*pounds gavel*

Homecooked-Rafael Barba

Rafael Barba x Reader

Imagine: Rafael going home after losing a case.

He leaned back against his chair, eyes sharp as a razor, glaring right at the defendant. The tips of his fingers turned white from holding his gold pen too hard. Fury coursed through his veins as the smug defendant flashed him a knowing and confident look, taunting him for losing the case. “Court is adjourned.” The judge pound her gavel and the courtroom was dismissed.

Rafael was furious with himself. How could he let someone who had no law experience beat him like he was some amateur? He went to Harvard for goodness sake. He worked hard to get to stand where he is now. So where did he go wrong?

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Suitors and Smells (and sensations)

Alyn Crawford - you take in a deep breath and know his skin smells of freshly ground grains, flour, the crispness of newly chopped wood. Bread baked in a giant stone oven; the ticklish sensation of sugar and powder on the tip of your nose. Kneading. Crafting. The consistent patience of rolling of dough. It is the comfort of spices swirling into gastronomic harmony, of warm soups and hearty meals, of laughter by the fire and communal spirit and the tenderness that comes with family. You take in another breath and -
There is steel and gunpowder and mud and wiremesh; the stench of sweat; of thundering onward and constant pushing to pierce front lines. Chaos. There is running and shouting and desparate need to win - or to save a life - there isn’t much difference now. You can hear roars of artillery, of everlasting marches and screaming, of souls taken apart by violence and blood (- there is just so much blood)

Leo Crawford - you take in a deep breath and know his skin smells of pages upon pages upon pages of knowledge; new and worn and yellowed and earmarked, and somewhat torn because he was reading too fast and wanted to know what happened next. His is the smell of books: leather-bound, hardbound, paperback, pages held inside a ziplock bag because he dropped it in the bath once. Encyclopedias, codals, annotated texts, forgotten tomes with hidden knowledge and secrets whispered from the gods. You take in another breath and -
A hundred bodies shouting at the same time, screaming over one another, a battle of interests and bottom-lines, of insurmountable pride and extreme prejudice. It is the crushing weight of responsibility. You hear the pounding of the gavel and calling people into order but the voice is lost in the cacophony of ideals and principles and money being exchanged by well-meaning hands and well-meaning looks and (how dare you betray your family like this)

Louis Howard - you take in a deep breath and know his skin is dozens of perfumes and fragrances, of flowers in full bloom: dandelions, orchids, and yawning hibiscus and lush bougainvilleas, of woodlands and barks, of afternoons by the lake and its stillness. His is the scent of adoration and delicacy, of holding on to dreams, tempered - but only ever so slightly - of realism and practicality. His is efficiency and managements but with the tenderest of hearts. You take in another breath and -
A musty bedroom, old and sagging wood, metal bars and grime coated windows; soot and dust - so much undisturbed dust - blanketing untouched linen, the bed, the room, the house. Cobwebs serve as curtains and each door creaks the way a child would but the crib had long been empty and the house long abandoned and forgotten and discarded and (you don’t know what being left alone feels like)

Giles Christophe - you take in a deep breath and know his skin is a coating of pastries and cinnamon and the sweetest powdered things sprinkled generously on confectionaries. It is fountains of chocolate, of stacked sugary delicacies that make you cringe in delight, and the slow dripping of honey from the tip of your tongue. It is soft cushions and even softer beds. You take in another breath and -
Melted wax stamped on proclamation and decrees, of harsh words and harsher laws, of meetings held in the middle of the night and the unshakeable feeling of being constantly watched, hairs on the back of your neck standing on the end. It is ambition and hunger and power that comes with negotiating with a knife to your throat - only you can’t see it just yet. Plots, entrapments, and hidden machinations, of secrets sealed with loyalty or fear and (you thought I would never amount to more than this)

