summary two months in and happy lowman had a soft spot exactly one person wide. those women had absolutely no idea what they'd started.
prompt – crow eaters jealous, full story, happy finds out, possessive party scene
warnings – suggestive content, possessive behaviour, confrontation, jealousy
word count – ~4k
note – the tacoma killer being feral about his girl in the most controlled way possible
requests are open :)
⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆
It was a Tuesday. Completely ordinary. Sun out, Charming doing its quiet thing, the kind of afternoon that asked nothing of anyone.
She left the office at twelve thirty for lunch — same place she usually went, a little spot two blocks down that did the salad she liked, the one with the grilled chicken and the dressing that was apparently worth the slightly longer walk. She had forty five minutes. She was wearing the blue dress. Her hair was down.
She was aware, in the abstract way she was always aware, that people looked at her. She'd grown up with it — the particular experience of being the kind of beautiful that other people noticed before she'd fully walked into a room. She'd learned not to think about it too much. It was just a fact, like her eye colour or her height, and she'd long stopped letting it be the most interesting thing about her.
She got her salad. Found a table outside. Ate in the warm afternoon and scrolled through her phone and thought about the report she needed to finish and whether she had everything she needed for dinner tonight.
She was halfway through the salad when they sat down.
Not at her table — at the one nearby, close enough. Two women she vaguely recognised from the clubhouse, crow eaters she'd seen at the edges of parties, looking at her with the particular quality of attention that she clocked immediately and chose to meet pleasantly because that was what she did.
"Hey," she said. Friendly. Easy.
"Hey," the first one said. The tone was wrong from the first syllable — sweetened over something that wasn't sweet at all. "You're Happy's girl, right?"
"That's right," she said.
"Hm." The second one looked her over with the slow assessment of someone making a point of making a point. "Cute."
She said nothing to that. Kept eating.
"Must be interesting," the first one said. "Dating him."
"It is," she said.
"Doesn't it—" a pause, theatrical, "—bother you? What he does?"
She put her fork down. Looked at them properly. "What he does?"
"He kills people." Said plainly. Watching her face for the reaction. "That's literally what he does for the club. He enjoys it." A small smile. "You know that, right?"
"I do know that," she said. Still even. Still pleasant.
"And you're fine with it."
"I'm fine with him," she said. Simply.
The second one leaned forward slightly. "Honey, you know why he's with you, right? You're pretty. That's it. Men like Happy don't do relationships. You're just—" she paused, smiled the smile that wasn't, "—convenient. For now."
She looked at the woman. Then at the other one.
They were waiting for something. A flinch, a crack, some evidence of the wound they were trying to make. She could see it in the way they were watching her — this was the goal, this specific reaction, and they'd decided on it before they sat down.
She picked her fork back up.
"Thanks for the chat," she said pleasantly. "Have a good afternoon."
She finished her salad. Paid. Walked back to work.
She held it together the whole way. She was good at that.
her
The thing was, it wasn't what they'd said about him.
She knew what Happy was. She'd known from early on — not all of it, she didn't need all of it, but enough. The club, the cut, the particular reputation that preceded him into every room. She'd gone in with her eyes open and she'd chosen it and she'd never once woken up and regretted that choice.
It was the convenient that had landed.
Because she'd thought about that. Of course she had — two months in, this man who kept showing up, who listened in a way that most people didn't, who had never once made her feel like less than the most important thing in his immediate vicinity. She'd thought about whether it was real. Whether someone like him, with his history and his nature and the life he led, could do something like this — something that looked, from the inside, very much like genuinely caring about her.
She'd decided yes. She'd believed it.
And now she was back at her desk, one hour later, staring at a spreadsheet she couldn't read, with convenient sitting in her chest like something she couldn't quite dislodge.
She was being stupid. She knew she was being stupid. Two women who didn't know her and didn't know him had said something designed to hurt and it had worked and that said more about a bad afternoon than it did about anything real.
She knew that.
She went home at five with it still sitting there.
happy
He was on the sofa when she came in.
He looked up. Read her immediately — two seconds, maybe less, the particular quality of her that was different from usual. She was doing the fine thing. The smile that was slightly too fast, the way she moved with slightly too much purpose, the careful performance of a person managing something they'd decided not to show.
He watched her put her bag down. Move to the kitchen. Start doing something with a glass of water that she didn't actually need.
"Hey," she said. Too bright.
"Hey." He watched her. "Good afternoon?"
"Fine, yeah—"
"What happened."
She stopped. Back to him. A pause that told him everything.
"Nothing happened—"
"Don't," he said. Quiet. Certain. "Turn around."
She turned around. The performance dropped slightly — not all the way, but enough. She looked at him with the expression of someone who had been hoping distance would help and was finding it hadn't.
He waited. He was very good at waiting.
She told him.
He sat completely still while she did it. She kept her voice light, kept the edges soft, but the facts were there regardless — two women, outside her lunch place, the things they'd said. What they'd called her. What they'd implied.
The convenient.
When she finished the room was quiet.
"They said it to hurt you," he said.
"I know—"
"They were jealous."
"I know that too." She looked at him. "I'm not — I'm fine. I know it wasn't true. I just—" she stopped. "It landed weird. That's all."
He looked at her for a moment. At the thing she was still carrying despite knowing better, the small persistent doubt that two stupid women had planted in twenty minutes.
He stood up. Crossed to her. Stood in front of her and took her face in his hands — both of them, careful, the way he touched her that was different from everything else — and made her look at him.
"You're not convenient," he said. Flat. Certain. No performance in it, no softness for softness's sake, just the plain truth delivered the only way he knew how to deliver things. "You're the reason I come back here. You understand the difference."
She looked at him. Something in her face shifting.
"I know," she said, quieter now.
"Say it like you mean it."
She almost smiled. Almost. "I know, Happy."
"Good."
He held her face for another moment. She leaned into it slightly — the small unconscious movement she made when she was letting something go — and he felt it and stayed where he was until she'd finished letting it go.
"Where were they," he said then.
"No."
"I'm just asking—"
"You're not just asking and we both know it." She looked at him with the warm steel she occasionally produced, the version of her that was sunshine with a spine underneath it. "You're not doing anything. It's handled."
"It's not handled—"
"Happy." She put her hands over his where they were still at her jaw. "I need you to let this one go. Not forever. Just — for now. Okay?"
He looked at her.
"This week," he said.
She pressed her lips together. "Fine. This week."
He nodded once. Let her go. Went back to the sofa.
She stood in the kitchen for a moment, watching him, with the expression she got when she was trying to work out whether she'd won or not.
She probably hadn't won. But she'd gotten this week, which was something.
the party
Friday came.
She wore the red. He'd seen her getting ready and had said nothing because saying things wasn't particularly his mode, but she'd caught his face and known — she always knew — and she'd smiled the pleased smile and that was that.
The clubhouse was full. The kind of full that happened when there was something worth celebrating and the club decided to celebrate it properly. She moved through it with the ease she'd developed over two months — finding Tara, laughing at Tig, being entirely herself in a space that had slowly, quietly become familiar.
Happy watched her from across the room.
He always watched her. It was not something he decided to do — it just happened, the way his eyes went where she was the way a compass went north. He tracked her through the room with the comfortable attention of someone who had found the most interesting thing in the space and saw no reason to look anywhere else.
He clocked the two women when they walked in.
He recognised them. Not because she'd described them — she hadn't, she'd kept that part deliberately vague — but because of the way they looked when they saw her. The particular quality of it. Jealousy wearing disdain like a coat.
His jaw tightened.
She hadn't seen them yet. She was mid-story, hands moving, laughing at her own punchline before she'd finished delivering it the way she did — and he looked at her and looked at the two women and made a decision that wasn't entirely about sending a message.
