XREADER
smoky - one shot - Cap. Price x gn!reader
starving - one shot - Simon Ghost Riley x reader
fwb - one shot - Simon Ghost Rily x reader
perfection - one shot - Konig x f!reader
Lucky Me - COD Price x f!reader - pending
X OC
the happily ever after universe - tf141 & kortac konig - one big happy family
Birdie on Board - Cap. Price (fisher au) x Birdie f!OC - complete aka my pride and joy
SOA:
XREADER
it's a girl - Happy x singlemom!reader
X OC
Get Over It - Happy x f!OC
the other half of me - Juice X f!OC X Happy
The Pitt:
XREADER
baby does - jack abbot x f!nurse reader
MISC:
Firefly - Bucky x f!reader - in progress
Willing to write for: (requests are welcome)
The Pitt - Jack Abbot, Brendon Park, John Shen
SOA - Happy Lowman & Juice Ortiz live rent free in my head
Bucky beefcake Barnes - also rent free, all consuming
COD - Price, Ghost, Johnny, Gaz, König
Animal Kingdom - Andrew Pope fucking Cody
Twilight maybe
The Hobbit
I edit NOTHING - I am in this for the shits and giggles. Please ignore any spelling or grammatical errors I am sure to make. We're just getting started folks, thanks for tuning in.
These are works of fanfiction and I do not own the rights to those characters. I do however own the rights to my creative thoughts, original characters, and the stories I create using them. I do not consent to having my work copied or used in any way - especially in regard to AI.
divider credit: @dollywons
book pics from pinterest - mini me from waffalet character builder
You work at a paranormal podcast studio and become convinced SAMCRO is secretly involved in supernatural activity because Juice keeps accidentally saying suspicious things.
The first time you met Juice Ortiz, you became convinced he was involved in something deeply, profoundly supernatural.
Not criminal.
Not illegal.
Supernatural.
And honestly?
You felt pretty justified.
Because normal people did not say the things he said.
You worked for a paranormal investigation podcast called Midnight Frequency, a surprisingly successful show based out of a converted warehouse in Charming.
The place looked exactly how people imagined a paranormal podcast studio would look.
Old brick walls.
Dim lighting.
Vintage recording equipment.
Shelves lined with allegedly haunted objects.
Boxes of investigation gear.
Spirit boxes.
EMF readers.
Infrared cameras.
And enough conspiracy theories floating around the office to qualify as their own religion.
You weren't one of the hosts.
You were the producer.
The person who actually kept everything running.
Scheduling.
Editing.
Research.
Equipment maintenance.
Making sure your two hosts didn't accidentally get themselves arrested while trespassing in abandoned hospitals.
Again.
You were practical.
Logical.
Reasonable.
The kind of person who spent entire episodes fact-checking ghost stories before they went live.
You didn't blindly believe in everything.
You just liked the possibility that weird things existed.
Which was why the biker showed up and ruined your life.
The first time Juice came into the studio, he was carrying a box.
Just a box.
Nothing unusual.
The problem was the sentence that came out of his mouth.
You'd been unloading equipment when he walked through the door.
"Hey," he said cheerfully.
You glanced up.
"Hey."
He set the box down.
"No idea what's in it."
"Then why are you delivering it?"
"Tig told me not to open it."
That should have been your first warning.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
Then he added:
"Last time somebody opened one they got cursed."
You froze.
"What?"
Juice blinked.
"What?"
"You said cursed."
"Oh."
He scratched his head.
"Yeah."
"Explain."
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"People don't get cursed by nothing."
"Sure they do."
Then he smiled awkwardly and walked away.
That should have been the end.
Instead it became the beginning.
Because once you noticed Juice saying weird things—
You couldn't stop noticing.
Two weeks later he dropped off another package.
You signed for it.
Juice looked exhausted.
Like he hadn't slept in days.
You asked if he was okay.
His answer?
"The screaming kept me awake."
You slowly lowered your clipboard.
"The what?"
"The screaming."
You stared.
Juice stared.
Then realization crossed his face.
"Oh."
"Oh?"
"Wrong answer."
"What screaming?"
"No screaming."
"You literally just said—"
"Nope."
"There is no version of reality where—"
"Have a good day."
Then he practically ran from the building.
You stood there.
Silent.
Thinking.
Processing.
That night you started a document.
A private document.
For research.
Obviously.
The title:
SUSPICIOUS THINGS JUICE ORTIZ HAS SAID
The list grew alarmingly fast.