Byron Wagner - you take in a deep breath and you smell ink and parchment, hear them being shuffled into order, given and signed and taken away, a constant flurry of things done and to be done. It is the burning candles late into the wee hours of breaking dawn, of hands guiding you and teaching you the way of things. It is cool summer nights spent dreaming upon the stars; it is musk and privilege, silk sheets and luxury. A firm voice telling you it knows better things. You take in another breath and -
The smell of almost rotting meat and flies; nature having its way with untended wounds. The stench of blood, spilled and pooling, and bodies dragged across stone slabs, of chains clasping against gasping throats, of panic and fear. It is submission, of opening yourself up entirely unto forces you cannot comprehend. You hear the gross sobbing and spilling of tears and drool, and absolute compliance to the haunting of ghosts, or else lose whatever it puny thing it is that you cling on and (I have no use for you now)

Albert Bruckhardt - you take in a deep breath and you smell fabric and cotton and tailored suits, and ever so faintly the smell of vegetables and greens, of freshly plucked apples and strawberries, and the diligence that is required to tending gardens and ensuring that all matters are in working order. It is freshly dug earth. It is grease in the cogs of an infinite clockwork, the constant hurrying about. You smell precision and detail and absolute unquestionable loyalty. You take in another breath and -
You smell horses and leather and the distinct human scent that comes when skin touches a burning blade. Whips and swords and bloody morningstars and the smell of the earth, again, except hastily dug to ease the burden hauling corpses. It is rope to your wrists and manacles around your feet. The teeth-gritting sound of sharpening swords and the roughness of hands to your throat and (I told you! I told you! I told you this isn’t so!)

Nico Meier - you take in a deep breath and you smell early mornings and the warm chamomile tea. His is the scent of fresh linen and beddings, of waking up and finding yourself warmed by the tender rays of the sun; of fresh water drawn for a bath, of lathering soap, and oils on smooth skin. It is peeking through a flutter of eyelids, of delicate china, and the way you chew when you know you have a secret. You take in another breath and -
The stink of sewers and muck and sludge and dozens of other things no longer useful co-mingled with people who have been forgotten and forsaken and bear the burden and shame of being born. It is the underbelly of the city. It is unwashed bodies huddled together to keep warm during winter, of longing and  desperation and feverish desire to live just one more day no matter what, to be something to someone or anyone or everyone and (I just wanted someone to really look at me)

Sid -  you take in a deep breath and you smell freshly squeezed lemon garnished on vodka, of old whiskey and scotch on ice. Alcohol tempered by an even head on more even shoulders. It is the smell of sunny days and running on vast and open fields. His is the smell of constant presence, of laughter and inconsequence of any action you take whatsoever. It is throwing the ball so hard and so far and yet knowing that it will come back to you because it always does. You take in another breath and -
It is the smell of chloroform and gasoline, of clandestine meetings over spiked drinks, of leaning in to whisper only the darkest of secrets. It is the binding of wrists and the gag in your mouth and the shadows at the corner of your eyes. Money constantly passing between hands because loyalty is nonexistent. It is the lightning fast jab you can’t quite see, the paranoia of perpetually holding a dagger under your pillow and (I need you to leave me alone)

Robert Branche - you take in a deep breath and you smell a hundred different paints and a hundred different solvents, and a hundred different canvases on display. His is the scent of splashing watercolor, of mixing colors for rainbows, of standing still and taking in the landscape. It is kneeling down on one knee to take each of you hand to kiss tenderly. His is the scent of restlessness and voyage, the gasps of experiencing things for the first time, of constant change and you take in another breath and -
You smell an old, heavy cape that has never seen the rays of the sun. Myrrh smeared upon two hundred seventy bones. It is the smell of rigidness, of unbendable will.  A thousand voices offering a thousand different advice, not even once considering that the ears that hear cannot bear the weight of the world. It is power thrust upon unready hands and (I did it to protect them, to protect you!)

Explaining my PTSD to my educators:

“I can hear the tick tick ticking of the clock.

I can hear the screams.

