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Juice starts sleeping on your couch because he “just needed somewhere quiet.”
Eventually you realise he hasn’t gone home in weeks.
juice breaks my heart
The first night Juice slept on your couch, he showed up at two in the morning with a split lip, blood on the sleeve of his hoodie, and exhaustion carved so deep into his face it looked permanent.
You answered the door half asleep, one hand clutching the edge of your oversized T-shirt while the porch light painted him gold and bruised.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathed immediately. “What happened?”
“Nothin’.” His voice was rough. Tired. “Can I crash here tonight?”
You should’ve asked questions.
Maybe with anybody else, you would have.
But this was Juice.
And Juice Ortiz looked at people like he expected to be shoved away eventually.
So instead you stepped aside and unlocked the screen door wider.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Come in.”
Relief crossed his face so quickly it hurt to look at.
“Thanks.”
Your apartment was small. One bedroom. Tiny kitchen. Old building with uneven floors and terrible plumbing. But it was warm. Lived in. There were books stacked beside the couch and plants near the windows and soft yellow lamps instead of harsh overhead lights.
Juice stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room like he didn’t know where to put himself.
“You hungry?” you asked.
He shook his head automatically.
His stomach growled immediately after.
You stared.
He sighed. “Maybe a little.”
Twenty minutes later he was sitting at your kitchen counter eating grilled cheese and tomato soup with the kind of concentration that made it obvious he hadn’t eaten properly all day.
Maybe longer.
You leaned against the opposite counter watching him.
“You wanna tell me why you look like somebody dragged you behind a truck?”
He snorted quietly at that.
Then shrugged.
“Club stuff.”
You accepted the answer because you knew enough about SAMCRO to know pushing usually got you nowhere.
You had known Juice for almost two years.
He’d started coming into the auto parts store where you worked because the place carried some specialty imports he liked for his bike. At first he’d just been the hyper guy with too much energy and too many tattoos who flirted badly and bought energy drinks in bulk.
Then he kept coming back.
Eventually he stopped pretending he needed parts.
Eventually you started setting aside his favorite snacks before he came in.
Eventually he started fixing things around your apartment without being asked.
You never officially labeled the relationship.
Friends felt too simple for whatever this was.
But neither of you pushed harder.
Maybe because Juice always seemed halfway convinced good things would disappear if he touched them too much.
After he finished eating, you handed him a clean towel and pointed toward the bathroom.
“There’s antiseptic in the cabinet. Use it before your face falls off.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He smiled faintly when he said it.
It vanished the second he thought you weren’t looking.
The next morning you woke up to the sound of cabinets opening.
For one horrifying second you thought someone had broken in.
Then you smelled coffee.
You shuffled into the kitchen and found Juice standing barefoot at the counter wearing the same jeans from yesterday and an old hoodie you'd stolen from him years ago.
You stopped dead.
“That’s mine.”
He looked down at himself.
“I was cold.”
“You stole my hoodie.”
“You stole it first.”
You laughed despite yourself.
God, he looked better.
Still bruised. Still tired. But softer somehow. Less tightly wound.
He handed you coffee before you could ask.
Exactly how you liked it.
“You remembered.”
He shrugged like it was nothing.
But Juice remembered everything about people he cared about.
The problem was he never seemed to believe anybody would remember things about him.
You watched him carefully over the rim of your mug.
“You okay?”
His shoulders stiffened immediately.
“Yeah.”
Lie.
You let it go anyway.
He left around noon after promising he’d return your hoodie “eventually.”
You assumed that would be it.
One bad night.
One couch crash.
But then three days later he showed up again.
This time quieter.
No visible injuries.
Just shadows under his eyes.
“Can I stay over?”
“Yeah.”
And then again the next week.
Then twice in one week.
Then suddenly it became normal.
Juice would show up late.
You’d pretend not to notice how exhausted he looked.
You’d feed him.