"The body wasn't there yesterday."
"Don't touch that. It bites."
"Sometimes they follow you home."
"It only smells like sulfur when it's angry."
"Most people can't see them."
"Trust me, you don't want to know what's under there."
"We're trying not to wake it up."
Every single time you questioned him—
He immediately panicked.
Changed the subject.
Or fled.
Which somehow made everything worse.
By month three you had developed an entire theory.
A genuinely comprehensive theory.
Complete with evidence.
Charts.
Timelines.
Photographs.
Cross references.
Maps.
According to your research:
SAMCRO was secretly protecting Charming from supernatural threats.
It explained everything.
The weird hours.
The secrecy.
The random injuries.
The disappearances.
The cryptic statements.
The strange things people claimed to see near club property.
You had forty-seven pages of evidence.
Then Juice accidentally gave you page forty-eight.
It happened during a coffee run.
You were sitting outside the café when he joined you.
For some reason he'd started doing that.
Showing up.
Talking.
Lingering.
Finding excuses.
You tried not to notice.
Mostly because he was annoyingly cute.
That day he sat beside you.
Looked exhausted.
Took a sip of coffee.
And said:
"We buried three of them this week."
You nearly dropped your drink.
"What."
Juice immediately closed his eyes.
Like he'd just realized he'd stepped on a landmine.
Slowly.
Painfully.
He opened one eye.
"You didn't hear that."
"I absolutely heard that."
"You imagined it."
"Three of WHAT?"
His entire soul appeared to leave his body.
You leaned forward.
"Juice."
"No."
"Juice."
"No."
"Juice."
"No."
He groaned.
Actually groaned.
Like existence itself had become difficult.
And suddenly you realized something.
He wasn't acting like somebody hiding supernatural secrets.
He was acting like somebody trying desperately not to accidentally reveal something.
Which was somehow even more suspicious.
By then you'd become friends.
Actual friends.
You texted.
You shared memes.
He brought you coffee.
You fixed his laptop every time he broke it.
Which happened far more often than any adult should reasonably allow.
And somewhere along the way—
You started liking him.
A lot.
The problem was that every time you got close to thinking about asking him out—
He'd say something insane.
Like:
"Sometimes they come back."
Or:
"The older ones are harder to kill."
Or:
"We got lucky this time."
You weren't sure if he was secretly a monster hunter or clinically incapable of speaking like a normal person.
Possibly both.
Then came the warehouse incident.
The moment your entire theory exploded.
It was nearly midnight.
You were leaving the studio.
The parking lot was empty.
Quiet.
Dark.
Then you heard voices.
Shouting.
Angry shouting.
Coming from an abandoned warehouse nearby.
Normally you would've ignored it.
Instead you recognized Juice's voice.
And because your survival instincts occasionally took vacations—
You followed it.
You slipped through a side entrance.
Moved quietly.
And immediately found yourself staring at half of SAMCRO.
Jax.
Tig.
Chibs.
Happy.
Juice.
Several others.
All gathered around something.
Your heart started pounding.
This was it.
Proof.
Finally.
After months.
You were about to uncover the supernatural conspiracy.
You crept closer.
And heard:
"Where's the body?"
Your eyes widened.
Body.
Of course.
Then:
"We need to move it before morning."
Your stomach dropped.
Then:
"Get the truck."
Silence.
You blinked.
Wait.
Truck?
Body?
Move it?
Slowly.
Very slowly.
The horrifying reality began assembling itself inside your brain.
Not ghosts.
Not demons.
Not monsters.
Crime.
Just crime.
Lots of crime.
So much crime.
A truly concerning amount of crime.
"Oh my God."
The words escaped before you could stop them.
Every head turned.
Every single head.
The warehouse became completely silent.
You stood frozen.
Juice's face went white.
Jax looked confused.
Tig looked delighted.
Happy looked mildly interested in murder.
And Juice whispered:
"Oh no."
You pointed dramatically.
At all of them.
"You aren't fighting demons."
Silence.
"You are criminals."
More silence.
Tig started laughing so hard he nearly fell over.
"You thought WHAT?" he wheezed.
You rounded on Juice.
"YOU SAID THEY FOLLOW YOU HOME."
"I WAS TALKING ABOUT FEDS."
"YOU SAID THE OLDER ONES ARE HARDER TO KILL."
"OLDER HARLEYS."
