#ofsalvo

cursed  heart :      prone  to  falling  for  people  that  aren’t  as  they  first  appear .    𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘  𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍    hiding  someone  with  ill  intent  .      ❝     i  wanted  a  girl  who  was  down  to  earth ,    ❞        blame  bestowed  onto  the  woman  never  reaching  for  his  heart ,  but  for  his  wallet .     𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃  𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 .      mangled   &  torn  apart .    ❝                      but she wanted the godddamn sky .       ❞  

                                       ❛❛   FUCK  YOU. ❜❜      Two  words  that  in  that  moment  he  meant  with  every  ounce  of  hatred,  and  disgust  he  hoped  that  his  tone  had  managed  to  convey.  Jackson  always  knew  how  to  hate,  there  was  ALWAYS  a  fine  line  between  hate,  and  love                  in  this  moment  ?  He  hates  her.  Hates  how  fucking  delusional  she  is  to  think  that  ‘walking  outside’  isn’t  going  to  be  a  problem,  hates  that  he’s  TRIED  to  take  care  of  her  —  even  though  she  never  asked.  Most  of  all  ?  He  hates  how  she  doesn’t  get  how  he  would’ve  done  anything  to  protect  her.  It  doesn’t  require  much  for  someone  to  detect  anger  within  Jackson,  body  stiffens  as  his  whole  countenance  changed.  No,  for  now  ?  She  was  some  asshole  who  had  no  regard  for  his  OWN  life;  the  risks  he  had  already  taken  for  her. ❛❛  Y’know  what  Mia  ?  ❜❜ Tall  frame  goes  to  the  door  as  he  opens  it  wide,  ❛❛ TAKE  A  LONG  FUCKIN’  WALK,  I  DON’T  GIVE  A  SHIT ❜❜ Hands  gesture  to  the  open  air  as  he  shakes  head.   

            “         It’s not unprofessional if you don’t get caught.”  A cocky grin creeps over his features, door already ajar in his haste to escape the cramped vehicle so that he could stretch his legs and get some fresh air. It didn’t help that the heater had to be on full blast due to New York’s chilling winter weather. After a few hours it’s become stuffy. The smell of corn chips palpable. Still, the man has a problem and it isn’t the confined, hot space smelling of chips and cherry air freshener that has him escaping to the nearest liquor store in the middle of night while on the job. It’s not something he’s proud of, also not something he plans on giving up any time soon. Maybe when he catches the bastard he’ll finally let himself be free of everything that’s been ailing him. 

Shoulders hunch, fists shoved immediately into the pockets of his leather coat for some semblance of warmth. Breathing a white cloud in to the air with the small vibration of his entire body as he’s stung by the cool night air. “     I may be a drunk, but I’m not a cheap drunk.” He jokes, making light of a serious subject. It’s better if she doesn’t know. How else would anyone cope with it? Therapist after therapist after therapist and never once could he find solace in any of them. It was better than drugs right? As long as no one knows that it’s a real problem. 

“             The inside of that car already smells like feet.” He complains. An accusatory finger pointing directly at the woman through the open window with playful disdain in her choice of snack foods. Devil dogs too? Fine. Let her have her junk food, he’ll have his beer and cigarettes. If a Chinese restaurant had been open at this hour there’s a high probability he’d have opted for an egg roll run instead of a beer and cigarette run. His expression is one of defeat, waving his arm as he turns from the vehicle and the woman inside of it. A nicotine fix is needed, pulling a pack of camels from the small pocket on the front of his coat. He gives it a couple shakes before flipping the lid open to find it empty, and with a frustrated sigh he tosses the empty pack in to the street. 

eyes  squint  at  the  lucid  light  of  day  ,  a  commodity  he’d  become  unaccustomed  to  in  recent  times  .  he  feels  icy  stares  from  the  other  alexandrians  ,  questions  burning  silver  tongues  ;  alas  ,  they  don’t  threaten  to  resonate  through  the  crisp  air  .  spencer  finds  himself  in  the  stockpile  ,  fingering  a  9mm  pistol  comfortably  placed  adjacent  to  a  comparable  silencer  piece  .  spencer  briefly  pictured  the  gun  touching  a  leather - clad  kings’  right  temple  ,  &  as  quickly  as  the  image  appeared  ,  it  was  GONE  again  .  he  had  not  declared  a  single  word  to  his  companion  since  a  blade  was  lodged  between  his  abdomen  .  

        ❝  i  didn’t  mean  what  i  said  ,  y’know  .  ❞  he  starts  ,  voice  sounding  totally  &  utterly  foreign  to  his  ears  .  he  wanted  her  to  believe  him  .  ❝  about  rick  .  i  didn’t  mean  it  .  ❞

       LET  IT  BE  NOTED  THAT  JACKSON  TELLER  TRUSTS  FEW  OUTSIDE  SAMCRO.  The  small  collective  of  men  whom  he  regards  as  a  sort  of  brotherhood.  Blood  never  an  additive  ingredient  to  their  particular  entanglement  —  the  blood  that  coursed  through  his  own  veins  was  riddled  with  betrayal,  cowardice,  and  the  kind  of  toxicity  that  could  kill  a  man.     Mia  Del  Salvo     had  somehow  carved  a  place  in  his  life;  crawled  into  that  sad  heart  of  his  as  she  slowly  crossed  that  line  from  friend  to  something  more.  Knows  that  he  can  trust  her  with  the  shit  that  he  doesn’t  want  to  get  his  hands  dirty  with,  the  kind  of  shit  that  if  it  blew  back  on  SAMCRO  that  it’d  somehow  land  them  all  in  jail.  Today  ?  It’s  the  disposal  of  a  local  dealer.  The  kind  of  dealer  that  one  wouldn’t  bother  to  mourn,  he  had  been  talking  about  it  at  length  with  Mia.  How  he  couldn’t  RISK  to  off  the  guy  yet;  that  Jackson  was  far  too  imperious  to  do  a    CLEAN    job.  He  figured,  that  if  he  shoved  him  out  of  a  fucking  window  who  couldn’t  say  it  wasn’t  an  accident  ?  

FLORENCE ;   the city had always held a special place in Lecter’s heart. As a young man he had spent endless hours waltzing through the museums’ corridors, admiring and reproducing the works of Botticelli onto little black sketchbooks , feeling inspired to CREATEsights as beautiful and HAUNTING as the works of the great Italian masters    …    Such creations would be the same reason that would lead him to FLEE the city. Spilling one’s suffering onto their work was APPLAUDED but the same couldn’t be said when the blood, sweat and tears belonged to a THIRD UNWILLING PARTY.  To return to Florence was likecoming back home. GHOSTS from the past loomed there. In every street corner, behind every creaking door  .  .  .  It was oddly SATISFYING to know that his memories were notDREAMS but real things that had survived through time just like the paintings hanging on the Uffizzi Gallery’s walls. Well , at least most of them.