind is telling him that bringing down as many big fish as he can will get him a fast track to deputy director... his heart is starting to tell him something else entirely. the thrill of being undercover, of doing this job that so few are able to do... while he’d been stuck behind a desk in washington he’d missed it. and now that he’s back... he’s not sure if he actually wants to leave again.

one thing at a time, though. for now, he needs to focus on getting this woman out of here. he holds out a hand to her, glancing over his shoulder at the sound of gunshots. paige, he hopes, and the tac team behind her, dealing with the people in the warehouse. 

“c’mon-- put that chair down, and let’s go.”