"YOU SAID WE BURIED THREE OF THEM."
"THREE MOTORCYCLES."
The entire warehouse erupted.
Men doubled over laughing.
Actually crying.
Falling against walls.
You wanted the concrete floor to open and swallow you whole.
Months.
MONTHS.
You had spent months building a supernatural conspiracy theory.
Meanwhile these idiots had simply been talking about motorcycles, law enforcement, rival gangs and criminal activity.
Juice looked like he wanted to die.
"You thought we hunted monsters?"
You pointed at him.
"YOU TALK LIKE A CURSED PIRATE."
That somehow made everyone laugh harder.
Especially Jax.
Especially Tig.
And most annoyingly—
Especially Juice.
Because once he started laughing—
Really laughing—
You couldn't stay embarrassed.
You just stood there.
Mortified.
Watching him grin.
And realizing for the first time how much you'd missed that smile whenever he wasn't around.
The realization hit hard.
Hard enough that you forgot the embarrassment.
Hard enough that you forgot the warehouse.
Hard enough that when his laughter faded and he looked at you—
The world suddenly felt very small.
Very quiet.
Very focused.
Just him.
Just those stupid brown eyes.
Just that smile.
Just Juice.
His expression softened.
And something shifted.
Because maybe he'd been looking at you the same way for a while.
Maybe every coffee.
Every text.
Every excuse.
Every delivery.
Every conversation.
Maybe none of it had been accidental.
The warehouse suddenly became very aware of what was happening.
Which meant every single biker immediately started making things worse.
"Oh, there it is."
"About damn time."
"Thought we'd die first."
"Five bucks says he passes out."
Juice turned bright red.
You laughed.
Then looked at him.
And said quietly:
"So."
"So?"
"Want to explain why you kept finding excuses to come see me?"
His face somehow got even redder.
Which honestly seemed medically impossible.
"I..."
The entire club leaned forward.
You could feel it.
A collective audience.
Watching.
Waiting.
Juice glared at them.
Then looked back at you.
And finally smiled.
A genuine smile.
The kind that reached his eyes.
"Maybe because I liked you."
Your heart flipped.
"Maybe?"
"Definitely."
You smiled.
"Good."
"Good?"
"Because I definitely like you too."
The grin that spread across his face could have powered half of California.
The warehouse exploded again.
Cheers.
Shouting.
Swearing.
Someone lost money.
Someone won money.
Tig appeared to be crying.
You never found out who started the chant.
Only that it spread instantly.
And that Juice looked horrified.
Until you grabbed the front of his shirt.
Pulled him toward you.
And kissed him.
The cheering somehow got louder.
When you finally pulled back—
Juice looked completely stunned.
Like he'd forgotten how gravity worked.
You smiled.
"So."
He blinked.
"So?"
"Next time you accidentally imply you're fighting demons—"
He groaned immediately.
You laughed.
"—I'm assuming crime first."
His forehead dropped against yours.
"That's probably smart."
And for the first time since you'd met him—
The mystery was finally solved.
No ghosts.
No monsters.
No demons.
No ancient curses.
Just one sweet, chaotic biker who accidentally sounded like the protagonist of a supernatural horror novel every time he opened his mouth.
And somehow, despite all the misunderstandings, conspiracy boards, evidence folders, embarrassing discoveries, and one spectacularly incorrect paranormal investigation—
You ended up exactly where you were supposed to be.
With Juice laughing against your shoulder.
His hand tangled with yours.
And the certainty that whatever strange things waited in the future—
You'd face them together.
Even if he kept sounding suspicious as hell the entire time.
series master - see ml for info - standard soa warnings + age gap
i feel like im pushing the domestic happy a litttlllleeee too hard ... oh well.
“Happy fucking Lowman, get your ass in here.”
There it was. Mom voice in full effect echoing from down the hall. He took the long way. They had been waiting on you to wake for a little over an hour now and you gave him exactly what he was expecting.
Hell fire and attitude.
He clicked off the stove, ruffled little girls hair, and shoveled some scrambled eggs onto her tray to keep her busy. Then stalked down the hall seeing no need for a rush. He was fully aware of the problem, and had no interest in fixing it. He leaned himself against the open door frame of your bedroom and there you were.
A pretty little thing in serious need of an attitude adjustment.
You blinked a few times to keep your composure, for a moment you thought he dressed that way on purpose. A view like that wasn’t unusual but it still made you weak. Grey sweats hanging at his hips did you in every single time, standing there like a man carved from stone, littered in art coated muscle. It was almost impossible to stay strong but your annoyance took precedence.
