🔮 𝐍𝐲𝐱 | she/her, chaotic, virgo, autistic, 18+
— a multifandom space for morally grey characters, emotional damage, obsession, and complex characters.
𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐠
I write x reader fics, headcanons, for emotionally complex, gritty, or broken characters and the people who love (or survive) them.
📌 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬
— requests: OPEN (for birthday event)
— ask games: sometimes
— updates: mostly everyday?
🔞 this blog explores mature/dark themes.
🔮 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
— masterlist (organized by fandom)
— requests & rules
— masterlist II
— fandoms
📔 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬
— the new favorite (femalemechanic!reader x sons of anarchy)
— Clingy Carmen (carmen berzatto x female reader)
— how the supernatural characters show their affection
— How the spn characters react to finding out they have feelings
— How the Sons react to someone hitting on you
🖤 wanna get shipped/matched up with someone?
🎉𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 — until august 30th 2026!
UNWRAPPED.
Pick your present. Add your bow. Receive your surprise. It’s my birthday soon, which means I’m once again i'm giving you presents! You get to pick a wrapped present, add a bow, choose a character, and I’ll write you a drabble/oneshot as your gift.
let's get unwrapped...
📢 𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 + 𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬
reblog where and when you can, it helps writers so much!
respect boundaries, read tags and tw's on each post, and interact kindly.
this blog explores dark themes, emotional trauma, and adult topics
all fics are tagged, but please read responsibly. (if I missed a tag please let me know)
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! 🥳 Can i have a pink present + white bow for jackson teller please 🙏
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title; eyes on me
pairing; jax teller x fem!reader
prompt; pink present (fluff) + white bow (jealousy)
You feel the bass from the clubhouse speakers vibrating up through the soles of your boots before you even push open the door. Charming’s summer heat clings to your skin, but inside the clubhouse the air is thick with cigarette smoke, leather, and the low rumble of laughter.
Jax is already at the bar, one elbow propped on the scratched wood, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. His cut hangs open over a black tee, the president’s patch catching the light every time he shifts. He doesn’t turn when you walk in, but you see the way his shoulders ease the second your boots hit the floorboards.
“Took you long enough,” he says, voice rough and warm. He finally looks over, blue eyes dragging slowly from your boots up to your face. That familiar half-smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Missed you.”
You slide onto the stool beside him, close enough that your thigh presses against his. His hand finds your knee under the bar like it belongs there, thumb stroking once, lazy and possessive. You order a beer, and a prospect nods from behind the taps and slides it over without a word.
Everything feels easy for a while. Jax tells you about the run that went smoother than expected, about how Abel is already trying to climb the porch railing like he’s got somewhere important to be. You laugh, soft, and lean into his side. His arm settles around your waist, heavy and solid, and for a few minutes the clubhouse noise fades into background static.
Then the front door swings open again, and she walks in.
You don’t know her name. Blonde, tight jeans, a smile that lands on Jax like she’s practiced it. She drifts over to the group of prospects near the pool table, but her eyes keep sliding back to the bar. To him. Jax doesn’t notice at first—he’s still talking to you, fingers absently tracing circles on your hip—but you notice.
The way she laughs a little too loud when someone cracks a joke, the way she keeps angling her body so she’s in his line of sight.
Something hot and tight coils low in your stomach.
Jax’s hand stills as he glances down at you, then follows your gaze. The blonde catches him looking and gives a little wave, bold as anything. His jaw tightens for half a second before he turns fully back to you, deliberately putting his back to her. “Hey.” His voice drops. “Eyes on me.”
You try for a cool shrug like you weren't mentally planning her demise. “Was just looking.”
“Bullshit.” He stands, crowding you against the bar without ever raising his voice. One hand braces beside your hip, the other tips your chin up so you have to meet those storm-blue eyes. “You think I give a shit about anyone else in this place when you’re sitting right here?”
The jealousy still burns, but it’s starting to twist into something softer under the weight of his attention. You open your mouth to answer, and he kisses you instead—slow, thorough, the kind of kiss that says mine without needing the word. His free hand slides into your hair, tilting your head just the way he likes, and the rest of the clubhouse might as well have disappeared.
When he pulls back, you’re both breathing a little harder. Jax rests his forehead against yours, voice low enough that only you can hear it.
“I spent half the afternoon thinking about getting back here so I could do that. So I could get my hands on you. You really think some girl I don’t even know is gonna change that?”
You shake your head, the last of the tension melting out of your shoulders. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, gentle in a way that still surprises you sometimes.
“Good.” He presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth, softer this time. “Because I’m taking you home after this drink, and I’m not sharing you with anyone. Not even the idea of anyone.”
You finish the beer faster than usual, and Jax stays pressed against your side the whole time, arm locked around you like he’s making a point to the entire room. When you finally slide off the stool, he follows, fingers laced with yours, and the blonde’s eyes track you both all the way to the door as she scoffs.
Outside, the night air is cooler as Jax walks you to his bike, then turns and cages you against the seat with both arms, kissing you again until you’re smiling against his mouth.
“Still jealous?” he murmurs.
You tip your head back to look at him, the streetlights catching the silver in his hair. “A little.”
He grins, that rare, real one that softens his whole face. “Good. Means you’re still mine.”
He swings a leg over the bike and waits for you to climb on behind him. Your arms slide around his waist, cheek resting between his shoulder blades. The engine rumbles to life beneath you, and as Charming’s streets blur past, you feel the last of the jealousy dissolve into something warm and steady.
You sit on the edge of your car hood under a sky thick with stars, the metal still warm from the day’s drive. The bunker is only a few miles behind you, but the quiet out here feels necessary. You needed air, needed space that didn’t smell like old books and gun oil, away from the brothers bitching at each other again over a case.
The gravel shifts behind you, but you don’t have to look to know who it is.
Castiel stops a few feet away, trench coat hanging open, tie slightly crooked the way it always is when he’s been thinking too hard. His head tilts, that familiar, searching expression, as if the universe itself just whispered something he needs to understand.
“You left without saying anything,” he states. His voice is low, rough around the edges from disuse.
“I just needed a minute.”
He steps closer, and the air changes when he does, like the pressure drops, like the night itself is holding its breath. You feel it in your chest first: a soft, steady pull, warm and insistent. It’s been there for weeks, quiet and persistent, but tonight it’s louder.
Castiel’s eyes widen a fraction; he feels it too.
“I have known the shape of every soul I have ever touched,” he says quietly. “I have rebuilt them. I have watched them break. But yours…” He trails off, searching for words the way he still sometimes does. “Yours feels like a place I have always been meant to return to.”
You swallow softly; the bond between you isn’t loud or dramatic. It doesn’t demand; it simply exists—steady, certain, like a heartbeat you’ve only just learned to listen for.
Soulmates.
The word feels too small and too vast at the same time.
Castiel reaches out, then hesitates, hand hovering near yours. You close the distance yourself, threading your fingers through his. His skin feels warm, always warmer than it should be.
“I do not understand all of it yet,” he admits. “The way your presence settles something in me I did not know was restless. The way I can find you in a room full of people without looking. The way the world feels… quieter when you are near.”
You smile, soft. “You’re not the only one who feels it.”
He studies your face like he’s memorizing it all over again. Then, carefully, he lifts your joined hands and presses his forehead to your knuckles; the gesture is so gentle it nearly undoes you.
“I have spent so long fighting,” he murmurs against your skin. “For Heaven. For the Winchesters. For free will. I never expected to be given something this soft.”
You free one hand and rest it against his cheek, and he leans into the touch immediately, eyes drifting shut for a moment. The bond between you hums, content.
“You don’t have to fight for this,” you tell him. “It’s already yours.”
Castiel opens his eyes, and there’s something almost vulnerable in them, an angel who has seen the birth and death of stars looking at you like you are the only miracle that ever mattered.
He steps closer until the space between you disappears. One arm slips around your waist, careful and reverent. You rest your head against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of rain and something uniquely him. His hand settles at the small of your back, thumb moving in slow, absent circles.
Above you, the stars keep shining, indifferent and endless, but down here, Castiel holds you like the universe finally got something right.
“Stay,” he says, so quietly it almost isn’t a request. “Just a little longer.”
You nod against his coat. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His arms tighten, just enough to say everything the words can’t. The bond settles deeper, warm and sure, wrapping around both of you like a promise neither of you has to speak aloud.
For the first time in a long time, the night feels gentle.
May I please have a black present, with a bow of your choice? For Pope Cody? Please?
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title; i fixed it
pairing; pope cody x fem!reader
prompt; black present (dark romance) + silver bow (yandere)
a.n; thank you for being my first pope requst but also letting me choose the bow! he just gives off yandere vibes to me??
You never should have come to Oceanside.
That’s what you tell yourself every time Pope Cody’s eyes find yours across a room. That heavy, unblinking stare that feels less like looking and more like being claimed. The rest of the Codys talk too loud, laugh too hard, move through the world like they own it. Pope doesn’t need to. He just watches. And once he decided you were his, the watching never stopped.
It started small. A hand on the small of your back that lingered too long, the way he always seemed to appear when some guy at the bar got too close, or the way his voice dropped when he said your name, like it was something sacred and dangerous at the same time.
You told yourself it was just Pope being Pope—intense, unstable, a little unhinged. The family warning you off only made it worse. They said he was broken, but you thought you could handle broken.
You were wrong.
Tonight the Cody compound is quiet. Too quiet. Baz and Deran are out. Smurf is somewhere dealing with whatever new mess the boys have made. Craig is probably chasing his next high.
Nothing keeping him from doing what he wants, and so Pope is in your apartment doorway, shoulders filling the frame, eyes black in the low light. He doesn’t knock; he never does anymore. Just breaks in or uses the key he had made.
“You’re thinking about leaving again,” he says. Not a question.
You freeze with your phone in your hand, the search history still open; bus tickets, one-way, anywhere that isn’t here. You lock the screen too late. He’s already seen.
Pope steps inside and closes the door behind him with a soft click that sounds final. “You don’t get to leave.”
“Pope-” you say, backing up slightly.
“No.” The word is quiet. Absolute. He crosses the room in three long strides and takes the phone from your hand like it belongs to him. Maybe it does now; everything of yours seems to. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing? Looking at tickets. Talking to that bartender like he could take you somewhere safer.” His mouth twists. “There is nowhere safer than me.”
Your pulse kicks hard against your throat. “You’re scaring me.”
“Good.” He backs you against the wall without touching you, close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him. “You should be scared of what I’ll do if anyone tries to take you. Of what I’ll do if you try.” His hand comes up, not to hurt, but to cradle your jaw with a gentleness that somehow feels more dangerous than violence. “I would burn this whole fucking city down before I let you walk away.”
You should push him, scream, do something. Instead, your traitorous body leans into the contact, into the dark gravity of him. Pope’s eyes search your face like he’s memorizing every micro-expression, cataloging fear and want in equal measure.
“I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching,” he murmurs. “You like that I’m like this. That I’d kill for you. That I already have.”
Your breath stutters.
The guy from the bar last week, the one who put his hand on your waist and laughed when you told him to stop, hadn’t shown up for his shift since. No one talked about it. Pope had just shown up at your place that night with blood under his nails and a calm so deep it was terrifying.
“He touched what was mine,” Pope says now, reading the memory on your face. “I fixed it. I’ll keep fixing it. Every single one of them.” His thumb strokes over your lower lip. “You’re not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever. You belong to me, and I will destroy anything that tries to change that. Including you, if I have to.”
The threat should send you running; instead, it sinks into you like a brand. Pope leans in until his forehead rests against yours, breath warm and uneven.
“Say it,” he whispers. “Tell me you’re staying. Tell me you’re mine.”
Your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. “I’m yours.”
Something dark and satisfied settles over his features. He kisses you like a man sealing a deal with blood, hard and claiming, and when he finally pulls back, there’s something almost tender in the ruin of his expression.
“Good girl,” he says. “Now get some sleep. I’ll be right here. I’m always right here.”
He doesn’t leave and he never will. As you lie awake later with his arm locked around your waist like a shackle and a promise, you understand the truth with perfect, terrible clarity:
You stopped being free the moment Pope Cody decided he loved you.
happy birthday:) hope it’s everything you wish for!! May i request a red present + gold bow + jax teller :)
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title; unspoken
pairing; jax teller x fem!reader
prompt; red present (suggestive) + gold bow (mutual pining)
You feel him before you see him.
The low rumble of his bike cuts through the late-night quiet of the clubhouse lot, and something in your chest tightens the way it always does around Jax. The man who’s been looking at you like you’re the only thing in Charming that still makes sense.
You stay where you are on the picnic table, legs dangling, a half-empty beer warming in your hand. The door to the clubhouse is open behind you, laughter and music spilling out, but out here it’s just the night and the smell of gasoline and leather. He parks, kills the engine, and swings off the bike with that easy, dangerous grace that makes every other man look like he’s trying too hard.
His eyes find you immediately.
“Didn’t expect you still out here,” he says, voice rough from the road. He walks over slow, like he’s giving you time to decide if you want him closer. You don’t move; you never do.
He stops a few feet away, rolling a cigarette between his fingers but not lighting it. The club lights catch the ink on his skin, the line of his jaw, the way his cut sits on broad shoulders. You’ve memorized all of it. You hate how much.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you answer. “Too quiet at home.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, quiet’s never been our strong suit.” His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second, then back up. That look again, the one that says he’s thought about this more times than he’ll admit. The one that makes heat coil low in your stomach.