Sometimes you’d watch dumb movies together until he fell asleep halfway through them, head tilted toward you on the couch.
Sometimes he’d sit on your tiny balcony smoking in silence while you sat beside him reading.
Sometimes he barely spoke at all.
But gradually you noticed something strange.
He slept here.
Actually slept.
At the clubhouse, even during the rare times you visited, Juice never stopped moving. Always buzzing. Always alert. Talking too fast. Smiling too quickly.
At your apartment he slept like someone drowning finally reaching air.
Deep.
Heavy.
Safe.
The realization lodged painfully under your ribs.
One rainy Thursday you came home from work and found him in your kitchen making pasta.
He looked up immediately.
“Hey.”
You blinked slowly.
“You have your own key now?”
“Uh.” He winced. “You said I could borrow it last week?”
“I did?”
“You were half asleep.”
That sounded horrifyingly possible.
You dropped your bag on the table and stared at him.
He was wearing sweatpants.
Your sweatpants.
“You’re stealing an alarming amount of my clothes.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“You own clothes.”
“Not like these.”
You rolled your eyes, but warmth spread through your chest anyway.
The apartment smelled like garlic and tomatoes and fresh bread.
Domestic.
Dangerously domestic.
“You cooked?”
“Wanted to.”
He looked nervous saying it.
Like he expected you to tell him he’d crossed a line.
Something about that nearly broke your heart.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
A pause.
Then quieter:
“I wanted to do something nice.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Okay,” you said softly. "Thank you."
He relaxed instantly.
You started noticing things after that.
Little things.
Juice replacing the flickering lightbulb in your bathroom without being asked.
Juice remembering when your work shifts changed.
Juice buying your favorite cereal because “you were almost out.”
Juice asleep on your couch with one hand curled loosely around the blanket you kept there for him.
Your blanket.
His side of the couch.
It happened so slowly you didn’t realize how attached you’d become until one night he didn’t show up.
You told yourself it was ridiculous.
He wasn’t your boyfriend.
Wasn’t your responsibility.
SAMCRO life was unpredictable.
Still, you checked your phone every fifteen minutes.
By midnight anxiety sat ugly in your stomach.
At one-thirty there was finally a knock at your door.
You yanked it open immediately.
Juice stood there soaked through from the rain.
And bleeding.
Your heart dropped.
“Oh my God.”
“It’s not bad.”
“That’s blood.”
“Mostly not mine.”
“JUICE.”
He flinched.
Not from your volume.
From the name.
Like he expected anger attached to it.
Your expression softened instantly.
“Come inside.”
He obeyed quietly.
Too quietly.
You sat him on the bathroom counter while you cleaned the cut above his eyebrow.
He hissed when antiseptic touched it.
“Sorry.”
“S’fine.”
“No it’s not.”
He went still.
You focused carefully on the bandage because suddenly looking him in the eye felt too intimate.
“You don’t have to act tough with me.”
A long silence.
Then:
“I don’t know how not to.”
That one sentence told you more about Juice Ortiz than anything else ever had.
You looked up finally.
His eyes looked exhausted.
Not physically.
Soul-deep exhausted.
Like he’d been carrying too much weight for too long.
Without thinking, you brushed your fingers lightly against his cheek beneath the bruise.
The reaction was immediate.
He froze.
Completely.
Not pulling away.
Not leaning closer.
Just… stunned.
Your breath caught.
Because nobody should react to gentle touch like that.
Nobody.
“Juice…”
His eyes shut briefly.
And for one horrible moment you thought he might cry.
But then he smiled instead.
Small. Crooked. False.
“You always patch people up this good?”
The subject change was obvious.
You let him have it.
For now.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
And somewhere during all of it, Juice stopped leaving.
Not officially.
There was no conversation.
No decision.
It just… happened.
A toothbrush appeared beside yours in the bathroom.
His hoodie got left draped over your chair permanently.
There were motorcycle parts on your kitchen table.
