Will I ever recover from the loss of the lone gunmen? Absolutely not! Am I crying while watching them collecting William as “the only ones we can trust” in season 9 while I’m ‘working’ from home? Yes.
Rewatching the X Files with my best friend (who is watching for the first time) is one of the greatest things because I get to watch it all through her eyes and watch her fall in love with my favourite characters the same way I did
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so low in my entire life. I am paralysed by utter despondency and swimming against the tide. I have no idea what to do anymore.
I thank god every day that the ER writers didn’t try to force Sam to date Carter because that guy would have judged ever loving life out of that woman and Abby had a lucky escape
Summary: This time isn't like the last one, Mike has to remember that.
Companion piece to:
Good Boy - Mike is not a good boy.
Life Lessons (NSFW) - Mike and you don't play the games other couples do.
Count To Five (NSFW) - Mike comes home to a naked woman in his bed.
The Ribbon - Mike can’t stop staring at the ribbon.
Pool House (NSFW) - You and Mike steal a moment alone at the LA Law Enforcement Conference.
Love Is A Strong Word - Mike confesses his feelings after a disagreement.
Shirt (NSFW) - Mike turns up to a crime scene to find you wearing his shirt.
Baggage - You confront Mike after he says another woman's name in his sleep.
The Written Word - Mike's world is turned upside down when he discovers a letter written by Violet before her death.
San Francisco - In his time of need Mike turns to the only other person who knew Violet as well as he did.
The Way of the World - There's a reason Mike's been teaching you all those life lessons.
If You Want Blood - A routine meeting with C.I leads to the beginning of a nightmare.
Faith - Mike knows you’ll call, he won’t survive it if you don’t.
Friday I’m In Love - You put Mike’s life lessons into practice when you wake up in the trunk of a rapist’s car.
One hour, that’s how long it takes Mike to get to the hospital where you’re being triaged.
60 minutes.
3600 seconds.
He thinks of the bottle of wine he placed in the chiller last night before he headed out on that stakeout. The plans you’d made for a picnic at the beach.
Another day, he reassures himself as he pulls into the parking lot. You can do all that another day.
Because you’re still here, still with him. He needs to remember that, this isn’t like the first time. This isn’t like Violet.
Those life lessons he taught you…
They worked.
You made it out, took down a serial predator.
The world is a safer place because of you, and his world… it’s about to get a little bit brighter.
You wince as he opens the door to your hospital room. The light floods into the darkened space and you throw your arm up over your eyes, shielding them against the harsh fluorescent glow.
Light sensitivity, it’s one of effects of a concussion. That son of a bitch had bashed your head so hard against the passenger side door that they’re keeping you in overnight for observation. All your other war wounds are superficial, the crash had knocked you round enough to bruise the hell out of you, the windows smashing, showering you in glass but there’s no internal bleeding, no broken bones.
If you ask Mike that’s a god damn fucking miracle.
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. The light fades, leaving only the tangerine hues of the sunrise as it ebbs through the closed blinds.
“Is he dead?” You ask as he approaches the bed, his Nile crocodile cowboy boots clicking on the tiles.
You look like hell. The left side of your face is swollen, blossoming with indigo shades that fade into stark purples and throbbing reds. There’s black stitches along your hairline, neat rows knitting the flesh together.
Despite all of that his heart still skips a beat, because this is his girl right here. His brave, strong girl who beat the odds.
“Hm.” He utters as he shrugs off his olive green jacket, draping it over the plastic chair they’ve left beside your bed.
“What the fuck does ‘hm’ mean?” You retort as he sits down on the edge of the seat and begins to tug off his cowboy boots.
“It means scootch on over and I’ll tell ya.” He informs you as he places them neatly in front of the cabinet where your belongings would have gone if they hadn’t already been taken into evidence.
“Oh baby, you are far too big to fit on this bed with me.” You say looking pointedly at his shoulders and muscular chest.