You shift on the table, thighs pressing together without meaning to. His eyes track the movement. He notices everything.
“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmur, “and people are gonna start talking.”
“Let ’em.” He steps closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can smell the road on him, leather and smoke and something warmer underneath. “Been looking at you for months. Figured you’d have noticed by now.”
You did. God, you did. Every time he brushed past you in the clubhouse, every time his hand lingered a second too long when he handed you a drink, every time his eyes stayed on you across the table while the rest of the table argued. Quiet, heavy and dangerous. You both knew the rules. Club business first, complications second, and you were supposed to be neither.
But here you are.
He sets the unlit cigarette on the table beside your hip. His fingers are close enough that if you shifted even an inch, they’d brush the bare skin where your shirt has ridden up. You don’t. Neither does he. The air between you feels charged, thick with everything neither of you has said.
“I keep telling myself to leave it alone,” he says, voice lower now. “You’re not some club girl. You’re… different. And I don’t do different carefully.”
Your pulse is loud in your ears. “Maybe I don’t want careful.”
Something dark and hungry flickers across his face. He leans in just enough that his breath ghosts over your cheek when he speaks. “You say that, and I start thinking about all the ways I could have you. Against the wall in the garage. On the back of my bike. In my bed with the door locked so no one interrupts while I take my time learning every sound you make.”
Heat floods your face, your chest, lower. Your fingers tighten around the bottle. You can picture it too easily—his hands on your hips, that mouth on your throat, the way he’d look at you while he moved inside you like he was claiming something he’d already decided was his.
You swallow. “Jax…”
He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t touch you. He just stays there, close enough that the want is a physical thing between you, and lets the silence say the rest. His eyes drop to your lips again as yours drop to his. The moment stretches, taut and electric.
Finally he straightens, slow, like it costs him. He picks up the cigarette and tucks it behind his ear.
“Go inside,” he says, quieter. “Before I forget why I’ve been trying so hard not to do this.”
You slide off the table, and your shoulder brushes his chest as you pass. Neither of you pretends it was an accident. His hand lifts, almost settles at the small of your back, then falls away again.
You walk toward the clubhouse door without looking back, but you feel his eyes on you the entire way. Mutual. Unspoken. Heavy with everything still waiting to happen.
And you know, both of you know, that next time careful might not be enough to stop it.
Hey! Could I have a black present, with a white bow with Happy, please?
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title; all for you
pairing; happy lowman x fem!reader
prompt; black present (dark romance) + white bow (jealousy)
You feel his eyes on you before you see him.
The clubhouse is loud tonight—music thumping, bottles clinking, the usual chaos of the Sons winding down after a long run. You’re leaning against the bar, laughing at something one of the prospects said, when the air shifts. The laughter dies in your throat, and you don’t need to turn around to know Happy is watching.
He’s always watching.
You glance over your shoulder anyway. He’s sitting in his usual corner booth, arms crossed over his chest, that familiar blank expression on his face. Most people think Happy doesn’t feel much. They’re wrong. He feels everything; he just doesn’t waste words on it.
The only thing that ever cuts through that stillness is when something, or someone, gets too close to what’s his.
And you are his.
The prospect doesn’t notice. He’s still talking, still smiling, still standing a little too close. His hand brushes your arm as he reaches past you for a beer. It’s nothing. Harmless. Friendly.
Happy stands up.
He doesn’t rush; he never does. He just walks over, slow and deliberate, boots heavy on the floorboards. The prospect finally looks up and goes pale when he sees who’s coming. Happy doesn’t say a word. He just stops beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, and stares the kid down until the prospect mumbles something about needing to check the bikes and practically runs for the door.
The second he’s gone, Happy’s hand settles on the small of your back. Possessive and claiming, “Outside,” he says, voice low and rough.
You know better than to argue when he uses that tone. You follow him out the side door into the cool night air, away from the noise and the eyes. The second the door shuts behind you, he’s on you—backing you up against the wall of the clubhouse, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.
“You let him touch you.”
It’s not a question.
“It was nothing,” you say, but your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. His eyes are dark, almost black in the low light, and the jealousy in them is sharp enough to cut.
“Didn’t look like nothing.” His thumb digs into the soft skin just above your jeans. “He put his hands on what’s mine.”
Your pulse jumps. You’ve seen Happy angry before—quiet, focused, deadly—but this is different. This is personal. This is the kind of dark that lives under his skin and only comes out for you.
“I’m yours,” you tell him, because it’s true and because you know he needs to hear it. “He doesn’t matter.”
Happy’s jaw tightens. He leans in until his mouth is almost against yours, breath warm and controlled. “Then why the fuck were you smiling at him like that?”
There’s no good answer that won’t make this worse. You don’t try to give one. Instead you reach up and curl your fingers into the front of his cut, pulling him closer. He lets you as his hand slides from your hip to your throat, not squeezing but just resting there, a quiet warning and a claim all at once.
“I don’t share,” he says against your mouth. “Not you. Not ever.”
The kiss that follows isn’t soft. It’s hungry and edged with that same dark jealousy, teeth catching your bottom lip, tongue demanding. You open for him because there’s no other option. Your body already knows who it belongs to. His free hand shoves under your shirt, palm rough against your skin, mapping every inch like he’s reminding himself what’s his.
When he finally pulls back, you’re breathing hard and so is he.
“Anyone else looks at you like that again,” he says, voice quieter now but no less dangerous, “I’ll put a blade in their throat. You understand me?”
You nod. You understand perfectly. Happy doesn’t make empty threats. The same hands that hold you like you’re something precious are the ones that have ended men for far less than a lingering glance.
He studies your face for a long moment, searching for any sign of fear or hesitation. When he doesn’t find any, something in his expression eases slightly. The jealousy is still there, coiled and ready, but the sharpest edge of it softens into something darker and more possessive.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the words sink into you like a brand.
His hand leaves your throat only to cup the back of your neck, pulling you in until your foreheads touch. For a few heartbeats he just breathes with you, grounding himself in the fact that you’re still here, still his, still unmarked by anyone else’s hands.
Then he kisses you again, slower this time, but no less intense. Like he’s trying to rewrite the memory of that prospect’s casual touch with something permanent.
When he finally steps back, it’s only far enough to take your hand. His fingers lace through yours, tight and unyielding.
“We’re going home,” he says.
You don’t ask why; you already know. Happy’s jealousy doesn’t burn out quick. It settles in, deep and dark, and the only thing that settles it is having you under him, marked and claimed all over again until there’s no room left for anyone else’s shadow.
You follow him to his bike without a word. The night air is cool against your flushed skin, but the heat of his hand never leaves yours.
And as the engine rumbles to life beneath you, you feel it—that familiar, dangerous certainty settling in your chest.
Happy Lowman doesn’t love easy.
He loves like a man who knows exactly how much blood he’s willing to spill to keep what’s his.
Happy Birthday! Could I have that blue present with the pink bow for spn gabriel? Thank you!
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title; i’ve got you
pairing; gabriel x reader
prompt; blue present (hurt/comfort) + pink bow (established relationship)
a.n; I forgot to write on my unwrapped post for people to specify if you want fem!reader or gn!reader so if you request try to remember it. ty!
You wake to the soft crackle of the motel’s ancient radiator and the heavier, warmer weight of an arm draped across your waist. For a second, the room is just dim yellow light and the faint smell of sulfur still clinging to your clothes. Then the ache hits—deep in your ribs, sharp when you breathe, and a dull throb behind your left temple where something heavy had connected.
Gabriel’s voice is low against the back of your neck.
“Easy, sunshine. You’re still in one piece. Mostly.”
You try to roll toward him and the pain flares. His hand tightens, not restraining, just anchoring. He shifts so he’s propped on one elbow, looking down at you with those gold-flecked eyes that always seem older than the rest of his face. The usual smirk is gone. In its place is something quieter, almost careful.
“Hunt went sideways,” you manage, your voice sounding rough. “Demon had friends.”
“I noticed.” He brushes a thumb under your eye, tracing the bruise you can feel blooming there. “I felt it the second it happened. Almost tore a hole in the fabric of reality just to get here faster.” A small, humorless huff. “Dean would’ve loved that.”
You try to smile, and it hurts. He notices. Of course he does.
Gabriel leans in and presses his mouth to your forehead, lingering. When he pulls back, there’s a faint shimmer of grace in the air, warm and golden, and the worst of the throbbing in your skull eases. He doesn’t take it all away, never does when it’s this bad. He says you need to feel some of it so you remember you’re still human. You used to argue, but you don’t anymore.
“I should’ve been there,” he murmurs.
“You were on a job.” Your fingers find the soft cotton of his t-shirt and curl into it. “We’re not joined at the hip.”
“Could be.” The attempt at lightness falls flat. He looks at the split on your lip, the way your free hand is pressed protectively over your side. “I hate this part. The part where the universe keeps trying to take pieces of you and I’m supposed to just… watch.”
You reach up, slow, and cup the side of his face. His stubble scrapes your palm. For a moment he leans into the touch like it’s the only solid thing in the room.
“You’re not watching,” you say. “You’re here. That’s the difference.”
Something in his expression cracks. He dips his head and kisses you—gentle at first, careful of the cut, then deeper when you make a soft sound of encouragement. His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, not seeking anything heated, just settling warm and steady over the worst of the bruising along your ribs. Another quiet pulse of grace, and the sharp edge of the pain dulls to something manageable.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“I keep thinking one of these days the universe is going to win,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “That I’ll show up, and you won’t be breathing. And I don’t know what I’d do with that, sunshine. I really don’t.”
You thread your fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “Then don’t think about it. Think about this. Right now. You’re here, and I’m breathing. We’re okay.”
He exhales, long and shaky, and gathers you closer, careful of every injury. Your head finds the familiar spot against his chest where his heartbeat is steady and human-sounding even though you both know better. One of his hands strokes slow circles between your shoulder blades. The other stays splayed over your side like a shield.
Gabriel presses another kiss to the top of your head. “Sleep,” he says. “I’ve got you. Not going anywhere.”
You close your eyes slowly. The ache is still there, but it’s distant now, held at bay by the solid warmth of him and the soft golden light that never quite leaves when he’s this close. For the first time since the fight, your body believes it’s safe.
Thank you so much for inviting us all to your celebration! 🥳
I'd like to request a Grey Present + Opie Winston, please.
Thank you very much! 🩷
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title; hold on (opie winston x fem!reader)
prompt; grey present (angst)
a/n; thank you for the request i can't believe my first birthday request of this year is angst but nevertheless hope you enjoy!
You wake before the sun, the same way you always do when Opie’s side of the bed is cold. The sheets still hold the shape of him, the faint smell of motor oil and the cheap cologne he thinks hides the clubhouse smoke. You press your face into his pillow anyway, like it might answer the question that’s been living in your throat for weeks.
Where are you when you’re not here?
The house is quiet; it’s just you, the ticking clock and the empty space where Opie’s boots should be by the door.
You make coffee the way he likes it—too strong, black, no sugar—and leave the mug on the counter like an offering where it soon goes cold. You drink it yourself later, bitter and wrong, just to feel like you’re still part of the same morning.
He comes home after dark, always after dark. The door opens soft, like he’s trying not to wake a sleeping child instead of a woman who’s been waiting with every light on. You hear the heavy thud of his cut hitting the chair, the quiet unzip of his boots. You stay on the couch, knees drawn up, pretending the television is interesting.
“You’re still up,” he says. His voice is rough and tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He doesn’t cross the room. He just stands there, shoulders filling the doorway, looking at you like he’s already halfway gone again. There’s a fresh cut on his knuckles as you notice everything now. The way his eyes skip past yours, the way his hand flexes like it wants to reach for you but decides against it.
“Club business,” he offers, the same two words he’s been giving you for months.
You nod. You’ve learned not to ask for more; asking only makes the silence thicker.
He sits on the edge of the couch, close enough that your knee brushes his thigh. The contact feels like a dare you don’t pull away, and neither does he. For a long moment the only sound is the low murmur of the TV and the distant highway.
“I hate this,” you say quietly.
His jaw tightens. “I know.”
“I hate that I never know if you’re coming back. I hate that I have to smile at the other old ladies like we’re all fine while half of us are lying awake doing the same math. I hate that loving you... feels like holding my breath.”
Opie looks at you, really looks. The blue of his eyes is storm-dark, full of everything he won’t say. He reaches up, slow, and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger against your cheek, rough and careful.
“I never wanted this for you,” he murmurs. “Any of it.”
“But it’s what we have.”
He nods once.
The motion is small, defeated. You lean into his hand because you’re selfish and because the alternative is watching him disappear without touching him at all. He pulls you closer until your forehead rests against his. His breath is warm, and his heart is steady, like a stubborn drum under your palm when you press it to his chest.
“I’m still here,” he says. It’s not a promise. It’s a fact he’s fighting to keep true.
You close your eyes. “For how long?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he kisses you—slow, careful, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth in case the night takes it away. You kiss him back harder, angry and aching, pouring every unspoken fear into the press of your lips. His hands frame your face. Yours fist in the soft fabric of his shirt.
When you break apart, neither of you speaks. The silence is heavier than before, but it’s shared now. You curl against his side as he wraps an arm around you, solid and warm, and for a little while the world shrinks to the sound of his breathing and the steady beat of a heart that still chooses you.
