#samcro fandom

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @bethexo07 @purplerainx1 @latinakitty17 @winterklls @kath-666 @ravennaortiz @death-in-a-tar0t-card

TW: Cussing, Canon Typical Violence, eventual smut.

A/N: gif not mine, found on Google.

Part 2

Alla Famiglia - P.1

The California sun beat down mercilessly on the asphalt as you guided your car through the streets of Charming. The town was smaller than you'd expected—quaint in a way that made you wonder if you'd taken a wrong turn somewhere back near that place called Lodi.

Your GPS insisted this was the right place, though you had your doubts. The paint of your convertible gleamed like a ruby against the faded storefronts and sun-bleached signs that lined what you where begining to suspect was the main street.

You'd been driving for hours, and the low tire pressure warning had been glaring at you for the last thirty miles. The car handled like a dream otherwise—all 460 horses purring beneath the hood—but you weren't about to risk a blowout on some backwoods highway just because you were too stubborn to stop.

That's when you spotted it Teller-Morrow Automotive. The sign was bright, maybe gaudy to some but at least legible, and the lot was full of motorcycles that gleamed almost as brightly as your beautiful convertible.

You pulled in slowly, the Ferrari's engine note dropping to a refined growl as you eased off the throttle. The convertible top was down, your hair whipping in the breeze, and you could feel eyes on you before you'd even come to a complete stop.

The garage was exactly what you'd expected from a small-town operation—organized chaos with a side of motor oil. Several men in cute grey automotive shirts stopped what they were doing to watch you park. You could feel their stares like physical weight, assessment and curiosity mixed with something else you couldn't quite name.

You were used to attention—the car demanded it—but this felt different.

Maybe more intense.

You killed the engine and sat for a moment, checking your reflection in the rearview mirror. Your makeup was still perfect despite the drive, your lips still that deep red that matched the car. You looked exactly like what you were money. Old money, specifically.

The kind your family didn't apologize for having.

Slipping your sunglasses up into your hair, you opened the door and stepped out in one fluid motion. Your flats touched the concrete—you'd worn sensible shoes for driving, but your Louboutins were tucked safely in the passenger seat, waiting. You smoothed down your designer dress, a deceptively simple number that may have cost more than their monthly rent, and approached the garage.

"Buongiorno," you called out, your Italian accent wrapping around the english words that followed. "I need a service, per favore. And someone should check the air in my tires. The light, she has been on for many miles now."

The men exchanged glances. One of them, tall with a shock of dark hair and a cigarette dangling from his lips, nudged his companion—an older guy with scars and a wary expression. Another, built like he could bench-press your Ferrari, simply stared. But it was the blonde one who stepped forward, all swagger and blue eyes and that smile that probably melted hearts from here to Los Angeles.

"Hi there," he drawled, his voice smooth as in well practiced. He wiped his hands on a rag that had seen better days and extended one toward you. "I'm Jax. Jax Teller. How can we help?" He gestured broadly at the garage, at the men, at everything like he owned the whole damn town. Maybe he did. "We don't get a lot of Ferraris in Charming. What brings you to our little corner of paradise?"

You took his hand briefly—his grip was firm, confident—and offered him a polite smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. You'd met a thousand Jax Tellers in your life. Men who thought their charm was currency, who believed a smile and some swagger could open any door. They usually weren't wrong, but they'd never met someone like you.

"Is just a stop on the way," you replied, pulling your hand back and gesturing to the car. "I need someone good with the foreign cars. Someone who will treat her with respect, yes? She is very temperamental, my girl."

Jax's smile widened, and you could see him shifting tactics, leaning against your Ferrari like he had any right to touch her without permission. "Darlin', I've worked on everything from Harleys to Hondas. I think I can handle—"

"No." Your voice was soft but final, cutting through his pitch with the precision of a scalpel. You pointed past him to where a younger man stood frozen near a toolbox, his eyes wide and skittish. He had a nervous energy about him, tattoos covering his scalp in thick patterns, and he looked like he'd rather be anywhere but under your scrutiny. "I want the ... uh ... il omino to do it."

The garage fell silent. Someone dropped a wrench, the clang echoing in the sudden quiet.

Jax blinked, his smooth facade cracking just slightly. "Juice? You want Juice to work on a Ferrari ?"

"Sì. The little one, Juice." You nodded decisively, watching as the young man—Juice—looked like he might actually pass out. "He looks afraid of me. So he will be very, very careful, no? He will not make mistakes with my car."

The logic was flawless, and you could see Jax struggling to find an argument against it. The big guy—the one who looked like he could fold you in half without breaking a sweat—turned away, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. The older scarred one just shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I... yeah, okay," Jax finally managed, looking between you and Juice like he couldn't quite believe what was happening. "Juice can handle it. Right, Juice?"

"Y-yeah. Yes. Absolutely." Juice stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet. "I'll take good care of her. The car. Your car. I'll be very careful."

"Bene." You pulled your wallet from your Hermès—and extracted several bills. "For the service. Half in advance. You will call me when she is ready, sì?"

You handed the money to Juice, whose hands were actually trembling as he took it. Poor thing looked absolutely terrified. It was almost endearing.

Then you reached into the Ferrari and retrieved your red-bottomed Louboutins, the signature scarlet soles catching the sunlight. You sat on the edge of the driver's seat, slipped off your flats, and began the practiced ritual of sliding into the heels. The transformation was subtle but complete—you gained three inches of height and an unmeasurable amount of presence.

Standing, you smoothed your dress once more and pulled your sunglasses down over your eyes. "I will be back in a few hours. Perhaps four or five? That is enough time, yes?"

"More than enough," Jax said, and you could hear the confusion still lacing his voice. He wasn't used to being dismissed, you realized. Wasn't used to his charm failing so spectacularly.

You started to walk away, your heels clicking against the concrete with authoritative precision. You could feel all of them watching you go—the sway of your hips, the confidence in your stride, the way you moved like you owned not just the Ferrari but the entire world and were simply letting them borrow it for a while.

"Dude," you heard someone mutter behind you. "What the hell just happened?"

You smiled to yourself and kept walking.

The moment you were out of earshot, the lot erupted.

"Jesus Christ!" Chibs exhaled, his Scottish accent thick with disbelief as he stared at the spot where your Ferrari was parked.

"That," Bobby said slowly, "was about two hundred grand on wheels with legs that don't end."

"Did she just..." Tig trailed off, gesturing vaguely at Jax. "Did she just blow off the Jax? Twice?"

Jax was still standing there, looking somewhere between impressed and confused, like he'd just been hit by something he hadn't seen coming. "She asked for Juice," he said, like he still couldn't quite believe it.

All eyes turned to Juice, who had gone bright red and was clutching the bills you'd given him like they might evaporate.

"Don't fuck this up, brother," Opie said, but there was no malice in it—just genuine warning wrapped in humor.

"I won't! I swear to God, I won't." Juice looked down at the Ferrari like it was a live bomb. "I'm gonna treat this car better than my own mother."

"You don't talk to you mom." Happy pointed out with his characteristic glare.

"Then better than someone else's mother! I don't know! I just—I can't mess this up." Juice ran a hand over his head, anxiety radiating off him in waves. "Do you know how much this car costs? If I scratch it, Clay'll have me killed."

Chibs whistled low. "Ach, the way she shut down Jackie boy? Beautiful. Absolutely bloody beautiful."

"Okay, okay," Jax said, holding up his hands. "So she's not into the whole charm thing. That's fine."

Opie snorted. "From where I was standing, she made you look like a teenager."

"Nobody asked you, Ope."

"I'm just saying," Opie continued, grinning now, "maybe the prince of charming routine doesn't work anymore?."

Jax shot him a look but couldn't quite hide his own smile. "She'll come around. They always do."

"Keep telling yerself that, brother," Chibs laughed. "Meanwhile, Juicy boy here better make sure that car's in perfect condition."

Juice nodded vigorously, already pulling the Ferrari toward the bay with the kind of care usually reserved for handling explosives. "I got this. I totally got this... This is fine."

"You better," Tig called after him. "Because I want her to come back. Did you see that ass—"

They all watched as Juice began his work, treating every inch of the Ferrari like sacred ground. And as they drifted back to their own tasks, more than one of them found their thoughts drifting to the mysterious woman in the red-bottomed heels who'd just turned their ordinary day completely upside down.

When you returned several hours later, the sun was lower in the sky, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. You'd explored what little Charming had to offer—a café with surprisingly good espresso, a bookstore that was more charming than useful, and a park where children played while their mothers gossiped on benches. It was painfully American, painfully small-town, and painfully far from everything you'd ever known.

And yet, there was something peaceful about it. Something that reminded you of home—of the small towns where time moved slowly and everyone knew their neighbors. Corleone, perhaps, before the tourists came.

Or Savoca, with its quiet piazzas and the weight of history in every stone. Charming had that same feeling of a place where people belonged to each other, for better or worse.

You clicked your way back into the Teller-Morrow lot, immediately spotting your Ferrari. She'd been moved to the side, clearly finished, and Juice was standing beside her with a clipboard, nervously checking something. Jax was there too, leaning against a tool cart, and when he saw you approaching, that smile returned—different this time, more calculated.

"There she is," Jax said, pushing off from the cart. "Your chariot awaits, sweetheart."

You ignored the nickname and moved straight to the Ferrari, running your hand along her hood like greeting an old friend. "How did she do?"

"Perfect," Juice said quickly. "Oil change, tire pressure's all set, checked the brake fluid and coolant levels. Everything's running smooth."

"Good." You nodded approvingly, and Juice looked like you'd just given him a gold medal.

Jax circled around to the front of the car, his expression shifting into something more serious, more technical. "You know, I was looking at this while Juice worked. The Ferrari's got the F136 V8, right? Direct injection, flat-plane crank. Beautiful engineering. But I noticed your exhaust note's a little different than stock. You running aftermarket headers?"

He was testing you. Trying a different approach—if he couldn't charm you, maybe he could impress you with knowledge.

You tilted your head, studying him through your sunglasses. Then you smiled—a real smile this time, sharp and knowing.

"Tubi Style exhaust system," you said, your accent wrapping around the technical terms with practiced ease. "Not just the headers. Full system, cat-back. And before you ask, yes, I also have the Novitec Rosso carbon fiber intake system. It adds maybe fifteen horsepower, gives her better throttle response in the upper registers. The ECU has been remapped to compensate for the increased airflow."

Jax's eyebrows rose incrementally with each word.

You weren't finished. Walking around to the driver's side, you popped the hood—Juice scrambled to help you prop it open—you pointed out various components as you spoke. "The factory suspension was too soft for my taste, so I had them install-a the adjustable coilovers. Öhlins, from Sweden. Very good for the track days. And here, see? The brake calipers are Brembo GT-R, six-piston front, four-piston rear. The stock brakes, they were fine for the normal driving, but when you push her hard..." You made a dismissive gesture. "Not enough bite, you know?"

From somewhere behind Jax, you heard a snort of laughter. The big guy—was covering his mouth with his hand, his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth as he watched Jax's face cycle through surprise, respect, and something that might have been the beginning of genuine interest.

"The interior, she is mostly stock," you continued, warming to your subject. "But the seats are the Daytona racing seats, not the standard. Better support for the... spirited driver. And the sound system is Bang & Olufsen, but that is just because I like the loud music, you understand?"

You closed the hood with a gentle but firm push, the kind that spoke of familiarity with expensive machinery. Then you turned to face Jax directly, removing your sunglasses so he could see your eyes—amused, and entirely unimpressed by his attempted peacocking.

"Did I pass your test, Mr. Teller?"