You raised the back of your hand, and it sparkled. It looked better than he imagined. It wasn’t too big, or too flashy. It was subtle in a way you would appreciate, but still enough that everyone would see it first.
A sparkly claim.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Your ring,” he tossed the dish towel at his shoulder and crossed his arms over his bare chest, “like it?”
“Do I like it? You don’t want to try will you marry me or even a what do you say, are you actually insane?”
“Yeah.”
You chuckled despite yourself. Your handsome devil, so unbothered, so damn serious.
“The answers no until you learn how to ask correctly,” you tossed it towards the end of the rustled sheets. It landed perfectly, gem glinting in the morning light.
It was like the damn thing was staring back at you.
The cut, the clarity, the encrusted band with her birth stone. It wasn’t what you pictured, but he still managed to hit the nail on the head.
Almost like he knew you better than you knew yourself, and that annoyed you too.
“Put the fucking ring back on,” and then he walked away. Abrupt turn, heavy steps, resuming his perfect execution of blueberry pancakes so you had a plate ready when you finally decided to put your big boy pants on.
You stared at it for too long. Considering, overthinking, and decided you couldn’t put it back on, not yet.
You treated it with care, but to give in would've been too easy. You had to let it stew inside you first, find a way to give him hell without actually saying no.
He knew that, so he chose to overlook it when you sat at the table without it, because he also knew inevitably it would be right back where it belongs.
He had everything he never wanted, and he loved it.
He loved coming home to you, he loved waking up to her climbing in the bed during the night. He loved rocking her to sleep, and holding you until you were snoring even though you swear you don’t. He loved the ring he bought you, and the tattoo of your initial healing perfectly where his ring will go.
He was made for more than he ever thought possible, because as it turns out, you can teach an old dog new tricks.
He had a foot in both worlds and surprised himself everyday that he seemed to excel equally.
Violence was fun, the chaos of it was as easy as breathing. Loving you, parenting her, it had become second nature, something learned but worth every second of effort it took to get there.
Only one thing could shit on his good mood, and that was the fucking Irish. The stubborn as fuck pale faces that act like kings.
One patch went down, a prospect alongside him, and that meant war.
War meant lockdown.
You and little girl were stuck in his dorm room, willingly this time, but without him. He wasn’t there for the bedtime story, or the early morning cuddles. He was on a hunt, stuck in a van with your adopted brother.
Day in, day out.
Staking out in revolving shifts but the damn irish were proving to be resourceful. Happy didn’t say a word about you, about the ring, about anything really. Jax tried to be as quiet, but his phone just kept ringing. Always Tara claiming she needed this and that.
Happy couldn’t fathom the need for a call every five minutes. He tried not to side eye his president but at a certain point he couldn't help it.
You hadn’t called once, not even a text. Were you annoyed? Sure, of course. Exhausted and mildly pissed off? To be expected, but you were handling it.
You knew he was busy keeping you and the people you love safe, so you kept your mouth shut. It made him want that ring on your finger even more, really. The way you understood club life like it was woven in your DNA.
It was hotter than he would ever admit.
After the fifth and final call, Jax arrived. No van and no Happy.
You tried not to let the disappointment show when your brother shot you a charming smile, but you were approaching your very wits end with the level of understanding you’ve maintained over the past week. Your daughter gasped at the sight of leather, searching, searching, searching, and nothing.
You saw the disappointment hit her like a train and it wrecked you.
This is easily the longest she’s gone without seeing him since they met. You explained daddy didn’t disappear, he would come back for her. She was just too little to comprehend anything aside from his missing presence. She had been nothing short of a terror. Throwing things, kicking and screaming, endless whining that was making your head throb. You tried to be a gentle parent. Calm, collected, respectful of her feelings. It never went far. She was at a loss, and so were you.
She huffed, puffed, and plopped herself down from the picnic tables.
“Hey!” She yelled, commanding the attention of Chibs, Tig, and Jax too. “Where esm’ daddy?”
Jax was all smiles, squatting down to reach her level and poke her in the belly. “He’s running some errands for me, he’ll be back for you soon, okay?”
“No,” she huffed. Then she kicked him. Right in the groin, causing the charming blonde to drop back against the concrete with a deep groan. The leather kuttes from you to the door all groaned in sympathy, gripping their crotches like they felt it too.