“Darlin’, I almost lost you tonight.” He drawls fixing you with that honied stare of his as he rubs his palms together. His rings catch in the growing light, glinting across his knuckles. “So, do your old man a favour and let him give you some love alright? I promise I’ll tell you want to know as soon as you let me up on that bed.”
You sigh, shifting to make space, the mattress sinking as he climbs on board with you. It’s a snug fit, but the two of you make it work. Your head comes to rest on his chest, the steady thrum of his heart beating underneath your ear. His fingers comb through your hair, gentle and soothing as his bristled cheek rubs across the top of your head.
“Are you gonna answer my question now?” You mutter, your palm resting on his side lightly caressing through the coarse fabric of his button up shirt.
“He’s dead.” Mike tells you, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you like a purr. “Steering column drove his ribcage into his chest, puncturing his lungs, causing internal bleeding. He couldn’t have made it out even if he wasn’t handcuffed to the steering wheel.”
You relax against him, pressing your face into his shirt, inhaling the familiar scent of amber, whisky and bergamot. “He deserved worse.” You whisper, but there’s a break in your voice, a hitch.
The reality of it all, it’s hitting you now. He can tell from the dampness of his shirt, the light sniffles as your fist curls, gripping the material.
“Hey, you did good baby.” He murmurs, kissing your hair. “You did real good.”
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The Thing That Makes Your Heart Race: Adam Dalgliesh x Reader (NSFWish)
Tagging: @kmc1989
Summary: Adam surprises himself with an answer to an unexpected question.
“It’s not often you find something that makes your heart race,” that’s what Emma Lavenham tells Adam Dalgliesh as they stand alongside each other in front of The Doom. Their shoes barely brush the spot where an Archdeacon was killed only days before, his head caved in with a candle stick, blood splashed across the alter.
There had been another death last night, Agatha Betterton. She’d taken a tumble down the cellar stairs in the college; it remains to be seen if it’s murder but Dalgliesh, he thinks it is.
People that trip don’t fall like that. They twist, they struggle, they break ankles, fracture wrists. They don’t land face first, unmarked and untouched.
“I should have stayed last night.” He finds himself confessing to Lavenham as he clasps his hands together in front of him. It’s a silly notion, brought on by the wistfulness of hindsight, he knows that, but it doesn’t stop the regret, the slight guilt that while he was buried deep inside the woman he loves, another was hurtling to her death.
“I’m sure you had a good reason not to.” Lavenham assures him and he inclines his head to concede the point.
He suspects that reason is still curled up in his sheets this morning, suffering from jetlag and sleeping in from a night of wanton debauchery. Underneath Dalgliesh’s suit, the fabric of his shirt rubs across the love mark you left on curve of his shoulder, the perfect set of teeth marks framing the shape of your mouth. His jaw tightens at the memory of your heated skin pressed against his, his hands gripping that cream chiffon camisole in his fists as you moved together, his eyes locked on yours.
Three months, that’s how long it had been since he’d been in your presence, since he’d been able to touch you, taste you.
Your honey on his lips, the noise you make when you reach the crescendo, it’s the very thing he writes poetry about.
“Hm?” He questions, realising that Lavenham is still talking.
“I said do you have something like that?” She asks him, her gaze fixed squarely on The Doom, a 15th-century stained-glass triptych depicting The Last Judgement. “Something that makes your heart race, that reminds you that you’re alive.”
“Yes.” He says thinking of what he’ll come home to tonight. You sitting at his desk clad in one of his shirts, your hair pinned back by his pen as your elegant fingers dance over the keys of his typewriter, working on your new book before you have to jet off back to America for another tour. “Yes, in fact I do.”
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I’m not being funny but I think a lot of you are forgetting that Jack Abbot literally fudged the numbers on a pregnancy so a girl could get her abortion so I highly doubt he’s the “military/police propaganda” character y’all are crying about based on the new pics today
andulkaphoto
gracieabrams
yousharknotpass
origamiaround
ellievsbear
vaporwave
snowghoul
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