Jax had the grace to look slightly embarrassed, but that smile never quite left his face. "I wasn't testing you. Just... curious."

"Mmm. Of course." You didn't believe him for a second, and your tone made that clear.

Opie had given up trying to hide his laughter, a deep rumbling sound that seemed to come from somewhere in his chest. "I like her," he announced to no one in particular.

You offered him a small, acknowledging nod, a genuine smile crossing your face for the first time. "Grazie, Orso," you said warmly, the Italian rolling off your tongue like honey.

Opie blinked, clearly not understanding but somehow knowing it wasn't an insult. "What'd you call me?"

"Mr Bear," you translated, and there was something almost like jealousy in Jax's eyes at being left out of the moment.

Opie's grin widen.

Reaching into your pocket—the dress had pockets, praise whatever designer had finally figured that out—you pulled out a money clip thick with hundred-dollar bills. The clip itself was sterling silver, engraved with swirling letters spelling out "Per La Mia Puppeta" a gift from Papa.

You counted out what you owed, then added extra on top of that, the bills crisp and new like they'd come straight from the bank.

"For the service. And for the care Juice took with my car." You handed the stack to the young man, who stared at it like you'd just given him a winning lottery ticket. "You did well. Grazie."

"I... you're welcome? Thank you? I mean—" Juice fumbled for words, his whole face flushing red beneath his tattoos. "Anytime. Seriously, anytime you need work done, I'll—"

"I will remember," you assured him gently.

You tucked the money clip back into your pocket, then paused, a thought occurring to you. Turning to address the group at large—Jax, Opie, Juice, and a few others who had wandered over to see what the commotion was about—you asked, "Is there a hotel in this town? Somewhere... acceptable?"

"There's a motel on Route 18," one of them offered. He had "Happy" stitched on his vest, which seemed ironic given his scowl. "It's clean. Cheap."

You tried not to visibly wince at the word "cheap." In your experience, cheap and acceptable were rarely synonyms.

"There's also a bed and breakfast on Elm Street," Opie added, his voice more helpful than Happy's grunt. "Older lady runs it. Place is real nice, actually. Quiet."

"The B&B is your best bet," Jax said, and you noticed he'd moved closer, into your personal space in a way that would have been threatening if he wasn't so obvious about trying to be charming. "Mrs. Patterson keeps it spotless. Makes a hell of a breakfast too. I could... show you where it is, if you want. Town can be tricky to navigate if you don't know it."

"I have the GPS," you said simply, gesturing to your car. "But thank you for the recommendation. Elm Street, you said?"

"Yeah, but—" Jax started.

"I will find it. I am very good with the directions." You slipped back into the driver's seat, your dress riding up slightly before you adjusted it with practiced modesty. The engine came to life with that distinctive Ferrari growl, modified by your Tubi exhaust into something that sounded like controlled violence.

Jax stepped back, hands raised in a gesture of surrender that somehow still looked cocky.

"I see you can take a hint afterall" The words slipped out before you could stop them, delivered with just enough sweetness to make them sting.

Opie's laughter boomed across the lot. Even Juice cracked a smile.

Jax just grinned wider, like you'd issued a challenge rather than a dismissal. "You know what? I think Charming just got a lot more interesting."

You didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, you slipped your sunglasses back on, checked your mirrors, and prepared to reverse out of the lot.

"Hey!" Jax called out as you began to move. "We didn't get your name!"

You paused, considering. Then you shifted back into park and looked at him over your shoulder.

"No," you agreed pleasantly. "You didn't."

And with that, you rolled out of Teller-Morrow Automotive, leaving behind a group of bikers who suddenly found their usually predictable day anything but.

In your rearview mirror, you could see them standing there, watching you disappear down the street. Jax said something that made the others laugh, and you found yourself smiling despite yourself.

Charming, California was going to be... interesting.

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @tuesdayaddamss @mamawiggers1980 @youngadult9016 @samcrosfaith @staley83 @bethexo07 @anonymouse1807 @raven1234321 @vaugarkel @kellynickelsgirl00 @callmesev @vagharsnextsnack @lunajay33 @punkrockcakepops @sweetestrose569 @xoxo-sarah @slytherinambitious @justarandomfandomblogg @unholycheesesnack @loftilyviolentthunder @wittyogredemon @death-in-a-tar0t-card @ghostlytraitortale @pansexualhailstorm

TW: Cussing, Canon Typical Violence, fluff, so much flufffffffffff.

Part 13 | Part 15 - Coming Soon

Sugarland - P.14

The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains of Happy’s bedroom, casting golden stripes across the tangled sheets. You'd been awake for a while now, not wanting to move, not wanting to break whatever spell had been cast on the room, watching the dust motes dancing in the warm glow of light that peaked between his curtains.

The party at the clubhouse had gone late into the night—loud music, louder brothers, and Happy's hand at the small of your back whenever he checked in on you.

Now, in the quiet lull of morning, Happy lay on his stomach, one tattooed arm looped possessively across your waist, his face turned toward you on the pillow. His breathing was deep and even, but you could tell by the slight tension in his fingers that he wasn't quite asleep anymore. He never fully slept, you'd learned. Always half-aware, always ready. It was one of the things that made him who he was—dangerous, brutal and yet when it came to you attentive.

You studied his face in the morning light, taking advantage of this rare moment when his guard was down. The harshness of his face was softer in sleep, though no less intense. His scalp was smooth under the dim amount of sunlight creasting through the curatins, the tattoo on his head stark and bold. You'd wanted to trace it with your fingers but hadn't quite found the courage yet.

He scared most people. You'd seen it at the clubhouse—the way even his brothers gave him space, respected his silence, read his moods in the set of his shoulders or the tilt of his head. But with you, in these quiet moments, he was different. Not soft, exactly. Happy would never be soft. But present. Focused. Like you were a problem he was solving, or maybe something he was guarding.

His eyes opened without warning, those dark eyes finding yours immediately. No grogginess, no slow wake-up. Just instant awareness and that hint of something that might have been a smile, or whatever qualified as a smile on Happy’s face.

"Mornin', Girl," he rumbled, voice rough with sleep.

Your heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did when he called you that. Girl. Like it was your name. Like it meant something more than just a word.

"Morning Hap," you whispered back, suddenly shy despite the fact that you'd shared his bed, both of you fully clothed, just seeking the comfort of each other's presence.

His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you closer across the sheets until your frame was pressed against his solid warmth. He didn't say anything else—Happy rarely did—but his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, possessive and claiming. You could feel his breath against your forehead, could feel the steady thump of his heart under your palm where it rested on his chest.

This was intimacy in Happy's language. Not flowery words or grand declarations. Just presence. Just touch. Just the weight of his attention focused entirely on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered in this moment.

"You sleep okay?" you asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear his voice again.

"Mmm," he responded, which you'd learned could mean anything from yes to no to I'm thinking about something else entirely. His hand moved from your back to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as he studied your face with that intense focus that made you feel seen in a way you'd never experienced before.

You felt small against him—compared to his solid, muscular frame. He could break you without trying, but his touch was so careful, so controlled, like he was constantly aware of what his hands were capable of and yet entirely determined not to let the world, his world touch you.

"Hungry?" you asked after a few more moments of comfortable silence.

His eyes crinkled slightly—the closest thing to a laugh you got from him. "Yeah."

That single word held more meaning than most people's entire conversations. You could hear the affection in it, the amusement at your need to fill the silence, the agreement that yeah, it was probably time to face the day even though neither of you really wanted to leave this bed.

You started to pull away, intending to get up and start breakfast, but his arm locked around you, keeping you in place. You looked up at him questioningly.

"Few more minutes," he said, and it wasn't a request so much as a statement of fact. You weren't going anywhere until he was ready to let you go.

So you settled back against him, your head tucked under his chin, his heartbeat steady against your ear. Outside, you could hear Charming starting to wake up—distant traffic, a dog barking somewhere, the world moving. But here, in this bed, wrapped in Happy's arms and his silence, time felt suspended.

His fingers continued their lazy exploration—tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip. Not sexual, just... learning you. Memorizing you. Choosing you in that quiet, thorough way he had.

Parts of the club still confused you—the hierarchy, the rules, the casual ominous energy that seemed to lurk just beneath the surface of every interaction. You probably seemed hopelessly naive to SAMCRO a baker who smelled like vanilla and cinnamon, whose biggest concerns were perfecting her bear claws and getting the right rise on her croissants.

"Got plans today," he said eventually, his voice rumbling through his chest and into your ear.

You pulled back enough to look at him. "Oh yeah?"

His eyes held that glint again, the one that meant he was calculating something. "Yeah. With you."

"What kind of plans?" you asked, unable to keep the smile from your voice.

"Surprise," he said, and there was definitely amusement there now, subtle but real. He was enjoying keeping you in suspense.

"Happy—"

"You'll like it," he interrupted, his hand moving to the back of your neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. "Trust me, Girl."

And you did. That was the crazy thing. This man who scared everyone else, this man who wore violence like a second skin, this man who could kill without hesitation and had more times than you wanted to know about—you trusted him.

Eventually, Happy did let you up, though his hand lingered on your arm as you rose, like he was reluctant to lose contact. When you finally stood, there was something in his eyes—like watching you move through his space, so naturally, so at ease pleased him on some fundamental level.

You padded to the bathroom, hyperaware of his eyes tracking your movement across the room. By the time you'd showered and thrown on one of his old t-shirts along with your jeans—you could just hear him moving around in the kitchen.

The smell of coffee greeted you as you walked down the hallway of his house. Your heart clenched a little at the sight that met you—Happy, shirtless and tattooed, his jeans riding low on his hips, moving around the kitchen with silent precision.

He glanced up when you entered, eyes tracking over you in his shirt, and something primal flashed across his face, too quick for you to notice before he turned back to his mug.

You moved to the cabinet to get the tea—you'd never been much of a coffee drinker, preferring the gentle ritual of steeping tea leaves, the delicate flavors that Happy seemed to find both amusing and oddly endearing. It was probably the baker in you, that appreciation for subtle flavors and careful preparation. You were reaching for your usual mug when you felt him behind you, solid and warm, his arms caging you in against the counter.

"Hap—" you started, but the word died in your throat as he pressed against your back, his chin resting on top of your head. This was as close to cuddling as Happy got when vertical—this silent, possessive closeness that made you feel both protected and adored.

"Got your day cleared?" he asked, his voice rumbling through where his chest pressed against your back.

"I—yeah, I'm off today," you managed, hyperaware of every point of contact between you. The bakery was closed for your one guaranteed day away from flour and ovens. His hands rested on the counter on either side of you, not touching but present, a cage you had no desire to escape.

"Good," he said, satisfied. His hands moved then, one splaying across your stomach, holding you against him, while the other moved your hair aside. You felt his breath on the back of your neck, warm and steady. Not a kiss—just the rest of his jaw at the junction between your neck and shoulder.

You shivered, and you felt rather than heard his pleased response—a slight change in his breathing, a subtle shift in how he held you.

"Takin' you somewhere," he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your neck with each word. "Just us."

Your heart was hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it. "Where?"

"You're always asking questions, Girl." he said with definite amusement in his voice now. His hand on your stomach tightened slightly, possessive.

"Because you never give me answers, Hap" you shot back.

His low chuckle vibrated through you. "Don't need answers. Just need to trust me."

He was right, of course. It should have terrified you, how completely you'd fallen into his orbit. But standing here in his kitchen, wrapped in his presence and his heat, you couldn't find it in yourself to care.

He stayed there for a long moment, just holding you. Then, with reluctance, he released you and stepped back, giving you space to breathe and move again.