It was also just about her.
He crossed the room.
She sensed him before she saw him — she always did, he'd stopped trying to understand it — and looked up as he came to stop in front of her. Close. The particular proximity that left no room for ambiguity.
"Hey," she said. Reading his face. "What is it."
"Nothing," he said.
He took her face in his hands.
She went still, looking up at him, curious and entirely trusting in the way she was always entirely trusting which was one of approximately a thousand things about her that had undone him over two months.
He kissed her.
Not briefly. Not for the room — or not only for the room. He kissed her the way he kissed her when it was just them, thorough and unhurried, his hands at her jaw and his full attention on her and nothing else, and she made a small sound and her hands came up to his chest and gripped his cut and kissed him back without hesitation.
The room noticed. Of course it did. He'd known it would. That had been partly the point.
When he pulled back he didn't look at the two women immediately. He looked at her first — at the slightly wide eyes, the expression doing several things at once, the colour in her cheeks.
"What was that for," she said softly.
He looked across the room. Once. Deliberately. Long enough.
She followed his gaze. Found the two women, who were very carefully looking somewhere else in the specific way of people who were absolutely looking.
She looked back at him.
"Happy—"
"Two months," he said quietly. Not for the room this time, just for her. "You're not convenient. You're not temporary. You're mine." He held her gaze. "That's it."
She looked at him for a long moment.
The warm steel was there — she was deciding whether to be exasperated — but underneath it was the thing that had been there since the beginning, the specific warmth she had for him that he still wasn't entirely used to and suspected he never would be.
"You're impossible," she said.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true." She looked across the room once more. The two women had found somewhere else to be entirely. She looked back at him. "Did it make you feel better?"
He considered it. "Yes."
She laughed. The quiet helpless one. Then she stepped forward and kissed him again — briefer this time, her choice, her terms — and when she pulled back her hand stayed on his chest, flat against his cut, the warmth of her palm through the leather.
"Thank you," she said softly. Not for the show. For the other thing. The you're not convenient. The you're mine. The fact that he'd crossed a room and done something that was, in its own particular Happy Lowman way, the most tender thing she'd ever seen.
He put his arm around her. She leaned into his side.
Across the clubhouse Tig made a face at him. He ignored it.
"Tig's doing something," she said, without looking.
"He always is."
"He looked impressed."
"Don't tell him that."
She smiled into his shoulder. The party carried on around them — loud and warm and ongoing — and Happy Lowman stood in the middle of it with the most beautiful woman in the room against his side and felt, quietly and completely, like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.
Juice starts sleeping on your couch because he “just needed somewhere quiet.”
Eventually you realise he hasn’t gone home in weeks.
juice breaks my heart
The first night Juice slept on your couch, he showed up at two in the morning with a split lip, blood on the sleeve of his hoodie, and exhaustion carved so deep into his face it looked permanent.
You answered the door half asleep, one hand clutching the edge of your oversized T-shirt while the porch light painted him gold and bruised.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathed immediately. “What happened?”
“Nothin’.” His voice was rough. Tired. “Can I crash here tonight?”
You should’ve asked questions.
Maybe with anybody else, you would have.
But this was Juice.
And Juice Ortiz looked at people like he expected to be shoved away eventually.
So instead you stepped aside and unlocked the screen door wider.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Come in.”
Relief crossed his face so quickly it hurt to look at.
“Thanks.”
Your apartment was small. One bedroom. Tiny kitchen. Old building with uneven floors and terrible plumbing. But it was warm. Lived in. There were books stacked beside the couch and plants near the windows and soft yellow lamps instead of harsh overhead lights.
Juice stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room like he didn’t know where to put himself.
“You hungry?” you asked.
He shook his head automatically.
His stomach growled immediately after.
You stared.
He sighed. “Maybe a little.”
Twenty minutes later he was sitting at your kitchen counter eating grilled cheese and tomato soup with the kind of concentration that made it obvious he hadn’t eaten properly all day.
Maybe longer.
You leaned against the opposite counter watching him.
“You wanna tell me why you look like somebody dragged you behind a truck?”
He snorted quietly at that.
Then shrugged.
“Club stuff.”
You accepted the answer because you knew enough about SAMCRO to know pushing usually got you nowhere.
You had known Juice for almost two years.
He’d started coming into the auto parts store where you worked because the place carried some specialty imports he liked for his bike. At first he’d just been the hyper guy with too much energy and too many tattoos who flirted badly and bought energy drinks in bulk.
Then he kept coming back.
Eventually he stopped pretending he needed parts.
Eventually you started setting aside his favorite snacks before he came in.
Eventually he started fixing things around your apartment without being asked.
You never officially labeled the relationship.
Friends felt too simple for whatever this was.
But neither of you pushed harder.
Maybe because Juice always seemed halfway convinced good things would disappear if he touched them too much.
After he finished eating, you handed him a clean towel and pointed toward the bathroom.
“There’s antiseptic in the cabinet. Use it before your face falls off.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He smiled faintly when he said it.
It vanished the second he thought you weren’t looking.
The next morning you woke up to the sound of cabinets opening.
For one horrifying second you thought someone had broken in.
Then you smelled coffee.
You shuffled into the kitchen and found Juice standing barefoot at the counter wearing the same jeans from yesterday and an old hoodie you'd stolen from him years ago.
You stopped dead.
“That’s mine.”
He looked down at himself.
“I was cold.”
“You stole my hoodie.”
“You stole it first.”
You laughed despite yourself.
God, he looked better.
Still bruised. Still tired. But softer somehow. Less tightly wound.
He handed you coffee before you could ask.
Exactly how you liked it.
“You remembered.”
He shrugged like it was nothing.
But Juice remembered everything about people he cared about.
The problem was he never seemed to believe anybody would remember things about him.
You watched him carefully over the rim of your mug.
“You okay?”
His shoulders stiffened immediately.
“Yeah.”
Lie.
You let it go anyway.
He left around noon after promising he’d return your hoodie “eventually.”
You assumed that would be it.
One bad night.
One couch crash.
But then three days later he showed up again.
This time quieter.
No visible injuries.
Just shadows under his eyes.
“Can I stay over?”
“Yeah.”
And then again the next week.
Then twice in one week.
Then suddenly it became normal.
Juice would show up late.
You’d pretend not to notice how exhausted he looked.
You’d feed him.
Sometimes you’d watch dumb movies together until he fell asleep halfway through them, head tilted toward you on the couch.
Sometimes he’d sit on your tiny balcony smoking in silence while you sat beside him reading.
Sometimes he barely spoke at all.
But gradually you noticed something strange.
He slept here.
Actually slept.
At the clubhouse, even during the rare times you visited, Juice never stopped moving. Always buzzing. Always alert. Talking too fast. Smiling too quickly.
At your apartment he slept like someone drowning finally reaching air.
Deep.
Heavy.
Safe.
The realization lodged painfully under your ribs.
One rainy Thursday you came home from work and found him in your kitchen making pasta.
He looked up immediately.
“Hey.”
You blinked slowly.
“You have your own key now?”
“Uh.” He winced. “You said I could borrow it last week?”
“I did?”
“You were half asleep.”
That sounded horrifyingly possible.
You dropped your bag on the table and stared at him.
He was wearing sweatpants.
Your sweatpants.
“You’re stealing an alarming amount of my clothes.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“You own clothes.”
“Not like these.”
You rolled your eyes, but warmth spread through your chest anyway.
The apartment smelled like garlic and tomatoes and fresh bread.
Domestic.
Dangerously domestic.
“You cooked?”
“Wanted to.”
He looked nervous saying it.