“Hey!” You scolded, pulling her back by the shoulders and demanding she apologize, but she refused. She crossed her arms, staring them all down like they were enemy forces.
“Here darling,” Chibs drawled, pulling out a prepay from his pocket, “he’s the last number dialed, why don’t you let her give him a call?”
You fiddled with the prepay, glancing around the smug faces that made your cheeks burn. “This feels like rewarding bad behavior.”
“We’re rewarding a solid shot.”
“Douchebag,” Jax groaned, rubbing his crotch as he found his footing.
You shooed your miserable little girl back into the clubhouse, forcing her to keep moving until you were locked in the safety of his room. Just stepping a foot in was relaxing, for the both of you. He hadn’t stayed there for over a month now but the air still smelled like him. His cardboard thin pillows smelled like his aftershave, the sheets like his soap, the few shirts he had left in the closet still had that faint hint of motor oil and exhaust fumes that never quite washes out. It settled you more than it did her, you were surviving the week in his clothes and taking hits off his pillow just to keep it together.
Pathetic? Yes. Necessary at this rate? Absolutely.
It’s not your fault he’s made you so dependent, blame him entirely.
He was the one who made it a habit to always be home for dinner. He was the one who insisted on being there to put both his girls to bed. You were just the sucker who got twisted up by some sort of accidental Stockholm situation.
You hit re-dial on what you assume is today’s current prepay number. He answered with a grunt, one that told you exactly how pissed off he was.
“Guess again,” you chuckled.
The harshness slipped. A soft whisper carried through the line, “hey.”
“Hey,” you grinned, “your daughter is being a monster.”
“So now she’s my kid?” He chuckled, leaning back against a cool brick wall. God, he needed to hear you. The sweetest little reminder of what he had waiting was enough to settle him, hearing you laugh? That was like striking gold.
It was annoying how much he missed you, how much he thought about you and little girl, and how ready he was for this shit to be over so he knew you were both safe again. It never stopped him from doing his job, but it was always there. The two of you had embedded yourself in his brain worse than a sickness, always lingering in the back of his mind.
“She kicked Jax in the nuts because he came back without you, and I know for a fact she didn’t get that from me.”
His laughter rumbled like thunder, carrying over the line like a lightning strike to your heart. “That’s my girl.”
You glanced over at the corner she put herself in, arms crossed and pouting. “You have a minute? I think she could use some daddy daughter time.”
“Put me on speaker.”
“Come on babe, Happy’s on the phone.”
You hit the speaker button and placed it down on the bed. He heard everything. Her little whine from across the room, her stomps, the grunts escaping her as she weaseled up the bed because she wouldn’t just take your help to get there. He waited until he heard her close, the ruffle of sheets slushing through his end.
“You being good to your mom?”
She crossed her arms again, staring you dead in the eye. “No.”
“Why not?”
She babbled. Half of it was words, half of it was nonsense. You picked up on about a quarter of it, but he got it all. Her and her pitiful attitude come through the other end of the line. Angry he wasn’t back yet, stir crazy from lock down. She missed her bed, her stuffies, and her daddy. He hummed along, entertaining her tiny rant and encouraging her to let it all out. Mommy was being mean, she said. Mommy keeps saying no, she said. On and on with endless reasons why you’re wrong and she’s right, bring him to the conclusion it was time to wrap things up. You both had run out of grace for the situation and he couldn’t blame you.
She needed a break, you needed a break, and he was desperate to see your faces after the bullshit errands keeping him too damn far away from you both.
“Look who’s here,” you chuckled, pointing to the door where leather kuttes were trailing in one at a time.
“That’s my dadddy!” She screeched, a full sprint taking over her chubby little legs. She giggled the whole way over, hands flailing, grin spreading, squealing like a bat out of hell.
The crowd parted. First for her, then for him, making space where there wasn’t any so he could get by.
“Hey mama,” he said, voice rough, low, just for you. You tilted your head all the way back, lips puckered and waiting for his. He pressed his chapped ones against your soft ones gently, pecking them a few times in a row before pulling back. “You feelin okay?”
“Better now, you?”
“Better now,” he smiled, kissing the side of your daughter’s head, tickling her face with the rough scruff of his cheeks.
“Is it okay if I go home? She’s out of a few things, and I need a shower that’s not communal.”