You busied yourself with making tea, trying to calm your racing heart, while Happy poured his coffee—black, no sugar, strong enough to strip paint. You'd tried it once at the garage and nearly choked, which had earned you one of his rare, genuine smiles.

When you turned around, mug of tea warming your hands, you found Happy sitting at the small kitchen table. He had a sketchbook in front of him—his sketchbook, you'd seen him drawing before, his head bent over the paper with the same intense focus he brought to everything. But you'd never seen what he drew. He always closed the book before anyone could look, keeping that part of himself just as private as the rest of him.

You approached slowly, not wanting to disturb him, but curious despite yourself. He glanced up briefly, acknowledged your presence with a slight nod, then returned to his work. It wasn't a dismissal—more like permission to be near, to exist in his space while he worked.

You sat down across from him, sipping your tea, content to watch him in silence. This felt important somehow, this quiet domestic moment. Happy in his kitchen, drinking coffee, creating something. It felt like a piece of him was settling you into his life, making space, carving a place for you to exist beside him.

His hand moved with confidence across the paper—strong, bold lines, occasional subtle shading. You tried to peek at what he was drawing, but the angle was wrong, and every time you shifted to see better, he'd move the sketchbook slightly, keeping his work hidden. There was a hint of amusement in the set of his shoulders, like he knew exactly what you were doing and was deliberately keeping you in suspense.

"Hap," you said, exasperated and fond.

"Girl," he responded, not looking up, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitch.

"What are you drawing?"

"Something."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting." His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and there was warmth there, hidden deep but real. "Soft-brain."

You huffed, which made him almost smile, as you settled back with your tea. If Happy wanted to keep secrets, you'd let him.

The comfortable silence stretched between you, broken only by the scratch of his pencil on paper and the quiet sounds of the neighborhood waking up outside. This was nice, you realized. Just existing together, no pressure to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. Happy had taught you the value of quiet, of just being present with someone without needing to perform or explain. It was so different from the constant bustle of the bakery, the early morning rush, the endless chatter of customers, you loved it but still the break was both wanted and needed. With Happy, you could just be still.

After a while, he closed the sketchbook with a decisive snap and stood, draining the last of his coffee in one swallow. His eyes found yours, intense and purposeful.

"Get changed," he said. "Something comfortable. Boots if you got 'em. Gonna be on the bike."

You loved riding with Happy—the freedom of it, the trust required to wrap yourself around him and let him control everything, the way the world fell away until it was just the two of you and the road. Plus, there was something undeniably intimate about it, your body pressed against his back, your arms wrapped around his waist, moving as one unit.

"Where are we going?" you tried one more time.

He crossed to you, cupped your face in one large hand, his thumb brushing your cheek with surprising gentleness. "Told you, Girl. It's a surprise. Now go." His eyes held yours, and despite the command in his words, there was softness there too.

The touch lingered for a moment longer than necessary, his calloused thumb tracing your cheekbone with the same careful attention he'd use handling something fragile. Then he released you, stepping back.

"Okay," you whispered, still feeling the ghost of his touch.

An hour later, you were climbing onto the back of Happy's bike, your arms wrapping around his solid waist, your chest pressed against his back. He'd changed into his kutte.

He glanced back at you over his shoulder, checking that you were settled and secure. His hand came back to squeeze your thigh, reassurance and possession in one gesture.

"Hold on, Girl," he rumbled, and then the engine roared to life beneath you.

Charming fell away as Happy guided the bike through town and out onto the open road. The morning was beautiful—clear and warm with just enough breeze to be perfect for riding. You tightened your arms around Happy's waist, your cheek resting against his back, and let yourself sink into the moment.

This was freedom. This was trust. This was begining to feel like home, wrapped in leather and ink and the steady thunder of a Harley engine.

Happy's hand dropped to your knee again at a stoplight, that casual touch that said you're mine, I've got you, we're good. You squeezed him tighter in response, felt the subtle shift in his posture.

The road climbed into the hills surrounding Charming, twisting and turning through scenery that took your breath away. Green hills rolled away on either side, dotted with old oaks and wildflowers. Happy took the curves with practiced ease, the bike leaning into each turn, and you leaned with him, trusting his skill completely.

After about forty-five minutes of riding, Happy turned off onto a smaller road, then onto what was barely more than a dirt path. The bike rumbled over the uneven ground, and you held on tighter, trusting him to keep you safe. Finally, he brought the bike to a stop in a clearing overlooking a valley, the view stretching for miles.

He killed the engine, and suddenly the world was quiet except for the wind through the trees and the distant call of birds. Happy dismounted first, then turned to help you off, his hands on your waist lifting you like you weighed nothing.

Your legs were shaky from the ride, and you stumbled slightly. Happy steadied you, his hands lingering on your hips, his eyes searching your face.

"You good?" he asked.

"Yeah," you breathed, looking around at the stunning view. "Happy, this is beautiful."

Something shifted in his expression—satisfaction, pride, pleasure that he'd done something to make you happy. He pulled you against his chest for a moment, just holding you, before releasing you and moving to the saddlebags on his bike.

You watched as he pulled out a blanket—thick and warm, clearly brought specifically for this—and a small cooler. Your heart squeezed. Thought about, how to make it special.

"Come on," he said, jerking his head toward a spot under a large oak tree.

You followed, watching as he spread the blanket with the same military grade care, making sure it was smooth, that you'd have a comfortable spot. The cooler came next, and when he opened it, you saw he'd packed a proper picnic—sandwiches from the deli you liked, fruit, water, even some fancy cookies from your bakery.

"Happy," you said, emotion thick in your throat. "You did all this?"

He shrugged. "Wanted to do something. For you."

You wanted to throw your arms around him, but something held you back—you just looked up at him with everything you felt plain on your face.

He saw it. Of course he saw it. Happy saw everything. His hand came up to cup the back of your head, pulling you against his chest in a brief, fierce embrace. His heartbeat was steady against your ear, strong and sure.

"Ain't nothing, Girl," he murmured into your hair.

But to you it felt like everything.

You settled on the blanket together, Happy's back against the tree trunk, you tucked into his side with his arm around your shoulders. The view stretched before you—rolling hills and valleys, Charming just visible in the distance, the whole world spread out like a promise.

You ate in comfortable silence, Happy occasionally feeding you bites, you stealing sips of his water. It was peaceful. Perfect. The kind of moment you wanted to hold onto forever, to preserve exactly as it was.

When the food was packed away, Happy shifted, pulling you more fully into his lap. You went willingly, your legs draped over his thigh, your head resting on his shoulder. His hand traced lazy patterns on your hip—possessive, affectionate in his wordless way.

"Known you a while now," he said eventually, his voice low and thoughtful.

Your heart stuttered.

"Yeah," you said softly, not wanting to break whatever spell was forming.

His hand tightened on your hip. "Knew after two weeks—"

"Happy—" you whispered.

"Not done," he interrupted gently. "Lemme me say this."

You fell silent, your hand resting over his heart, feeling it beat steady and strong under your palm. He was quiet for a long moment, his thumb stroking your hip through your jeans. When he spoke, his voice was rough with something that might have been emotion.

"People make me crazy with their constant fuckin' noise. But you..." His hand moved from your hip to your face, tilting it up so he could look into your eyes. "You listen. You see shit other people miss."

Happy didn't do declarations. This was as close as he'd probably ever come to poetry.

"You know what I do," he went on, his thumb brushing your cheekbone with that same careful gentleness.

"You're not a bad person," you said fiercely, needing him to know you believed that.

His expression was set in that same gaze. "I'm a killer, Girl. Done things that'd give you nightmares. Will do it again. That's who I am."

"I know," you said, and you did. You weren't stupid. You saw the darkness in him, the violence he was capable of. But you also saw the man who made sure you got home safe every night. Who stood outside your bakery at closing time without being asked, just to drive you home.

Something fierce and possessive flashed across his face. His hand tightened on your jaw, but he caught himself almost instantly, his thumb brushing your skin in a slow, grounding stroke.

"You're my Old Lady," he said, voice low and rough—like gravel dragged over heat. It came out as a question, a statement, and a command all at once.

Your smile spread across your face by its own volition. "Hap..."

He cut you off, eyes pinning you in place. "You’re gonna have my crow one day, Girl."

You blinked, not sure what he meant. He must’ve seen the confusion, because his jaw shifted before, he elaborated.

"A Crow," he said quietly, fingers tracing the back of your neck where a tattoo might sit. "When an Old Lady has one. Means the club knows she belongs… and who she’s protected by."

Something in his eyes softened then, the violence in them tempered by something gentler, deeper.

"It’s me sayin’ you’re mine," he murmured, voice almost reverent. "And I’m yours."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then his hand slid from your jaw to cradle the back of your head, his other arm wrapping around your waist. He drew you closer with infinite care—the same man who could break bones without blinking holding you like you were something holy.

The kiss, when it came, was nothing like you'd imagined. You'd expected claiming, possessive, rough. But Happy's lips met yours with a gentleness that made your breath catch. His mouth moved against yours slowly, carefully, reverently. Like he was savoring something precious. Like he was afraid of breaking you.

His hand twitched slightly where it cupped your head, his thumb stroking softly behind your ear. The kiss deepened but never lost that careful quality, that sense of him holding himself back, of him treating you like spun glass. You could feel the restraint in him, the leashed power, the way he was deliberately gentle when his instinct was the opposite with everyone else.

When he finally pulled back, both your breathing was slightly uneven. His eyes were dark and intense, searching your face for any sign of hesitation.

"Okay?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Yeah," you whispered, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palm. "More than okay."

His smile was small but real, and he pressed another soft kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then just held you close. Like he was trying to memorize the feel of you in his arms.

"My girl," he murmured against your hair.

"Your Old Lady," you confirmed, testing out the words, feeling how they sounded.

His arms tightened around you, but still careful, still controlled. "Gonna take care of you," he promised, his voice rough with emotions he rarely expressed. "Anyone tries to hurt you, they're dead. Understand?"

You shivered at the casual violence in his tone, the absolute certainty. "I understand."

"Good." He pressed another gentle kiss to your hair.

You spent the rest of the afternoon there in that clearing, wrapped in Happy's arms, talking in fragments and comfortable silences about everything and nothing. He told you stories about the club—carefully edited ones that kept the worst of the darkness hidden but gave you glimpses of his world. You told him about the bakery, about the satisfaction of pulling a perfect loaf from the oven, about the regular customers who'd become like family. About your dreams, your fears. And he listened, really listened, in that intense way he had that made you feel like the only person in existence.

As the sun started to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, Happy finally stirred, clearly reluctant to end the day.

"Should head back," he said, though he made no move to actually get up.

"Few more minutes," you bargained, echoing his words from this morning.

His low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Yeah. Few more."

Those minutes stretched into ten, then fifteen. Neither of you wanted to leave this perfect bubble, this moment where it was just the two of you and nothing else mattered. But eventually, the encroaching darkness made the decision for you.

Happy packed up the picnic supplies with the same care he'd used to set them out, making sure everything was secure in the saddlebags. Then he helped you onto the bike, his hands lingering on your waist, his eyes holding yours.

"Thank you," you said again. "For today. For everything."

He cupped your face in his hands, studying you with that intense focus that made you feel seen straight through to your soul. Then he leaned in and pressed another one of those surprisingly gentle kisses to your lips—soft, careful, reverent.

"You're my Old Lady," he said when he pulled back. "Gonna have a lot more days like this."

The ride back to Charming was slower, more leisurely, like neither of you wanted the day to truly end. You held Happy tight, your cheek against his back, and watched the landscape roll by in the fading light.