Like he expected you to tell him he’d crossed a line.
Something about that nearly broke your heart.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
A pause.
Then quieter:
“I wanted to do something nice.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Okay,” you said softly. "Thank you."
He relaxed instantly.
You started noticing things after that.
Little things.
Juice replacing the flickering lightbulb in your bathroom without being asked.
Juice remembering when your work shifts changed.
Juice buying your favorite cereal because “you were almost out.”
Juice asleep on your couch with one hand curled loosely around the blanket you kept there for him.
Your blanket.
His side of the couch.
It happened so slowly you didn’t realize how attached you’d become until one night he didn’t show up.
You told yourself it was ridiculous.
He wasn’t your boyfriend.
Wasn’t your responsibility.
SAMCRO life was unpredictable.
Still, you checked your phone every fifteen minutes.
By midnight anxiety sat ugly in your stomach.
At one-thirty there was finally a knock at your door.
You yanked it open immediately.
Juice stood there soaked through from the rain.
And bleeding.
Your heart dropped.
“Oh my God.”
“It’s not bad.”
“That’s blood.”
“Mostly not mine.”
“JUICE.”
He flinched.
Not from your volume.
From the name.
Like he expected anger attached to it.
Your expression softened instantly.
“Come inside.”
He obeyed quietly.
Too quietly.
You sat him on the bathroom counter while you cleaned the cut above his eyebrow.
He hissed when antiseptic touched it.
“Sorry.”
“S’fine.”
“No it’s not.”
He went still.
You focused carefully on the bandage because suddenly looking him in the eye felt too intimate.
“You don’t have to act tough with me.”
A long silence.
Then:
“I don’t know how not to.”
That one sentence told you more about Juice Ortiz than anything else ever had.
You looked up finally.
His eyes looked exhausted.
Not physically.
Soul-deep exhausted.
Like he’d been carrying too much weight for too long.
Without thinking, you brushed your fingers lightly against his cheek beneath the bruise.
The reaction was immediate.
He froze.
Completely.
Not pulling away.
Not leaning closer.
Just… stunned.
Your breath caught.
Because nobody should react to gentle touch like that.
Nobody.
“Juice…”
His eyes shut briefly.
And for one horrible moment you thought he might cry.
But then he smiled instead.
Small. Crooked. False.
“You always patch people up this good?”
The subject change was obvious.
You let him have it.
For now.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
And somewhere during all of it, Juice stopped leaving.
Not officially.
There was no conversation.
No decision.
It just… happened.
A toothbrush appeared beside yours in the bathroom.
His hoodie got left draped over your chair permanently.
There were motorcycle parts on your kitchen table.
He started keeping beer in your fridge.
And every night, somehow, he ended up back on your couch.
Except eventually not even the couch.
That started after the nightmares.
You woke one night to a crash from the living room.
Your heart nearly stopped.
You ran out to find Juice crouched beside the couch breathing hard, eyes wild with panic.
The lamp had fallen over.
“Juice?”
He looked up sharply like he didn’t know where he was.
“It’s okay,” you said immediately.
His chest heaved.
“S-sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Hey. Look at me.”
Slowly, he did.
“You’re safe.”
Something in his expression cracked.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
But you saw it.
And suddenly he looked younger than you’d ever seen him.
Not childish.
Just worn down.
Like life had scraped him raw.
You sat carefully on the floor beside him.
“Bad dream?”
He laughed once without humor.
“Yeah.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
A beat.
Then quieter:
“I just… didn’t wanna be there.”
There.
Not here.
Your chest hurt.
Without really thinking about it, you reached for him.
“You can stay with me tonight.”
His eyes flicked toward you.
“You sure?”
“Obviously.”
He hesitated before following you into your bedroom.
Like he thought he shouldn’t.
Like he was waiting for permission to exist in your space.
You climbed under the blankets and patted the empty side carefully.
Juice stared at it for a long moment.
Then lay down stiffly on top of the covers.
Fully clothed.
Like he planned to bolt at any second.
You turned toward him slightly.
“You know you can relax, right?”
“Relaxing’s not really my thing.”
“I noticed.”
A tiny smile tugged briefly at his mouth.
Then faded.
The silence stretched.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Finally, barely audible:
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Why are you nice to me?”
The question hit like a punch.
You frowned immediately.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A real one.”
He wasn’t joking.
He genuinely didn’t understand.
Your heart twisted painfully.
“Juice…”
“No, seriously.” His voice stayed quiet. Careful. “I don’t get it.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
“You’re my friend.”
He looked away instantly.
Like that answer hurt.
“You know what I mean.”
And you did.
Oh, you did.
Why him specifically.
Why patience.
Why softness.
Why safety.
Because somewhere along the line Juice had learned affection was conditional.
Temporary.
Earned.
You swallowed hard.
“I’m nice to you because you deserve kindness.”
He actually flinched.
Then laughed softly like you’d said something ridiculous.
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No,” he whispered. “It really isn’t.”
The room went painfully still.
You looked at him for a long moment before reaching across the space between you and taking his hand.
His breathing stopped.
Literally stopped.
Like nobody had ever held his hand gently before.
“You don’t have to earn being cared about,” you said quietly.
Juice stared at your joined hands with an expression so heartbreakingly fragile it made tears sting your eyes.
He didn’t answer.
But after a long time, he finally relaxed enough to fall asleep beside you.
Still holding your hand.
After that night he started sleeping in your bed more often.
Never assuming.
Always hesitant.
“You sure?”
Every single time.
Every time like he thought eventually your answer would change.
But it never did.
And slowly, impossibly slowly, Juice began unfolding around you.
Not all at once.
Just little pieces.
He laughed easier in your apartment.
Started singing quietly while cooking.
Started touching you absentmindedly.
A hand at your waist while passing behind you in the kitchen.
Your knees pressed together on the couch.
His head resting briefly against your shoulder during movies.
Tiny things.
But each one felt enormous.
One Sunday morning you woke tangled together accidentally.
At some point during the night Juice had rolled closer in his sleep until his face was buried against your neck, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist.
You went perfectly still.
Not because you minded.
Because you’d never seen him this relaxed.
Ever.
Sunlight spilled gold across the bed.
His breathing was deep and even.
Peaceful.
You realized suddenly with painful clarity that Juice only ever looked truly safe when he was asleep beside you.
God.
You were in love with him.
The realization should’ve terrified you.
Instead it just felt inevitable.
Then Juice stirred.
His eyes blinked open slowly.
And the second he realized how close you were, panic flashed across his face.
“Sorry— shit, sorry—”
“Hey.” You caught his wrist gently before he could pull away completely. “It’s okay.”
His entire body stayed tense.
“You sure?”
“You don’t have to apologize for touching me.”
He looked at you like that sentence was incomprehensible.
Your chest ached.
“You really don’t know what to do with softness, huh?”
His expression turned strangely vulnerable.
“No,” he admitted quietly.
You brushed your thumb lightly over his wrist.
“That’s okay.”
He stared at you for a very long time after that.
Like he wanted to say something.
Like he almost did.
But then he looked away first.
The first time you realized he hadn’t gone home in weeks happened by accident.
You were folding laundry while Juice messed with something on his bike outside.
One of the clubhouse hoodies had gotten mixed into the pile.
You picked it up automatically.
Something felt strange.
The pockets were empty.
No wallet.
No keys.
No cigarettes.
Nothing.
You frowned slightly.
Then glanced toward the bathroom.
His toothbrush.
Your dresser drawer with his shirts in it.
The sneakers by your door.
The charger plugged in beside your bed.
Your stomach tightened slowly.
When Juice came back upstairs thirty minutes later, sweaty and grease-stained, you were sitting on the couch waiting.