Outside this moment, the club waits. The road waits. Tomorrow waits with all its sharp edges.
My dear @brunettemarionette, I'd like to apologize for requesting an angsty fic, but it's the first thing that comes to my mind when I think about Opie and I knew you'd write an absolute gem because you outdo yourself with every piece you write.
Thank you very, very much for this masterwork, I LOVE IT. And I promise you that, no matter how tempted I may be, I'll leave angst aside and choose a happy theme for my next request 😉 🫂🩷
Dearest @a-winter-tale, I humbly accept you apology. Though I myself get sad reading angst I somehow write it well, but seriously thank you for your (early) birthday wishes, request and sweet words.
Feel free to request more angst, I'll just cry as I write it to the sounds of Evanescence's "My Immortal". 🫂💜
Thank you so much for inviting us all to your celebration! 🥳
I'd like to request a Grey Present + Opie Winston, please.
Thank you very much! 🩷
unwrapped masterlist | main masterlist | navigation
title; hold on (opie winston x fem!reader)
prompt; grey present (angst)
a/n; thank you for the request i can't believe my first birthday request of this year is angst but nevertheless hope you enjoy!
You wake before the sun, the same way you always do when Opie’s side of the bed is cold. The sheets still hold the shape of him, the faint smell of motor oil and the cheap cologne he thinks hides the clubhouse smoke. You press your face into his pillow anyway, like it might answer the question that’s been living in your throat for weeks.
Where are you when you’re not here?
The house is quiet; it’s just you, the ticking clock and the empty space where Opie’s boots should be by the door.
You make coffee the way he likes it—too strong, black, no sugar—and leave the mug on the counter like an offering where it soon goes cold. You drink it yourself later, bitter and wrong, just to feel like you’re still part of the same morning.
He comes home after dark, always after dark. The door opens soft, like he’s trying not to wake a sleeping child instead of a woman who’s been waiting with every light on. You hear the heavy thud of his cut hitting the chair, the quiet unzip of his boots. You stay on the couch, knees drawn up, pretending the television is interesting.
“You’re still up,” he says. His voice is rough and tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He doesn’t cross the room. He just stands there, shoulders filling the doorway, looking at you like he’s already halfway gone again. There’s a fresh cut on his knuckles as you notice everything now. The way his eyes skip past yours, the way his hand flexes like it wants to reach for you but decides against it.
“Club business,” he offers, the same two words he’s been giving you for months.
You nod. You’ve learned not to ask for more; asking only makes the silence thicker.
He sits on the edge of the couch, close enough that your knee brushes his thigh. The contact feels like a dare you don’t pull away, and neither does he. For a long moment the only sound is the low murmur of the TV and the distant highway.
“I hate this,” you say quietly.
His jaw tightens. “I know.”
“I hate that I never know if you’re coming back. I hate that I have to smile at the other old ladies like we’re all fine while half of us are lying awake doing the same math. I hate that loving you... feels like holding my breath.”
Opie looks at you, really looks. The blue of his eyes is storm-dark, full of everything he won’t say. He reaches up, slow, and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger against your cheek, rough and careful.
“I never wanted this for you,” he murmurs. “Any of it.”
“But it’s what we have.”
He nods once.
The motion is small, defeated. You lean into his hand because you’re selfish and because the alternative is watching him disappear without touching him at all. He pulls you closer until your forehead rests against his. His breath is warm, and his heart is steady, like a stubborn drum under your palm when you press it to his chest.
“I’m still here,” he says. It’s not a promise. It’s a fact he’s fighting to keep true.
You close your eyes. “For how long?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he kisses you—slow, careful, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth in case the night takes it away. You kiss him back harder, angry and aching, pouring every unspoken fear into the press of your lips. His hands frame your face. Yours fist in the soft fabric of his shirt.
When you break apart, neither of you speaks. The silence is heavier than before, but it’s shared now. You curl against his side as he wraps an arm around you, solid and warm, and for a little while the world shrinks to the sound of his breathing and the steady beat of a heart that still chooses you.
Outside this moment, the club waits. The road waits. Tomorrow waits with all its sharp edges.
UNWRAPPED.
Pick your present. Add your bow. Receive your surprise.
It’s my birthday soon, which means I’m once again i'm giving you presents! You get to pick a wrapped present, add a bow, choose a character, and I’ll write you a drabble/oneshot as your gift.
let's get unwrapped...
birthday rules;
🎉 my usual rules still apply, you can find them here!
🎉 you can ask for multiple presents but just please do them separately to avoid gift confusion
🎉 birthday presents take a while to wrap so please be patient
🎉 gifts are available up until august 30th 2026!
🎉 all requests must go through my ask box, also this is a no minors birthday bash so you'll assume full responsibility for your own consumption
🎉 specify if you want a female!reader or gender neutral!reader, otherwise my go to is usually fem!reader.
who's at my birthday party?;
sons of anarchy — jax, opie, chibs, tig, happy, juice
miscellaneous — daryl dixon, lip gallagher, eddie munson, billy hargrove, angel reyes, bucky barnes, frank castle, simon riley, tangerine (bullet train), jack abbot, pope cody
how to request:
Present + Bow (optional) + Character
Example: Red Present + Gold Bow + Character or Blue Present + Character
🎁 PRESENTS (choose one)
Red Present — Suggestive
Pink Present — Fluff
Blue Present — Hurt/Comfort
Purple Present — Slice of Life
Yellow Present — Comedy
Green Present — AU
Grey Present — Angst
Black Present — Dark Romance
🎀 BOWS (optional — choose one)
・Gold Bow — Mutual Pining
・Silver Bow — Yandere
・Red Bow — First Kiss
・Pink Bow — Established Relationship
・Blue Bow — Confession
・White Bow — Jealousy
・Purple Bow — Soulmates
・Yellow Bow — Friends to Lovers
・Green Bow — Forbidden Love
・Teal Bow — Enemies to Lovers
・Black Bow — Second Chance
・Grey Bow — Forced Proximity
Thank you for celebrating my birthday with me, if you have any questions just send me an ask!
summary; you keep “creatively prioritizing” Dr. Abbot’s instructions in the ED and he finally corners you for a private lecture, only for the usual puppy-dog eyes, soft apologies, and shameless flirting to work their magic once again.
warnings; brat!reader, med student reader, age gap, power dynamics (attending/med student), mentor/mentee dynamics, light power play, fluff, late-night ED setting, big use of puppy eyes that jack can't handle, reader being flirty, stern jack? kinda?, reader is probably his favourite.
wc; 1,138 words
a.n; i found shawn hatosy... through a clip of him making sandwich on youtube. Here come the jack abbott, and pope cody fics- and whatever else I watch with him in it.
Sometimes Dr. Jack Abbot looks at you like he’s already calculated the exact number of years your career has left if you keep testing him.
You have pointed this out, out loud, more than once. Every time, the rest of the ED pretends they didn’t hear it, which is how you know they’re all cowards.
Tonight is no different.
It’s past two in the morning, the kind of quiet that only happens between disasters, and you’ve just finished presenting a case that was, in your professional opinion, mostly correct. The differentials were solid. The plan was thoughtful. The only minor issue was the part where you maybe, possibly, slightly adjusted the order of labs he’d specifically told you to run first.
Creative prioritization. That’s what you’re calling it.
Abbot is leaning against the counter outside bay four, arms crossed, scrubs still looking unfairly put-together for someone who’s been here since the previous noon. His eyes are that particular shade of amber that always makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something you haven’t even decided to do yet.
“Walk me through it again,” he says. Flat. No preamble, just classic Abbot.
You rock back on your heels, hands tucked behind your back the way you’ve learned makes you look marginally less like a problem. “Okay, so the patient presented with-”
“The part where you decided my instructions were optional.”
You blink up at him, already preparing the softest, most wounded version of your face. “I didn’t decide they were optional. I decided they were… flexible. In the spirit of clinical judgment.”
“Clinical judgment.” He repeats the words like they personally offended him. “You’re a third-year med student. Your clinical judgment currently consists of ‘don’t forget to wash your hands’ and ‘maybe don’t stick yourself with the needle.’”
You tip your head, letting the fluorescent lights catch the puppy-dog eyes at just the right angle. “That’s unfair. I’ve also mastered ‘look cute while asking for help.’”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. Progress.
“You ignored the order I gave you.”
“I optimized it.”
“You rearranged it.”
“I improved the flow.”
“You-” He stops. Inhales slowly through his nose, and you watch the exact moment he decides yelling would take more energy than he’s willing to spend at 2 a.m. “Come with me.”
He turns and walks toward the empty conference room without checking if you’re following. Of course you are; you always are.
The door clicks shut behind you. The room smells like old coffee and dry-erase markers. Abbot sits on the edge of the table, legs stretched out, and points at the chair across from him like he’s assigning detention.
You sit with your ankles crossed and fold your hands in your lap. Best approximation of a model student.
He stares at you for a long second. “Explain.”
You lean forward a little, voice dropping into something softer, sweeter. “I was thinking about efficiency. The patient was anxious, the wait times were already long, and I thought if I could get the more relevant labs back faster, we could-”
“You thought.” His tone is mild. Dangerous. “You thought past the attending who told you exactly what to do.”
You open your mouth, close it, and then try again. “I was trying to be helpful.”
“You were being a brat.”
The word lands warm and low in your stomach. You don’t even try to hide the tiny smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Only a little.”
Abbot pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ.”
You shift closer in the chair, close enough that your knee almost brushes his. “I know I should’ve asked first. I know. But you were with the trauma in three, and I didn’t want to interrupt. The patient kept looking at me like I was supposed to already know everything, and I-”
You stop to soften your eyes further, letting the lower lip do that small, unconscious pout that has historically worked on everyone except him (and still works on him, even if he pretends otherwise). “I just wanted to do a good job for you.”
He looks at you, really looks. The kind of look that makes the age gap feel suddenly very present. Your early twenties and his decades of experience, the power imbalance sitting heavy and quiet between you like a third person in the room.
“That look,” he says eventually, voice quieter, “is going to get you into trouble one day.”
“Is it working tonight?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he reaches out, slow, and tugs lightly at the sleeve of your scrub top so you scoot the chair even closer. His hand stays there, warm fingers curled around the fabric.
“You’re going to write up what you did,” he says. “Why you did it. Why it was wrong. And then you’re going to sit here while I go over the correct sequence with you until you can recite it in your sleep.”
You nod immediately, eyes bright. “Yes, Dr. Abbot.”
“And you’re going to stop rearranging my orders.”
“I’ll try very hard.”
“You’re going to succeed.”
You tip your head, giving him the full force of the puppy eyes one more time. “What if I promise to only rearrange them when you’re not looking?”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. Almost. “Then I’ll start locking the supply closet so you can’t get to the lab slips without me.”
You laugh, soft and genuine, and lean forward until your forehead briefly rests against his shoulder, just for a second. Long enough to feel the way he stills, then the careful way one of his hands comes up to rest between your shoulder blades.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur into the fabric of his scrub top. “For real this time. I just… like when you teach me things. Even when you’re annoyed.”
He exhales, the sound almost fond. “I know.”
You stay like that a moment longer than is strictly professional. When you pull back, his hand lingers half a second before dropping away.
“Notes,” he says. “Now. And if you so much as look at me with those eyes while I’m explaining electrolytes, I’m making you do the entire presentation again in front of Robby.”
You grin, already pulling a pen from your pocket. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Dr. Abbot.”
He watches you open the notebook, the corner of his mouth still fighting that almost-smile.
“Liar,” he says quietly.
You don’t deny it; you just look up at him through your lashes one last time, soft and shameless and completely unrepentant, and start writing.
Not because of the soft hush of ‘good girl’ that comes from his lips gruffly or the way his hand grazes your back to adjust your posture with a huff but for academic purposes...
Or at least that’s what you tell yourself and everyone else.
☾⭒.˚— summary; Carmy catches a cold but refuses to admit it. During a slow service, he’s sniffling, voice hoarse, moving slower than usual. You drag him to the office to feed him soup you made. The crew accidentally catch him being ridiculously cuddly.
☾⭒.˚— wc; 851 words
The lunch rush is mercifully light, but The Bear still feels like a pressure cooker. You’re wiping down the pass when you catch Carmy gripping the edge of the counter a second too long, shoulders hunched. His usual laser focus is dulled at the edges. He clears his throat, raw and scratchy, then winces.
“Carm,” you say quietly, stepping closer.
“I’m fine,” he mutters before you even finish.
Classic him.
His voice sounds like gravel. His nose is pink, and every few minutes he’s stifling a sniffle like it personally offends him. Marcus gives you a look from the pastry station that says, “Good luck.” Sydney just raises her eyebrows and keeps plating.
By the time the last ticket prints, you’ve had enough. You grab Carmy’s wrist as he tries to reorganize the lowboy for the third time.
“Office. Now.”
“I still have to-”
“Nope.” You tug him gently but firmly. “Sydney’s got it.”
He grumbles the whole way but lets you pull him. The second the office door clicks shut, he slumps into the chair like his strings got cut. You disappear into the kitchen for two minutes and return with a thermos of soup you’d made at home this morning—just in case—and a blanket Tina keeps in the break room for emergencies.
Carmy eyes the thermos as if it had betrayed him. “I’m not sick.”
