PART 1 | PART 2
Sons of Anarchy
Summary: This post. Tags included.
Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, 3.6k words, Juice x Reader, Happy x reader, praise kink, rough sex, no protection mentioned
Author’s note: idk what kind of power @darqchilddaydreamz wields or what her birthday wish was yesterday, but I woke this morning, saw a post and reblogged it with my tags, then promptly opened my Google docs and wrote this in one go while still in bed.
If you thought too hard about how you got from there to here, you’d give yourself whiplash.
The night at the clubhouse started just like the other few times you’d been there. Men hooting and hollering about some recent act of violence against another club, patting themselves on the back for being modern day warriors. Women dressed in practically nothing, writhing about to music that was too loud and out of date by about a decade. Drinks that were too warm, air that was too thick with smoke, sweat, and other unappealing smells you didn’t dare try to decipher. But it was better to blend into a crowd than be the only person sitting at the bar on a Tuesday in the only other Charming establishment that was open this late on a weeknight.
You weren’t a drunk. Most of the time the drinks you ordered usually sat untouched, a prop to display allowing you entry to the environment and also letting you look less pitiful than if you were just sitting there. But ever since your boyfriend left, your apartment was just too damned quiet even if the noise of the clubhouse was too damned loud, you’d rather listen to the ringing in your ears for the next week than the silence.
The people watching from the perch of your barstool was also top notch - the dynamics of the club easy to figure out once you actually paid attention to the patches on their chests. Since you had on the most clothes of any woman in the room, you largely went unnoticed and since you left long before the party began to wind down, there was never really an opportunity for anyone to notice you until tonight.
Today would have been your fifth anniversary, the one you and your ex boyfriend had both previously decided you’d take the next steps on. But instead of celebrating your marriage proposal, you sat alone in the Sons of Anarchy clubhouse with a warm glass of …something that had become your usual. You could tell the dark cloud hung thicker around you today, creating an invisible barrier no one wanted to cross - not that people chatted you up but they were at least friendly. Tonight, there wasn’t even a body on the barstool next to you.
Just as you were about to let that detail pull you deeper into your depression you felt a pair of eyes on you. It wasn’t uncommon, you were a woman after all, but it never felt this intense or lasted this long. Toying with the glass in front of you, you looked up through your lashes trying to spot the person whose eyes you feel. You dropped them almost immediately having made eye contact with one of the members, the one you’d been trying the hardest not to catch the attention of.
You weren’t sure how the club nicknames worked but you couldn’t for the life of you figure out how they’d landed on Happy for this guy. The only time you’d seen him smile was when someone was bleeding, and that someone was usually him. You’d noticed his “Men of Mayhem” patch, a patch worn only by two other men - the president and the VP - which had made you wonder what he’d done to earn it without holding an office.
Still feeling his eyes, you glanced back up and, sure enough, he was still staring. You looked away quickly, trying to look as natural as possible, lifting your glass to take a sip which turned into a huge mistake. Whatever amber colored acetone they filled your glass with caught in your throat, your body rejecting the small sip of burning fluid, coughs racking your body. The glass clattered back to the bar, toppling over as you covered your mouth, fighting for your life against the offensive liquid.
“Whoa, are you okay?”
You focused watery eyes on who you assumed was the youngest of the members - a guy with a short Mohawk and lightning bolt tattoos on his head. “Wrong pipe,” you croaked between coughs.
The wince of sympathy he gave you wasn’t missed as he leaned half his body over the bar, grabbing a bottle of water from somewhere, passing it over to you quickly. In your desperation to stop coughing, you didn’t even care that the lid doesn’t click with the breaking of a seal, just tipping your head back and taking a deep swallow of the clear liquid before you realized it’s not actually water.
“Wait —”
Whatever was just in your mouth sprayed out, mostly over your already spilled drink on the bar but you didn’t quite turn far enough and you also managed to spit at least some on the guy who gave it to you.
Mortification filled your body, the sounds of the clubhouse a low drone as your brain tried to process the quick series of events that just happened as you wiped the back of your hand over your mouth.
Thankfully, you weren’t coughing though, which meant the words were then pouring out of your mouth a mile a minute. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I just did that. I thought that was water, but it was just more spicy juice, and I already made a mess and I shouldn’t have spit that on you, I’m so sorry.”