He started keeping beer in your fridge.
And every night, somehow, he ended up back on your couch.
Except eventually not even the couch.
That started after the nightmares.
You woke one night to a crash from the living room.
Your heart nearly stopped.
You ran out to find Juice crouched beside the couch breathing hard, eyes wild with panic.
The lamp had fallen over.
“Juice?”
He looked up sharply like he didn’t know where he was.
“It’s okay,” you said immediately.
His chest heaved.
“S-sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Hey. Look at me.”
Slowly, he did.
“You’re safe.”
Something in his expression cracked.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
But you saw it.
And suddenly he looked younger than you’d ever seen him.
Not childish.
Just worn down.
Like life had scraped him raw.
You sat carefully on the floor beside him.
“Bad dream?”
He laughed once without humor.
“Yeah.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
A beat.
Then quieter:
“I just… didn’t wanna be there.”
There.
Not here.
Your chest hurt.
Without really thinking about it, you reached for him.
“You can stay with me tonight.”
His eyes flicked toward you.
“You sure?”
“Obviously.”
He hesitated before following you into your bedroom.
Like he thought he shouldn’t.
Like he was waiting for permission to exist in your space.
You climbed under the blankets and patted the empty side carefully.
Juice stared at it for a long moment.
Then lay down stiffly on top of the covers.
Fully clothed.
Like he planned to bolt at any second.
You turned toward him slightly.
“You know you can relax, right?”
“Relaxing’s not really my thing.”
“I noticed.”
A tiny smile tugged briefly at his mouth.
Then faded.
The silence stretched.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Finally, barely audible:
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Why are you nice to me?”
The question hit like a punch.
You frowned immediately.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A real one.”
He wasn’t joking.
He genuinely didn’t understand.
Your heart twisted painfully.
“Juice…”
“No, seriously.” His voice stayed quiet. Careful. “I don’t get it.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
“You’re my friend.”
He looked away instantly.
Like that answer hurt.
“You know what I mean.”
And you did.
Oh, you did.
Why him specifically.
Why patience.
Why softness.
Why safety.
Because somewhere along the line Juice had learned affection was conditional.
Temporary.
Earned.
You swallowed hard.
“I’m nice to you because you deserve kindness.”
He actually flinched.
Then laughed softly like you’d said something ridiculous.
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No,” he whispered. “It really isn’t.”
The room went painfully still.
You looked at him for a long moment before reaching across the space between you and taking his hand.
His breathing stopped.
Literally stopped.
Like nobody had ever held his hand gently before.
“You don’t have to earn being cared about,” you said quietly.
Juice stared at your joined hands with an expression so heartbreakingly fragile it made tears sting your eyes.
He didn’t answer.
But after a long time, he finally relaxed enough to fall asleep beside you.
Still holding your hand.
After that night he started sleeping in your bed more often.
Never assuming.
Always hesitant.
“You sure?”
Every single time.
Every time like he thought eventually your answer would change.
But it never did.
And slowly, impossibly slowly, Juice began unfolding around you.
Not all at once.
Just little pieces.
He laughed easier in your apartment.
Started singing quietly while cooking.
Started touching you absentmindedly.
A hand at your waist while passing behind you in the kitchen.
Your knees pressed together on the couch.
His head resting briefly against your shoulder during movies.
Tiny things.
But each one felt enormous.
One Sunday morning you woke tangled together accidentally.
At some point during the night Juice had rolled closer in his sleep until his face was buried against your neck, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist.
You went perfectly still.
Not because you minded.
Because you’d never seen him this relaxed.
Ever.
Sunlight spilled gold across the bed.
His breathing was deep and even.
Peaceful.
You realized suddenly with painful clarity that Juice only ever looked truly safe when he was asleep beside you.
God.
You were in love with him.
The realization should’ve terrified you.
Instead it just felt inevitable.
Then Juice stirred.