[tinyshyteacup]

Jax x Reader

She was sunshine in a town built on chrome and secrets—the kind of girl who could light up the clubhouse with just a smile. Everyone in SAMCRO adored her, and Jax Teller had fallen harder than he ever thought possible. Sure, she had expensive taste and a few high-maintenance quirks, but for her, he'd move heaven and earth.

Then her father rolled into Charming and suddenly, Jax's kutte didn't feel like enough.

Because his sweet girl? She was her Daddy's Princess. And her father has made one thing crystal clear, no one—especially not the outlaw in a MC—is good enough for his precious Pupetta.

In a world where family is everything and blood runs thicker than loyalty, loving her might be the most dangerous ride he's ever taken.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five - Coming Soon 🫀

[tinyshyteacup]

💍 A Charming Detour

J U I C E X R E A D E R

Your rental car dies somewhere between nowhere and Charming, leaving you dusty, stranded, and more than a little lost. When you stumble into Teller-Morrow looking for help, you don’t expect the biker with kind eyes and nervous hands to look at you like you hung the stars. But Juice does—and for him, it’s love at first sight.

Just as you start to fall for his goofy smiles and awkward charm, everything unravels. The ATF raids the clubhouse, and before you can even understand what’s happening, you’re cuffed and dragged off with the Sons. In a panic, Juice blurts out the one thing that might save you—immigration can't have you, because you’re getting married.

Now you’re his wife—on paper, at least. You’re pretending for the club, for the Feds, for the story that’s spiraling out of your control. But the line between pretend and something real is starting to blur.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven 🥰

Part Eight 🥰

Part Nine 🖤

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve 🖤

Part Thirteen

Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen

Part Sixteen

Part Seventeen

Part Eighteen

Part Nineteen

Part Twenty 🖤🥰

Part Twenty-One

Part Twenty-Two 🥰

Part Twenty-Three

Part Twenty-Four 🥰❤️‍🔥

Part Twenty-Five

Part Twenty-Six 🥰❤️‍🔥 18+

Part Twenty-Seven

Part Twenty-Eight 🖤 ⚠️ canon level racism

Part Twenty-Nine

Part Thirty 🖤

Part Thirty-One 🖤

Part Thirty-Two 🖤

Part Thirty-Three 🥰

Check out the Sequel, This Charming Life

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @jozzieblood @staley83 @kellynickelsgirl00 @mrstelford @samcrosfaith @ravennaortiz @mdonez07 @bluenoon5372 @mayanqueenxx @callmesev @tssweets @im-nada @plaidconvers @zombayyyyy @blackwidownat2814 @lovesammikinzz @bubblegirll26 @mrs-mischief1917 @synysterlucy @crispy-croke @localcoffeeshops-blog @winterklls @kincyn @sa1nt-bambi @sunglitter-moonglade @joyfulfxckery @jehnvhn @louisianalady @unholycheesesnack @mrs-mischief1917 @sa1nt-cait @rey26 @winchesterfamiliebusiness @ugh-who-cares @yousigned-upforthis @enretrogue @liia2025

TW: Canon typical violence, cussing, mentions of grief and death, mentions of kidnapping, tension, fluff, Opie is a cuddler.

Part 20 | Part 22 - Coming Soon 🧸

The Long Way Round - P.21

The morning light filtered through the curtains in soft golden rays, warming the bedroom with the promise of a perfect day. Opie blinked awake slowly, the contentment of deep sleep still wrapped around him like a blanket as he registered the weight beside him in bed.

You were there, curled on your side facing him, your hair spread across the pillow in a way that caught the morning sun. Your face was peaceful in sleep, relaxed in a way it rarely was during waking hours when you were always moving, always caring for someone, always putting others' needs before your own.

He found himself studying the details he'd memorized during careful observation—the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes rested against your skin, the slight part of your lips as you breathed evenly. This moment felt sacred somehow, stolen from the chaos of regular life where he could just watch you exist without the weight of responsibility or the careful boundaries you'd both been maintaining.

As if sensing his attention, your eyes fluttered open, meeting his with immediate warmth and recognition. No surprise, no questioning why he was watching you sleep—just acceptance and something that looked like joy at finding him there.

"Morning," you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep.

"Morning," he replied, unable to stop himself from reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face.

You smiled at the gesture, shifting closer until your head rested against his chest. The movement was natural, unguarded, and he wrapped his arms around you instinctively, pulling you into the warmth of his body. You fit perfectly there, your smaller frame tucking against him like you were made for this exact position.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger against your skin while breathing in the scent of your shampoo mixed with something uniquely you. The gesture felt right in a way that went beyond physical comfort—it felt like coming home.

"Dad! Dad! Wake up!" The sound of small feet thundering down the hallway preceded Kenny and Ellie's arrival by mere seconds.

The bedroom door burst open, and suddenly the bed was under siege by two energetic children who launched themselves at both you and their father with the absolute certainty that they would be caught and welcomed. Opie rolled onto his back with exaggerated effort, making room for both kids while keeping one arm firmly around you.

"It's Saturday!" Ellie announced unnecessarily, bouncing slightly on the mattress. "Can we make pancakes?"

"With chocolate chips?" Kenny added hopefully, his face still soft with the remnants of sleep but his eyes bright with anticipation.

You laughed, the sound warm and genuine, and Opie felt his heart expand with something that felt too big for his chest to contain. "Yea Dude, I think we can manage pancakes," you said, reaching out to ruffle Kenny's hair.

This was perfect. This moment, with his children happy and his—his what? His girlfriend? His partner? The woman he was falling more deeply for with every day?—wrapped in his arms, the morning stretching ahead with nothing but simple domestic joy...

The alarm shattered the dream like glass, dragging Opie back to consciousness with jarring abruptness. He jolted awake in his empty bed, the other side cold and untouched, the morning light less golden than it had seemed moments ago.

For a few disoriented seconds, he lay there trying to hold onto the fragments of the dream, to recapture the feeling of contentment and rightness that had seemed so real. But reality was already reasserting itself—the weight of Abel's kidnapping, Jax's barely contained desperation, and the knowledge that in a few days they'd be leaving for Belfast.

And underneath all of that, the conversation he'd been putting off for days now. Jax's words echoed in his memory "You can't build something real on a foundation of secrets."

The sounds of movement in the kitchen told Opie that you were already managing the morning routine with your usual quiet efficiency. He lay in bed for another moment, trying to gather the energy to face the day and the difficult conversation that loomed ahead—though not the conversation about Kenny's birthday party, which you'd already meticulously planned for this coming Saturday, just two days before his actual birthday on Monday.

When he finally made his way to the kitchen, he found you at the stove making breakfast while simultaneously helping Ellie locate her missing homework folder and reminding Kenny that yes, he did indeed need to wear socks to school.

The scene was so achingly normal, so perfectly domestic, that it made his chest tight with emotions he couldn't name. This was what he'd been dreaming about—not some fantasy future, but the reality you'd already built together through months of shared mornings and collaborative child wrangling.

"Morning," you said, glancing over your shoulder with a smile that made something warm unfold in his chest. "Coffee's ready."

"You're a lifesaver," he said, moving to pour himself a cup while resisting the urge to wrap his arms around your waist. Not in front of the kids—that was what you'd both agreed on as you'd carefully navigated the shift from professional relationship to something more.

But the wanting was there, constant and insistent, every time you moved through his kitchen like you belonged there.

"Dad!" Kenny's voice pulled his attention from admiring the way your jeans fit as you reached for the cabinet. "My birthday is in two days!"

"Hmm," Opie said, settling into his usual chair and accepting the plate of scrambled eggs and toast you set in front of him. "Seven years old. That's a big deal."

"It is," Kenny agreed seriously, his expression taking on the thoughtful quality that meant he was working up to something. "I was thinking... maybe I could have a party this year?"

Opie caught your eye over Kenny's head, seeing the barely suppressed amusement there. His son had no idea that you'd already spent the last couple days coordinating with the pizza place in Lodi, confirming RSVPs from his school friends, and arranging for Piney and some of the club members to attend.

"A party?" Opie said, playing along. "I dunno bud, What kind of party were you thinking?"

"Maybe we could have pizza ?" Kenny suggested, clearly trying to sound casual about what was obviously a well-rehearsed pitch. "And like a big cake."

"That sounds reasonable," you said, setting a glass of apple juice in front of him while maintaining your innocent expression. "Who would you want to invite?"

"Well, Tommy and maybe Marcus from school," Kenny said, warming to his topic now that the adults in his life seemed receptive. "And maybe Grandpa Piney if he wants to come, and some of the Dad's friends if they're not busy."

"We can probably make that happen," Opie said, reaching over to ruffle his son's hair while fighting back a smile at Kenny's obvious delight.

As Kenny launched into an enthusiastic description of the why pizza was the best thing ever, complete with detailed specifications about the benefits of cheesey goodness, Opie found himself watching you interact with his children. The way you asked follow-up questions that made Kenny feel heard, the way you intercepted Ellie's attempt to put syrup on her scrambled eggs with gentle redirection—every gesture spoke of genuine care that went beyond professional obligation.

You caught him staring and raised an eyebrow in silent question, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth. He shook his head slightly, not trusting himself to explain what he was thinking in front of the kids.

Later, he promised himself. Later he would find the words to tell you about Belfast, about why he had to leave just days after Kenny's birthday despite finally having something worth staying for.

The day progressed with the familiar rhythm of school drop-offs and household tasks, but there was an undercurrent of tension that Opie couldn't quite shake. Every time he looked at you—folding laundry at the kitchen table, reorganizing the pantry with characteristic efficiency, simply existing in his space—he was reminded of the conversation he needed to have.

But he kept finding excuses to delay. The club meeting that needed his attention. The phone call from Jax that required immediate discussion. The broken cabinet hinge that suddenly seemed urgent to fix.

You moved around him with patient understanding, seeming to sense that something was weighing on him but not pushing for explanations. It was one of the things he loved about you—the way you gave people space to process their emotions without making them feel abandoned.

When you passed him in the hallway carrying a basket of clean towels, he couldn't resist reaching out to catch your waist, pulling you gently against him. You set the basket down immediately, turning in his arms with a knowing smile.

"Distracting me again Ope?" you asked, your voice carrying that teasing quality that had become more common as your relationship had evolved from careful formality to genuine intimacy.

"Can't a man appreciate the woman in his life?" he countered, his hands settling comfortably on your hips as he looked down at you.

"The woman in his life?" you repeated, your smile widening. "That's rather smooth, Winston."

"I have my moments," he said, and before he could overthink it, he bent down to press a kiss to your forehead—the same gesture from his dream, but grounded in reality this time.

You made a soft sound of both contentment and perhaps surprise, leaning into him in a way that suggested you were craving this contact as much as he was. "I have to finish this, kids will be home in three hours," you murmured against his chest. "And you have that thing at the clubhouse in two."

"I know," he said, but he didn't let go, not yet. "Just needed a minute."

"Rough day?" you asked, your hands sliding up to rest against his shoulders.

"Something like that," he admitted, unable to fully voice the turmoil churning beneath his carefully maintained exterior.

You were quiet for a moment, just holding him, and the simple comfort of your presence was almost enough to make him forget about Belfast and kidnapped babies and the dangerous mission that loomed on the horizon.

"Whatever it is," you said finally, "We can talk about it."

The casual certainty in your voice, made his heart clench with something that might have been hope or might have been dread. Because what if you didn't want to figure it out together once you knew what "it" actually entailed?

By the time evening rolled around and both kids were tucked into bed with stories read and nightlights turned on, Opie found you at the kitchen table with your notebook, reviewing the final details for Kenny's surprise party on Saturday.