He just laughed, wiping his face with a rag that he pulled from his pocket. “It’s fine. I should have warned you,” he said with a bright white smile.
By then, the prospect had finally come over with a towel and a fresh bottle of water, still sealed. After a few swallows, you managed to ask, “What was that?”
Juice, whose name you’d remembered now that your brain was getting full oxygen again, glanced around the bar then leaned in like he was getting ready to share club secrets. “It’s my own stash of tequila.” He gave a shrug when you raised your eyebrows. “I don’t like the stuff they keep behind the bar, but if I bring in a bottle of it, the guys drink it all.”
Something in the honesty of it brought a smile to your face, one you quickly covered with another drink of water. “Well, Juice, your secret’s safe with me.”
His look turned inquisitive at the use of his name. “Have we met before? Because I’m sure I would have remembered.”
Heat rose in your cheeks, realizing your slip up. “No,” you said quickly - too quickly judging by the raise of his eyebrows, “uh, no. But if you’re here enough, it’s easy to figure out.”
Just then, as if to prove your point, Chibs screamed, “BOBBY!” and threw his arms around the long haired man, dragging him over to a couch.
Juice nodded. “Makes sense.”
You thought he’d leave then, order his drink and go back to his night but he didn’t. He’d asked questions like what brought you into tonight, how often you’d been to the clubhouse, if you knew anyone there. You weren’t fool enough to believe it was all casual conversation, you knew eventually someone would notice you didn’t belong there. But someone had. Two someone’s actually.
During your conversation with Juice, you kept feeling the weight of eyes on you and each time you glanced across the bar, Happy was still watching you.
After about your dozenth time, Juice finally asked, “Everything okay?”
You bit your lip, wondering if you should even say anything, but during your hesitation, Juice looked across the bar, immediately noticing what you’d been looking at.
He gave a nod of his head and something about him finally acknowledging Happy gave you the courage to look up and actually watch him as he walked over to you. Bodies parted before him, people clambering out of his way as he walked around the bar, never taking his eyes off you.
“Hap, this is Y/N,” Juice said once he was close enough, his introduction completely casual as if his approach was totally normal.
Happy stopped next to him, not close enough for you to shake his hand without getting off your barstool so you just threw a hand up in a little wave. “Hi.”
He didn’t say anything, just giving a quick jerk of his head, the toothpick you could then see in his mouth rolling to the other side.
Your eyes flicked between the two, Happy still staring at you as intensely as he had from across the bar. It took only seconds until you started to squirm, suddenly not knowing what to do with your hands, completely forgetting about the bottle of water you were holding as it slipped from your fingers and smacked on the ground.
Juice’s face split in a wide grin that he had the decency to try and hide, turning his head into his hand and propping his elbow on the bar. You knew you should grab the bottle but you couldn’t move, feeling like prey under Happy’s gaze. As if proving you right, he began to crouch, very slowly, not taking his eyes off of you as he grabbed the bottle from the floor. Just as slowly, he stood up, taking a small step forward, holding the bottle out to you. You could reach it, but you’d have to stretch, so you shifted to the edge of your stool, never taking your eyes off his, but just as you touched plastic, your fingers slowly slipping over the bottle, your stool rocked, someone in the sea of bodies breaking loose and crashing against you. With your heels still hooked on the rung, you fully expected to faceplant, but instead of a face full of sticky wood floor, you got a face full of leather and hard muscle, Juice and Happy both having stepped forward to catch you.
“Hey, fucker.” The sound rumbled across your skin, goose flesh following in its wake as two sets of arms became one, Happy going after the man that ran into you.
“You okay?” Juice asked, hands firm on your waist.
It was at that moment you realized both your hands were on his arms, the smooth skin warm under your finger tips. It must have taken as long as it felt to answer because a smile curved his mouth, his hands loosening on your waist but not leaving, his thumbs brushing back and forth on your sides.
You felt starstruck - words caught in your throat as you stared into his eyes, your body crackling with electricity where it touched his. You watched as the sparks reached his eyes, a buzz settling so deep in your belly that your legs started to shake.
