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I’ll Make You Regret It

Jax x Reader

Word Count: 4347

Summary: When a rich prick comes up to you at a bonfire making advances, things take a violent turn as Jax gets jealous and you defend yourself

Warnings: physical violence, crude remarks, cussing, light drug usage, drinking, blood

Kaleb Hennings was an asshole.

Everyone in Charming knew it. He was the kind of guy who laughed too loud, drank too much, and thought every girl secretly wanted him. You had told him no more times than you could count, but the word never seemed to stick. Especially when he was drunk.

The night had started out good though. Better than you expected. The junkyard was buzzing with life, music spilling from someone’s old truck stereo, headlights cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke and dust. The smell of oil and beer hung thick in the air. It was the kind of place that teens associated with freedom, where rusted metal and broken engines became the backdrop to whatever kind of chaos the night promised.

Someone had passed around a bottle of Jack, and it burned its way down your throat until you felt warm and weightless. Jax’s hand had been resting lazily on your thigh, thumb tracing small circles against your jeans, his laughter low and familiar in your ear. It felt easy, the kind of easy that only existed when it was the two of you.

Every now and then, he’d lean in to say something, and the smell of smoke and beer clung to him, that mix of danger and comfort that always made your heart stutter.

You really didn’t want to go out tonight, but when Jax looked at you with that grin of his — the one that pulled at the corner of his mouth and made you forget how to think — you caved. You always did.

The junkyard glowed under the flickering firelight, the night alive with the sound of laughter, clinking bottles, and distant engines revving for the hell of it. You watched Jax and Opie toss bottle caps at a tire rim, laughing when Opie missed. It was the kind of night that made you forget how small Charming really was, how fast it could swallow you whole if you let it.

You thought maybe this would be one of those rare good nights. You would drink a little more, maybe sneak away with Jax to the back of the lot where it was quiet. He would press you against the hood of Opie’s truck, his hands warm and rough, the world fading into the hum of cicadas and the sound of his laughter.

The three of you — you, Jax, and Opie — had fallen into that easy rhythm you always did. You teased each other, passed around a joint, and laughed until your sides hurt. For a while, you forgot about the rest of the world. It was just you and them, tucked in the middle of nowhere, safe in the kind of reckless comfort only youth and loyalty could buy.

At least until Opie’s attention was drawn to something more entertaining. There was a brunette who had been hovering all night, making small talk with Ope, until finally she tugged him away, and he went willingly, flashing you a half-smirk as he disappeared into the dark toward the back of the lot. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head.

Typical.

That was what you were thinking when Jax stood, brushing dirt off his jeans. “Need another round,” he said, flashing you that look that promised he wouldn’t be long. You nodded, smiling at him as he disappeared through the crowd, his blond hair catching the glow of the fire as he walked away.

For a moment, you just sat there, soaking in the sound of the night. The fire popped, someone shouted across the lot, and you leaned back against the tire stack, feeling the metal still warm from the day’s sun. It was peaceful in a loud, reckless kind of way.

That was until Kaleb Hennings decided to ruin it.

You caught sight of him before he reached you, weaving through the crowd with a half-empty bottle dangling from his hand, a grin too wide for someone who feigned confidence. You felt your shoulders tense as he stumbled closer, the smell of cheap whiskey hitting you before his voice did.

“Didn’t think I’d find you here alone,” he slurred, dropping down beside you on an old tire as if he belonged there. His thigh brushed yours, and you inched away, your jaw tightening. The easy calm of the night started to splinter.

You didn’t look at him. “I’m not alone. Jax will be back any minute.”

Kaleb laughed under his breath. “Yeah, sure he will. Probably off flirting with some other chick. You think he’s really that loyal?”

“He’s not like that,” you said, still staring straight ahead.

“Oh, come on.” His tone dropped, low and mocking. “He’s a guy. We all are. We take what’s offered. And you…” His eyes dragged slowly over you, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You don’t exactly make it hard to look.”

Your shoulders stiffened, but you kept your voice steady. “You’re drunk. You should stop talking before you say something stupid.”

“Too late for that.” He chuckled and leaned closer, his knee brushing yours again. “I’m just saying, if I were him, I wouldn’t leave you sittin’ here alone. Not with a mouth like that.”