Or at least, he thought both kids were tucked in until he heard the soft patter of small feet in the hallway.

"I thought you were asleep, Ellie." Opie said as his daughter appeared in the doorway, her favorite stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest.

"I forgot to ask something," Ellie said seriously, padding over to where you sat at the table. "Is Juice coming to Kenny's party?"

You exchanged an amused glance with Opie before answering. "He said he's planning to be there, sweetie. Why?"

"Because Juice is so cool," Ellie said, her eight-year-old enthusiasm making her bounce slightly on her toes. "He knows everything and he has those really awesome tattoos and he always tells the best jokes. And he said at that big sleepover that he'd show me how to do a wheelie on a bike when I'm older, which is going to be so cool."

"A wheelie, huh?" Opie said, making a mental note to have words with Juice about making promises to his daughter that involved the potential of bodily harm.

"And his motorcycle is so shiny," Ellie continued, clearly on a roll now. "And one time he brought me a chocolate bar just because. He's basically the coolest person ever."

The dreamy quality in his daughter's voice made Opie's eye twitch slightly, but you were clearly trying not to laugh at Ellie's enthusiastic recitation of Juice's many virtues.

"That's very nice, honey," you said gently. "But it's time for bed now. We have a big day on Saturday and you need your rest."

"Okay," Ellie agreed, apparently satisfied now that she'd confirmed Juice's attendance. "Night, Dad. Night!"

She threw her arms around Opie's neck for a quick hug, then did the same to you before scampering back down the hallway to her room.

After you'd both listened for the sound of her bedroom door closing and the creak of her bed as she climbed back in, you turned to Opie with barely suppressed amusement dancing in your eyes.

"Well," you said, your lips twitching with the effort of holding back a smile. "That was adorable. I think someone has her first case of hero worship."

"Think we should warn him?" Opie asked.

"And ruin his look of confusion when she follows him around all afternoon?" you said, with a grin. "Absolutely not. It'll be hilarious."

Opie groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "Why did it have to be Juice? Out of all the guys in the club, why did my daughter have to develop a crush on Juice?"

"Because he's nice to her and pays attention to her," you said, your attempt at seriousness undermined by the laughter in your voice. "And because he has 'cool tattoos' and apparently gives her chocolate."

"I'm going to kill him," Opie muttered.

"She's eight," you reminded him, finally giving in to your laughter. "It's innocent. She probably thinks he's like a character from one of her cartoons—cool and fun and superhero-adjacent."

"I know it's innocent," Opie said, lifting his head to look at you. "But she's my little girl. She's not supposed to notice anyone is cool until she's at least thirty."

"Thirty?" you repeated, still grinning. "That seems a bit excessive."

"Forty, then," he amended. "And by then Juice will be old and less likely to teach her dangerous motorcycle tricks."

You shook your head affectionately, returning your attention to your party planning notes even as your smile lingered. "For what it's worth, I think it's sweet. She clearly feels safe around your brothers, which means you've done a good job making sure she knows they're family."

The observation was accurate but did nothing to ease Opie's discomfort with the image of his daughter gazing adoringly at one of his brothers. "I'm still having words with him about the wheelie thing."

"Probably for the best," you agreed diplomatically. "Now, back to the party planning before we get distracted again..."

"Okay, so I confirmed with the pizza place this afternoon," you said, consulting your notes with the careful attention you gave to everything. "We have the party room reserved from one to four, which should give the kids plenty of time to eat and play without anyone getting too overstimulated."

You were sitting with your hair pulled back, looking so perfectly domestic and settled into his life that it made his chest ache. The party planning had consumed most of your free time, coordinating schedules and dietary restrictions and making sure Kenny's favorite kind of pizza would be available.

"Sounds good," Opie said, settling into the chair across from you even though what he really wanted was to pull you into his lap and stop pretending that the careful distance you maintained was anything other than torture.

"Alice confirmed that her and Tommy are coming." you continued, checking items off your list. "And Piney said he wouldn't miss it for the world. He's even talking about bringing that remote control car he's been working on as a gift."

The way you said "Piney" with such casual familiarity, the way you'd seamlessly integrated yourself into not just his life but his extended family, made Opie's heart clench with feelings he was trying very hard not to examine too closely. Not yet. Not when everything felt so precarious.

"What about the club guys?" he asked, though he already knew you'd been coordinating with Gemma about who would be available.

"Chibs said he'll be there, and Juice is bringing some kind of elaborate Lego set that he swears Ken will love," you said, your smile soft with affection for the club members who'd become part of your extended circle.

"Jax said he, Tara and Abel would try to make it." You said quietly.

You didnt know that Jax's son was missing, kidnapped and taken to Ireland, and birthday parties probably felt impossibly trivial to Jax and Tara in the face of that kind of crisis. Opie nodded, grateful that he didn't have to explain tonight.

"You didn't have to do all this," he said quietly, watching the way the kitchen light caught in your hair. "Plan the whole party, coordinate with everyone. That's above and beyond."

You looked up from your notes, your expression softening in a way that made his pulse quicken. "I wanted to," you said simply. "Ken's been so excited about turning seven, and after everything he's been through... I wanted to make sure he has a day that's just about being a kid and having fun."

The casual reference to Kenny's grief, to the loss that had shaped both of his children's young lives, made something twist in Opie's gut. You understood his kids in a way that went beyond professional caregiving. You loved them—not because you were paid to, but because they'd become a part of your life in all the ways that mattered.

"Marcus's mom called to confirm they're coming," you continued, returning to your list. "And she asked if it would be okay if Marcus's little sister tagged along since she doesn't have childcare that day. I said yes, but I wanted to check that that's actually ok."

"That's fine," Opie said, though he was barely processing the logistics anymore. He was too busy watching the way you chewed on your bottom lip when you were concentrating, the way your fingers tapped against your notebook as you mentally ran through your checklist.

This was his life now—club brothers attending his son's seventh birthday party, you coordinating with his father and his friends like you'd always been part of this world.

"Oh, and I ordered Ken that dinosaur video game he's been hinting about," you said, glancing up with a conspirator's smile. "I know you probably already got him something, but I figured he'd love it and it can be from both of us if you want."

From both of us. The casual way you said it, like you were already a parenting team, like your role in his children's lives was permanent and unquestionable, made Opie's throat tight.

"That's perfect," he managed, his voice rougher than intended.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him with the perceptiveness that never failed to catch him off guard. "You okay? You've seemed distracted all day."

"Just tired," he lied, which was partially true. He was tired—tired of taking things slow, tired of maintaining appropriate boundaries, tired of pretending that what he felt for you was anything less than the kind of feelings that had fundementally changed all there lives for the better.

But there was also Belfast looming on the horizon, the knowledge that in just a few days he'd be leaving for Ireland. And here you were, planning his son's birthday party with the same dedication you brought to everything, completely unaware that the life you were slowly piecing together was about to be disrupted by violence and danger.

He should tell you. Jax's words echoed in his memory "You need to tell her, brother. She deserves better then some excuse about club business."

But watching you now, so focused on making Kenny's birthday perfect, so settled into the domestic routines they'd created together, he couldn't bring himself to shatter the peace with the reality of what was coming.

"I was thinking we should get there early on Saturday," you said, returning to your planning. "Maybe around twelve-thirty? That way we can make sure everything's set up before the kids start arriving at one."

"Makes sense," Opie agreed, trying to focus on the practical details instead of the way your shirt had ridden up slightly to reveal a strip of skin at your waist.

"And I figured we'd do presents after pizza but before cake," you continued, scribbling a note to yourself. "That way Ken's not too full to enjoy opening them, and the other kids won't get too antsy waiting."

The meticulous planning, the consideration of every detail to make sure Kenny's day was perfect—it was so quintessentially you that Opie felt his carefully maintained control starting to slip.

"Come here," he said suddenly, the words escaping before he could think better of them.

You looked up, surprised by the intensity in his voice. "What?"

"Just... come here," he repeated, pushing back from the table slightly to make room.

You set down your pen slowly, your expression curious but not wary, and stood from your chair. When you were close enough, Opie reached out to catch your hand, tugging you gently toward him until you were standing between his knees.

"What's going on?" you asked softly, your free hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

"I'm just..." He trailed off, not sure how to articulate the tangle of emotions churning in his chest. "I'm grateful. For everything you do for the kids. For how much you care about making Kenny's birthday special."

"Of course I care," you said, your thumb stroking against his shoulder in an unconscious gesture of comfort. "I love those kids. And I love—"

You caught yourself, the words dying on your lips as you seemed to realize what you'd almost said. The air between them felt suddenly charged, loaded with all the things unsaid as you took things slow.

"You love?" he prompted, his hands settling on your hips with a possessiveness that felt both natural and terrifying.

"This," you finished, but he could see in your eyes that it might not have been what you'd been about to say. "I love this. Being part of your family. Being here."

Opie pulled you closer, close enough that he could rest his head against you while you stood between his legs, your fingers sliding into his hair in a gesture that felt achingly intimate.

"Slow is killing me," he admitted quietly, the confession muffled against your shirt.

He felt you take a shaky breath, your fingers tightening slightly in his hair. "I know," you whispered. "Me too."

"Then maybe we should reconsider the timeline," he said, lifting his head to look up at you. "Maybe slow doesn't have to mean we're not moving forward."

Your expression was soft, understanding, and something that looked like relief. "What did you have in mind?"

Before he could answer, before he could figure out how to ask for what he wanted without crossing lines that might be too soon to cross, your phone buzzed against the table with an incoming message.

You glanced at it, then back at him, torn between the moment and the practical responsibility of checking what might be important. "It's probably Alice confirming something about Saturday," you said apologetically.

"Go ahead," he said, even though every part of him wanted to keep you here, in this bubble of almost-confession and barely-restrained wanting.

You checked your phone, and he watched your expression shift from distracted to focused. "She's asking if we want to coordinate on gifts so we don't duplicate anything. And Piney wants to know if we need him to pick up any last-minute supplies."

Just like that, the moment was gone, replaced by the practical necessities of party planning. But as you settled back into your chair and returned to your notes, Opie found himself memorizing this scene—the domestic comfort of you in his kitchen, planning his son's birthday with the dedication of someone who'd already claimed a permanent place in their lives.

In a few days, he'd be on a plane to Belfast. But tonight, he had this—had you, had the illusion of normalcy, had the promise of a future that felt both impossibly close and devastatingly fragile.

He'd tell you about Belfast after the party, he decided. Let Kenny have his perfect day, let you have the satisfaction of seeing your careful planning come together, and then he'd figure out how to explain why he had to walk away from the life you were building together, even temporarily.

[tinyshyteacup]

Angel with a Shotgun

T I G X R E A D E R

You never meant to get caught in the crossfire.

It was supposed to be easy money—smile, don't ask questions. You had no idea that walking through those doors every day put a target on your back.

Until Clay Morrow walks in looking for answers.

One intervention changes everything. Suddenly you're out of a job, out of options, and somehow working for Teller-Morrow Automotive, surrounded by the very men who turned your world upside down. You keep your head down, do your work, and try not to think about the darkness lurking at the edges of this world.

But Tig starts watching you differently. Softer. Like you're something he wants to protect instead of intimidate. The most unpredictable man in SAMCRO is bringing you coffee, checking on you, looking at you like you hung the moon.

Everyone notices. SAMCRO can't believe it.