“You sound like a chainsmoker with laryngitis, chef.” You unscrew the lid, and the smell of chicken, garlic, and herbs fills the small room. “Sit back.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but you’re already perching on the edge of the desk and lifting a spoonful toward him. His cheeks flush—part fever, part embarrassment—but after a stubborn second, he leans forward and takes it. The moan he lets out is almost indecent.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he rasps. “Needs a little more thyme, though. And maybe-”
You raise an eyebrow. He shuts up and accepts another bite, but his hand finds your knee, thumb rubbing slow circles like he needs the contact to stay upright.
“You’re an idiot, you know that?” you murmur fondly, brushing damp curls off his forehead. He’s burning up.
“Yeah, well… this idiot’s got a restaurant to run.” His head tilts into your touch anyway, eyes fluttering half-shut. The tough exterior is crumbling fast.
The door creaks open. Richie pokes his head in, smirking like he won the lottery. “Yo, Carm, we—oh shit.”
Carmy doesn’t even pull away. He just sighs and leans heavier against your leg, eyes closed, letting you card your fingers through his hair. Richie’s phone is already out.
“Do not,” Carmy mumbles, zero heat behind it.
“Too late, cousin. This is blackmail gold. Carmy Berzatto getting spoon-fed like a sick toddler. Tina’s gonna love this.”
“Richie,” you warn, but you’re smiling.
Sydney appears behind him, takes one look at Carmy practically purring under your hand, and shakes her head. “He’s got a fever, doesn’t he?”
“He’s denying it,” you say.
“I’m fine,” Carmy insists weakly, but when you offer another spoonful, he takes it without complaint, his free hand sliding up to rest on your thigh. Possessive even when half-dead.
Tina pushes past the guys with a soft laugh. “Look at him. All that yelling in the kitchen, and he turns into a house cat the second his girl’s around. Cute.”
Carmy groans in protest but doesn’t move. If anything, he nuzzles closer when you drape the blanket over his shoulders. His forehead drops against your stomach, arms loosely wrapping around your waist.
“You’re staying in here until service is over,” you tell him, voice gentle. “Then I’m taking you home.”
He hums in agreement, the fight finally drained out of him. “Only if you stay with me,” he mumbles into your shirt. “Don’t like the bed when you’re not in it.”
Richie makes a gagging noise. “Jesus Christ, he’s whipped. I’m telling Fak.”
“Out,” you laugh, shooing them. Sydney gives you a supportive nod before dragging Richie away by the collar.
Once the door shuts again, Carmy lets out a long, shaky breath. “Love you,” he whispers, so quiet you almost miss it. His arms tighten around you. “Even when you’re bossy.”
You smile, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “Love you too, stubborn. Now finish this soup. Doctor’s orders.”
He obeys without another word, eyes heavy, cheeks flushed. By the time the bowl is empty, he’s half-asleep in the chair, still clinging to you like you might disappear. You manage to coax him onto the tiny couch in the corner, curling up beside him. His head finds your lap immediately, one arm slung across your legs.
The sounds of the kitchen feel far away. You stroke his hair as his breathing evens out, the tension finally leaving his body.
Richie will never let him live this down. The whole crew is probably placing bets on how long it takes before Carmy tries to deny the whole thing tomorrow.
But right now he’s soft, warm and yours, quietly snoring into your thigh with your fingers in his curls.
You bite your lower lip while reading the morning paper across the breakfast table and Thomas’s sharp blue eyes lock onto the movement instantly; he sets his cigarette down slowly, voice low and rough, “Careful, love. Keep doing that and I’ll have to remind you what that mouth was made for.”
Every time you absentmindedly suck on the end of your fountain pen during a tense Shelby Company meeting, Thomas’s gaze darkens beneath the brim of his cap; he clears his throat, interrupting whoever’s speaking just to watch you freeze with the pen still between your lips.
Late at night in the Garrison, when you swirl your tongue on the rim of your glass while thinking, Thomas leans in close, breath hot against your ear, murmuring, “If you’re that hungry for something to suck on, I’ve got something better waiting upstairs.”
You chew on your thumbnail when you’re anxious about a deal and Thomas pulls your hand away, replacing it with two of his own fingers, pressing them gently against your tongue while he whispers, “Use me instead, eh? That’s my girl.”
He starts buying you those expensive imported lollipops from London just so he can watch you unwrap one slowly in his office; the way your cheeks hollow makes him shift in his chair and growl, “You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you, darling?”
During a quiet moment on the couch at Arrow House, you suck on an ice cube to cool down and Thomas’s hand slides up your thigh, voice velvet-rough: “Ice won’t satisfy you the way I will. Open up for me.”
He notices how you roll a cigarette between your lips before lighting it and he snatches it away, replacing it with his own mouth in a deep, claiming kiss that leaves you both breathless and him muttering, “My lips. Only mine.”
When you nervously suck on your lower lip during an argument, Thomas stops mid-sentence, eyes blazing; next thing you know he’s backed you against the wall, thumb tugging your lip free so he can replace it with his tongue.
He loves watching you eat cherries at dinner, the way you swirl your tongue around the stem before tying it in a knot; his hand finds your knee under the table and squeezes hard enough to promise what’s coming later.
In the privacy of the bedroom he’ll press his thumb to your bottom lip and command softly, “Show me how you use that pretty mouth,” then groan when you immediately suck it in, eyes fluttering shut.
You sometimes trace your own lips with a fingertip while lost in thought and Thomas catches your wrist, bringing your finger to his mouth instead, sucking lightly while maintaining eye contact until your knees go weak.
After a long day he’ll pull you into his lap, press a fresh lollipop against your lips and murmur, “Go on, love. Suck. Let me watch exactly how you’ll take me later.”
Even in public, if you start chewing on the inside of your cheek he’ll lean over and whisper against your ear, “Stop that. Save it for when my cock is the only thing between those lips tonight.”
He keeps a small silver tin of mints in his pocket purely so he can offer you one and then watch, mesmerised, as you roll it around on your tongue before it disappears between your lips.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫
The second you start sucking on your straw at the Garrison, Arthur’s loud laugh dies in his throat; he stares, wide-eyed and already half-hard, before blurting, “Fuckin’ hell, woman, you tryna kill me?”
You bite your lip when you’re concentrating on sewing a button back on his shirt and Arthur drops to his knees in front of you, big hands on your thighs: “If you need somethin’ to bite, love, I’ve got plenty.”
Every time you nervously chew on a matchstick while waiting for him to finish a fight, Arthur comes back bloody-knuckled and immediately kisses you hard, tasting the wood and growling, “Tastes better on your tongue than it ever did in my mouth.”
He buys you bags of boiled sweets just to watch you suck them down; he’ll sit across from you, legs spread, eyes dark, muttering, “Christ, the noises you make… gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind.”
When you suck on your fingers after eating, Arthur grabs your wrist and brings those same fingers to his own mouth, sucking the salt off them while staring at you like he wants to devour you whole.
In the back room of the Garrison he’ll pull you onto his lap and press his thumb against your tongue, voice wrecked: “Go on, love, show me how you’d suck me off right here where anyone could walk in.”
You roll your tongue around the neck of a beer bottle absentmindedly and Arthur nearly chokes on his own drink, slamming it down before hauling you upstairs with a growled, “Mouth. On me. Now.”
He loves when you bite your lip during sex; he’ll pin your wrists above your head and demand, “Do it again. Fuck, look at you, my dirty girl and her perfect mouth.”
After a bad day he’ll come home, see you chewing on a pen, and immediately replace it with his cock, groaning, “Need you to fix me the way only you can, sweetheart.”
You suck on an ice lolly in the summer heat and Arthur watches it drip down your chin, then licks the trail clean before pushing the rest of the treat between your lips and whispering, “Keep sucking, love. Practice.”
He’ll trace your lips with his rough thumb and mutter, “This mouth is gonna be the death of me. Always wet, always ready—fuckin’ perfect.”
During a family meeting you start sucking on your lower lip and Arthur’s hand slides under the table to squeeze your thigh hard enough to bruise, eyes promising he’ll ruin you the second everyone leaves.
He keeps a little tin of cinnamon sticks in his jacket just so he can offer you one and then watch, mesmerised, as you roll it around your tongue before he yanks you in for a messy kiss.
Late at night he’ll pull you close, press two fingers to your lips and order softly, “Open up for me, darling. Let me feel that pretty tongue before I give you somethin’ bigger.”
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧
You chew on the end of your pencil while doing the books and John leans over your shoulder, grinning wickedly: “Keep that up and I’m gonna give you something thicker to wrap your lips around, eh?”
Every time you suck on a lollipop in front of the kids, John waits until they’re out of earshot before whispering, “You’re lucky they’re here, love, or that lolly would be on the floor and my cock in its place.”
He catches you biting your lip during a cheeky argument and immediately kisses you stupid, mumbling against your mouth, “That’s my job, biting that lip.”
John starts carrying extra gum just so he can watch you chew it, jaw working, then pulls you into a dark corner of the betting shop and replaces the gum with his tongue.
When you swirl your tongue around a spoon after eating, John’s eyes go dark and he mutters, “Fuck me, woman, you’re gonna make me finish in my trousers like a teenager.”
He loves dragging you into the kitchen at night, pressing a fresh strawberry against your lips and groaning when you suck the juice off his fingers: “That’s it, love—practice for later.”
You suck on your own fingers after licking sauce off them and John grabs your hand, sucking each finger clean while maintaining eye contact and whispering filthy promises.
During a family dinner you absentmindedly roll a cherry stem around your tongue and John nearly knocks his chair over trying to drag you upstairs before dessert.
He’ll pin you against the wall after a long day and press his thumb to your bottom lip: “Open up, baby. Show your husband how much you missed him.”
John buys you a lot of lollipops just so he can watch your cheeks hollow; he always ends up stealing it from your mouth and replacing it with something else.
You bite your lip when you’re trying not to laugh at his jokes and he leans in, voice low: “Keep biting that lip and I’ll bite something else tonight.”
In the bedroom he’ll hold your jaw gently and murmur, “Love watching this pretty mouth work. Show me how good you are, eh?”
He keeps a secret stash of those toothpicks just so he can slip one between your lips and then kiss you senseless, tasting the wood on your tongue.
Late at night he’ll pull you into his lap, press two fingers past your lips and groan, “Suck, love. Pretend it’s me. Fuck—you’re too good at this.”
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥
You suck on the end of a cigarette filter while waiting for him at the office and Michael’s elegant fingers tighten around his pen until it nearly snaps; he clears his throat and says, voice smooth, “Darling, if you need something to suck on, come here.”
Every time you bite your lip while reading contracts, Michael slides his chair closer, thumb tugging your lip free: “You’re distracting me on purpose, aren’t you? Naughty girl.”
He starts bringing you imported French bonbons just to watch you suck them slowly; his eyes never leave your mouth as he murmurs, “You have no idea what that does to me.”
When you swirl your tongue around an olive at dinner, Michael’s hand finds your knee under the table and squeezes, voice low: “If you keep that up I’m taking you home and putting that tongue to better use.”
You chew on a pen cap during a phone call and Michael ends the call early, pulls the pen from your mouth and replaces it with his own fingers, eyes dark: “Much better.”
He loves when you suck on ice cubes in summer; he’ll steal one from your glass, run it across your lips, then kiss the cold away with heat.
In his office after hours he’ll sit you on his desk, press his thumb to your tongue and whisper, “Show me, love. Show me exactly how you’ll worship me later.”
You trace your bottom lip with a fingertip while thinking and Michael catches your hand, sucking your finger into his mouth while maintaining perfect eye contact.
He’ll buy you those fancy chocolate-covered cherries and watch you suck the chocolate off before biting into the cherry, then immediately drag you into his lap.
During a tense meeting you start sucking on your lower lip and Michael’s voice doesn’t even waver as he says, “Excuse us,” and pulls you into the hallway to kiss you breathless.
He keeps a small tin of mints in his waistcoat pocket purely so he can offer you one and then watch, mesmerised, as your tongue works around it.
Late at night he’ll cradle your face and murmur, “This mouth was made for sin, darling. And tonight it’s all mine.”
You suck on a straw while sharing a milkshake and Michael’s hand slides up your thigh: “Keep doing that and this milkshake is getting abandoned for something much sweeter.”
He’ll press two fingers past your lips after a long day and groan softly, “That’s it, love. Suck. Let me feel how much you need me.”
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐀𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐞
You bite your lip while listening to one of his long rants about bread and Alfie stops mid-sentence, eyes lighting up: “Right, right, you keep doing that, right, and I’m gonna forget every fuckin’ word I was saying, pet.”
Every time you suck on a piece of toffee while sitting in his office, Alfie leans back in his chair, hands behind his head: “Fuckin’ hell, woman, you’re sweeter than the toffee and twice as sticky.”
He catches you chewing on the end of a pencil and immediately replaces it with his thick thumb, voice gravelly: “Use me instead, yeah? That’s a good girl.”
Alfie starts baking special honey sweets just so he can watch you suck them slowly; he’ll mutter, “Look at you, all hollow-cheeked and innocent... fuckin’ liar, you ain’t innocent.”
When you swirl your tongue around a spoon after tasting his latest batch of rum, Alfie growls low: “Right, that’s it, everyone out. My missus needs a private tasting session.”
You suck on your own fingers after eating sticky dates and Alfie grabs your wrist, sucking each finger clean while muttering Yiddish curses under his breath.
In the bakery after closing he’ll press a fresh chunk of honeycomb against your lips and groan when you suck the honey off his fingers: “That’s my girl, suck it all up, yeah?”