You finally turned your head, glaring at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Kaleb grinned, leaning back like he was enjoying himself. “It means a girl like you shouldn’t waste her time waiting on some tool with grease under his nails. You could do better.”

You clenched your jaw. “And by better, you mean you?”

“Now you’re catching on,” he said, the words slow and deliberate. He lifted his beer bottle, took a long drink, then looked at you over the rim. “You’re smokin’ hot, sweetheart. Always have been. Don’t pretend you don’t know it. But being Teller’s girl? That’s a waste. You’re too pretty to be riding shotgun with a loser, letting him get his hands all over you like you’re his personal trophy.”

Your stomach twisted. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Sure I do.” He smirked wider. “Everyone knows you two sneak off after parties. You think people don’t notice? He probably tells the guys all about it too. How good you sound when—”

“Kaleb.” Your voice cracked like a whip, low and cold. “Shut. Up.”

But he didn’t.

He leaned in until you could smell the alcohol on his breath. “What, did I hit a nerve? Or are you mad because I’m right? Bet you like it when he talks dirty to you. Bet you like when he makes you—”

You shoved at his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble off balance, your pulse roaring in your ears. “You’re disgusting.”

Kaleb steadied himself, his grin warping into something meaner. “You act all innocent, but I see it. I see the way you look at him. You’re the type that pretends to be too good until someone gets you alone. Then you can’t help yourself, can you?”

You scowled, your hands trembling, voice rising despite yourself. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me or Jax.”

He leaned closer, his tone dropping into a low, mocking whisper. “Then tell me, sweetheart. Does he make you beg for it, or do you just give it up easy?”

You froze.

The words hit you like a slap, shame and fury crashing together until you could barely breathe. You wanted to throw a drink in his face, wanted to shove him hard enough to knock that smirk clean off — but you were alone, surrounded by nothing but shadows and firelight, and something in his eyes told you he’d only enjoy it if you fought.

So you tried to keep your voice steady, even though your chest was burning. “You really think talking like that makes you a man?”

Kaleb chuckled, inching closer until his boots scuffed against yours. “You wouldn’t know the difference. Teller sure as hell doesn’t.”

You swallowed hard, your voice breaking when you finally spoke. “You need to back off.”

He tilted his head, grinning. “Why? You scared he’ll hear? Or scared you’ll like it?”

Your breath caught. The space between you felt smaller than it should, too close, too dangerous. You could feel the heat from his body, the rank sweetness of alcohol on his skin.

You slid to the edge of the tire, unable to move anymore without hitting the ground. “Get away from me, Kaleb.”

He reached out suddenly, his fingers brushing your wrist, his thumb skimming the inside like he meant to test how far he could go. “Relax, I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, smiling that crooked smile that made your stomach twist. “Just saying, if Teller ever gets bored, you know where to find me. But it’s not like you’re gonna push me away.”

“Let go.”

He didn’t.

He held on for just a beat too long, long enough for something sharp to rise in your throat — panic, rage, something that made your breath shake. Then, finally, he let go, his grin smug and ugly. “Didn’t think so.”

Your heart was hammering. The fire popped again, loud enough to make you flinch. You could feel the heat on your face, the urge to cry or scream sitting heavy in your chest.

And then you heard it — the scrape of boots on gravel.

Slow. Deliberate.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“Everything good here?”

That voice, that sound, that quiet fury that could make a whole room fall silent.

Kaleb’s smirk faltered. He turned his head toward the sound, the confidence draining from his face the second he saw who stood just beyond the firelight.

Jax.

Beer bottle in hand. Eyes cold as stone.

And in that moment, everything went still.

Kaleb smirked, “Teller. Was just keeping your girl company while you were off gettin’ another round. Didn’t want her gettin’ lonely.”

You forced a breath through your nose, your pulse hammering as you remained planted. “It’s fine, Jax. We were just talking.”

Jax’s eyes didn’t move. “That right?” His voice was low, even. Dangerous in the way a blade is dangerous before it cuts.

“Yeah, man.” Kaleb’s smirk widened. “Nothing serious. She was telling me how sweet you are to her. Real gentleman, huh?”

You could hear the lie in his voice, the mocking curl under every word. You swallowed, trying to keep your tone light. “Kaleb was just leaving.”