He stopped immediately.
“What?”
“How long has it been?”
“What?”
“Since you slept at the clubhouse.”
His face went blank.
Too blank.
“Uh…”
“Juice.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“A while.”
“How long?”
A pause.
Then:
“Maybe a month.”
Your eyes widened.
“A month?”
He shrugged immediately like it was nothing.
But you could see the tension building in his shoulders now.
“You didn’t notice.”
The words came out joking.
But underneath was something raw.
Something afraid.
Like maybe he’d overstayed.
Like maybe you’d throw him out now that you realized.
Your chest hurt instantly.
“Juice…”
“It’s okay if it’s weird.”
“No, hey.” You moved closer immediately. “No. That’s not what this is.”
He looked at you carefully.
“You can tell me to leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
The words came out too fast.
Too honest.
Juice froze.
And suddenly the air between you changed.
Thickened.
You swallowed hard.
“You know you’re allowed to be here, right?”
He stared at you silently.
“You don’t need permission every five seconds.”
His laugh came out brittle.
“Yeah. I kinda do.”
Your heart cracked clean open.
You stepped closer slowly.
“Did something happen at the clubhouse?”
His jaw tightened.
Club business.
Pain flashed behind his eyes so fast most people would’ve missed it.
You didn’t.
“Juice.”
He looked exhausted suddenly.
“I just…” His voice faltered. “I needed somewhere quiet.”
Not the full truth.
But true enough.
And somehow worse.
Because it meant your apartment had become refuge.
You reached up before you could overthink it and touched his face gently.
His eyes shut instantly.
Like relief physically hurt him.
“You have one,” you whispered.
His breathing turned uneven.
“You keep saying things like that.”
“Because they’re true.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
His eyes opened slowly.
"Because if you say things like that,” he whispered, “I start wanting them.”
The confession hung between you.
Heavy.
Terrifying.
You could hear your heartbeat.
“What if I want them too?”
Juice looked wrecked.
Actually wrecked.
Like hope was the cruelest thing anyone had ever handed him.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“No.” He shook his head immediately. “No, you think you do now, but—”
“But what?”
“I’m not…” His voice cracked suddenly. “I’m not somebody people stay for.”
Silence.
Then very carefully, you asked:
“Who taught you that?”
He looked away immediately.
Answer enough.
You took his hand gently.
“I’m still here.”
His eyes burned red instantly.
He tried to laugh it off.
Failed miserably.
Then, to your complete shock, Juice whispered:
“Don’t.”
Your chest tightened.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be this good to me.”
And there it was.
The truth.
He was terrified of needing you.
Because needing meant losing.
You stepped closer until barely inches separated you.
“Too late.”
He stared at you helplessly.
Then finally— finally— he broke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just suddenly.
His face crumpled and he covered his eyes with one shaking hand like he was ashamed of it.
“Oh God,” he breathed raggedly. “Sorry.”
“No, no.” You grabbed him immediately. “Hey. Hey.”
The second your arms wrapped around him, Juice made the most heartbreaking sound you’d ever heard.
Not crying.
Not exactly.
More like someone collapsing after holding themselves upright too long.
He folded against you hard enough to nearly knock you backward.
You held him tighter automatically.
“It’s okay,” you whispered into his hair. “You’re okay.”
His hands clutched the back of your shirt desperately.
And you realized with sudden horror that nobody had probably held him through a breakdown before.
Nobody had let him fall apart safely.
So you stood there in your tiny apartment holding Juice Ortiz while he shook apart in your arms.
And when he finally whispered brokenly, “I’m trying so hard,” your own tears fell too.
“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”
After that, things changed.
Not instantly.
Juice still startled sometimes when you touched him unexpectedly.
Still apologized too much.
Still acted surprised every time you kissed his forehead absentmindedly or handed him coffee or waited up for him.
But something softer started growing between you.
Trust.
Real trust.
One night you found him asleep on the couch with the TV still on.
You smiled softly and reached for the remote.
Juice stirred immediately, panic flashing across his face before he focused on you.
“Oh.”
“It’s just me.”
His shoulders dropped.
That alone nearly destroyed you.
It’s just me.
And somehow that meant safe now.
You brushed a hand over his forehead gently.
“You coming to bed?”
The question slipped out naturally.
Like it belonged there.
Juice stared at you for a second.
Then something unbearably tender crossed his face.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
He followed you into the bedroom.
And sometime during the night, half asleep, he wrapped himself around you like he finally believed you’d still be there in the morning.
The first time he said “I love you” happened accidentally.
Which honestly felt very Juice.
You were both cooking dinner.
Well.
You were cooking.
Juice was aggressively stealing ingredients and pretending he was helping.
“Stop eating the peppers.”
“I’m quality testing.”
“You’ve eaten six pieces.”
“And all six passed inspection.”
You snorted.
Then yelped when he stole another piece directly off the cutting board.
“Oh my God, you menace—”
He grinned.
Big. Bright. Beautiful.
The sight hit you square in the chest the way it always did now.
Because happy Juice still felt rare enough to treasure.
Without thinking, you smiled helplessly at him.
And Juice looked at you with so much unguarded affection it nearly stopped your heart.
“I love you,” he said automatically.
Silence.
Juice froze.
You froze.
His eyes widened in horror.
“Shit.”
Your pulse thundered.
Juice looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
“I didn’t— fuck, I mean—”
“You love me?”
He looked terrified.
Actually terrified.
Like you were about to destroy him.
And suddenly you understood:
He thought he’d ruined everything.
You crossed the kitchen in two seconds flat.
“Juice.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”
You kissed him.
Hard.
Immediate.
All the fear drained out of him in one stunned breath.
Then he kissed you back.
And it felt like everything.
Weeks of yearning.
Months of restraint.
All the tenderness between you finally breaking open.
His hands cupped your face carefully like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed.
You kissed him until breathing became difficult.
When you finally pulled apart, Juice looked dazed.
“You kissed me.”
“You said you love me.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I love you too.”
He went completely still.
You watched the exact second those words landed.
Like he genuinely didn’t know what to do with them.
“You…” His voice broke. “You do?”
You could’ve cried right there.
“Of course I do.”
Juice stared at you with devastating vulnerability.
Then suddenly hid his face against your shoulder.
You laughed softly through your own tears and wrapped your arms around him immediately.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
The shaky breath he let out warmed your neck.
“Nobody’s ever…” He stopped.
You held him tighter.
“You don’t have to finish that sentence.”
But you understood anyway.
Nobody had ever loved him gently before.
Not like this.
Not safely.
You pressed a kiss into his hair.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His arms tightened around you hard enough to ache.
“Promise?”
The word came out so quiet it almost killed you.
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.
“I promise.”
And for the first time since you’d known him, Juice looked like he believed someone might actually stay.
Characters included: Filip “Chibs” Telford, Alexander “Tig” Trager, Happy Lowman, Jackson “Jax” Teller, Harry “Opie” Winston, David Hale, Herman Kozik, Juan Carlos “Juice” Ortiz, Nero Padilla
Chibs:
If anyone looks at you too long, he stares them down until they leave you alone.
He will always have his hands on you in some way in public, hands on your waist, lower back or arm slung around your shoulder.
He always refers to you as “my old lady” emphasis on my .
He always lingers close by. Like a protective shadow.
He gets jealous easily, if he sees you talking to some guy, even if they’re just a friend, laughing too easily at their jokes he gets jealous. When he gets you alone he pushes you against the closest wall, kissing your neck and whispering in your ear “mine.”