Because men like Tig Trager don't fall in love.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three - Coming Soon 🔇

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @jozzieblood @staley83 @kellynickelsgirl00 @mrstelford @samcrosfaith @ravennaortiz @mdonez07 @bluenoon5372 @mayanqueenxx @callmesev @tssweets @im-nada @plaidconvers @zombayyyyy @blackwidownat2814 @lovesammikinzz @bubblegirll26 @mrs-mischief1917 @synysterlucy @crispy-croke @localcoffeeshops-blog @winterklls @kincyn @sa1nt-bambi @sunglitter-moonglade @joyfulfxckery @jehnvhn @louisianalady @unholycheesesnack @mrs-mischief1917 @sa1nt-cait @rey26

---------------------------------------♡--

TW: Canon typical violence, cussing, mentions of grief and death, mentions of kidnapping, tension, fluff, Opie is a cuddler.

Part 19

The Long Way Round - Part 20

The kitchen was filled with the sounds of a perfect summer Saturday—children's laughter drifting through the open windows, the rhythmic spray of the sprinkler hitting the grass, and the gentle hum of the freezer working to transform the colorful mixtures you'd poured into ice pop molds into frozen treats. The afternoon heat made the house feel lazy and comfortable, the kind of day that seemed designed for simple pleasures and easy contentment.

You stood at the counter, methodically filling the last few molds with a cherry-flavored mixture that had already stained your fingers a bright red despite your best efforts to stay clean. Through the kitchen window, you could see Kenny and Ellie racing through the sprinkler in their bathing suits, their delighted shrieks punctuating the peaceful suburban atmosphere. Kenny had abandoned his usual cautious approach to new experiences and was running full-tilt through the spray, while Ellie performed elaborate dance moves that sent water droplets flying in every direction.

The sight of them so carefree and happy made something warm settle in your chest. It had been weeks since you'd seen Kenny truly let loose like this, and Ellie's uninhibited joy was infectious even from a distance. The progress both children had made since your conversation about grief and friendship felt tangible on afternoons like this, when they could simply be kids without the weight of loss shadowing their play.

"They're going to be exhausted tonight," you murmured to yourself, wiping your sticky hands on a kitchen towel as you surveyed the neat rows of ice pop molds waiting for their turn in the freezer. The domestic scene felt perfectly normal, blissfully mundane in a way that you'd learned not to take for granted.

The week since your reconciliation with Opie had been everything you'd hoped it could be—gentle and careful, full of meaningful looks and brief touches that promised more without demanding it immediately. He'd been true to his word about taking things slow, respecting the boundaries you both needed while still making it clear that his feelings hadn't diminished. If anything, the restraint seemed to be intensifying the attraction between you, creating a pleasant tension that hummed beneath your daily interactions.

You were reaching for another ice pop mold when strong hands suddenly appeared around your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter before you could do more than let out a surprised squeal. The movement was so unexpected, so playfully presumptuous, that for a moment you could only sit there with your legs dangling and your heart racing from the sudden rush of being swept off your feet—literally.

"Ope!" you gasped, your hands automatically reaching out to steady yourself against his shoulders as he stepped between your knees, effectively trapping you on the counter with his larger frame.

He was grinning at you with an expression that was part mischief and part something much more heated, his eyes sparkling with the kind of playful confidence that made your stomach flutter in the most delicious way. This was a side of him you'd only caught glimpses of—relaxed and flirtatious, confident in a way that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with the growing intimacy between you.

"What?" he said innocently, though the way his thumbs were tracing small circles on your thighs over your long skirt suggested his intentions were anything but innocent. "Just wanted to get a better look at what you were working on."

The position put you at eye level with him, close enough to see the gold flecks in his dark eyes and catch the scent of motor oil and soap that had become so familiar. Your legs were spread to accommodate his presence between them, creating an intimacy that made your breath catch even as your rational mind reminded you that his children were just outside the window.

"The ice pops are down there," you pointed out, though your voice came out breathier than you'd intended. "This doesn't seem like the most efficient way to inspect them."

"Maybe I wasn't looking at the ice pops," Opie replied, his voice dropping to that low, rough register that never failed to make your pulse quicken. His hands had moved to rest on the counter on either side of you, effectively caging you in without actually restraining you—a subtle display of control that made something warm and liquid curl in your lower belly.

"What are you up to?" you asked, though you were fairly certain you already knew the answer. The heat in his gaze was unmistakable, as was the way his eyes kept dropping to your lips before returning to meet yours with renewed intensity.

"I'm taking Kenny's advice," he said, leaning close enough that his breath ghosted across your ear as he spoke. "Everything tastes better when it's not supposed to be eaten at that time."

The reference to his son's innocent observation about sneaking treats made you laugh despite the way your body was responding to his proximity. "I don't think Ken was talking about this kind of tasting," you said, your hands pressed against his chest where you could feel his heart beating just as rapidly as your own.

"Wasn't he?" Opie asked, pulling back just far enough to meet your eyes again with a smirk. "That's a shame, I'm pretty sure your sweeter than any ice pops."

The interpretation made you shake your head in amused disbelief. Opie's proximity was making you forget everything except the want that was building between you.

"That's not how going slow works," you protested, though the words lacked conviction when he was looking at you like he wanted to devour you right there on his kitchen counter. "Going slow means not getting carried away by moments like this."

"Does it?" he asked, his hands moving to rest on your knees in a touch that was somehow both innocent and incredibly intimate. "Because I thought going slow meant savoring every moment instead of rushing toward some imaginary finish line."

The logic was flawed but appealing, especially when combined with the way his thumbs were drawing lazy patterns on you and the heat in his eyes was making it increasingly difficult to remember why restraint was important.

"You're trouble," you informed him, though you made no move to extract yourself from his embrace or put distance between your bodies.

"Yeah?" he said, leaning closer until his forehead was resting against yours. "What kind of trouble?"

"The kind that makes girls forget they're supposed to be good," you replied without thinking, the words slipping out before you could censor them for their implications.

Something flashed in Opie's eyes at your admission—satisfaction mixed with desire and something that looked almost predatory in its intensity. "Maybe good girls are overrated," he murmured, his voice low and rough in a way that made you shiver despite the afternoon heat.

The space between you had dwindled to almost nothing, and you could feel the tension building like electricity in the air. His lips were close enough that you could feel his breath against your mouth, and for a moment it seemed inevitable that the careful restraint you'd both been maintaining would finally snap under the weight of mutual desire.

You were just beginning to lean into him, your eyes drifting closed in anticipation of a kiss that felt both forbidden and necessary, when the sound of footsteps on the front porch shattered the intimate bubble that had formed around you.

"Am I interrupting something?" Jax's voice carried from the front door, laced with amusement and the kind of perfect timing that suggested he'd deliberately chosen this moment to arrive.

"Shit," Opie muttered under his breath, though he didn't immediately step away from you.

You practically launched yourself off the counter, your face burning with embarrassment as you tried to smooth down your hair and clothing while Opie took a reluctant step back to give you space. The shift from intimate moment to normal kitchen scene happened so quickly it left you feeling disoriented and slightly breathless.

"Just helping with the ice pops," Opie said, his voice remarkably steady considering the circumstances, though you could see the frustration in his expression at the untimely interruption.

"Uh-huh," Jax replied, appearing in the kitchen doorway with a knowing smirk that suggested he wasn't buying the innocent explanation for a second. "Looked like some pretty hands-on help from where I was standing."

You busied yourself with arranging the ice pop molds with more attention than the task required, hoping your face would return to its normal color before you had to make eye contact with Jax. The embarrassment was acute but not entirely unpleasant—there was something thrilling about being caught in a moment of passion, even if the timing had been less than ideal.

"What's up, brother?" Opie asked, moving toward the refrigerator to grab two beers with the kind of casual ease that suggested private moments being interrupted was a regular occurrence between these old friends.

"Just wanted to check in," Jax said, accepting the beer Opie offered while his eyes continued to dance with amusement. "See how things were going around here."

The loaded way he said "things" suggested he was referring to more than just general life updates, and you felt heat creep up your neck again as you realized both men were probably aware of the tension that had been building between you and Opie over the past week.

"Things are good," you managed to say, finally looking up from the ice pop molds to offer Jax a smile that you hoped appeared more composed than you felt. "The kids are having a great day with the sprinkler."

"I can see that," Jax said, glancing out the window where Kenny and Ellie were still racing through the water spray with undiminished enthusiasm. "They look happy. Relaxed."

There was something in his tone that suggested he was making an observation about more than just the children's mood, and you wondered if the positive changes in the household dynamic were obvious to outside observers. The thought made you feel both pleased and slightly self-conscious about how transparent your growing relationship with Opie might be.

"Why don't we take these outside?" Opie suggested, holding up his beer in a gesture that clearly indicated he wanted to talk to Jax privately. "Let the Lady finish her ice pop project in peace."

It was probably for the best given how flustered you still felt from your interrupted moment. Some distance would give you time to collect yourself and return your focus to appropriate afternoon activities rather than dwelling on the heat that had been building between you and Opie's hands on you.

"Good idea," you said, turning back to the counter with perhaps more enthusiasm than ice pop preparation typically warranted. "I'll just finish getting these ready for the freezer."

As the two men headed toward the back door, you caught Jax throwing a significant look in Opie's direction—the kind of meaningful glance that passed between friends who had a lot to discuss once they were out of earshot. The interaction made you curious about what kind of club business might have brought Jax by on a Saturday afternoon, though you'd learned it was better not to ask too many questions about SAMCRO matters.

The back porch provided the perfect vantage point for watching Kenny and Ellie's continued assault on the sprinkler while offering enough privacy for the kind of conversation that couldn't happen in front of civilian ears. Opie settled into one of the weathered chairs with his beer, trying to project the casual ease that came naturally to him while also processing the residual frustration from Jax's perfectly timed interruption.

"So," Jax said, settling into the adjacent chair with the kind of relaxed posture that suggested he planned to stay for a while. "Want to tell me what that was really about in there?"

"What what was about?" Opie replied, though he knew the innocent act wouldn't fool his best friend for more than a few seconds.

Jax gave him a look that was equal parts amused and exasperated. "Brother, I've known you for most of my life. I know what you look like when you're 'helping with ice pops,' and that wasn't it."

The accuracy of the observation made Opie take a long pull of his beer while he considered how much he wanted to share about the evolving situation with you. On one hand, Jax was his best friend and VP, someone whose advice and perspective he valued on most matters. On the other hand, what was developing between him and you felt precious and fragile, something that might not survive too much outside scrutiny or analysis.

"Things are... progressing," he said finally, choosing his words carefully. "Slowly. But progressing."

"Slowly?" Jax repeated with a knowing smirk. "Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were about ready to christen that kitchen counter in front of God and everybody."

Heat crept up Opie's neck at the accurate assessment, though he couldn't entirely regret the moment that had been interrupted. The memory of you perched on his counter, flushed and looking at him like he was something you wanted to consume, was going to fuel his fantasies for weeks.

"We're trying to be smart about it," he said, deflecting with practical considerations rather than addressing the desire that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. "The kids, the situation, everything that's happened... it's complicated."

"Complicated how?" Jax asked, his tone shifting slightly toward the more serious register he used when discussing matters that actually mattered. "Because those kids look happier than I've seen them since Donna died, and you look like you're finally remembering what it feels like to be alive."

The observation hit closer to home than Opie was comfortable admitting. It was true that the past few weeks had felt different—lighter somehow, filled with possibilities that had nothing to do with club business or the weight of single parenthood. Having you in his life had restored a sense of balance he hadn't realized he'd lost, a reminder that he was more than just a grieving widower trying to hold his family together.

"She's good for us," he admitted quietly, watching Kenny attempt an elaborate somersault through the sprinkler spray. "For all of us. I don't want to fuck that up by moving too fast or pushing for more than she's ready to give."