“Come on,” he’d said, shifting you under his arm, walking slightly in front of you as he pushed his way through the bodies. The sounds of the clubhouse were muffled, nothing breaking through the hum in your head that had started when your skin met his. He led you down a hallway you hadn’t been before, pushing open a door you’d never seen, into a room you didn’t know existed.
There was a low light shining through the small window but before you could even make out anything in its glow, Juice had you pushed against the closed door, his mouth on yours.
Which still doesn’t make sense, but here you are. And you aren’t going to ask twice.
He has his full body pressed against you, holding you up as your nerves misfire at every place he’s touching you, whether it’s with flesh, denim or leather.
Your elbows are on his shoulders, hands falling to his head, fingers seeking out the peach fuzz sides and stripe of hair between them. He shudders when you lightly rake your nails over his scalp, breaking the kiss with his forehead pressed against yours.
His breath is hot, making the air you're taking not as refreshing as it could be in the cool room but you won’t dare complain.
His hands slide from the door back to your hips, easily finding where your top meets the hem of your pants, parting the materials until fingers meet skin. The touch arcs across your body, every hair standing on end as he slips a finger into your waistband, tugging lightly down, making his intentions obvious.
“This okay?” His eyes are so close to yours, the deep brown taking over your thoughts for a moment until you feel his other hand tighten on waist, pulling you back to the present. “Okay?” he asks again, firmer this time.
You barely complete your nod before he bends, hooking his hands behind your thighs, sliding you up the door. You don’t even have time to worry about your weight before you end up on a bed you didn’t even know was there, your legs wrapped around his waist.
His hands are rough, tearing clothing, digging at your flesh in a way that belies the sweet eyes and soft smiles he was giving you just minutes ago. “Too much,” he grunts, shredding your top when it becomes tangled in your arms. The tear of material is unexpected and causes your muscles to clench, causing your sudden awareness of just how wet you are.
The realization is lost in the next moment, Juice falling onto you like a man starving, tongue and lips exploring every inch of skin he just uncovered from collarbone to navel. Your hands find his scalp again, remembering the way he shuddered when your nails scraped over his tattoos, doing it again. This time, it triggers his teeth, snarls followed by bites matching the intensity of your touch. You quickly use this to your advantage, leaving crescent shapes on the crown of his head that match bite marks on your breasts.
He is growling by the time he reaches your pants, again tearing at the material, dragging it and his nails down your legs in a frenzy, throwing your shoes off your feet as well. He stands fully then, staring at you - naked and panting in front of him. Even with your eyes adjusting to the darkness, there’s still not enough light to make out all of him, his face cast in shadows but you can just make out the bulge behind the fly of his jeans.
“Please.”
The word startles you before you realize it was you who said it.
“Please what?” The words weren’t exactly harsh, but they felt like the words of a man straining to hold back a monster, a man barely maintaining his grasp on civility.
You whine, any words you’d say are caught on the need choked in your throat. He doesn’t move but you can see the strain in his body, the air around him vibrating with a need you aren’t quite sure why he won’t act on.
You bring your feet to the outside of his hips, trying to pull him closer, pull down his jeans and lift your hips at the same time, doing your best to show him what you need, your fingers tangled in the bedsheets at your side, instinct telling you not to reach for him in that moment.
“Tell him what you need.”
The new voice in the room startles you so completely that your legs drop, thighs clenching together in modesty. Juice doesn’t move though, still looming over you, having absolutely no reaction to the addition of someone else in the room.
Focusing a little clearer now, you can see Juice staring down at your body, the want clear on his face, his hands clenched so hard at his sides that every vein on his arm is standing in contrast as his chest rises and falls rapidly, nostrils flared. Next to him is Happy, giving you the same intense look as from across the bar, the effect intensified by your nudity.
“Tell him,” Happy coaxes again with a small tilt of his head.
You should hesitate. You should be scared. You should ask questions. You should be weirded out by what’s happening. You should get up and gather your clothes and your dignity and go home. You should leave and never come back. But what you should do isn’t always what you actually do.
What you actually do is say, “Fuck me. Hard.”
The snarl that rips through the room barely feels human, the world spins and you are on your stomach on the bed, your knees tucked beneath you, hands gripped on the other side of the narrow mattress. Clinks of metal and the drag of leather fill the room, Juice rapidly shedding his clothes as quickly as he stripped you of yours. A hand touching your face makes you jump.