He leaves marks on you. Somewhere easily spotted. Like your neck. Even your cleavage, because you often have your cleavage on show. (Mostly because you know it drives him wild when he sees you in low cut tops)
Softer possessive moments at night when you’re alone. He holds you close kissing you softly still saying “mine” but in a softer voice
Tig:
Anyone looks at you too long and he’s by your side. Arm sliding around your waist. He glares at the guy and says “stay away from my girl or I’ll cut your dick off.” The guy clearly gets the message
He has a special stare that he gives people if they get too close to you. A lot of the time he doesn’t even need to open his mouth before they run away.
If he still needs to make it clear to others that you belong to him, he will grab you by the back of the neck, fingers in your hair roughly kissing you to send the message.
He will have his hand in yours or hand on your thigh whenever you’re sat at the clubhouse together.
He constantly tells you that you’re “stuck with him”
When he’s not with you he constantly checks in on you, texting you, making sure you’re ok. If you ever need him he will drop everything and be there immediately.
He leaves marks, hickeys and teeth marks all over your body. Huge hickeys too. That way when someone sees them they know you’re taken.
He always whispers “mine” as he’s fucking you.
Rare vulnerable moments where he holds you close and begs you to “never leave him”
Happy:
Happy doesn’t need words. Anyone gets too close he glares at them making them feel uncomfortable.
Or if they know him and what he’s capable of, he will lift his shirt showing the smiley faces tattooed over his torso.
He always lingers nearby. Making sure you’re in his eye line. Ready to step in if need be.
There’s always a physical reminder of who you belong to. A firm hand grasping the back of your neck as he kisses you. Teeth grazing your skin as he kisses your neck. He gets rough during sex. Pulling your hair. But he also has a softer side where he holds you close. Fingers tracing your skin.
When you’re around others he always kisses your forehead.
If you get hurt he doesn’t leave your bedside until you’re better. He doesn’t show much emotion but inside he dying.
He pulls you into his lap when you’re at home alone. Running his fingers through your hair as you rest your head against his chest.
Jax:
He pulls you into his lap at club parties, wrap his arm tightly around your waist, and kisses you in front of anyone.
Whenever he’s around everyone knows you belong to him.
If someone didn’t realise and tried hitting on you, he will punch them in the face saying “back off she’s mine” before kissing you passionately.
Always touching you, hand around your waist, kissing your temple. Finger hooked in your belt loops, pulling you closer.
Behind closed doors his possessiveness turns hungry. Fucking you so hard that you remember you’re his. Not that you could ever forget it.
He shows a softer side too. Telling you “I can’t lose you.”
Opie:
He’s quietly possessive. If someone hits on you, he will stand behind you, glaring until the man runs away.
His hand is always on your lower back or around your shoulders, holding you close to him.
Opie always calls you “my woman”
He gets jealous easily but tends to keep quiet. His jaw clenches, but later he will pull you close and whisper “mine”. His large hands cup your face before kissing you passionately. A gentle reminder that you’re his.
He leaves subtle marks on you. Mostly beard burn on your neck from when he kisses your neck. even though he doesn’t intentionally leave the marks he’s happy when it makes people realise you’re taken.
Protective giant. He will linger close by you at all times. Ready to step in if need be.
In private he’s softer. Pulling you close saying “I’d do anything for you”
David Hale:
He’s quietly intense. He’s not loud about it, but if someone flirts with you, his jaw clenches, and his posture changes. He is used to control and the only thing he needs is to make sure you’re safe.
He becomes your protective shield. Always standing between you and any potential threat.
If anyone flirts with you. He will glare at them intensely. But pull you close later telling you “I don’t share”
Any chance he gets he introduces you as his girl. The badge usually scares people off.
He leaves soft but deliberate hickeys over your neck, he also grips your waist firmly as he’s kissing you goodbye.
Frequent check in texts to make sure you’re ok and safe. Even if he’s busy with work if anything goes wrong, and you need him he will drop everything to rescue you.
In quiet he pulls you close, constantly reminding you “I will always protect you.” He also tells you how much he loves you and can’t lose you.
He will bend the rules if it means keeping you safe.
Kozik:
He is never subtle about anything. He will throw an arm over your shoulder, pulling you close. Kissing your temple.
He will always tell anyone and everyone “she’s mine” whenever he gets the chance.
Anyone gets too close or flirty he will crack his knuckles, clench his jaw, before stepping in their face and warning them.
Always touching you in some way. Hand on your thigh. Hand in yours. Or just holding you close to him.
He will kiss you roughly in front of everyone. Hand on the back of your neck, other hand gripping your waist firming. “Mine” he will mutter against your lips.
Marking during sex. Lots of biting. Scratches, hickeys. Later he admires them with that cheeky smirk on his face. Proud of his work.
Soft vulnerability where he admits he’s scared of losing you.
Juice:
He is quiet but intense. Lingering close by at all times. When someone gets too close his smile is gone. He slides an arm around your waist pulling you close to him and kissing your temple.
He gets jealous easily. He’s also terrified of losing you. The only reasurance he has is when you kiss him, and promise you’ll never leave him.
He often tracks your location (with permission of course). He just needs to know you’re safe.
He pulls you onto his lap, at the clubhouse. Kissing your forehead or temple. Holding your hand.
He always calls you “my girl”.
Soft vulberability where he tells you “you’re the only one who keeps me grounded. And begs you to never leave”
He leaves hickeys on your neck, a subtle reminder to everyone that you’re his.
He will always defend and protect you no matter what.
Nero Padilla:
Nero is possessive in a calm but protective way. He pulls you close and tells anyone “she’s with me.”
His hand will protectively nestle on your lower back or waist, as he holds you close.
He always stays close to you. Making sure he can step in if you need protecting.
He will get jealous if someone flirts with you. But he quickly steps in, pulling you close and warning the person to stay away because you’re with him.
He loves leaving subtle love bites along your jawline, neck and collar bone.
He’s patient and caring but he also has that firm possessive edge.
The first time you casually say “Jackson” instead of baby or Jax, he immediately pauses whatever he’s doing. His head lifts slowly, brows knitting together as he studies you like you just spoke another language.
He assumes something is wrong. Jax knows you rarely use his real name unless you’re serious, so he leans on the counter, arms crossed, watching you carefully. “Alright… what’d I do?”
If you pretend nothing is wrong and keep talking normally, he gets even more suspicious. His eyes narrow slightly while he studies your face like he’s trying to read a hidden message.
He walks closer until he’s right in your space, hands braced on either side of you against the counter. “Say that again.”
The moment you repeat “Jackson”, his lips twitch because he secretly likes hearing it from you.
He’ll tease you about it immediately. “You mad at me or you just trying to get my attention?”
If you keep calling him Jackson for a while, he starts smirking every time, because it feels oddly intimate, like you’re the only person who gets to use it that way.
Eventually he hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to his. “Careful, darlin’. Only my mama calls me that.”
But he won’t actually stop you. If anything, he starts testing it. He’ll lean close and murmur, “Go on… say it again.”
If you say it during a serious moment, though, his demeanor changes instantly. The joking drops and he listens very carefully.
Hearing his full name from you makes him feel oddly grounded, like you’re reminding him he’s more than just the club.
If one of the guys overhears you say Jackson, he’ll glance over and smirk proudly because you saying it feels personal.
Eventually he’ll pull you into his arms and murmur against your hair, “You know you’re the only one that can get away with that, right?”
𝗢𝗽𝗶𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
When you call him “Harry”, Opie freezes mid-step.
He turns slowly with a confused expression because almost nobody calls him that anymore.
“You just call me Harry?” he asks, voice low but amused.
The name feels strangely nostalgic to him. It reminds him of childhood and the few people who knew him before the club life took over.
If you keep talking like nothing happened, he watches you with this soft, curious look.