He gave you a look, one that very obviously told you a few separate things all at once. One, you’re testing his patience already. Two, having two girls to worry about in his life is exhausting. Three, you are absolutely not leaving this clubhouse.
“You two are killing me,” he muttered, eyes shut tight.
You weren't actually asking, he knew that, but it was sweet to pretend given where you are. You couldn’t completely ignore the reputation he has made for himself. You could act the part of a good girl rather well. Please, thank you, asking the question but ignoring the no he gives once you’re behind closed doors. It’s a system, he likes the system.
You stood and slipped right in under his free arm, taking a hit of him. He hadn’t left the van in days, but even the van stench was delicious because it was him. Warm, breathing, intoxicating.
You pulled in one, two, three, and an extra for the road. “I’ll be back before the vote, okay?”
“Take a prospect,” he stopped you in your tracks, hand gently holding your arm, “Tacoma.”
You nodded, kissing a cheek softly, and you were gone with the wind.
Then it was him and her.
Her attitude came and went like the tide. She was so excited he was there, she forgot she was angry. Then she would remember, and start to pout all over again.
Rinse and repeat.
She was talking endlessly, then staring at him like he kidnapped her. She started laughing, then snarled at him if he touched the wrong toy. It was a game of cat and mouse with her attitude, and he loved every second because she was all you, but so much of him now too.
Every perfect inch of her.
You slipped on your ring the second you got in the car, admiring the view without his smug expression making you wish you left the damn thing at home all together.
You couldn’t. You tried, but you just couldn’t. You never asked for it, you weren’t even sure if you wanted it, but it felt like part of you now. Something decided, certain. A mix of impending doom and the hope of a new beginning all wrapped up in one.
It was stupidly perfect, and every single day you kept it close, teasing yourself with the idea of it.
You had less questions this time. You know who he is, what he wants, how far he’s willing to go and what he’s willing to give. It all added up.
You made your bed, with Happy Lowman, all he really needed to do was ask.
You sucked up every single second of the rarity that is baby free time and felt guilty while doing it. Groceries were purchased. Snacks for him, her, a few unusual pairings for you. Bags of dirty laundry were switched for fresh clean clothes. Then you took a much longer shower than necessary, but the hot water felt too good, and every inch of you needed special attention.
You did your hair the way you liked, dressed in something other than his well loved samcro printed tees. Circling back to hell on earth. Your least favorite place that still somehow manages to feel like home.
You pulled in a few minutes to spare. Stashing your ring for safe keeping, fumbling with your bags, loading up the arms of the Tacoma prospect who was lingering behind you like a well trained dog.
Then there was chaos. Yelling, screaming, the rush of fleeing bodies, then there was a boom.
A life altering explosion that blew the clubs home to the sky. The rush of hot air hit you first and nearly knocked you down. Then it was the harsh stench of smoke, fire, and something sour that made you want to keel over.
The reality of what you just witnessed set in and you gasped, collapsing at the sight. Your knees cracked against the asphalt so loud it could be heard over your sobs.
Your baby girl was in there.
You screeched at the very top of your lungs but no sound left your lips. All the air left your lungs, every fiber in your being felt like it was pulled apart. Ash and smoke heavy in the air, warm firelight blinding your mind.
Then you saw them, emerging from the smoke and ash in slow motion like some low budget action movie. You cried, hard. You were so out of it you were crawling, pushing yourself up as fast as you could. Grabbing her, searching him, crying desperately despite both of them appearing whole.
“We’re okay,” he wrapped his arms around you both, so tight his arms were shaking, “we’re okay.”
She was sobbing, vicious cries that were ripping him apart with each wave. You were a snotty mess, absolutely wrecked with the possibility of what if. He was the pillar of strength letting it happen, holding himself together perfectly like he came pre-put together with superglue. “Come on, I’m getting you out of here.”
He took you to the hospital. You didn’t think he would, at first. Hospital meant cops, Happy hates cops, but he checked her in himself. The police were circling the emergency room like sharks as more of the samcro family arrived by both car and ambulance. He let you give your statement, trusting you entirely to give them the illusion of help without giving them anything at all.
He held her the whole time. Through the questions, the exams, too shell-shocked to put her down for even a moment. Rocking, humming, rubbing her back softly. Once she was clear, he took you home, but not the home you were expecting. His home. The three bedroom house that was made to hold a family, his family.
You two had discussed it offhandly one evening. His is bigger in every way. Bigger rooms, more square feet, and it has the bigger yard. You pay rent, he owns his outright. Logistically moving to his house made the most sense, but it was supposed to be a when we’re ready move.