"And what is she ready to give?" Jax asked, his tone carrying genuine curiosity rather than mere prurient interest.

Opie was quiet for a moment, considering how to articulate the delicate balance you'd both been trying to maintain. "Think she's a bit skittish about trusting people," he said finally. "We're taking it slow, building something real instead of just acting on attraction."

"Smart," Jax acknowledged, though there was something in his expression that suggested he had more to say on the subject. "But brother, at some point 'taking it slow' starts looking a lot like 'being afraid to take a real chance.' And from what I just saw, you're both past the point where you can pretend this is just about the kids."

The conversation might have continued in that vein, focused on the complexities of new relationships and emotional risk-taking, but something shifted in Jax's demeanor that suggested he had more pressing matters on his mind. The relaxed posture became more alert, and his eyes took on the focused quality that appeared whenever club business demanded attention.

"We need to talk about something else," Jax said, his voice dropping to the tone reserved for matters that couldn't be overheard by anyone outside the club. "Something important."

Opie's attention sharpened immediately, the pleasant afternoon conversation forgotten as he shifted into the mental space required for SAMCRO business. "What's going on?"

"Abel," Jax said simply, and the single word carried enough weight to make Opie's stomach clench with dread.

The kidnapping of Jax's infant son had been the kind of nightmare that haunted every parent in their world, a reminder of how quickly personal happiness could be destroyed by the violence that followed the club wherever it went. The entire organization had been mobilized in the search efforts, but so far there had been more questions than answers.

"We got a lead," Jax continued, his voice carefully controlled despite the emotion Opie could see building behind his eyes. "Evidence suggests he was taken to Belfast. Ireland."

The implications of that information hit Opie like a physical blow. Belfast meant IRA connections, international complications that would require resources and time that could stretch into weeks or months. It also meant that any rescue effort would take club members far from home, away from their families and responsibilities for an indefinite period.

"How solid is the intelligence?" Opie asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer from the grim determination in Jax's expression.

"Solid enough that we're planning a trip," Jax replied. "Clay's already making arrangements. We'll probably leave within the week."

The casual way he said "we" made it clear that Opie was expected to be part of whatever rescue mission was being planned, and the weight of that expectation settled over him like a familiar burden. SAMCRO was family, and when family was in trouble, personal considerations took a back seat to brotherhood and loyalty.

But for the first time in his life as a Son, the prospect of dropping everything for club business felt complicated rather than automatic. There were Kenny and Ellie to consider, of course, but there was also you—the relationship that was just beginning to develop, the trust that had been carefully built and could be easily damaged by a unexplained absence.

"For how long?" he asked, though he suspected the answer would be unsatisfying.

"As long as it takes," Jax said simply. "Could be a few days, could be a few weeks. Depends on what we find when we get there and how cooperative SAMBEL decide to be."

Opie nodded, processing the information while trying to figure out how to explain this to both you and the kids.

"Have you told her about any of this?" Jax asked, apparently reading his thoughts. "About Abel, about what happened?"

"No," Opie admitted, taking another sip of beer to buy himself time to organize his thoughts. "I didn't want to worry her with something she couldn't do anything about. And it's connected to club business in ways that..."

He trailed off, but Jax understood the implication. The kidnapping of Abel was tied to the complicated web of alliances and enemies that defined SAMCRO's existence, involving players and motivations that couldn't be explained without revealing details about illegal activities and international connections that were better kept secret.

"I get it," Jax said. "But brother, you're going to have to tell her something. Because if we're going to Belfast, you're going to be gone for an unknown amount of time, and she deserves better than another vague explanation about 'club business.'"

The truth of Jax's words settled over Opie like a weight he wasn't sure how to carry. A unexplained absence, especially one that could last for weeks, had the potential to destroy the trust you'd been carefully building.

But the alternative—explaining the full scope of SAMCRO's activities, the international connections and violent realities that defined their world—felt equally dangerous. You were innocent in ways that seemed increasingly rare in his life, untouched by the moral ambiguities and casual violence that had become second nature to him. Pulling you deeper into that world felt like a betrayal of everything he valued about your presence in his life.

"There's really only two ways to handle this," Jax continued, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd wrestled with similar dilemmas in his own relationship. "You either tell her nothing and hope she doesn't ask too many questions, or you tell her everything and hope she can handle it."

"And if she can't handle it?" Opie asked, voicing the fear that had been growing in the back of his mind since the moment he'd realized his feelings for you were becoming serious.

"Then you'll know where you stand," Jax said simply. "But brother, you can't build something real on a foundation of secrets. At some point, she's going to need to know who you really are and what your life actually looks like."

The observation was uncomfortably accurate, touching on insecurities Opie had been trying to ignore about the sustainability of a relationship that required him to hide such a fundamental part of his existence.

[tinyshyteacup]

• Samcro vs TikTok •

S A M C R O R E A C T I O N S

TW: threats to women, pranks, lessons in respect, cussing, canon typical violence.

A/N: tried to do a reaction thingy, but also made it kind of a story ? Also 1st time writing Jax and Tig so be gentle lol. 😅

Tig Trager

The air smells like oil and old leather, and Tig’s grin has trouble written all over it. He’s leaning against the bar, tapping his ringed fingers on the counter, eyes locked on you with that restless blue gleam that means he’s about to do something stupid. Juice has just explained the trend, and now Tig’s gaze flicks between the phone in Juice's hand and your unsuspecting form, flipping through a worn magazine at the bar.

He saunters closer, boots heavy against the wood floor. “So, doll…” he drawls, voice syrupy-sweet.

You look up, already suspicious. “Tig—”

He lunges halfway forward, jerky and loud, hands shooting out as if he’s about to grab your shoulders.

But you don’t flinch.

You blink once, unimpressed, eyes narrowing.

Tig freezes, hands hovering midair. The smirk dies.

“…You were supposed to—”

You snap the magazine shut, hard enough to make him jump this time.

“You pull thus shit again, you better flinch,” you mutter, sliding off the stool.

Chibs is wheezing in the corner, Jax is half choking on his beer, and Tig’s standing there like a scolded dog.

“She didn’t even twitch,” Jax laughs.

“Yeah,” Tig mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Think I just discovered I’m the one who flinches.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Happy Lowman

Tig’s still arguing about his failed attempt, Jax is goading Chibs, and Juice is replaying footage of the trend. But Happy’s in his chair at the corner table, quiet and watching.

You’re curled up on the couch nearby, scrolling through your phone headphones on, when Juice calls over, “C’mon, Hap, your turn!”

Happy doesn’t even look up. “No.”

Tig laughs. “What, scared she’ll deck ya?”

Happy’s gaze lifts—slow, measured. “No,” he says again, tone flat. “I don’t raise my hand toward her. Ever.”

It’s not loud, but it silences the room. That’s just how Happy is—no posturing, no joke.

You glance up at him, warmth curling in your chest as you give him a smile. He meets your eyes, and that faint almost-smile softens his face before he jerks his chin at you.

You stand, pad over to him, and drop onto the chair beside him. “Hey Hap,” you murmur as he loops his arm around you pulling you close.

He leans down pressing a kiss to your temple.

Tig groans, “Man, you’re ruining the fun!”

“Ain’t funny.” Happy's glare doesnt falter, blade glinting under the blue light. “Its respect.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Jax Teller

The clubhouse door’s propped open, California sunlight spilling in golden through the haze. Jax is in his element—smile easy and sharp.

You’re sitting on the arm of the couch, talking to one of the croweaters and laughing when he sidles over, casual as anything.

He’s grinning already, that kind of grin that means you’re about to regret trusting him.

“Hey there Darlin',” he says, voice all velvet.

You look up, smiling. “what do you want, Teller?”

He suddenly jerks his arm forward, fast—hand coming toward your face in a fake lunge.

Your body reacts before your brain does—you flinch back, eyes wide, hand half raised.

He freezes mid-motion, laughter bursting from him. “Oh, shit! You flinched!”

You exhale hard, glaring. “Your an asshole!”

He’s laughing so hard he’s doubled over, wiping tears from his eyes. “That was perfect.”

You grab the nearest thing—a coaster—and hurl it at him. It hits his chest and bounces off, but you see the flicker of guilt behind his grin. He leans in, wraps an arm around you.

“C’mon, darlin’. Just a bit of fun.”

“Fun for you maybe,” you mutter.

He kisses your neck, voice low. “Still love me though.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Juice Ortiz

The garage is half-lit, late afternoon bleeding into dusk. Music hums low from someone’s phone. You’re leaning against a toolbox, flipping through a calendar in the office while Juice films Tig attempting a redo of the challenge. The second Tig fails again, Juice’s eyes spark with mischief.

“Okay, okay, my turn,” he says, turning the camera on himself. “I’m gonna do it—for science.”

Your still in the office bent over paperwork.

He steps toward you fast—not menacing, just sudden—with wide eyes and exaggerated motion, hands up and yells.

"BOO!"

You squeal, Instinct takes over.

Your elbow snaps back before your brain catches up —a quick, startled move. It connects solidly with his ribs.

“Ow—!” he wheezes, staggering back and clutching his side.

You whirl around, horrified. “Juice! Oh my god, I’m sorry!”

He’s half laughing, half groaning, eyes wide. “No, no, that’s on me! Totally on me—ahh, yeah, that’s—ow, okay, that’s gonna bruise.”

You cover your mouth, torn between laughter and guilt. “You scared me! What were you thinking?”

He starts talking too fast, hands fluttering. “I—uh, I we saw the trend and thought maybe, you know, it’d be funny? Like, cute-funny? Not terrifying-funny. Totally miscalculated the trajectory of—of your reflexes.”

You’re laughing now, and he’s still spiraling. “I swear I wasn’t trying to—hurt or startle, like, that startle. You’ve got quick reflexes! Which is, uh, awesome! Totally badass! I’m proud—ow, ow—of you.”

“Juice,” you interrupt, gently pressing a hand to his chest.“Breathe.”

He blinks. “Right. Breathing. Breathing’s good.”

You reach up, smoothing your hand over the spot where you hit him. “You okay?”

He grins sheepishly. “Yeah. My ego’s the only thing bruised. Well—my ribs a little too.”

You lean in and kiss his cheek. “That’s what you get for scaring me.”

He chuckles, eyes soft. “Lesson learned. No more surprise attacks. From now on, only hugs from the front, I promise.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Opie Winston

The garage hums low with the steady tick of cooling engines. You’re sitting on his workbench, swinging your legs, reading through a crumpled receipt like it’s a map to something important. Opie’s watching you from across the room—quiet, soft amusement tugging at his mouth. Jax had shown him that stupid trend Juice had been talking about earlier, teasing, “Your girl wouldn’t even blink, big man.”

So now he’s watching you, debating. You look so peaceful, so lost in your own head, that it feels wrong to ruin it—but he thinks, just once, maybe it’ll be funny.

He steps closer, silent as always, until his shadow falls over you. You look up just as he says, “Hey,”— voice low—and then half-lunges forward, playful.

The sound you make isn’t laughter. It’s a small, startled gasp, sharp and broken at the edges. You jerk back, eyes wide, heart hammering in your throat.

Opie freezes mid-step. The look on your face drains the humor right out of him.

“Hey—hey, hey, I’m sorry.” His voice is rough, guilt-laced. His hands hover uselessly before settling at his sides. “Didn’t mean to—shit, I didn’t think you’d—”

You’re still trying to breathe, adrenaline buzzing in your chest. He takes a careful step closer, lowering his voice. “I swear it's just some dumb prank. Just me being dumb id never...”