You nervously chew on your bottom lip during one of his stories and Alfie stops, tilts your chin up: “Oi, none of that. Save the biting for my shoulder later, right?”
He loves watching you eat cherries; he’ll tie the stem in a knot with his own tongue just to show off, then demand you do the same before he kisses you senseless.
Alfie keeps a jar of those fancy imported lollipops on his desk purely so he can hand you one and then watch, completely distracted, as you work it between your lips.
During a quiet moment he’ll cup your jaw and press his thumb to your tongue: “Open up, pet. Let me feel that clever mouth before I give you something thicker.”
You trace your lips with a fingertip while thinking and Alfie leans in, voice low and rough: “You keep touching that mouth and I’m gonna put it to work right here on my desk.”
He’ll pull you into his lap after a long day, press two thick fingers past your lips and rumble, “Suck, love. That’s it—fuckin’ perfect. Gonna ruin me with that mouth one day.”
Late at night he’ll mutter against your ear, “You and your bloody oral fixation, right? Lucky for you I’ve got the perfect cure—big, thick, and all yours, pet.”
You stood there for a long moment, fingers still pressed to your lips, the ghost of Richie’s mouth lingering like a brand. The kitchen felt too big, too empty without him. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, mocking the way your heart was still racing.
Carmy’s footsteps grew louder, then stopped. You grabbed the towel Richie had abandoned and started wiping down the counter like your life depended on it.
“You’re still here?” Carmy’s voice was gravelly with sleep, his curls messy as he stepped into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. He looked exhausted, permanently exhausted, the way he had since Mikey died. Since he’d come back and tried to fix everything that was broken.
“Yeah,” you said, forcing a casual shrug. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d finish up so you don’t have to yell at the new hires tomorrow.”
He studied you for a second too long. Carmy had always been able to read you better than anyone, except when it came to Richie. That particular blind spot had saved you so far.
“You okay?” he asked, softer.
“Fine. Just… thinking about Mikey. The usual.”
That did it. Carmy’s shoulders dropped, the suspicion fading into shared grief. He crossed the room and pulled you into a quick, tight hug—the kind that still felt like big brother even though you were both adults now.
“Go home, kid. I got this.”
You nodded against his shoulder, guilt twisting in your stomach like a dull knife. “Night, Carm.”
The walk to your apartment was short but felt endless. Every shadow on the street made you glance over your shoulder, half hoping Richie had waited, half terrified he had. When you finally locked the door behind you, you leaned against it and let out a shaky breath.
Your phone buzzed.
Richie: You make it home safe, princess?
You smiled despite yourself.
You: Barely. Carmy almost caught me looking freshly kissed. You’re a terrible influence.
Richie: Good. Been practicing for years.
The dots appeared, disappeared, then:
Richie: Tomorrow night. My place instead. Safer. I’ll cook.
You: You? Cooking? Should I be scared?
Richie: Fuck you. I make a mean steak. And I want you in my bed, not sneaking around like we’re teenagers.
Your face heated. You typed back before you could overthink it.
You: Then I’ll be there. But Richie… we have to be careful.
Richie: I know. I’m not trying to lose the only family I got left. But I’m also not giving you up. Not anymore.
The next night, Richie’s apartment was surprisingly neat. Not spotless—there were still stacks of takeout menus and a chaotic pile of mail on the counter—but it smelled like garlic, rosemary, and seared meat. He’d even lit a candle. A single, slightly crooked candle on the tiny dining table.
When he opened the door, he was in a clean black button-down, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from a shower. The sight of him hit you low in the stomach.
“Hi,” you said, suddenly shy.
Richie didn’t answer with words. He pulled you inside, kicked the door shut, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it all day. This wasn’t the desperate, frantic kiss in the kitchen. This was slower, deeper—his hands sliding down your back, gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“Been thinking about this since I left last night,” he muttered against your mouth. “Couldn’t focus for shit today. Tina asked me if I was having a stroke.”
You laughed into the kiss, then gasped when he lifted you onto the counter like you weighed nothing. The steak could wait.
“Richie-”
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he said, lips dragging down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “But I’ve wanted you for so fucking long. Since you came back from college with that smart mouth and those eyes that see right through my bullshit.”
Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer. “Then stop talking and show me.”
He groaned, the sound raw. In one smooth motion, he had you off the counter and in his arms, carrying you toward the bedroom like he couldn’t wait another second. Clothes hit the floor in a messy trail—his shirt, your sweater, his belt. When your back hit the mattress, Richie hovered over you, eyes dark and serious in a way that made your chest ache.
“You sure?” he asked, voice rough. “Once we do this… there’s no pretending anymore.”
You reached up, tracing the stubble on his jaw, the scar near his eyebrow from some old fight Mikey had probably dragged him into.
“I’m sure. I’ve been sure for years, Richie. I just didn’t think you saw me like that.”
He laughed, low and disbelieving. “Baby, I’ve been trying not to see you like that since you were twenty. Failed miserably.”
The kiss that followed was fire, years of stolen glances and careful distance finally snapping. His hands mapped every inch of you like he was memorizing territory he’d been denied for too long.
He buried his face in your neck “Mine. You’re mine now.”
You wrapped your legs around him, nails dragging down his back. “Then prove it.”
He did. Again and again, until the only names either of you could remember were each other’s.
Later, tangled in his sheets with takeout containers balanced on the bed between you, Richie traced lazy circles on your bare shoulder.
“Carmy’s gonna kill me if he finds out,” he said quietly.
You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “Then we make sure he doesn’t. Not yet. Not until we figure out what this is.”
He tilted your chin up, eyes soft in the low light. “I know what this is. It’s the only thing that’s felt right since Mikey died. Scary as shit, but right.”
You swallowed hard, emotion thickening your throat. Outside, Chicago kept moving—sirens in the distance, the low hum of the city that had raised you, broken you, and somehow brought you here.
Forbidden. Messy. Inevitable.
And for the first time in years, it felt like hope.
synopsis; jax spent years convincing himself he moved on. Then you walked back into the clubhouse, and every lie he'd told himself came crashing down. Now caught between the life he built and the woman he never stopped wanting, he must decide what—and who—he's willing to fight for.
tw/cw; Mature themes, Strong language, Canon-typical Sons of Anarchy violence, Criminal activity, Jealousy, Relationship conflict, Emotional angst, Possessive behavior, Love triangle elements, Second-chance romance, Infidelity.
rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 10,600
aus; exes to lovers, second chance romance, old flames, childhood best friends, returning home...
a/n; sorry this took took longer than I expected, I couldn't get my brain into beta reader mode and edit the final version but here it is and I hope you all like it!
You stand in the parking lot for a moment, taking it in. The bikes lined up like soldiers, the worn wooden exterior, the SAMCRO banner hanging proudly above the entrance. It's like stepping into a time capsule, except you're not seventeen anymore, and the world has kept spinning without you.
Your heart hammers in your chest as you push open the door.
This is a mistake, you think, even as your feet carry you forward. You should've stayed away. You should've built your new life back in Charming without looking back at the old one.
But you've never been good at staying away from the things that could hurt you.
The noise hits you first, the sounds of laughter, the crack of pool balls, classic rock bleeding from the jukebox. Then the smell: leather, motor oil, cigarette smoke, and beer. It's intoxicating in its familiarity, and for a moment, you're frozen in the doorway, overwhelmed by the weight of memory.
How many nights did you spend here as a teenager? How many times did Jax sneak you in through the back door, his hand warm in yours, his smile promising trouble?
"Holy shite."
The voice comes from Chibs, who's standing by the bar with a beer halfway to his lips. His eyes go wide, and then his face splits into a grin that could light up the whole damn room.
"Lads! You're not gonna believe this!"
Heads turn as conversations quickly die out, and then it's chaos.
"No fuckin' way!" Tig practically vaults over the couch, his arms open wide as he barrels toward you, still as overly touchy as you remember and just as crazy looking. "Look who came back to Charming!"
You laugh as he sweeps you into a hug that lifts you off your feet, spinning you around like you weigh nothing. "Tig, Jesus... put me down!"
"Not a chance, sweetheart. We gotta make sure you're real."
"She's real, you idiot," Opie deadpans from his spot at the poker table, but even he's smiling. A rare, genuine smile that makes your chest tighten, past memories of you, him, and Jax getting up to no good.
Chibs is next, pulling you into a hug that smells like whiskey and Old Spice. "Missed ye, lass. Charming hasn't been the same without ye."
"Missed you too, Chibs."
Juice appears at your elbow, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. "Dude, you look amazing. When did you get back?"
"Just a few days ago," you tell them, your voice a little breathless from all the attention. "I'm still unpacking, but I thought I'd stop by and—"
"And grace us with your presence," a familiar voice cuts in, smooth and warm and unmistakably Gemma.
You turn, and there she is, Gemma Teller Morrow in all her glory, striding toward you with her arms outstretched and a smile that could melt steel. She's wearing her usual tight jeans, a low-cut top, and enough jewelry to fund a small country, and she looks every bit the queen she's always been.
"Come here, baby," she says, pulling you into a hug that smells like expensive perfume and cigarettes. She holds you at arm's length, her dark eyes scanning you from head to toe. "Look at you. Jesus Christ, you're gorgeous. Isn't she gorgeous?"
The question is directed at the room, but her gaze flicks pointedly toward the corner where Tara Knowles is standing, a glass of wine in her hand and a tight smile on her face.
"Absolutely stunning," Gemma continues, her voice dripping with approval. "I always told Jax you'd grow up to be a knockout, and look at you now. I was right."
Tara's smile doesn't reach her eyes.
You feel the tension immediately, but before you can say anything, Gemma's arm is around your shoulders, steering you toward the bar. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you a drink. You're family, and family doesn't stand around like strangers."
Family. The word lands heavy, deliberate. You catch the way Tara's jaw tightens, the way her fingers grip her wine glass just a little too hard.
You shouldn't be here, the voice in your head whispers. You're walking into something messy, something that's going to hurt people.
But then you see him.
Jax.
He's standing near the pool table, a cue stick in one hand, and he's staring at you like he's seen a ghost. His blue eyes are wide, his lips parted slightly, and for a moment, the entire room fades away. It's just you, him, and the weight of everything left behind.
He looks good, too good. The years have been kind to him—his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader, his hair still that perfect shade of golden blonde that used to drive you crazy. He's wearing his kutte, jeans that hang low on his hips, and a white shirt that clings to his chest in all the right ways.
Your mouth goes dry.
This was a mistake. This was absolutely a mistake.
But you can't look away.
"Jax," Gemma calls, her voice cutting through the moment like a knife. "You gonna say hi, or are you just gonna stand there with your mouth open?"
That snaps him out of it, and he sets the cue stick down, his movements slow and deliberate, and then he's walking toward you. Every step feels like an eternity, and you're acutely aware of every pair of eyes in the room watching this unfold.
"Hey," he mumbles when he finally reaches you, and his voice is rougher than you remember, deeper. It sends a shiver down your spine, you remember the way it used to sound in breaths next to your ear.
"Hey," you reply, and you hate how breathless you sound.
His eyes roam over you, taking in every detail, from your hair, your face, the way your jeans hug your hips, to the curve of your neck. It's not subtle, it's hungry.
"You're back," he says, and there's something in his voice that sounds like disbelief, maybe hope?
"I'm back," you confirm, and you can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips.
Gemma claps her hands together, breaking the moment. "Alright, enough staring. Let's get this girl a drink and catch up properly. Tig, move your ass. Chibs, grab her a beer. Juice, stop looking like a lovesick puppy."
The guys laugh, the tension breaking as they scramble to follow Gemma's orders. You're swept up in the chaos, pulled into conversations, hugs, and stories that make you laugh until your sides hurt.
But the whole time, you feel Jax's eyes on you, and across the room, Tara watches.
The night wears on, and the clubhouse fills with noise and laughter. Piney shows up and nearly crushes you in a bear hug, telling you how good it is to see you. Bobby gives you a kiss on the cheek and jokes that you're still too good for this place. Even Clay makes an appearance, gruff as ever but with a nod of approval that feels like a blessing.
Gemma holds court at the bar, regaling everyone with stories about you and Jax as teenagers. "You should've seen these two," she grins, her voice loud enough for the whole room to hear. "Thick as thieves. Couldn't keep 'em apart if you tried."
"Remember that time they got caught sneaking into the high school pool at midnight?" Tig chimes in, grinning. "Cops showed up, and Jax tried to play it cool, but this one—" he points at you, "she jumped the fence in her bra and panties and ran like hell."
The room erupts in laughter, and you bury your face in your hands, groaning. "Oh my God, I forgot about that."
"I didn't," Jax admits and when you look up, he's smiling, like really smiling. The kind of smile that makes your heart skip a beat.
Gemma leans in, her voice dropping just enough to be pointed. "They were perfect together. Everyone knew it. Some things are just meant to be, you know?"
Her eyes flick to Tara, who's standing near the doorway, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable; she hasn't said a word the whole time you were here.
You shift uncomfortably, suddenly feeling like a pawn in a game you didn't sign up for. "Gemma-"
"What? I'm just saying." She shrugs, all innocence, but there's a glint in her eye that says she knows exactly what she's doing. "If your parents hadn't left Charming and taken you with them, who knows where you and Jax would be right now. Given me some grandbabies-"
The air in the room feels too thick, too warm. You need a moment to breathe, to think, to process the fact that you're back in Charming and everything is exactly the same and completely different all at once.