He helped you up and out of the passenger side, checking your head like you might spontaneously combust from the fever that didn’t exist. “You good?”
“I’m not the one who got blown up.”
“I got her out,” he mumbled, forcing you by the chin to look him in the eye, “she’s never in danger with me.”
Your lip quivered, you couldn’t stop the waterworks if you tried. The fear, mom hormones on overdrive. He kept a steady gaze, brushing each tear away before they ever made it down your cheeks.
“I know,” you whispered, nodding against his hands.
He nodded, satisfied, then immediately moved on to the next little girl that needed attention.
“Come on little girl,” he cooed, guiding her tired arms out from her buckles, “we got a surprise for you.”
“S’prise?” She slurred, blinking slowly. He hummed, jingling his keys as he approached the front door.
It smelled just like him. Dull whiskey and the softest touch weed smoke. Gun oil and that rich earthy cologne he wears too well, it was enough to ease the tension inside you. You followed him step for step like the space was a booby trap waiting to happen.
It was clean, orderly. Everything had a place but there wasn't much to keep sorted. One couch. A table with one chair. No tv, no art on the walls. It looked more like a safe house than a home, but that's what he had you two for.
A reason to make it something.
“You ready?” He asked her softly, hand on the vintage crystal doorknob he installed himself. She nodded enthusiastically and he kicked the door open.
Her jaw dropped, and so did yours.
The walls were her favorite color, and had a different design hand painted on each one. He painted her a castle, a rainbow, the weird green monster from her favorite book. There was a big girl bed covered in all the stuffed animals she could ever want. A doll house, a ridiculously fluffy rug, and a reading nook by the window. It was every little girl's dream come true.
“Happy,” you gasped, stepping into a room that looked like something out of a catalog. He plopped her down on the floor and off she went. Squealing and giggling at every little thing. It became a mess in seconds. You couldn’t see much of anything through the chaos of it, just a blur of your tiny tornado making herself at home. She tossed her entire toy chest, introduced herself to each and every stuffed toy, showed you all the Barbie’s he stocked the doll house (that was bigger than her) with. With every new thing she found, she ran to him first. Showing it off, laughing loud, making every dime he spent worth it.
The two of you joined her on the floor. Watching her lose her mind and every little thing. You wouldn't call him cheap, exactly. He prefers the term mindful of excessive spending, but this she didn't seem to apply.
“You spoil her.”
“That’s my job,” he said lowly, voice carrying the clipped edge of roughness, “I was saving it for her birthday, but she needed a distraction.”
His wheels were turning. Watching her, avoiding you. You've never seen that look on him before. You've learned the micro expressions that tell you what kind of day he's had. Anger was familiar. Relief was easiest to spot. This was new. Skin paled, his features usually flexed in one way or another were completely unbecoming. A dangerous cocktail of feelings he didn't know what to do with. Which to feel first, where to focus his energy.
You slipped your hand over his, knuckles raw from where he caught them both from smacking down against asphalt. “And what about me?”
He took a breath in, like all he needed was the permission to be exactly where he was.
“You got that ring you’re supposed to be wearing.” His hand pulled back and dug into his pocket, pulling out something slim and flat, cuts in the metal fitted to the front door. “Got you a key made too, move in when you’re ready.”
He looked at you, you looked at him, and the silence was enough. You were already a family, and it was about time you started acting like it. You rolled your eyes ridiculously hard and slipped your hand into your bra, pulling out that little loop of gems you were keeping very close.
“I’m ready.”
The roughness of his features gave an inch, momentarily putting away the hate he was clinging to for when they finally got their hands on the Irish. He took it, fiddling with it a moment before tugging you closer by the hand.
“You take this off again I’ll kill you,” he grumbled, slipping it back between your knuckles where it belongs.
You took his hand, brushing a thumb across his tattooed knuckles, lingering across that picture perfect initial. The man you knew before, you might've believed him, but not this guy. You smiled up at him, this boundary crossing, agenda pushing, borderline psycho, who you just can't help but love.
"Whatever you say."
i feel like this isn't my best work, im so lost in mw4 land i can't stay focused on anything besides john mf price - sorrrryyyyyyy
need to be sitting passenger princess in andrew cody’s big ass truck drinking an overpriced coffee that he paid for while his hand rests on my thigh within the hour or i fear i will be succumbing to the curse