But Kaleb ignored you, tipping his bottle toward Jax. “Guess I should’ve known you’d come stormin’ over the second someone said hi to your girl. Can’t say I blame you. She’s somethin’, huh?”

Jax’s jaw flexed. His shoulders rolled like he was working to keep himself steady. “Get the fuck away from her.”

Kaleb laughed, not moving an inch. “Easy, man. You gonna get all territorial now? What’s the matter — worried she’ll realize she can do better?”

“Kaleb,” you snapped, the sound sharper than you meant it to be. “That’s enough.”

He barely looked at you. “Come on, I’m just talking. We’re all friends here, right?”

“Not me,” Jax said, his voice like gravel. “Ain’t ever been your friend.” He took a slow step forward, eyes locked on Kaleb. “No one here likes you. You’re just too damn stupid to notice.”

That grin on Kaleb’s face faltered for the briefest moment, then came back meaner. “You think you’re hot shit, Teller, just ‘cause you can get any girl you want and a patch in your daddy’s club. But you’re still just white trash playin’ biker.”

You stood up fast, putting a hand on Jax’s chest before he could close the distance between him and Kaleb. His heart was pounding under your palm, every muscle in his body coiled tight as wire. “Jax, don’t,” you said under your breath, desperate.

The firelight made Kaleb's grin look sinister. The ember glow enhanced his bloodshot eyes. The music seemed to thin, the laughter around the lot dimming like the world was sliding out of tune.

“Yeah Jax, don’t.” Kaleb mocks before turning his attention back to you. “You stay with white trash like Teller,” he says, slow and slick, eyes on you with that vile hunger Kaleb always wore like a badge, “well I hate to say it, sweetheart, but you’ll be nothing more than a junkie whore before you’re twenty five.”

The words hang in the air and you can’t even think. They don’t land and process in your head the way insults usually do. They explode. Color drains from everything and you are seeing red from the inside out. Your pulse roars in your ears so loud for a second you can’t hear Jax’s breath or Kaleb’s smug sip of beer.

Your hands clench.

You taste metal.

Jax’s jaw tightens. He takes a breath like he’s going to do what men like him always do, which is to move first and ask questions later. You can feel his anger coiling, see it work under his skin. You know what he’ll do if you let him. You know how the night could end in cuffs or worse, with lawyers and headlines of a rich boy playing victim.

You refuse to let Jax trade himself for your dignity.

Without thinking you lunge. Your hand flashes out and snatches the bottle from Jax’s grip. It's heavy and slick against your palm. Kaleb’s laugh dies when he sees the look on your face. He’s still smirking when you bring the bottle down hard. The glass connects with the side of his head in a wet, ugly impact. Pain blooms, more stunned horror than faint, and then the crimson follows, bright and hot on his temple.

“What the fuck!” he bellows, fingers flying to the wound, blood slicking his knuckles. His eyes are wide and furious, but they’re also stunned. He obviously didn’t expect you to answer his venom with violence. The crowd is suddenly very loud again, noise rushing in like someone turned the world back on. A few girls scream at the commotion, but the glass shards in your hand cause you to wince, drowning out their worrisome shrieks.

Kaleb regains his feet and lunges at you. You barely have time to see the shape of him move before you throw a punch. Your fist finds his nose clean and hard. There is a bone-crack sound more terrible than anything you’ve ever heard, and Kaleb’s head jerks back. Warmness floods down his face, a sickening, red trail of your brutal lack of self control.

He staggers, hands pressed to his face, and for one jagged second the thrill of fear and power roars through you. You’re trembling, adrenaline making your vision sharp and slow and bright. Kaleb howls, half-rage, half-astonishment, and the lot splits with shouts. Someone curses.

Jax moves swiftly just like you expected, but not towards Kaleb. He doesn’t swing. He doesn’t shout. He’s already in front of you, blocking, his hand on your wrist like an anchor and also a warning. His eyes are dark and burning with something that feels like both hunger and fury. For a breathless beat he looks at you like he's measuring you up and then like he’s breaking you down into all the things he will protect.

“Are you crazy?” he says, voice low and raw, but there is no scold in it. It is the sound of a man who would gladly go to jail for you and also the sound of a man who knows the world and counts the cost.