"I'm gonna get some air," you say, setting your beer down and heading for the door.
No one stops you as they all awkwardly look at each other, sipping their drinks.
The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome relief from the heat of the clubhouse. You lean against the wall, tilting your head back and closing your eyes, letting the sounds of the night wash over you—crickets, distant traffic, the low hum of music from inside.
"You really came back."
You don't have to open your eyes to know it's Jax. His voice is soft, almost disbelieving, and when you look at him, he's leaning against the wall beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.
"I didn't think I'd ever see you again," he continues, his gaze fixed on you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.
"I didn't think I'd be back either," you admit, your heart pounding. "But here I am."
He steps closer, and the air between you shifts, charged with something electric. His hand grazes yours, and the touch sends a jolt through you, waking up parts of you that have been dormant for years.
"You look…" He trails off, shaking his head like he can't find the words. "Fuck, you look good. More than good. You're fuckin' gorgeous."
Your breath catches at his tone. He's so close now that his body heat is radiating against you, and you can see the desire in his eyes. It's the same desire you feel echoing in your chest.
"You're not so bad yourself, Teller," your voice teasing, but there's an edge to it like a vulnerability you can't quite hide.
He chuckles, low and deep, and the sound vibrates through you. "You have no idea what you're still doing to me," he murmurs, his hand settling on your waist, pulling you closer.
The world narrows to this, his hand on your waist and his eyes locked on yours, the way his thumb brushes against your hip in slow, deliberate circles. You should step back and remind him that he's with Tara, that this is messy, complicated, and wrong.
But you don't, you can't.
"Jax…" you start, but the words die in your throat when he leans in, his forehead resting against yours.
"I missed you," he whispers, and the rawness in his voice nearly breaks you. "Every fuckin' day, I missed you."
You close your eyes, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat beneath your palms, fast and erratic, matching your own.
"I missed you too," you tell him, and it feels like a confession, like opening a door you've kept locked for years.
For a moment, you just stand there, breathing each other in, the world fading away. And then you hear it, a door opening and then footsteps on gravel.
You pull back, and when you look across the lot, Tara is standing there, her expression unreadable but her posture tense. She knows. She's always known. Jax was never entirely hers, not in the way he was yours.
Jax doesn't move. His hand is still on your waist, his body still angled toward you, and when you glance at him, you see it—the conflict in his eyes, the yearning, the inevitability of what's happening between you.
"Jax," Tara calls, her voice tight.
He doesn't answer right away. His gaze stays locked on you, his fingers tensing on your waist like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.
"I should go," you say softly, even though every part of you wants to stay.
"Don't," he pleads, and the desperation in his voice nearly undoes you. Those blue eyes that haven't changed a bit except for the grief that wasn't there before.
But you step back, putting space between you, and the loss of his touch feels like a physical ache.
"Goodnight, Jax," you whisper softly, and then you're walking away, your heart pounding and mind racing.
Behind you, you hear Tara's voice, sharp and accusing; you know she's worried, and she has every reason to be.
Because tonight, Jax wasn't hers. Not entirely. Not when his fingers had tightened on your waist after hearing her voice, and you knew this was only the beginning.
Three days.
It's been three days since you walked into the clubhouse, three days since Jax's hand was on your waist, three days since you felt the weight of his gaze following you across the parking lot.
Three days of unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, and pretending you're not thinking about him every single second.
You're in your apartment, surrounded by the chaos of moving half-empty boxes, clothes draped over chairs, books stacked on the floor. You've been trying to make this place feel like home, but it's hard when your mind keeps drifting back to blue eyes and a voice that makes your knees weak.
The knock on the door makes you jump.
You're not expecting anyone. For a moment, you consider ignoring it, but then it comes again, three sharp, impatient raps that echo through the small space.
When you open the door, Jax is standing there wearing jeans and a plain black t-shirt, his kutte absent for once, and his hair is slightly messy like he's been running his hands through it. His eyes are dark, intense, and when they lock on yours, you feel your breath catch.
"Jax," you whisper, and you hate how his name sounds on your lips, all breathless and wanting. "What are you doing here?"
"I needed to see you," he states, his voice rough. He steps forward, and you instinctively step back, letting him into your apartment. He closes the door behind him, and suddenly the space feels too small, too intimate.
"How did you even know where I live?"
"Gemma," he explains simply, and of course. Obviously, Gemma would tell him it's easy to see where she lies in all of this. Her pointed words and knowing looks toward Tara.
You cross your arms over your chest, trying to create some kind of barrier between you and him, "You shouldn't be here."
"I know," he says, but he doesn't move to leave. Instead, he takes another step closer, and you can smell him, the same leather, soap, and something uniquely Jax that makes your head spin. "I tried to stay away. I really fuckin' tried."
"Jax-"
"I can't stop thinking about you," the words come out in a rush, like he's been holding them in for too long. "Since the moment you walked back into that clubhouse, I can't think about anything else. You're all I see. You're all I want."
Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it. "You're with Tara."
"I know," he expresses, and there's pain in his voice, conflict. "I know I am. But it doesn't change how I feel about you. It never has."
He's so close now, close enough that you can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the way his jaw tightens like he's fighting some internal battle.
"This is wrong," you whisper, but even as you say it, you're leaning toward him, drawn by some invisible force you can't resist.
"I don't care," he declares, and then his hand is cupping your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "Tell me you don't feel this. Tell me I'm crazy, and I'll walk out that door right now."
You should tell him exactly that. You should push him away, remind him of Tara, and protect yourself from the inevitable heartbreak.
But you can't.
"I feel it," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "God, Jax, I feel it, I never stopped."
That's all the permission he needs.
He closes the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that's desperate and hungry and years in the making. You gasp against his mouth, and he takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours as his other hand tangles in your hair.
It's not gentle. It's not sweet. It's raw and needy and everything you've been denying yourself for three days.
Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. His body presses against yours, backing you up until you hit the wall, and then his hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, sliding up your sides.
"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark with desire, his breathing ragged. "I've wanted to do that since the moment I saw you again."
"Jax," you whisper, and you're not sure if it's a plea or a prayer.
He kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense. His lips move against yours like he's memorizing the taste of you, the feel of you, and you melt into him, your body fitting against his like it was made to be there.
His hand slides under your shirt, his palm warm against your skin, and that's when reality crashes back in.
"Wait," you gasp, pulling back. "Wait, we can't—"
"Why not?" His voice is rough, his forehead resting against yours.
"Because you're with Tara," you say, and saying her name out loud feels like a bucket of cold water. "Because this is wrong. Because I can't be the other woman, Jax. I can't."
"You're not the other woman," he says fiercely, his hands framing your face. "You've never been the other woman. She's—"
"She's your girlfriend," you interrupt, stepping out of his embrace. The loss of his touch feels like a physical ache, but you force yourself to put distance between you. "She's your girlfriend, and I'm not going to be the reason you cheat on her."
"I don't want her," he says, and there's desperation in his voice now. "I want you. It's always been you."
"If you really want me, if this is real, then end it with her first. But I can't do this, Jax. I can't be with you while you're with someone else." Your voice cracks on the words, and as much as you want to say 'fuck it' and lead him to your bed like all those years ago as fumbling teens, you can't.
He stares at you, conflict written all over his face, and for a moment, you think he's going to argue. But then his shoulders slump, and he runs a hand through his hair.
"Fuck," he mutters, and the word is heavy with frustration.
"You need to go," you say softly, even though every part of you is screaming at you to take it back, to pull him close and damn the consequences.
"I don't want to go," he states, his eyes locked on yours.
"I know," you whisper. "But you have to."
For a long moment, he just looks at you, and you can see the war raging behind his eyes. Then, finally, he nods.
He crosses to the door, his hand on the knob, but he pauses before opening it. "This isn't over," he says, looking back at you. "You and me, this isn't over. It was never over."
"Jax-" you breathe, voice pleading.
"I'm gonna fix this," he tells you, voice firm. "I'm gonna make this right. And then I'm coming back for you."
Before you can respond, he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
You slide down the wall, your legs giving out, and you bury your face in your hands. You can still taste him on your lips, still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin.
What the hell have you done?
The universe, you decide, has a sick sense of humor because over the next three days, you run into Jax everywhere.
Day One: The Grocery Store
You're in the cereal aisle, debating between two brands, when you feel that prickle of awareness that tells you you're being watched. You turn, and there he is, leaning against his shopping cart at the end of the aisle, a small smile playing at his lips.
"Stalking me, Teller?" you call out, trying to keep your voice light even though your heart is racing.
"Just shopping," he shrugs, pushing his cart toward you. "Didn't know you'd be here."
"Liar," you say, but you're smiling despite yourself.
He stops beside you, close enough that you can smell his cologne, and peers into your cart. "Frozen dinners and wine. That's sad, babe."
"I'm still settling in," you defend, even though he's right. You haven't had the energy to cook real meals.
"Let me cook for you. As friends," he adds quickly, and the offer is so casual, so domestic, that it makes your chest ache. Though the look in his eyes says there's nothing friendly about what he's feeling. "Just… let me take care of you. Please."
You should say no. You should maintain your boundaries and keep your distance until he sorts out his situation with Tara.
"Okay," you hear yourself say instead.
His smile is blinding, and your stomach tightens remembering that same excited smile from when he'd see you sneaking out to his bike after midnight. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you confirm, and you're rewarded with a look of such pure happiness that it makes your knees weak.
His hand brushes yours as he reaches past you for a box of cereal, and the touch sends electricity shooting up your arm. His eyes darken, and you know he felt it too.
"Saturday night," he says, his voice low. "I'll bring everything. You just have to show up."
"It's my apartment, Jax. I kind of have to show up."
He grins, nudging you as if he'd missed your brand of brattiness. "Smart ass."
You watch him walk away, and you can't help but notice the way his jeans hug his ass, the confident swagger in his step. When he reaches the end of the aisle, he looks back, catching you staring, and his grin turns wicked.
You're in so much trouble.
Day Two: The Gas Station
You're pumping gas, lost in thought, when a motorcycle rumbles up to the pump across from you. You don't have to look to know it's him; you'd recognize the sound of his bike anywhere.
"We've gotta stop meeting like this," Jax grins, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through his hair.
"You're the one who keeps showing up wherever I am," you point out, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens at the sight of him.
"Charming's a small town," he says with a shrug, but there's mischief in his eyes.
He starts pumping his gas, and for a moment, you both just stand there in comfortable silence. But then he speaks again, his voice softer.
"I've been thinking about that kiss."
Your breath catches as your eyes widen as you look around in case anyone's listening. "Jax. We can't just-"
"Can't help it," he admits, his eyes locked on yours across the pumps. "I close my eyes, and I'm right back there, with you against that wall, your hands in my hair…"
"Stop," you whine, but there's no force behind it.
"Tell me you haven't been thinking about it too," he challenges, and you almost think he's going to grab you and kiss you right here.
You can't because you have been thinking about it constantly, obsessively, to the point where you can barely sleep, and when you do sleep, you dream of him...
"That's what I thought," he states smugly with satisfaction in his voice.
Your pump clicks off, and you busy yourself with replacing the nozzle, needing something to do with your hands. When you turn back, Jax is right there, having crossed the space between the pumps.
"I'm working on it," he comments quietly, and you know exactly what he means. "The thing with Tara. I'm working on it."
"Okay," you nod slowly, because what else can you say?
His hand comes up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and the gesture is so tender it makes your throat tight. "I meant what I said. I'm coming back for you."
Then he's gone, swinging his leg over his bike and roaring off into the afternoon, leaving you standing there with your heart in your throat.
Day Three: Main Street
You're walking out of the hardware store, carrying a bag of supplies for your apartment, when you literally collide with someone.
Strong hands grip your arms, steadying you, and you look up into familiar blue eyes.
"Jesus, we really need to stop meeting like this," you state, echoing his words from yesterday.
"I'm starting to think fate's trying to tell us something," Jax says, and he hasn't let go of your arms yet.
You're standing in the middle of the sidewalk, people flowing around you, but it feels like you're in a bubble, just you and him and the electric current running between you.
"How's the apartment coming?" he asks, nodding to your bag.
"Slowly," you admit. "Turns out I'm not very handy."
"I could help," he offers immediately. "I'm good with my hands. You remember that, right?"
The innuendo is clear, and you feel heat rise to your cheeks. "Jax."
"What?" He grins, all innocence. "I meant fixing things. What did you think I meant?"
"You're impossible."
"You love it," he says, and the word love hangs between you, heavy with meaning.
His thumb is stroking your arm through your shirt, a small, unconscious gesture that's driving you crazy. You should step back and put some distance between you, but you can't seem to make yourself move.
"Dinner's still on for tonight, right?" he asks.
"You're really going to cook for me? I didn't know you could cook. Last I remember, you and Ope used to microwave hot dogs from the garage and call it gourmet."
"I'm a changed man. I know how to cook... now, and if you're lucky, I won't even burn it," he teases, flashing those charmingly pearly whites. "Seven o'clock?"
"Seven o'clock," you confirm.
He leans in, and once again, for a heart-stopping moment, you think he's going to kiss you right there. But instead, his lips brush against your ear as he whispers, "Can't wait."
Then he's stepping back, his hands sliding away from your arms, and you immediately miss his touch.