You swallow, nod, and he exhales slow, brushing a thumb against your cheek.

“Guess I ain’t built for surprises,” he mutters softly, a sheepish smirk stretching across his mouth.

You manage a weak laugh. “You… kinda terrified me.”

He grimaces. “Yeah. I’m an idiot.”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closing. “Never again,” he murmurs. “No more stupid trends.”

You smile faintly, . “You’re forgiven. Ope.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice rumbling low against your skin. “Still takin’ you and the kids out though.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Chibs Telford

The night air outside the clubhouse is cool, sharp with the scent of exhaust and whiskey. You’re perched on the steps, tracing lazy circles on the wooden rail while Chibs leans beside you, cigarette glowing red in the dark.

Inside, laughter filters out shouting, commentary, and someone’s spilled beer again—the usual chaos.

Chibs glances at you out of the corner of his eye, smirking. “Ye know, they’ve been tryin’ to get me to do that stupid trend.”

You glance back, amused. “Not tempted, Scotsman?”

He snorts softly. “What sort of man raises his hand toward his Old Lady, even in jest?”

The warmth in his voice softens you instantly. His tone is teasing, but the conviction beneath it is real. You study him for a beat—the way his salt and pepper hair catches the light, the faint lines at the corner of his eyes.

He flicks the cigarette away and turns fully toward you, that lopsided grin ghosting across his mouth. “No, love. I’d sooner cut off me hand than make ye flinch.”

You smile, a little flutter in your chest. “You know that’s a bit dramatic, right?”

“Aye,” he says with a chuckle, “but makes the point, doesn’t it?”

You reach up, fingers brushing his jaw. “You’re a good man, Filip.”

He hums, leaning into your touch. “Och, don’t spread that around. Ruins me reputation.”

You laugh softly. “Your secret’s safe.”

He pulls you in then, slow and certain, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Let the lads play their games,” he murmurs. “I’d rather spend me time remindin’ ye there’s no reason t’ flinch.”

---------------------------------------------------------

The Switch Flips

The night hums with music—something low and bass-heavy pulsing through the clubhouse. You’re perched near the bar, laughing softly as Juice rambles through another half-finished story, hands flying, voice tripping over itself. He’s pure light like that—always moving, always chattering, always kinda perfect.

He leaves for a minute to grab another round, and that’s when one of the hang-arounds gets too comfortable. He’s been drinking too much, trying to impress the club, thinking he’s one of them. The guy grins, phone in hand, nodding toward you.

“Hey, Juice’s Old Lady, right? Lemme just—”

He swings a hand toward your face. You jerk back, startled—not hurt, but frozen in disbelief.

Before you can even process what just happened, the air changes. Juice is there. You don’t even see him cross the room—just feel it.

He grabs the guy by the front of his kutte, slamming him back against the bar hard enough that bottles rattle and crash to the floor. The sound dies instantly. Music, laughter—all gone. Just Juice, and a look you've never seen on your Old Man's face.

It’s not the nervous, talk-too-fast Juice you know. It’s silent, cold, and terrifyingly still.

His jaw’s tight, eyes wide and dark, teeth bared just enough to flash something feral beneath the light.

“You touch her again,” he says, voice low and sharp, “You'll never lift a hand toward anyone ever again.”

The guy stutters something—an apology maybe—but Juice doesn’t seem to hear it. He’s breathing too fast, nostrils flaring, fingers twitching like he’s one blink away from breaking the guy’s nose.

“Juice,” you whisper, stepping closer. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

That’s when he hears you.

His eyes flick to you—and suddenly, it’s like watching someone surface from a nightmare. The tension drains all at once. He lets go of the hang-around, who scrambles away, practically tripping over himself.

Juice’s chest heaves, eyes darting between you and the mess he just made.

“I—I’m sorry, baby I just” he blurts, voice cracking. “He— he just—babe you looked scared, and I—I lost it, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

You step closer, lay a hand on his chest.

He’s shaking. “Hey. It’s okay.”

He swallows hard, nodding, words tumbling over each other now. “I swear, I wasn’t—I did I scare you. Im sorry I just—I saw him, and my brain went—” He gestures wildly. “—dark. Really dark.”

You reach up and touch his cheek, gently. “You didn’t scare me, you never scare me.” you say softly. “Just surprised me. You protected me.”

He leans into your hand, eyes wide, voice small now. “I don’t ever want you to see me like that again.”

You shake your head. “You don’t need to apologize for defending me, Juan.”

He exhales shakily, then forces a weak smile. “Still… gonna make it up to you. Maybe cupcakes? Or, like, that caramel popcorn you like?”

You smile, pulling him into a hug. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles into your shoulder, voice muffled, “but I’m your ridiculous.”

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Gemma Teller-Morrow

It’s late afternoon in the clubhouse. There’s that usual low rumble of voices, the jukebox humming some half-broken rock ballad, and Gemma Teller-Morrow is in her element—perched on the edge of the bar, cigarette in hand, gold bangles catching the light, giving the new prospect that half-lidded look that means don’t waste my time, kid.

The boy’s nervous but riding that stupid wave of bravado that comes with fresh patches and too much attention from the wrong crowd. He’s seen the “flinch trend” video that’s been bouncing around the clubhouse and figures he’ll score a laugh if he tries it on Gemma herself.

Gemma. The queen of SAMCRO. The woman you don’t mess with.

He steps up to her, phone half hidden in his palm. “Hey, Miss Teller,” he says, that greasy grin spreading.

He lunges forward suddenly, a fake swing, fast enough that most women would jerk back.

Gemma doesn’t even blink. She exhales smoke right into his face.

The air goes cold.

From across the room, a barstool screeches.

Tig was halfway through a drink—sees the move— and in an instant, the glass hits the floor and shatters.

Before the kid even processes what’s happening, Tig’s on him. He slams into the prospect, grabs him by the collar, and drags him back so hard the kid’s heels scrape across the wood.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU KID?!” Tig’s voice is a growl, cracked and wild, echoing off the walls.

Gemma sighs, flicks ash into an empty beer bottle, watching like it’s a rerun she’s seen a thousand times. “Oh, here we go,” she mutters.

The prospect’s babbling now. “It was just— it was a joke—”

Tig doesn’t hear him. He slams the kid up against the wall, eyes blown wide, veins up his neck. “You don’t touch her, you don’t pretend to touch her, you don’t even look sideways at Gemma fuckin’ Teller, d'you hear me? You breathe wrong around her, I’ll take your fingers off one by one and make you eat them!”

The prospect nods frantically, eyes wide. “Y-yes— yes, sir!”

Gemma finally speaks, voice calm, low, full of steel. “Tig.”

He freezes, chest heaving.

“Put him down,” she says, not even raising her tone. “He’s learned his lesson.”

Tig hesitates, still trembling with fury, then lets go. The kid drops like a sack of potatoes, stumbling back, face pale.

Gemma tilts her head, giving the prospect that cat-and-mouse smile. “Sweetheart, if you ever try that again, it won’t be Tig you have to worry about.” Her eyes narrow. “It’ll be me.”

The boy nods, mutters something that might be “Yes ma’am,” and bolts for the door.

Tig’s still breathing hard, watching him go, then turns to Gemma, voice ragged. “You okay?”

She smirks, crushing her cigarette out. “Please. Takes more than that to make me flinch.”

He huffs out something between a laugh and a growl, shaking his head. “You scare the shit outta me, Gemma.”

She pats his cheek like he’s a good dog that just bit a burglar. “That’s why you love me, honey.”

Tig mutters, “Damn right, we all do.”

Gemma fixes Tig with that look that can level a man faster than a gun.

“Jesus Christ, Tiggy” she says, voice cool but cutting. “You really think you need to go full psycho every time somebody breathes near me?”

Tig’s still glaring at the door the prospect disappeared through, jaw flexing. “He lunged at you, Gem. You don’t do that shit.”

Gemma leans back against the bar, crosses her arms. “You boys been doing it to your Old Ladies all damn week,” she says, eyes narrowing. “You scare them, they smack you, everybody laughs. Don’t start acting like the rules change when it’s me.”

Tig blinks, sputtering. “That’s—that’s different!”

Her brows lift. “How, exactly?”

Tig’s shoulders drop a little, guilt creeping in through the cracks of his temper. He runs a hand through his hair.

She lets out a dry laugh, low and knowing. “Yeah, don’t go playing knight in shining leather now, shithead.”

Gemma, pushes off the bar. “And next time, let me be the one to teach him what stupid looks like, huh?”

That gets him to laugh—just barely—rough and shaky, but real. “Deal,” he says.

“Good boy,” she says patting his cheek and turning away, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Now go clean up your mess before Clay comes in and starts asking why the wall’s dented.”

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Chapel

The chapel smells like stale smoke and oil. The reaper table gleams under the flickering overhead light, scarred from years of bottles, and bad tempers. Every chair is filled—patches and prospects alike sitting tight, the air heavy with the weight of whats been happening.

Happy sits at the far end, knife turning slow between his fingers. Beside him, Chibs leans back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. Clay’s at the head of the table, watching the room with that kind of patience that’s seconds from cracking.

Tig’s trying not to meet anyone’s eye. Juice looks like he wants to disappear into the floorboards.

Clay clears his throat. “Alright. Hap, Chibs—Let’s hear it.”

Happy sets the knife down. The sound of metal on wood rings through the room like a warning.

His voice is low, controlled—the kind that makes every man in the room sit straighter. “You think this ‘flinch challenge’ shit is funny? You think it’s cute to raise your hand—to an Old Lady? To your own Girl?”

The room’s dead silent. Even Tig’s fidgeting stops.

Happy’s gaze cuts to the prospect who flinched at Juice's old lady. The kid can’t hold it. He drops his eyes.

“We don't play games with our women,” Happy growls, voice dropping even lower. “We don’t make them think for half a second we would ever hurt ‘em.”

He leans back, jaw working, then gestures toward Chibs.

Chibs exhales slow, rubbing a hand over his face. “Christ, lads…” he mutters, accent thickening with his temper. “Ye’ve forgotten what it means to wear that patch, eh? Respect—it ain’t just for the road or goddamn hierarchy. It’s for everyone under this roof.”

He looks toward Juice, then around the table. “We live in fuckin' chaos every day. Out there,” — he jerks his thumb toward the door.

“We’re monsters when we have to be. But in here?” He thumps the table. “In here we dinnae bring that home. We dinnae bring fear tae the women who love us.”

His tone drops to something colder, quieter. “If a man can’t do that—then he’s not fit to wear the reaper.”

There’s a long, heavy pause. Clay nods once, slow, then leans forward, elbows on the table.

“With the shit we do,” he says, voice rough as gravel, “You’d think you bunch of idiots would know better.”

He glares at the table, scanning each face. “We run guns, we live on the edge of a war zone half the damn time—and somehow, this clubhouse still manages to feel like home because of those women out there.” He stabs a finger toward the wall separating chapel from the bar. “You start makin’ ‘em feel unsafe here, you burn down the only safe place we got left.”

He leans back, chair creaking. “No more of this trend bullshit. No fake swings. No scaring your Old Ladies. You got that?”

A chorus of quiet “Yes, Pres.” ripples through the room.

Clay’s gaze hardens on the offenders. “Prospect, you’re on cleanup for the next two weeks. You so much as breathe wrong in Gemma's direction again, you’ll be polishing bikes with a damn toothbrush.”

Happy gives a curt nod. Chibs just leans back, muttering.

The gavel hits the table once. “Meeting adjourned.”

The men rise, some sheepish, some thoughtful, boots heavy on the old floorboards as they file out.