Kaleb gurgles something about pressing charges. He stumbles, trying to recompose his face into a picture of wounded dignity that a rich prick thinks he can sell to a sheriff. Blood pours through his fingers, slipping down the front of his shirt. His nose is a ruined, crooked red mess that will not be pretty in the morning.

People are moving now, the crowd converging, some to break it up, some to gawk. You can see Opie back near the pickup, eyebrows high, already on the move.

Jax keeps one hand on your wrist, the other not far away if he needs it. He looks at Kaleb like he’s deciding whether to let the prick go or if he should use his hands to finish the very thing you started.

“You gonna stand there and make a game of this, or you gonna leave while you still have the sense to?” Jax asks, voice hard as flint.

Kaleb spits on the ground, a mix of blood and saliva as he tries to carry himself with a swagger that hides the damage you’ve done. “You’re gonna regret that, bitch. You hear me?” he snarls through a slit of pain.

You stare at him until the snarl slides off his face. Your voice is cold and flat when you answer. “You so much as say one word to the police or your rich ass daddy and I will tell everyone you touched me.”

You know it’s a lie. You know there is no proof and that your bluff could blow up in your face. But right now it is the only weapon you have and you are not about to hand him the one thing he wants most, which is to make you the joke of the night.

Opie is on you in two long strides, eyes hard and worried. He takes in the busted beer bottle, the blood, the nasty bruise that will start to bloom purple on your knuckles in a few minutes. “What the hell happened?” he says, voice full of that quiet command he uses when he tries to diffuse a situation.

Kaleb shakes his head, spitting more blood into the dirt. “I never touched you,” he snarls back, indignation blaring. “Too much of a fucking prude. Just a white trash loving whore.” His words are sloppy and loud and meant to drag you down in front of everyone.

You watch Jax for a second and see the small, brutal thing he does when he holds himself back. His tongue pokes the inside of his bottom lip, his jaw working like he is chewing the world down into something he can contain. You can feel him there, the danger pooled behind his eyes, and you force yourself to use your words.

“A white trash loving whore whose grandfather works with Sheriff Unser,” you snap, every syllable a thrown knife. “I don’t think my grandfather would even blink at putting your ass behind bars. One whisper to Unser and it’ll happen in the blink of an eye. Especially when your own daddy has a reputation around town for bedding girls barely older than you.”

The junkyard falls a notch quieter, the music and laughter shrinking into the background until all you can hear is the crackle of the fire and your own heartbeat. Kaleb’s face loses color in a slow, sickening flicker. The bravado peels away and for a second you catch the look of a man who would rather call his father than stand and fight.

Instead he spits again. The warm wet slap of blood and saliva hits your shoe with a slick, obscene sound. It soaks into the canvas and the world tips for a second, a hot jolt of shame and fury twisting your gut. You barely have time to blink before Jax is moving.

His hand clamps down on the front of Kaleb’s shirt and lifts him as if the drunk were no heavier than last night’s trash. Kaleb dangles there, boots skimming the dirt, his laugh brittle and angry. “What’re you gonna do, Teller?” he jeers. “Too much of a pussy to fight your own battles? Had to let that little bitch handle it?”

Jax’s face goes hard. You can see the vein throbbing at his temple like it has a beating heart of its own. His fingers dig into fabric until his knuckles turn white.

Opie’s hand clamped down on Jax’s shoulder, hard and steady. “Don’t,” he said, voice flat. “It ain’t worth it, man. She already handled it.”

For a breath Jax looked like he might ignore him. Then, with a sudden, brutal motion, he tossed Kaleb so hard that the drunk hit the dirt with a hard thud. Kaleb groaned, the sound half pain, half surprise.

Jax stood over him, face hard, eyes cold as river stone. His voice was low and lethal when he spoke. “You ever talk to my girl like that again, you even look in her direction, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Opie stayed close, watching Kaleb crawl away, and Jax didn’t move until the drunk prick was gone beyond the rim of the lot. Then he turned to you, hands still trembling a little, the heat of danger cooling out of his posture.

You lift your hand and watch the blood glisten in the firelight, a harsh reminder of how quickly things had escalated. The cuts from the broken bottle sting, radiating up your wrist and making it throb in rhythm with your still-racing heart. You flex your fingers slowly, trying to shake off the pins-and-needles feeling, but every movement sends a sharp bite of pain through your skin.