"See you tonight, darlin'," he smirks knowingly, and then he's walking away, leaving you standing there trying to remember how to breathe.
That night, you change your outfit three times before he arrives. Too bold, too casual, too... 'this might lead to sex if we're not careful'. So you settle on a simple dress.
When the knock comes at seven on the dot, you take a deep breath and open the door.
Jax is standing there with two bags of groceries, wearing jeans and a grey henley that makes his eyes look impossibly blue. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and he smells incredible.
"Hey," he greets as his eyes roam over you appreciatively. "You look beautiful."
"You brought a lot of food," you say, trying to deflect from the compliment.
"I'm making my mom's pot roast recipe," he says, stepping inside. "It's kind of involved."
You follow him to your small kitchen, watching as he starts unpacking ingredients. There's something surreal about having Jax Teller in your kitchen, domestic and comfortable, like this is something you do all the time.
"Can I help?" you offer, standing behind him a little awkwardly, not knowing what to do with yourself.
"You can keep me company," he tells you, shooting a smile over his shoulder. "And maybe open that wine I brought."
You do, pouring two glasses and settling onto a barstool to watch him work. He moves around your kitchen with surprising confidence, chopping vegetables and seasoning meat. You find yourself mesmerized by his hands—the way they handle the knife, the sureness of his movements.
"You're staring," he says without looking up, but you can hear the smile in his voice.
"You're in my kitchen," you counter. "I'm allowed to stare. I'm also still in shock that you can cook, and it's not dollar store ramen with little hot dogs in it."
He glances at you then, and the heat in his eyes makes your stomach flip. "Stare all you want, darlin'."
As he cooks, you talk—about everything and nothing. He tells you about the club, about the garage, about his boys. You tell him about where you've been, what you've been doing, carefully skirting around the question of why you came back.
But eventually, he asks.
"Why did you come back?" He's standing at the stove, stirring something, but his eyes are on you. "To Charming, I mean. After all this time."
You take a sip of wine, considering your answer. "I don't know," you express finally. "Maybe I was running from something. Or maybe I was running toward something."
"Toward what?"
You meet his eyes. "I'm still figuring that out."
He holds your gaze for a long moment, and you can see the question in his eyes.
Was it me? Did you come back for me?
But he doesn't ask, and you don't answer.
Dinner is incredible—the pot roast tender and flavorful, the vegetables perfectly cooked. You eat at your small table, knees bumping underneath, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Finally, you reach across the table, covering his hand with yours. "Thank you for this. For cooking for me."
He turns his hand over, lacing his fingers with yours. "Thank you for letting me."
The moment stretches between you, charged and intimate, and then his thumb is stroking across your knuckles, and you're leaning forward, and he's leaning forward, and-
Your phone buzzes on the table, shattering the moment.
You pull back, grabbing it, and your stomach drops when you see the name on the screen.
Gemma.
"It's your mom, I should-" you start, but Jax nods, not a look of disappointment on his face as much as knowing.
"Answer it."
You do, and Gemma's voice fills your ear, warm and commanding. "Hey, baby, I'm just calling to check on you. You settling in okay?"
"Yeah, Gemma. Everything's good." You don't tell her that her son is sitting at your table after having cooked you the best meal you've had for a long time.
"Good, good. Listen, we're having another family dinner at the clubhouse this weekend. You better be there."
You glance at Jax, who's watching you with an unreadable expression. "I'll be there," you promise as you watch him to see if he gives anything away.
"Perfect. And honey? Don't be a stranger. You're still family. If you need anything, we can send a prospect around," Gemma states, and you realize this is more than just coming home, this is family, this is the club.
When you hang up, Jax is smiling softly. "She really has adopted you again, hasn't she?"
"Apparently," you muse, putting the phone down, you'd always gotten on well with Gemma, even when you were a teenager getting caught by police on the back of Jax's bike at 3am. "Is that going to be a problem?"
"No," he states, and there's something fierce in his voice. "It's not a problem at all."
After dinner, he helps you clean up, and the domesticity of it—washing dishes side by side, his arm brushing yours—feels almost more intimate than the kiss you shared days ago.
When everything is clean and put away, you both linger in the kitchen, neither wanting the night to end.
"I should go," Jax whispers finally, but he doesn't move. Almost like if you'd asked him to stay, he would have.
"Yeah," you agree, but you don't move either.
He steps closer, his hand coming up to cup your face. "I'm working on it," he tells you again. "I promise."
"I know," you whisper.
He leans in, and this time his lips brush against your forehead, a gesture so tender it makes your chest ache. "Goodnight, darlin'."
"Goodnight, Jax."
After he leaves, you lean against the closed door, your heart full and aching at the same time.
This is dangerous, you think. This is so dangerous.
But you can't seem to stop.
You tell yourself you're not going back to the clubhouse.
You spend the day of Gemma's dinner trying to convince yourself to text her with an excuse—you're not feeling well, you have plans, anything to avoid the inevitable tension of being in the same room as Jax and Tara.
But by the time the sun sets, you're pulling on your favorite jeans and touching up your makeup, because you've never been good at denying Gemma Teller anything.
The clubhouse is already buzzing when you arrive. The guys are gathered around the bar, beers in hand, and the smell of grilled meat wafts from the kitchen. Gemma spots you immediately, her face lighting up like you're the prodigal daughter returned.
"There she is!" she announces, loud enough for everyone to hear. She pulls you into a hug, then holds you at arm's length, her eyes scanning you approvingly. "Look at you. Stunning, as always."
"Thanks, Gemma," you say, smiling despite yourself.
"Come on, baby. Sit with me." She loops her arm through yours and guides you to the bar, where she's already claimed two stools. "You're family, and family sits at the head of the table."
The pointed emphasis on family isn't lost on anyone, least of all Tara, who's sitting at a table in the corner with Jax. Her jaw tightens, and she takes a long sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving you.
Jax, for his part, looks like he's been hit by a truck. His gaze locks on you the moment you walk in, and it doesn't waver. He's wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his chest, his kutte draped over the back of his chair, and his hair is slightly messy.
The way he's looking at you like you're the only person in the room, like Tara doesn't even exist, makes your stomach flip.
"Alright, everyone, listen up!" Gemma calls, clapping her hands together. "We've got our girl back, and I think that calls for a celebration. Let's hear some stories. Tig, you start."
You let out a whiny groan, knowing this could be bad.
Tig grins, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, I got a good one. Remember that time these two-" he gestures to you and Jax, "decided to 'borrow' Clay's bike and take it for a joyride?"
You groan, burying your face in your hands. "Oh God, not this story. I blame Jax-"
"Yes, this story," Tig insists, his grin widening. "They made it about ten miles before the engine started smoking. Clay was pissed. But this one-" he points at you, "she looked him dead in the eye and said, 'At least we didn't crash it.'"
The room erupts in laughter, and even you can't help but smile at the memory.
"She had balls," Chibs states, raising his beer in a toast. "Still does, I reckon."
"Damn right," Gemma agrees, her eyes gleaming. "She's always been a firecracker. Jax knew how to pick 'em back then."
The comment hangs in the air, heavy and deliberate. Tara shifts in her seat, her expression tight.
"What about the cop story?" Juice pipes up, grinning. "That one's legendary."
"Oh, Jesus," you mutter, but you're laughing now, the memories flooding back.
"Alright, alright," Jax speaks for the first time since you arrived. His voice is low and warm, and it sends a shiver down your spine. "I'll tell it."
He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and his eyes find yours across the room. "We were seventeen. I'd just gotten my bike, and we were cruising around town, being stupid kids. Cop pulled us over for a busted taillight, and he was being a dick about it, threatening to impound the bike."
"And then?" Juice prompts, even though everyone in the room already knows the story.
Jax's lips curve into a slow, wicked smile. "And then this princess..." he nods toward you, "she gets off the bike, walks up to the cop, and lifts her shirt."
The room explodes with laughter and wolf whistles, and you cover your face, laughing so hard your sides hurt.
"She flashed him," Jax continues, his voice full of admiration. "Just like that. Cop didn't know what the fuck to do. He stammered something about a warning and let us go."
"Best distraction he's probably ever seen," Tig cackles, wiping tears from his eyes.
Gemma leans in, her voice dropping just enough to be pointed. "See, that's what I'm talking about. They were chaos together, but they worked. Some people are just meant to be, you know?"
Her gaze flicks to Tara, who's staring down at her wine glass, her knuckles white.
You feel a pang of guilt, but before you can say anything, Gemma's already moving on, launching into another story about the time you and Jax got caught sneaking into a drive-in movie.
The night wears on, and the stories keep coming. Bobby tells the one about you beating Tig at pool and winning fifty bucks. Opie reminisces about the time you helped them fix a bike when you were sixteen, your hands covered in grease and a smile on your face. Even Clay contributes, mentioning how you once punched a guy who was hassling you before Jax stepped in.
"She's always been one of us," Chibs nods, raising his beer. "Welcome home, lass."
"Welcome home," the others echo, and the warmth in their voices makes your chest tight.
But every time you glance at Jax, he's already looking at you, and the heat in his eyes is unmistakable.
Eventually, you excuse yourself to find the bathroom. The hallway is dimly lit and quiet, a stark contrast to the noise of the main room. You're just about to push open the bathroom door when you hear footsteps behind you.
"It's down there." You turn, and Jax is standing there, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.
"I know where the bathroom is, Jax," you say, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.
"Right." He steps closer, and suddenly the hallway feels too small, too intimate. "Just wanted to make sure you didn't get lost."
"I've been here a hundred times," you remind him, but you don't move away.
"Yeah," he says, his voice dropping. "I remember."
The air between you crackles, charged with something you can't name. His eyes roam over your face, lingering on your lips, and you feel your pulse quicken.
"You having a good time?" he asks, stepping even closer, and you can feel the warmth coming off him.
"Yeah," you manage as you look up at his face. "The guys are great. It's like I never left."
"You shouldn't have left," he states, and there's an edge to his voice now, something raw and honest. "You should've stayed. With me."
"Jax, it wasn't my choice, my parents-" you start, and then huff, "Plus, you're still with-"
"I know, I know. I'm with Tara." He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "But fuck, you're making it really hard to remember that."
"I'm not doing anything," you protest weakly.
"You're breathing." he's so close now you can feel his minty breath. "You're existing. You're here, and you're beautiful, and you're everything I've wanted for years, and I can't-" He breaks off, his jaw clenching.
"Can't what?" you whisper.
"Can't stop thinking about you," he says, his voice rough. "You look good tonight. You always look good, but tonight… fuck."
The words hang between you, a reminder of the line you're both toeing.
"You're all I can think about," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers linger on your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. "Since the moment you walked back into that clubhouse, you're all I can fuckin' think about. When I wake up, when I go to sleep, when I'm at the garage. Even when I'm with her... it's always you."
You should step back. You should remind him that this is wrong, that he's with someone else, that you can't do this.
But you don't.
Instead, you lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment, it's just the two of you in the dim hallway, the rest of the world fading away.
"This is a bad idea," you whisper, but even as you say it, you know you don't mean it.
"Probably," he agrees, his forehead resting against yours. "But I don't care."
His hand slides to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, and you feel the tension coiling between you, tight and electric. Your hands come up to rest on his chest, and you can feel his heart pounding beneath your palms.
"I'm ending it," he says suddenly, his voice fierce. "With Tara. I'm ending it. I just need to find the right time, the right way. But I'm done pretending she's what I want when you're right here."
"Jax," you breathe, and you're not sure if it's a warning or an encouragement.
He leans in, his lips hovering just above yours, and you can feel his breath on your skin. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, once again giving you the chance to stop him. To walk away from this.
But you can't; the words won't come.
And then, from the end of the hallway, you hear Tara's voice.
"Jax?"
He pulls back, his jaw tightening, and when you open your eyes, you see the conflict written all over his face. But there's something else there too, determination.
"I'm just gonna-," you say, motioning away as your voice shakes.
"Wait," he breathes, his hand catching yours. "I meant what I said. I'm ending it. Soon."
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and then you're slipping past him, your heart pounding, your mind racing. As you walk back into the main room, you feel Tara's eyes on you, sharp and accusing.
And you know, without a doubt, that everything is about to change.
You're standing outside the clubhouse, getting some air, when you hear the door open behind you. Tara. You can feel her presence, sharp and cold, like a blade against your back.
"We need to talk," she asserts, her voice tight and controlled.
You turn slowly, and she's standing there with her arms crossed, her expression hard. She's beautiful—you can see why Jax was attracted to her—but there's something brittle about her right now, something fragile beneath the anger.
"Okay," you say carefully, not knowing exactly what she was going to say or accuse you of, but she had every right to.
"Are you happy?" she asks, and the question catches you off guard.
"What?"
"Are you happy?" she repeats, stepping closer. "Breaking up my relationship? Coming back here and stirring up all this shit?"
"I'm not trying to break up anything," you say, but the words sound weak even to your own ears.
"Bullshit," she snaps, her eyes narrowing on you. "I see the way you look at him. I see the way he looks at you, how everyone clearly thinks you're 'great' together. You think I'm stupid?"
"No," you say quickly. "I don't think you're stupid."
"Then don't treat me like I am," she states, and there's pain in her voice now, beneath the anger. "I know what's happening here. I've known since the moment you walked back into that clubhouse."
You don't know what to say. Part of you wants to deny it, to tell her she's wrong, but you can't. She's not wrong. You knew from the time you and Jax set eyes on each other again that it would lead here.