Your eyes open and Happy is kneeling in front of you, staring directly into your soul. It’s like a spell, your physical forms falling away as you get lost in his eyes, something so captivating about him that you can’t look away, even when you feel Juice notch at your opening.
Happy’s eyes shift between yours for a second before he gives a slight nod and Juice slams into you, your soul crashing back into your physical body, filling every crevice, engulfing your space in the universe to a level of completeness you’ve never felt before.
The heat radiating from inside you causes an instant sheen of sweat, Juice’s punishing grip on your hips tightening even further, holding you in place, guaranteeing you are going to be wearing marks of the moment for days to come, a reminder that this isn’t a fever daydream spawned from loneliness.
One thrust and you feel on the verge of coming. Everything in you feeling so compact and tight, surprised he even found the room to enter you. You begin to pant, pushing a little further up on your elbows to give your lungs space to expand. Happy reaches out and grabs your shoulders, his hands feeling cool on your damp skin.
“Don’t move,” he says quietly, the sound almost lost in the growl coming from deep in Juice’s chest.
Your complaint is sucked backward out of you when Juice withdraws, allowing precious space for your lungs to expand but it lasts only a second before his hips hit yours so hard, every molecule of air leaves your body on a grunt.
The following thrust is just as brutal, Happy’s hands still braced on your shoulders, holding you in place, forcing you to take every ounce of power in Juice’s thrust, not allowing the momentum to carry you through to a place of forgiveness.
Your skin is hot, you can feel your wetness on your thighs, Juice leaving no room for it on the inside, having stretched you beyond what you ever thought you could take, going deeper than you ever thought possible, touching things that have never been touched. Everything is too much and not enough, your body teetering on the precipice of pleasure and pain, not yet deciding which way to fall.
You want to make noise, you want to scream, you want to moan, you want to gasp, say please, say more, say anything, but your throat burns worse than it did at the bar, the lack of air beginning to make you dizzy until fingers softly touch your face.
“Breathe, little girl.” Happy has never stopped staring at you but your eyes finally focus on his again and you suck in mouthfuls of air, the coolness of it feeling divine on your throat, your body heaving, trying to replenish its oxygen supply.
Just as smirk twists his lips, Juice starts again, his thrusts wild and punishing but not nearly as deep without Happy bracing your shoulders.
Your body goes limp, the only thing holding you is Juice’s grip on your hips and Happy cupping your face, stopping you from smothering yourself in the blankets. Your eyes go unfocused, Happy becoming a blur of tears. That’s when he starts to whisper things like, “Good girl. Good and strong. Beautiful, too. Taking it so well.”
You come. And come. And come. Your walls flutter and don’t stop. Neither does Juice. The tears flow with Happy’s words, which also don’t stop. Ecstasy making the time warp, faster and slower, higher and lower, everything and nothing until it stops. The body behind you stilling before collapsing on top of you, breath hot on your neck before falling beside you on the bed. You whine at the emptiness, the cold air on your hot, wet flesh, feeling exposed and naked in a way you’d hadn’t yet. Your body throbs, sore and spent, unable to move but needing to.
Something soft and plush touches your skin, causing you to jerk in surprise. “Shhh,” fills the room, a sound you now instantly recognize as Happy. He wraps the fabric around your body - a towel, robe, or blanket, you aren’t sure and don’t care.
There’s barely any room left on the bed with Juice sprawled across it, already lightly snoring but Happy solves it quite effectively by giving him a shove until he rolls off the end. Juice hits the ground with a thud and a grunt but doesn’t get up. Happy is already helping you roll to your side, stretching out your arms and legs, keeping you cocooned in softness and protected from the chilly room.
You moan as feeling returns to your limbs, the sound rattling out of your abused throat. Happy gives a low laugh as he crawls into bed next to you, his leathers gone, pulling you to drape across his t-shirt covered chest. You lay there, catching your breath, no two brain cells firing at the same time, head empty of thoughts.
“You did good,” Happy says again, the words rumbling under your ear. You make a sound of agreement, focusing on nothing more than his fingers trailing over your skin. His touch slows, syncing with the beats of your heart, the last thing you hear before you fully drift off is a murmured “Such a fucking good girl,” from the other end of the bed.
PART 2
RETURN TO MASTERLIST