I can hear the expo marker squeak.

I can hear the panicked breathing.

I can hear the socratic discussion.

I can hear the slamming doors.

I can hear my guidance counselor telling me that this isn’t real. That I need to try harder. That my PTSD cannot take over school. That school comes first.

But what actually comes first is the 3:47am wake up calls and conversations with my memories that are pounding away the gavel inside the jurisdiction of my brain.

What actually comes first is the constant tension in my temples tearing toward talking and speaking up, just speaking up in class so I can possibly get a .2 raise in my grade because, “You’re just too quiet and I know the other kids can be intimidating but you just gotta voice your opinion.” But truth be told, I don’t even know what the fuck we are talking about and what the teachers are teaching because I am busy being 

schooled 

in 

my 

head

on how in September last year, I was found naked, bloody, and taught the important effects of alcohol on my body. But it’s okay, okay, okay, it’s fine because Alexander Hamilton and James Madison told me that factions are bad and we must control their effects but how the fuck can I study cause and fucking effect when I can’t even remember the 

cause of my 6 year old self watching him slit my mother’s throat and I’m still fucking processing the effects of the last eighteen years of my life.

No, I can not give you an explanation for my intentional overdose in 

2015, 16, 17 

but I can sure as hell tell you its not for attention or a cry for help because the cry came with every breath I breathed as I ran from abuser after abuser who claimed he was the center of attention and that we need to 

bow down

to his demonic strikes against my childhood!

But yes,

I can hear the tick tick ticking of the clock

but over it all,

I hear a bomb.

Tick tick ticking inside my head.

Dave banged the Mini-Zillyhammer down.

“This court will now come to order for the case of Egbert vs Lalonde, for custody of the salamander known as Casey and also known as Viceroy Bubble von Salamancer.”

Dave sat back in the makeshift Judge’s seat.  John and Rose stood besuited, ready to present their cases.  Jade was sitting in the back of “courtroom”, which was really just an open Earth C field, playing with the salamander that was subject to such a serious case.

Dave rubbed his temples. “This is stupid.”

Rose waved a finger, tut-tuting. “Dave, you don’t understand the importance of the court in the decision. The viceroy must complete his training under my tutelage.  He is key to the future protection of the realm, and I can be the one to give him the magical prowess he must possess. In addition, my gorgeous, radiant, darling, wonderful wife can aid me using her own knowledge of the supernatural.  For the good of all, The Viceroy must be released to my care.”

John slammed his hand into his fist. “Objection, your honor!  Casey can’t spend all her time just in training!  She needs to see the world!  Go adventuring!  Learn to bake! I have a ton of movies I want to show her too!  She’s still growing, she has to live as much of her life as she can! I mean, I don’t even think Salamanders live that long!  You have to let me take her!”

“John, you can’t let sentimentality blind you here.  Think of the realm.”

“We’re here to protect the world!  Let her go free, she’s just a kid!”

Rose and John continued to argue, as Dave lazily pounded the gavel. Jade suddenly shouted dramatically!

“Stop!”

Rose, John and Dave looked over in surprise.  Jade held the salamander in her arms.  

“Hasn’t anyone asked them what THEY want?”

All eyes turned to the little yellow reptile.  It paused briefly, then opened its mouth to reveal a single bubble that slowly popped with a glub.

Jade cheered.  Rose nodded sagely.  John wiped a tear away. Dave shrugged.  “The court decrees that the salamander can do whatever the fuck it wants.”

Court adjourned.


@roseweek Day 3: Beta Kids

arg this is late and crappy but I got it out so there

@oct2pus i hope you like it

Diary of a Mad Genius

—–

Entry 1


I’ve often heard people say that the beautiful thing about life is the fact that it’s unpredictable. We can make a plan for ourselves and we can work hard to achieve that plan, but there’s no way of knowing for sure where life is truly going to take you. Take me for example: I have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and the ability to comprehend 20,000 words per minute. I graduated summa cum laude from MIT at the age of 17, obtained 3 PhD’s before I could legally drink, and, at the age of 22, I became one of the youngest profilers the BAU had ever hired.