"I didn't come back here to cause problems," you say finally. "I didn't even know if I'd see him again."
"But you did," she states firmly, as if your moving back to Charming was something you'd done to spite her. "And now everything's falling apart."
"Tara, I-"
"Do you know what it's like?" she interrupts, her voice rising. "To watch the man you love look at someone else the way he looks at you? To know that you were always the second choice, that you were just a placeholder until the real thing came back?"
The words hit you like a physical blow. "I'm sorry," you whisper, and you mean it. "I'm so sorry."
You knew Tara had chased Jax in high school, even when you were just friends messing around, but Jax had never been able to see anyone but you. Not any of the girls who used to giggle and flutter their lashes, but the best friend who'd flip off cops as they outran them.
"Sorry doesn't fix this," she says, and there are tears in her eyes now. "Sorry doesn't change the fact that he's never been mine. Not really. He's always been yours."
You feel tears prick at your own eyes. "I didn't ask for this."
"Neither did I," she states almost angrily, at you? At Jax? For falling for a man whose heart was already taken? "But here we are."
For a moment, you both just stand there, two women caught in the orbit of the same man, and you feel a strange kinship with her—a shared understanding of what it means to love Jax Teller.
"He's going to choose you," she expresses finally, her voice flat. "You know that, right? He's going to choose you, and I'm going to be left with nothing. He'll always choose you."
"You don't know that," you say, but even as the words leave your mouth, you know they're a lie.
"Yes, I do," she nods with a sad sigh. "I've always known. I just didn't want to admit it."
She takes a step back, wrapping her arms around herself like she's trying to hold herself together. "You should know something," she says. "About Jax. About this life."
"What?"
"SAMCRO is his priority. It always will be. The club comes first, before everything—before you, before me, before anyone. If you think you're going to ride off into the sunset with him, you're deluding yourself."
"I know what I'm getting into," you tell her, but she shakes her head.
"No, you don't. You think you do because you knew him when we were teens, but this life—it's dangerous. It's violent. It's messy. And it will consume you if you let it."
"I can handle it," you declare, and there's more confidence in your voice than you feel.
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That's what I thought too. But you can't handle it. No one can. This life breaks people."
"Then why are you with him?" you challenge. You knew Gemma wasn't exactly welcoming to Tara; she kicked the doc down more times than you agreed with, but it wasn't your place.
"Because I love him," she states simply with a small shrug of her thin shoulders. "And love makes you stupid."
You don't have a response to that.
She wipes at her eyes, composing herself. "I'm not going to fight for him," she tells you. "I'm not going to beg him to stay or make a scene. But I want you to know what you're getting into. I want you to know that this won't be easy, and it won't be pretty, and there's a good chance it will break your heart."
"I know," you say softly.
"Do you?" she asks, and there's genuine curiosity in her voice now. "Do you really know? Or are you just caught up in the romance of it all, the bad boy biker and his long-lost love?"
"I know him," you state firmly. "I've always known him. And I know he'd choose me over anything, even the club."
She stares at you for a long moment, and then she nods slowly. "Maybe you're right," she says. "Maybe he would. And maybe that's what scares me the most."
She turns to go, but pauses for a moment, having more grace than you probably would have. "For what it's worth," she speaks without looking back, "I hope you make him happy. I hope you give him whatever it is I couldn't."
Then she's gone, disappearing back into the clubhouse, and you're left standing alone in the dark, your heart heavy with guilt and anticipation and fear.
Because she's right about one thing, this won't be easy.
But as you think about Jax, about the way he looks at you, about the way his touch sets your skin on fire, you know you're willing to risk it.
You're willing to risk everything.
The rain starts just after midnight.
You're in your apartment, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and the faint smell of cardboard and dust. The place is a mess—clothes draped over chairs, books stacked haphazardly on the floor, your bed barely made. You've been here for a few weeks, and already it feels like you're drowning.
You pour yourself a glass of wine and sink onto the couch, staring out the window at the rain streaking down the glass. The storm matches your mood—restless, chaotic, unrelenting.
You can't stop thinking about this afternoon. The way you and Jax seem to orbit each other, the look on Tara's face when she caught you together again, the conversation outside the clubhouse.
But now, alone in your apartment with the rain pounding against the windows, doubt creeps in.
What have you done?
You've upended Jax's relationship. You've inserted yourself back into his life after years away. You've let yourself fall back into old patterns and feelings without thinking about the consequences.
And what about Tara? Despite everything, you feel guilty. She loves him, and you've taken him away from her.
But he chose you, a voice in your head reminds you. He's ending it with her. He chose you.
You take a long sip of wine, trying to quiet the warring voices in your head.
Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, and your heart leaps when you see Jax's name.
Jax: You okay?
You stare at the message for a long moment before responding.
You: Yeah. Just thinking.
Jax: About?
You: Everything. Us. How fast this is all moving.
There's a pause, and then your phone rings. You answer on the second ring.
"Hey," you say softly.
"Hey," he replies, and just the sound of his voice makes you feel calmer. "Talk to me. What's going on in that pretty head of yours?"
"I don't know," you admit. "I just… this is all happening so fast. At first I was just moving back to town, and now…"
"Now you're mine again," he finishes, and there's satisfaction in his voice.
"Yeah," you whisper, holding the phone to your ear as you picture the smug grin on his face. "Now I'm yours."
"You having second thoughts?" he asks, and there's an edge to his voice now, something vulnerable. Like he's worried that you've changed your mind, and you'll leave again.
"No," you say quickly. "No, it's not that. I just… I feel guilty. About Tara. About how this all went down."
"Don't," he says firmly. "Don't feel guilty. What happened with Tara was on me. I should've ended it a long time ago. I should've ended it the moment I realized I was still in love with you."
"When did you realize that?" you ask.
"Honestly, I don't think there was a time I didn't know," he says simply. "I've been in love with you since we were kids, and I never stopped. Not for a single day."
Your throat tightens with emotion. "Baby-"
"I know this is fast," he continues. "I know it's messy. But I don't care. I've wasted enough time pretending I could be happy with someone else. I'm not wasting any more."
"I'm scared," you admit in a whisper.
"Of what?" he asks gently, a sound most wouldn't know Jax was capable of making.
"Of this. Of us. Of how much I feel for you." You take a shaky breath. "What if it doesn't work? What if we're better as a memory than as reality?"
"We're not," he says with absolute certainty. "We're better together. We always have been."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know you," he expresses. "I know the way you laugh when you're really happy. I know the way you bite your lip when you're thinking. I know the way you look at me like I'm the only person in the world. And I know that what we have—it's real. It's always been real."
Tears prick at your eyes; he's right. He always is. You remember the heartbreak from when your parents told you that you were moving, the despair of having to leave him behind, "I love you."
"I love you too," he mirrors with a loving whisper, the sound only a person regaining their love can make. "And I'm coming over."
"What? Jax, it's late, and it's pouring-"
"I don't care," he says. "I need to see you. I need to hold you and remind you that this is right."
You try to call out his name and stop him, you didn't want him out there on his bike in this weather, but he's already hung up.
You set your phone down, your heart racing. Part of you wants to tell him not to come, to give yourself space to think, to process everything that's happened.
But a bigger part of you, the part that's been in love with him since you were teenagers, wants nothing more than to have him here, in your space, holding you and making all the doubts disappear.
You stand up, pacing the small living room, your mind racing. The rain continues to pound against the windows, and you wrap your arms around yourself.
This is happening; this is really happening.
And despite the fear, despite the guilt, despite everything, you want it.
You want him.
You've always wanted him.
The knock comes twenty minutes later, knuckles rapping impatiently upon the wood. You cross to the door, your heart pounding, and when you open it, there he is.
Jax.
He's soaked from the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead, his white t-shirt clinging to his chest. His eyes are wild, desperate, and when he looks at you, it's like he's seeing you for the first time.
"I can't do this anymore," he says, his voice rough and urgent. He steps inside, forcing you to back up, and he kicks the door shut behind him. "I can't stay away from you. I tried. I fuckin' tried, but I can't."
Your breath catches. "What are you-"
"I don't want Tara," he says, and the words come out in a rush, like he's been holding them in for too long. "I don't want her. I never did. She was… she was a distraction, a way to forget you, but it didn't work. Nothing worked."
He steps closer, and you can see the rain dripping from his hair, the way his chest heaves with every breath.
"I talked to her," he admits as he watches your expression. "I ended it. I told her it was over. That I couldn't keep pretending when all I wanted was you."
"Jax," you whisper, and you're not sure if you're relieved or terrified or both.
"You're all I want," he says, his voice breaking. "You've always been all I want. And I know this is fucked up, I know it's messy, but I don't care. I can't keep pretending."
Your heart is racing, your mind spinning. You should tell him you need time. You should remind him that this is complicated. Instead, you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek, and you whisper, "Then don't."
That's all it takes.
He closes the distance between you in an instant, his hands gripping your waist as his lips crash against yours. The kiss is desperate, hungry, years of pent-up need and longing pouring out all at once. You gasp against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his wet hair, and he groans, the sound vibrating through you.
He lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, and he carries you deeper into the apartment, his lips never leaving yours. You crash into a stack of boxes, sending them tumbling to the floor, but neither of you cares.
"Bedroom," you manage to gasp between kisses, and he nods, his grip on you tightening.
He navigates the chaos of your apartment, his mouth trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes you shiver. When he finally reaches the bedroom, he lays you down on the bed, his body covering yours, and for a moment, he just looks at you.
"You're so fuckin' beautiful," he murmurs, his hand cupping your face. "I've dreamed about this. About you."
"Jax," you whisper, your hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the hard planes of his chest. "I need you."
That's all the permission he needs.
He pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, and then his hands are on you, tugging at your clothes with an urgency that makes your head spin. Your shirt comes off, then your jeans, and soon you're both bare, skin against skin, the heat between you almost unbearable.
His hands roam over your body, mapping every curve, every inch of skin he's been denied for so long. His lips follow, trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. When his mouth closes around your nipple, you arch into him, a moan escaping your lips.
"Fuck, I missed you," he murmurs against your skin, his hand sliding between your thighs. When his fingers find you, slick and ready, he groans. "So wet for me already."
"Jax, please," you gasp, your hips bucking against his hand.
He doesn't make you wait. He positions himself between your legs, his eyes locked on yours, and then he's pushing inside you, slow and deep, filling you completely.
You both moan at the sensation, your bodies fitting together like they were made for this, for each other. He stills for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he whispers, his voice strained.
"Move," you beg, your nails digging into his back. "Please, Jax, move."
He pulls out almost completely, then thrusts back in, hard and deep, and you cry out, your body arching beneath him. He sets a relentless pace, his hips driving into you with a desperation that matches your own. Every thrust sends sparks of pleasure through you, building and building until you're teetering on the edge.
"Look at me," he commands, his hand gripping your chin. "I want to see you when you come."
You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his blue eyes nearly undoes you.
"That's it," he murmurs, his thumb finding your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel you."
The combination of his words, his touch, the way he's filling you, it's too much. You shatter as your orgasm crashes over you in waves, and you cry out his name, your body trembling beneath him.
"Fuck, yes-," he groans, and his rhythm falters. But he doesn't stop, doesn't let up, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling beneath him.
Finally, he pulls out, and you whimper at the loss. But then he's flipping you over, pulling your hips up, and he's sliding back inside you from behind.
The new angle is deeper, more intense, and you bury your face in the pillow, muffling your cries as he pounds into you. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, and you love it, love the way he's claiming you, marking you as his.
"Mine," he growls, and the possessiveness in his voice sends another wave of pleasure through you. "You're mine."
"Yours," you gasp. "I'm yours, Jax."
He reaches around, his fingers finding your clit again, and you're coming again before you can even process it, your body shaking with the force of it.
"Fuck, I'm gonna-" he starts, and then he's coming too, his body tensing as he spills inside you, your name a broken prayer on his lips.
He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard, and for a long moment, you just lie there, tangled together, your hearts racing in sync.
Eventually, he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him so you're tucked against his chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, and you close your eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull you into a sense of peace.
"I meant what I said," he murmurs after a long silence. "I don't want Tara. I want you. I should've done it sooner. I should've done it years ago, before I ever got involved with her."
"You couldn't have known I'd come back," you say.
"Doesn't matter," he says firmly. "You were always the one. Even when you were gone, even when I thought I'd never see you again, you were always the one."
Your throat tightens with emotion, and you lean in, kissing him softly. "I love you," you whisper against his lips. "I've always loved you."
"I love you too," he says, and then he's kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring everything he feels into it.
When you finally break apart, he's smiling. "You're mine," he says, his voice firm, possessive. "You've always been mine. And I want everyone to know it. I'm not letting you go again."
Tears prick at your eyes, and you lean in, kissing him softly.
He smiles against your lips, and for the first time in years, you feel like you're exactly where you're supposed to be. He pulls you closer, his hand sliding down to rest on your hip, and you can feel him already starting to harden again against your thigh.
"Again?" you ask, breathless with laughter.
"I've got years to make up for," he says, rolling you onto your back and settling between your legs. "And I plan on making up for every single one of them."
This time, he takes his time—kissing every inch of your skin, learning your body all over again, making you come twice before he finally slides inside you. And when you finally fall asleep hours later, tangled together in your bed, you know that this is just the beginning.