Opie’s voice cuts through the lingering tension, authoritative and sharp. “Alright, everybody, that’s enough. Pack it up. Party’s over. Move along.” His gaze sweeps the junkyard, making sure no one dares to linger, and a few of the kids grumble but scatter under his glare.

Jax stays a step behind you, hands loose at his sides, jaw tight. He’s breathing slower now, but the dark edge hasn’t left his eyes. He mutters a curse under his breath as he takes in the sight of your hand and tears a piece of his flannel off, the rough fabric warm as he wraps it carefully around the cuts. The blood soaks into it quickly, and the sting makes you grit your teeth, but the pressure of his hands steadying yours makes it almost bearable.

Opie lets out a low whistle, shaking his head with a mix of disbelief and respect. “Damn,” he mutters. “You really handled yourself. Never would have expected that.”

You let out a small laugh of disbelief. Never in a million years would you have expected something like this out of yourself either.

“Shit,” Jax mutters, worry cutting through his usual edge. “Don’t tell me you broke your hand on that fucking bastard.” You wince as Jax presses lightly over your knuckles, the dull throb spiking sharp for a second.

“I’m not sure,” you admit, your voice softer now. “I’ve never actually punched anyone before.”

That gets a small, humorless laugh out of him, one that dies as fast as it comes. The guilt in his eyes is immediate, heavy. “You should’ve let me handle it,” he says, frustration bleeding through his tone.

You shake your head, jaw tightening as you meet his gaze. “And have that asshole press charges against you? Hell no, Jax.”

He scoffs under his breath and looks away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck like he’s trying to ground himself. “Still,” he mutters. “Would’ve saved your hand a little pain.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, flexing your fingers slightly before immediately regretting it, “guess I’ve got a hell of a right hook for a first timer.”

That’s when Opie, who’s been standing a few feet off watching the whole exchange with that half-amused, half-exasperated look, finally chimes in. “You’re not kidding,” he says with a low whistle. “I’ve seen prospects swing softer.”

You can’t help but smirk, the tension in your chest easing just a little. Jax glances up at Opie, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. A faint laugh slips out—quiet, but real.

“Damn straight,” he says, shaking his head with that small, crooked grin that always gets you. His thumb grazes your wrapped hand again, gentler this time. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

You snort, the sound half laugh and half cough, and roll your eyes at him. “Yeah, yeah,” you say, voice teasing. “Not like I have a temper or anything, Teller.”

Jax exhales, still rough around the edges, and looks over at Opie. “We gotta get her hand checked, man. We’ll go to the ER.”

Opie nods like he’s cataloguing what to do next. “Let’s just hope it’s jammed instead of broken.”

Jax turns back to you, brow tugging as he studies the way your thumb sits after the punch. “Next time you punch someone, keep your thumb outside,” he says, trying and failing to keep all of the worry out of his voice. “You don’t wanna jam it.”

You huff and bump his shoulder with your good hand. “Real helpful. I’ll keep that in mind next time I need to slug someone, Coach Teller.”

He doesn’t answer right away, eyes dark with a soft kind of fury. “I still can’t believe the nerve of that guy,” he mutters under his breath. “Should have kicked the shit out of him for the way he talked to you.”

You squeeze his arm with your wrapped hand, feeling the quick clench of muscle under your palm. “You kept it together,” you remind him, voice low. “That’s what matters.”

He looks at you for a long moment, like he’s memorizing the line of your jaw. “Yeah,” he says finally. “But next time I won’t be so good at holding back. I should have broken every single rib in that guy's body.”

Opie coughs, impatient in the way only he can be, and starts toward the truck.

Jax sighs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to guide you. “C’mon babe, we’ll get your hand sorted. But let me just say, you standing up for yourself? That’s probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You roll your eyes, “you liked that? Maybe I’ll throw hands again just to get you riled up. How’s that sound?”

Jax pauses, his eyes roaming yours before kissing you intensely, the force taking your breath.

After a moment Jax pulls back tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear while smirking, “Oh I love when you talk dirty to me, slugger.”

You groan, “I really hope that nickname doesn’t stick.”

Jax scoffs, his grin widening. “I’d like to think it’s a term of endearment.”