Eventually he walks over and wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. “That’s new.”
Opie doesn’t get mad about it at all, he actually finds it sweet.
If you say it affectionately, he melts a little inside even if he doesn’t show it.
He’ll quietly admit, “Been a long time since anyone called me that.”
Sometimes he’ll test you by leaning close and murmuring, “Go on then… say it again.”
If you say Harry during a serious talk, he listens extra carefully because he knows you’re being sincere.
The name makes him feel like you see the part of him that existed before the club hardened him.
Eventually he pulls you into a hug and kisses the top of your head. “Don’t tell the guys you call me that.”
But secretly? He loves it when it’s just between the two of you.
𝗛𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
You casually say “Happy”, and he immediately looks up from whatever weapon he’s cleaning.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly because you usually call him something softer.
“You mad at me?” he asks bluntly.
Happy knows people use his name when they’re serious, so he scans your face like he’s checking for danger.
If you say it again calmly, he just stares for a moment before giving a quiet chuckle.
“That’s my name,” he says like he’s amused by the novelty.
If you keep doing it, he starts teasing you by slowly saying your name back in the exact same tone.
Happy actually likes hearing his name from you because you say it differently than everyone else.
When you say Happy softly, he gets this oddly affectionate look in his eyes.
He’ll step closer and tilt his head slightly. “Sounds better when you say it.”
If you say it in a scolding tone though, he immediately smirks because he knows he probably deserves it.
Sometimes he’ll deliberately make you repeat it just to hear it again.
Eventually he pulls you into his side and mutters, “Don’t get used to that tone, sweetheart.”
But the tiny smile he hides says he secretly enjoys it.
𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗯𝘀 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
The moment you say “Filip”, Chibs nearly chokes on his drink.
His head snaps toward you in total surprise.
“Did ye just call me Filip?” he asks with a thick amused accent.
Almost nobody uses his real name anymore, so hearing it catches him completely off guard.
If you keep talking normally, he bursts into laughter.
“Christ, lass, that’s the name my mum uses.”
But there’s a warmth in his eyes because it feels strangely intimate.
He walks over, hooking an arm around your waist while still grinning.
“Where’d ye learn that, eh?”
If you say it again teasingly, he shakes his head in disbelief.
He’ll gently tap your chin and say, “Careful now… ye make it sound too nice.”
Hearing his real name from you reminds him of home and the life he had before SAMCRO.
Sometimes he’ll whisper your name back in retaliation just to see your reaction.
Eventually he kisses your forehead and murmurs, “Only you get away with that, lass.”
𝗧𝗶𝗴 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
The second you say “Alex”, Tig freezes like someone hit pause on him.
He slowly turns with a shocked expression. “Excuse me?”
Tig is used to nicknames, chaos, and teasing, but hearing his actual name throws him off.
“Did… did you just government name me?”
If you say it again calmly, he starts laughing in disbelief.
He dramatically clutches his chest. “Wow. I feel like I’m in trouble.”
Tig assumes you’re about to lecture him for something.
He immediately starts trying to guess what he did wrong.
If you insist nothing’s wrong, he studies you suspiciously.
Eventually he leans closer and lowers his voice. “Okay but why was that kinda hot?”
Hearing you say Alex makes the moment feel weirdly intimate for him.
He’ll grin and whisper, “Say it again.”
If you say it during an argument though, he knows he’s absolutely screwed.
But when it’s affectionate, he wraps his arms around you and murmurs, “Alright… I kinda like that.”
𝗝𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
When you say “Juan Carlos”, Juice immediately panics.
His head snaps toward you so fast he nearly drops whatever he’s holding.
“Whoa whoa—why are you using my full name?”
He automatically assumes he’s in serious trouble.
Juice starts nervously listing things he might’ve done wrong.
If you keep repeating Juan Carlos, he groans dramatically.
“That’s the name my mom uses when I mess up.”
But he secretly smiles because hearing you say it sounds affectionate instead of scolding.
If you shorten it to Juan, he relaxes a bit.
“Okay… that’s less scary.”
He’ll jokingly start calling you by your full name too in retaliation.
But there’s a shy softness in his expression because it feels personal.
Juice loves that you know his real name and aren’t afraid to use it.
Eventually he wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your shoulder. “Alright, alright… I admit it. I kinda like when you say it.”
the club thinks juicy boys highschool ‘sweetheart’ isn’t real for way too long (pt .2)
Juice has a lot of tattoos. The big tribal prints on his head make it obvious. The number has grown over his time in the club - empty arms are now half-sleeves, and his muscled back is blanketed with a reaper. Before he began prospecting, the only ink he had was already faded in color and hidden away on his chest.
Right next to his heart, sits two tiny outlines of a sun and a moon. The first time it was visible, the guys tore him apart for it.
It’s a hot summer day, hotter than California already normally is, and all that rests over his torso is a white, ribbed tank top. He’s working his ass off in the garage when Chibs calls him in for something, and he happens to stand next to Tiggy at the bar. The older man is level with his chest from his spot in the barstool, and sticks his finger at the outlines hard enough to shove him back just a little.
“Whatcha got that little prissy thing for?” They’re all glancing at him with snickers and scoffs, but he just smiles away with his little bashful grin, rubbing a hand over his shaved mohawk.
“It’s for my girl.” He blushes.
“Oh, yeah? She your sunshine, Juicy-boy?”
“Nah,” He stares down at it along with the rest of them. “She’s my moon.” Yeah, he got tore apart for that, too.
After a while, they stop believing he’s still got this girlfriend. He talks about her a lot, sure, but they’ve never seen the woman outside of a couple old polaroids he carries around. (Happy has, actually, he just doesn’t care enough to use the energy it would take to tell anyone. She’s done all of his recent tattoos.)
Then they find out about the OCD, and it’s even harder for them to believe this hot chick he’s dedicated his whole life to, and never touched a kutte chaser for, has stuck with nerdy, silly ol’ Juice.
The first time the club sees her in person is completely coincidental. They’re on the start of a quick run, haven’t even left Charming yet when the whole group is stopped at a red light. The second it turns green, a tiny, beat-up car speeds up next to the them - and there she is.
Hanging out of the passenger seat window, waving and screaming his name with a huge grin, is the pretty girl in Juice’s pictures. Compared to the frayed picture booth strip he keeps on his bike, she looks a little older. They both do.
There’s delicate tattoo ink framing one side of her jaw and cheekbone, and a huge piece trickling down the other side of her neck, under her shirt.
He waves back, smiling ear to ear, and pretends to catch the kiss she blows at him.
When they finally stop, the other men shove him around and start asking too many questions. Most importantly, though, the man who was driving her gets brought up.
“Oh, I wasn’t even looking. Was it a huge, bald dude with a really long beard and a bunch of tattoos?” He gets a couple nods. “Yeah, that’s her boss. Just finished her apprenticeship!”
They don’t get to actually interact with her for a couple more months. She shows up to a club party pretty late (Juice convinced her to swing over for a couple drinks before he took her home).
She’s a lot different than she was in the car, pearly whites on display and sending Juice off with kisses. Sure, she was all smiles like that with him at her side for most of the night, but when he disappears down the hall to take a piss, and is immediately jumped with questions by half the crew, she ain’t so happy.
Her smile quickly falls into a flat line, and she answers most of their questions by muttering out as little words as possible. Until Bobby hits a sensitive spot.
“What’d you think the first time he came home with his stupid ass head tattoos? He even give you the chance to talk him out of that shit?”
Her head whips over to him, and her face scrunches with a scowl. Juice picks the perfect time to waltz back, and takes his place standing next to her stool with an arm lazily thrown over her shoulder.