But see, all those things were predictable. My mother told me from Day 1 that I was going to do amazing things. My teachers constantly praised my work, promising me that one day, I was going to change the world. But that was what they predicted, right? Based on how I applied myself in school—not to mention my so-called “genius” status that they insisted on bestowing upon me—it was no secret that my extensive knowledge was going to take me places one day. After all, it got me all the way to the FBI faster than anyone could have anticipated.

But did they ever suspect that one day I would battle a drug addiction? Or that I would witness my girlfriend get shot right in front of me? Or that I would be in jail for murder? Probably not.

Nearly a week has passed since the hearing—six days, twelve hours, and nineteen minutes to be more exact. Every time I close my eyes, my ears ring with the pounding of that gavel and those three words that may have sealed my fate forever: Bail is denied. I don’t really know what I was expecting. I’ve worked at the Bureau long enough to know that the charges being brought against me were severe. I knew that the fact that I went across the border without telling anyone was enough for them to deem me a flight risk. And I knew the fact that everyone willing to testify on my behalf was part of the criminal justice system would make the judge skeptical.

But that didn’t make it any easier to hear those words. That didn’t change the fact that Fiona said it could take up to three months before my case sees the inside of a court room. Three months that I would have to spend here, in a maximum security prison, surrounded by a plethora of people who are just itching for me to tell them I’m a Fed. Honestly, when word of that gets out, the nicest thing they could do would be to kill me. And while I don’t doubt that they eventually would, the darkest corners of my mind can only imagine what they would do to me before that.

You know, I’ve been with the Bureau for about fourteen years now, and in those fourteen years, I’ve visited the worst of the worst inside of prison cells approximately 245 times. I mean, Hotch and I were even locked in a room with Chester Hardwick, a man convicted of multiple accounts of first-degree murder, and while that was definitely terrifying in and of itself, it still doesn’t even compete with the feelings of being locked in here.

I met a guy on the bus ride here. He was young, maybe a few years my junior, and he was terrified. He asked me what I was in for and I responded with the truth: I was innocent. Without missing a beat, he scoffed and responded, “Yeah, me too.” And that’s when I truly realized that no one in here gives a shit whether or not you’re actually innocent. After all, how many unsubs have we interrogated for hours on end who swear up and down that they didn’t do anything? (I could tell you the exact number, but it’s not important right now.) Hell, I’ve been told that it would actually be beneficial to me to just admit that I’m guilty.

But I can’t do that. I can’t admit that I’m guilty because I’m not guilty. I may still be having issues recalling exactly what went down in Mexico, but I know for certain that I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t kill Nadie, not after everything she did for me. Hell, I wouldn’t kill Nadie period. That’s not who I am. I mean, I hate discharging my firearm to begin with, even when necessary. There’s no way I killed Nadie. Absolutely no way.

Emily says they’re going to get me out of this, but I don’t know how much they’re really going to be able to help me. It’s not that I don’t have faith in my team (after all, they are the best of the best); but if my first night here has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t know if I’m going to be alive long enough for them to save me…

Three days. Has it only been three days since they transferred me here from the holding cell? Was it only a mere 48 hours ago that I found myself staring death (or at the very least, severe mutilation) in the face? I can name a handful of moments in my life where I felt extreme terror, and standing there in that bathroom with a rusty switchblade inches from my face definitely sits near the top. I felt for sure I was dead. No one was going to help me. Not only was I fresh meat, but look at me? I’m neither strong nor intimidating. Who the hell was going to care if I got shanked in the showers?

But then I met Calvin Shaw. The man who saved my life that night. I hadn’t seen him or spoken to him at all during the day, and if I’m being completely honest, I initially thought that he was the leader of the thugs trying to do me in. I thought he wanted to have his own little bit of fun before he let them carve me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Imagine my surprise instead when he ordered them to let me go and threatened anyone who came near me ever again.

Shaw’s reasoning for helping me out became apparent to me the next day. I stopped by his cell as a sign of my gratitude for saving me, and it was there that I learned who he truly was. Apparently, his profiling skills must be better than my own because he was able to detect I was a Fed from the moment I walked into the building, while I didn’t realize his true identity until he informed me himself.

I was impressed with the fact that not only was it common knowledge that he was an ex-Fed, but also that he appeared to be at the top of the command chain here. He said the secret is admitting your guilt. His first night here, he admitted to the others that he did in fact kill his Criminal Informant and had been rightfully imprisoned as such. It appears that they respect honesty in living up to your crimes, especially when you work for the very justice system that imprisoned you in the first place. “As soon as you admit your guilt, I guarantee your time here will be so much easier,” Shaw had told me. I replied that I was innocent of my crime. Shaw didn’t seem pleased.

However, I owe the man a lot. After my disastrous first night, he pulled some strings and managed to get me moved into the cell directly next to his. Additionally, he got me a job in the laundromat during the days (definitely helps to pass the time) and got one of the prisoners from the library to bring me a new book to read every day. Even though I got through the book in a matter of minutes, it is nice to have some familiarity again. Even better now that I have this journal to help document my thoughts. I’ve studied enough prison cases to know how easy it is to lose ones mind in here.

But I’m not going to let that happen to me. I’m not going to let this place get to me. I know I have to stay strong. I know I have to have faith in my team and in Emily. But above all, I can’t lose sight of the fact that I am innocent. No matter what Shaw says, no matter what anyone in this place tries to get me to believe, I know the truth. I, Dr. Spencer Reid, did not kill Nadie Ramos.

And as long as I hold on to that, then maybe, just maybe, I can survive this place.

—–

@dontshootmespence @ssajenniferjareau @geniusgube @believe-love-happiness @camigt1999 @rmmalta @original-criminal-fanfics @twelveyearoldchildprodigy @sassygeek77 @ultrarebelheart @damedoctoroftardis @milkandcookies528 @stunudo @arizonalovesher @walkoffdeath @harissa8910 @huntynut-queerios @pllfrommars @kimmlez @ombragirl-blog @yasin3412-blog @sammi9406 @spiralycory @lonelyandlookingforsocialjustice @slut5211 @liz-lovelynightmare @cherrybombs-and-rabbitholes @castielhadtousedoorknobs @buckysummers @mrscurtis4life @yingyangweed @cynbx

Tattoo Soulmate!AU - Michael 5SOS Imagine/Preference

For the past few years, your soulmate had been getting tattoos, even though all tattoos were supposed to be consented by both soulmates. You weren’t really sure how he was getting them, all tattoo shops were government owned and you had to have both soulmates there. Honestly, you didn’t mind, you just wished you knew what they meant. It was like seeing art in a museum, but there was no explanation, you just had to figure it out. It was difficult to hide the tattoos from your friends, they were all pretty judgmental when it came to soulmate tattoos. They all believed that they should have some really deep meaning, something that would signify your undying love. You however, thought it was just a chance to have some really cool art on your body.

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Head Over Boots

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Summary: After her parents pass, Y/N is stuck living at her childhood home in Applegate, North Carolina for the six months. She spends the months not only learning about her parents and the town, but also ends up learning a little something about herself…and that tall, dark, and handsome rancher a few miles down the road.