“What’s goin’ on?” Juice looks over at her, but she’s still got that nasty look on her face angled at Bobby. To let him know she isn’t ignoring him, a manicured hand moves to brush over the back of his mohawk. There’s a sun on the back of her hand.
“I’ll have you know that’s my hard fuckin’ work, right there.” Her other hand grabs the almost empty glass off of the counter, and she gulps down the rest of the liquid. There’s a moon on the back of that one.
“Take me home, J?” Her hand leaves his head, falling into his instead. She climbs down from the stool, already starting to make an exit before he responds.
“Yeah, ‘course, baby!” He swings their hands while he opens the passenger door for her.
It was another typical day for you at Teller-Morrow. You annoyed some of the guys, grabbed something to eat, and then headed inside the office to help Gemma with paperwork.
Little did you know your day was about to be turned upside down.
Jax walked into the office, his hands shoved into his baggy jeans, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He stared down at you and Gemma and pulled the cigarette from his lips, exhaling a cloud of smoke before he began to speak.
“Hey, Ma, you mind if I talk to Y/N alone for a sec?”
Gemma smirked as if she knew what was going to happen, and stood from her chair. “Sure, baby.”
She kissed Jax’s cheek and headed out, giving you two privacy, despite the fact that she wanted to stay and eavesdrop.
Jax sighed heavily as he plopped into the seat previously occupied by Gemma, the seat still warm from her. He gazed at you as you stared at him curiously.
Why did he want to talk to you alone?
Jax waited momentarily before speaking again as he felt nervous and didn’t know how to word his sentence. He couldn’t believe it; he was a guy that radiated confidence and never had a problem getting what he wanted, but something felt different... you were a different situation than what he was used to. What if you said no? No one ever said no to Jax Teller.
Jax took a deep breath and began speaking. “You wanna catch a movie or somethin’ one day? Go for a ride?”
“You asking me on a date, Teller?” you shot back, raising your brows. You were hoping that's what it was.
Jax flashed his famous smirk and released a huff of amusement, “Maybe.”
You smiled back, feeling immensely happy. “Sure. I'd love to go see a movie with you.”
You were excited to fill Gemma in on every single detail, knowing she was going to ask. You knew she would be more excited than you were because she loved the idea of you and Jax being together.
*ੈ✩ TIG
You were at the clubhouse, feeling bored as you sipped on a beer. You heard the clubhouse door open, then moments later, there was a presence next to you.
You turned on the barstool and returned the smile, “Hey, stupid.”
Calling each other names, nice or not nice, was something you two had begun doing all the time and you found it rather funny. You always wondered what name he was going to have for you every day.
Tig stole the beer from your grasp and took a sip, hiding his smirk at the annoyed look on your face.
He took another sip and tried to muster up the confidence to ask you his question. Tig was a mess internally. He was trying his best to appear confident as he usually did, but it was proving difficult. His heart was beating so fast it felt like it could burst from his chest, his breathing increasing, and the butterflies in his stomach were flying around ferociously— begging him to ask his question and get it over with, so they could be put to rest.
“We should go out,” he suggested as he handed you your beer back.
“Oh, yeah? And why’s that?” you joked back. You already knew what your real response was, but you wanted to bug him a little more before you answered.
“I like you. You like me. Why not? It’d be fun,” Tig responded.
You nodded, “Okay.”
“Okay?” he double checked, raising a brow. He wanted to ensure your answer was a yes, before he allowed the excitement to overcome him.
“I said okay. Let’s do it.”
Tig smiled, feeling the happiest he had in a long time. He hadn’t felt that way about someone in forever, and while he was terrified, he had hope that things would go well.
*ੈ✩ HAPPY
Happy isn’t one for asking people out, and he never exactly did. You two never went on an official date, because he thought they were stupid, and so did you. However, the first time you guys went out and did something is what you like to consider your first date.
You were keeping him company in his dorm as he got ready for the day ahead of him. You two had gotten closer, so you didn’t feel bad about asking him about his plans. You figured he wouldn’t tell you much if it was club business, but still liked to ask anyway.
“What’re doing today?”
“Getting a tat,” he responded. He sat on the bed and began tying his boots.
“Sure you got any more room for that?” you joked. You were aware your joke was stupid, but you liked seeing if you could get Happy to smile or laugh. It was a game you had made with yourself, and you succeeded sometimes.
He scowled at you, not finding you funny, and you laughed at his reaction.
“You wanna come with me?” he wondered. He found himself enjoying your time together, and while it scared him, he didn’t want it to end.
You nodded and a smile pulled at your lips, happy he invited you along. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”
*ੈ✩ CHIBS
Chibs decided to come visit you on your break as he typically did. You walked out from the storage room of your workplace, with your coworker by your side, and saw him standing by the front desk. He sent you a grin and waved.
You told your coworker you would see them later, and walked up to Chibs. "Hey! What are you doing here?"
“Just thought I’d stop by. See how you’re doing,” he answered.
“I’m doing pretty good. Today’s not a hard day. How are you?”
He didn’t answer your question and instead asked one of his own, his heart rate picking up as he did.
“You wanna go out for dinner?”
Shock covered your features and you were silent momentarily, frozen in shock at his question. You had always liked him, but were too scared to make a move, because he was a biker and you were just a regular person. You didn’t exactly see how you’d fit into his world, but it didn’t hurt to try…
“Yeah, yeah. That'd be great,” you finally answered, nodding your head.
“I’ll pick you up after work? Take you home, so you can change, then we can go?” he wondered, trying to play it cool and keep his excitement at bay.
You smiled brightly, “Sounds great!”
*ੈ✩ OPIE
Opie always wanted to ask you out on a date, but he never got the chance to since he never had any free time. However, there is a time you two jokingly count as a date.
You were at his house helping him with his children, Kenny and Ellie. He needed all the help he could get, especially after he lost his wife, and you didn't mind helping him. You were great with kids and always wanted to be a mother.
You spent that day playing with his kids in and outside of the house, making crafts, baking cookies, then you made dinner, and put on a Disney movie for the kids. They insisted you and Opie watched it with them and you did.
Opie sat next to you and you cuddled into his side as he wrapped an arm around you. You sighed in contentment, and grabbed a handful of popcorn.
Opie looked away from The Emperor's New Groove and down at you. “Chaotic date, huh?”
You giggled, “Very chaotic date indeed.”
Opie smiled and kissed the top of your head.
You two had fun and that was all that mattered.
*ੈ✩ JUICE
Juice was an idiot and everyone knew it. His plan of acting cool and smooth to ask you out failed miserably once walked into your workplace and saw you stocking shelves. You flashed a smile and that sent his plan completely down the drain, and left him a smiling, stuttering fool.
“Hey, what's up?” you greeted him, as you typically would.
His eyes widened and he gulped, “Uh, nothing. Nothing’s up, why?”
Your face contorted in confusion, wondering why he was acting weird, but you decided to shrug his odd behavior off. “Okay,” you said and went back to stocking.
He stumbled behind the counter where you stood and leaned against it, crossing his arms over his chest. Juice realized he probably looked stupid and changed his stance. He stood up straight, his arms dropping by his sides.
“Um, would you— do... Do you wanna hangout... like on a date?” Juice stammered nervously, as his anxiety held him hostage in a tight grip. His inner thoughts were telling him you were going to reject him and never speak to him again.
You didn’t need to think about your answer and responded immediately, “Yes, that’d be fun!”
He smiled widely, “Great.”
*ੈ✩ KOZIK
You were at the clubhouse, hanging out with the guys in the garage as they worked. You sat on top of a counter, drinking a beer, and trying to memorize what they were doing under the hood as it would be good information to have.