Tags: AU, cowboy/rancher!Sam

Words: 2,245

Note: This came to me in a dream about Jared, but, Sam is more versatile :) If this turns into a series, it might alternate POV’s every other chapter! ALSO if anyone who knows lots of stuff about horses and wants to sorta help me out with some terminology, send me a message. Google only get you so far.

tutsi means cutie/sunshine in Romanian (I got this information from a friend whose parents are Romanian, so if you’re Romanian and it’s wrong please let me know!)

gif credit to my beautiful friend, alana

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Clap Your Hands And Shout

Nonnie prompted: Wes and David finding out and getting on Blaine’s case, then showing up to celebrate anyway
Note: I wrote a crack fic and it’s really quite long, and added a few surprises, see if you can spot them! Sebastian is mentioned in the back if it bothers you guys <3 AO3

“C’mon… pick up pick up pick up…”

…hello?

“DAVID!”

Whaa? Who is this?….” There was the sound of sheets getting rumpled, “Wes? The hell you doing up at this time? Did you forget that I’m studying in LSE? At the other side of the world? Look up the time differences, you ass.

“It’s only five hours difference, but-” Wes snorted but got interrupted.

It’s 2:06 in the morning!

“Listen to me, I called because something happened. Go log onto Facebook.” Wes rolled his eyes, glancing at the clock that read back 9:06 pm.

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A Present | OPEN

“SOLD!”

The auctioneer’s gavel pounded the pedestal, and Alex jumped at the sound. This was it. He had been sold to someone. The woman who was now his owner came up and grabbed his leash, carting him away from the stage and out of the market. She explained that he was a birthday present to someone, and that his new Master was a nice person who was just a bit lonely. He was to be a companion. She put a blindfold on him, and put a ball gag in his mouth, and Alex just remained silent as she helped him into her car and they drove away. It was a short drive, and she helped him get out and led him into a house. He followed dutifully, and she led him up a flight of stairs before leading him into a room and telling him to get on his knees. She took off his collar and leash and tied a ribbon in a bow around his neck. She tied his hands behind his back and hung something else around his neck. It was a note.

 “Happy Birthday! I hope you like your present!” 

She ripped off the shirt he was wearing, leaving him in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else. She patted him on the head and left the room, telling him to wait there, since his new master would be home shortly, and he obeyed, even after he heard the door shut and her footsteps fade into silence. Minutes later, he heard very different footsteps approaching and the door open, and he perked up, waiting to hear a voice or… well, anything.

Hi Guys! So mirandasmadeofstone came up with THESE fic prompts and I decided to take a crack at it, so this has #’s 20 & 21, I hope you enjoy!

Forever tag list: nemo-miracle-grow areyousad8118 thisissomefreshbullshit luckyemcee mmfdiaryfanmurderyoursoul kristicallahan irish-girl-84 sey77 bebelievelive justagirlnamedkayla i-love-mmfd anitavalija stephsadickhead milymargot busstop ililypop pink-royaute lolflash youmehellofarollercoasterride curvygirlonabudget mellamoaiko inneedofamoralcompass paleasalabaster mmfdfanfic mallyallyandra lethallylauren finnleysraemundo pissingonursoul losingpudge bitchy-broken fuckintentshop audisodd @perfecters darlingdiver fantasticab celestev31 myfinnnelsonpls rinncincin tinakegg ducky17 katywright340 bitcheslovebeck raernundo nutinanutshell cant-getno-sleep courtkismet omgbananasnailus i-dream-of-emus @gemmarstyles guyoverboard anglophileyoungblood swooningfangirl bitchesbecrazy89 chrryblsms girlwithafoxhat annemarieted sammylbc sarahlouise88ni denaceleste how-ardently idontliketalkingtoanybody mmfdblog phoenixflow penguinsandbowties fizzezlikecherrycola fangirlwithoutshame africancreativity alyssaloca llexis thatfunnygirllauren cheersmedear 14000romances rred87 nirvanalove27 takenbyatree im-an-emu shashaaussi saracasm25 becauseyouarestrong malvaloca93 happyfrasers vmellow scumothaearff wandering-soul-7 hewittgolightly emmatationsforall ninjarunningzico arcticoasisboy milllott rafaellabnery endemictoearth oscarworthyperformance blackfeministagenda fxckyoubruhhh lilaviolet mirandasmadeofstone lililuvlight flxwxry slitherouter dianasaurousrexxx kathhumphreysx eighty-sixcharlie flirtmcgirt nenita1978 crystalgiddings1993 mydiaryofemus facephase blobwithagob freyasfrench luly310 cosiquellocheora stinemarine parisgirly93 @ljsbetterthanyesterday borntochaos likeashootingstarfades as always please let me know if you would like to be added or removed :D