“So, we get to work while you just sit there?” Tig wondered, his voice harsher than he intended. Not that he minded your presence, he was just annoyed he had been working on the same car for two days and it still wasn’t done. But you, you just got to sit there and look pretty. He fully intended for his words to sound like a joke, but his annoyance overpowered his true intentions and came pouring out.
“Hey! Shut up, dick!” Kozik shouted at him, eyes shooting daggers at him, begging him to say something else, so he could hit him.
“Got something you need me to do?” you questioned, cocking a challenging brow.
Tig’s mouth closed, lips pressed tightly together. Since he hadn’t meant to start anything, he kept his mouth shut, and turned back around.
You nodded, “Right. Didn’t think so.”
You hopped off the counter and went inside the clubhouse, darting for the kitchen, so you could get another beer. You popped the cap off and leaned against the counter as you took a sip.
Kozik entered the kitchen, his hands shoved into his baggy jeans, “He didn’t bother you too much did he?”
You released a huff of amusement that he’d think Tig’s stupid words would bother you so much. You shook your head, “No. He’s just an asshole.”
“Tell me about it,” he said.
You held your beer out to him and he took it, taking a swig, then handing it back.
A moment of silence passed and his heart rate increased, as he realized it was the perfect moment to ask you something that had been weighing on his mind.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, and just spat it out, “I got a question for you.”
You raised your eyebrows curiously, wondering what question he could possibly ask.
“Would you wanna go out sometime?”
You blinked, mouth parting slightly. “Um,” you mumbled, unsure of what to say. You were unsure if you liked him in such a way. You appreciated him and liked spending time with him; he was a good friend, but could you see yourself being with him as more than that? You didn’t know.
“It’s okay if not,” he assured, noticing your reaction and lack of response.
“Um, no thank you,” you declined politely.
A hot, thick tension filled the room and covered you like a blanket, suffocating you and making you bask in your decision.
You forced a small smile and left the kitchen, leaving him alone.
Kozik frowned, disappointed that you rejected him, but he wasn’t going to let it ruin your guy’s friendship. He kept talking to you like nothing had happened, visited you at work, and you did the same. You were happy nothing had changed, because you didn’t want to lose him as a friend.
A week after he asked you out, you had a rough day and wanted some company. The first person that popped into your head was Kozik, so you called him and asked if you could come over to his house to which he happily accepted.
You told him about your day and how stressful it was as you sat on his couch. Your head rested on his shoulder as he ran his hand soothingly up and down your thigh, listening to every word you said.
You realized that no one else had done such things for you and perhaps you did like Kozik...
You looked up at him and asked, “Are you still up for going out one day?”
whateva you wanna call me | twentynine | London, UK
REQUESTS ARE CLOSED!!!!!
Each and every one of these will possibly include spoilers. Some minor, some major. So please, if you’re new here and you don’t want your journey ruined DO NOT read | ALL of my stories are written in a x reader form. I try my best to write in a way that the reader is rarely described having specific race, description sizing, etc so that everyone can read and feel included in the role. However, black!reader & plus!size stories are emphasised more on the reader being exactly that! 🫶🏽
REQUESTS: (CURRENTLY CLOSED)
CHERRY PIE
୨ৎ absolute smut & explicit language.
PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE
MY FIRST FAVORITE
୨ৎ Smut, violence, explicit language & spoilers.
READ HERE
SHES HIS OLD LADY | black!reader
୨ৎ Smut, violence, explicit language & spoilers.
READ HERE
KUTTES & BRUISES
୨ৎ Domestic violence, explicit language & spoilers.
READ HERE
THAT SOFT SIDE
୨ৎ Smut, explicit language & spoilers.
READ HERE
GANGSTA OF CHRIST
୨ৎ Violence, pregnancy, explicit language & spoilers
READ HERE
TELL ME | black!reader
୨ৎ Spoilers, explicit & offensive language
READ HERE
GOOD AS GOLD
୨ৎ Smut, nanny!reader, explicit language & spoilers
READ HERE
BABY MAMA | black!reader
୨ৎ Explicit & violent language
PART ONE | PART TWO
A GIRL LIKE YOU | plussized!reader
୨ৎ Explicit & offensive language (body shaming)
READ HERE
UNSPOKEN FEELINGS
୨ৎ Drug use, domestic violence, murder, smut, threatening & explicit language, angst & all those confusing fucking emotions
SERIES MASTERLIST
CHAOS CONTROL | black!reader
୨ৎ Explicit language
READ HERE
A THOUSAND WORDS | the photo album
୨ৎ Spoilers in the form of Polaroids
LOOK HERE
BEGINNERS LUCK | black!reader
୨ৎ Spoilers, explicit & offensive language
READ HERE
INSPIRED BY SONGS IN & OUT OF THE SHOW:
TILL ITS GONE
୨ৎ Explicit language, adultery, absolute angst, major spoilers in some parts, violent language, smut, forbidden love kinda vibe!
SERIES MASTERLIST
NEVER MY LOVE
୨ৎ just a cute lil piece, no major warnings
READ HERE
THE JAX & Y/N PLAYLIST
୨ৎ cutesy, smutty & angsty lil pieces about you and jax ~ ft the songs that were inspired by the pieces! smut in some, please read all trigger warnings on individual pieces.
READ & LISTEN HERE
SECRETLYSAMCRO ORIGINALS:
MY FICTION, HIS REALITY
୨ৎThis fic will eventually include things that may be triggering to readers. This consists of: Talk of CNC (Consensual non consent), the actual act of CNC, rough/dominant sex, aggressive/abusive language & actions, masked!Jax, knife play, blood, explicit & threatening language
SERIES MASTERLIST
STEP INTO SIN | black!reader
୨ৎ step!siblings, forbidden love, explicit & violent language, general SOA vibes, eventual smut, talk of drugs etc
SERIES MASTERLIST
HONEY & VANILLA | black!reader
୨ৎ nanny!reader, slow burn, angsty, jax behind closed doors, eventual smut
PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE
NOT SO LUCKY | black!reader
୨ৎ explicit language, kidnap, murder, eventual smut, stockholm syndrome? kinda
SERIES MASTERLIST
KINKJAXTOBER 2025
୨ৎ Absolute smutville, Includes a range of different kinks & appreciations, please check trigger warnings on each individual piece.
COMPLETE MASTERLIST
TWELVE DAYS OF JAXMAS 2025
୨ৎ Twelve little pieces, ranging from smut to fake dating with a sprinkle of Christmas.Please check trigger warnings on each individual fic.
COMPLETE MASTERLIST
TURN AROUND DARLIN’
୨ৎ Cutesy little moment between childhood best friends, little bit of angst, little bit of a banter, and a whole loadddddddd of unspoken tension.
READ HERE
The text threads:
MUGSHOT MADNESS
୨ৎ jax reacting to you sticking his mugshot up on the fridge. | mild smut
READ HERE
FALL FOR YOU
୨ৎ jax reacting to you putting up the Halloween decorations just a lil too early. | mild smut
READ HERE
A MOTHERS WORK
୨ৎ jax reacting to you randomly breaking up with him one night without any particular reason. | explicit language
READ HERE
ONE SHOTS & HEADCANONS:
୨ৎ most of these are slutty & smutty so proceed with caution.
YOU & JAX BEING FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS
DISRESPECTING THE REAPER
SLICKED BACK & NEAT
JAX HAS HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR SHIT
A ROUGH & JEALOUS ENCOUNTER
A LIL BIT OF THIS, A LIL BUT OF THAT
YOU’VE HAD A HARD DAY AT WORK
JAX INSTAGRAM | BABY JAX ERA
Sluttiest, smuttiest confessions:
୨ৎ Absolute smutville so again, proceed with caution hehe.