Dressed in Red

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anonymous asked:

Pounds gavel "ORDER!!" *goes silent* "now bring Karina to the court please" *she walks in* "now I assume you know why you are here?" *karina nods* "very good now this is your last chance to draw skelly and Aldo in a Steven universe dimension if you Shan't you will be punished with 2 months in the shun chamber off with you now and don't dissappoint me"

REGINA:  What?  Where am I?  What the hell kind of CURSE is this?  Why am I dressed like a high priced call-girl?  Am I crying?

JUDGE:  Ms. Mills, do you have representation?

REGINA:  What?  

JUDGE:  You’re being charged with the brutal murders of Killian Jones and Robin Locksley.  

REGINA:  WHAT?!

JUDGE:  Do you have an attorney?

There’s a commotion from the back of the court room.  Emma Swan stumbles in with a briefcase and files in disarray under her arms.  She is wearing a teal colored business skirt suit, dark rimmed glasses and her hair up in a ponytail.

EMMA:  I’m here, I’m here,Your Honor.

JUDGE:  (pounds gavel)  ORDER!  ORDER IN THE COURT!!  And who might YOU be?

EMMA:
 I’m Emma Swan.  Council for the defense.  I’m Ms. Mills’ attorney.

REGINA:  (rolls her eyes skyward)  Oh, Jesus Christ.

———-

Photo Cred: beegoddess, Lana Parrilla as Betty in “The Defenders“

I See Through You

The day had started normal enough. Well, he hadn’t been in the best mood this morning. He was up to his ears in Irish shit, and he hadn’t even had time to go see Lyla the night before. He’d wound up crashing at the clubhouse, after they’d finished up about 3am, and his mom had kept Abel. Today wasn’t going any better than last night, and things had gotten bloody earlier and he’d gotten into it with Galen again, and wound up with another black eye. That Irish prick was going to wind up with a bullet in the fucking head.  

But that was nothing compared to what had happened In church. They had been trying to figure out what to do, when Bobby said it. 

“I know you don’t want to hear this Jax, but Clay knew how to handle the Irish. Maybe you need to act more like Clay.” 

A pin could drop in the chapel when he said it. Jax got the look, and pounded the gavel so hard, it nearly shattered. The guys had filed out then and he went to get up, and had gone back into the clubhouse to grab a shot of Jameson, because he really needed that fucking shot now, when Bobby had stopped him.

“Jax, a word?”

He then glared at him. “No, if you get you alone in a room right now, I’ll tear your goddamned head off.” 

But Bobby had to push. “I’m just saying, Clay knew how to keep Galen from getting under his skin. Maybe you should try to get a sit down and see how he’d handle..”

Jax then turned around.  “What did I say? You have a lost of goddamned nerve bringing Clay up when you’re the reason that he’s still alive! You know everything he fucking did and you still went against me. Don’t bring up Clay to me again or I swear you won’t do it again.” Jax loved Bobby but he was pissed. He’d screwed him over on the Mayhem Vote, and then he’d left. Chibs was the perfect VP and he was glad Bobby was back but he was pissed.”  

“You have got to stop letting that shit get to you, Jax. It’s tearing you up. I haven’t known how to help you since Ope..” 

That’s when Jax had lost it completely, over all the stress, and he took a pool cue and jammed it against the bar hard. “Stop fucking talking! This isn’t about Opie! This is about you not ever having my back!” The room had gone dead silent then and Jax had punched the bar so hard, he was bleeding.