His eyes blinked open slowly.
And the second he realized how close you were, panic flashed across his face.
“Sorry— shit, sorry—”
“Hey.” You caught his wrist gently before he could pull away completely. “It’s okay.”
His entire body stayed tense.
“You sure?”
“You don’t have to apologize for touching me.”
He looked at you like that sentence was incomprehensible.
Your chest ached.
“You really don’t know what to do with softness, huh?”
His expression turned strangely vulnerable.
“No,” he admitted quietly.
You brushed your thumb lightly over his wrist.
“That’s okay.”
He stared at you for a very long time after that.
Like he wanted to say something.
Like he almost did.
But then he looked away first.
The first time you realized he hadn’t gone home in weeks happened by accident.
You were folding laundry while Juice messed with something on his bike outside.
One of the clubhouse hoodies had gotten mixed into the pile.
You picked it up automatically.
Something felt strange.
The pockets were empty.
No wallet.
No keys.
No cigarettes.
Nothing.
You frowned slightly.
Then glanced toward the bathroom.
His toothbrush.
Your dresser drawer with his shirts in it.
The sneakers by your door.
The charger plugged in beside your bed.
Your stomach tightened slowly.
When Juice came back upstairs thirty minutes later, sweaty and grease-stained, you were sitting on the couch waiting.
He stopped immediately.
“What?”
“How long has it been?”
“What?”
“Since you slept at the clubhouse.”
His face went blank.
Too blank.
“Uh…”
“Juice.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“A while.”
“How long?”
A pause.
Then:
“Maybe a month.”
Your eyes widened.
“A month?”
He shrugged immediately like it was nothing.
But you could see the tension building in his shoulders now.
“You didn’t notice.”
The words came out joking.
But underneath was something raw.
Something afraid.
Like maybe he’d overstayed.
Like maybe you’d throw him out now that you realized.
Your chest hurt instantly.
“Juice…”
“It’s okay if it’s weird.”
“No, hey.” You moved closer immediately. “No. That’s not what this is.”
He looked at you carefully.
“You can tell me to leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
The words came out too fast.
Too honest.
Juice froze.
And suddenly the air between you changed.
Thickened.
You swallowed hard.
“You know you’re allowed to be here, right?”
He stared at you silently.
“You don’t need permission every five seconds.”
His laugh came out brittle.
“Yeah. I kinda do.”
Your heart cracked clean open.
You stepped closer slowly.
“Did something happen at the clubhouse?”
His jaw tightened.
Club business.
Pain flashed behind his eyes so fast most people would’ve missed it.
You didn’t.
“Juice.”
He looked exhausted suddenly.
“I just…” His voice faltered. “I needed somewhere quiet.”
Not the full truth.
But true enough.
And somehow worse.
Because it meant your apartment had become refuge.
You reached up before you could overthink it and touched his face gently.
His eyes shut instantly.
Like relief physically hurt him.
“You have one,” you whispered.
His breathing turned uneven.
“You keep saying things like that.”
“Because they’re true.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
His eyes opened slowly.
"Because if you say things like that,” he whispered, “I start wanting them.”
The confession hung between you.
Heavy.
Terrifying.
You could hear your heartbeat.
“What if I want them too?”
Juice looked wrecked.
Actually wrecked.
Like hope was the cruelest thing anyone had ever handed him.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“No.” He shook his head immediately. “No, you think you do now, but—”
“But what?”
“I’m not…” His voice cracked suddenly. “I’m not somebody people stay for.”
Silence.
Then very carefully, you asked:
“Who taught you that?”
He looked away immediately.
Answer enough.
You took his hand gently.
“I’m still here.”
His eyes burned red instantly.
He tried to laugh it off.
Failed miserably.
Then, to your complete shock, Juice whispered:
“Don’t.”
Your chest tightened.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be this good to me.”
And there it was.
The truth.
He was terrified of needing you.
Because needing meant losing.
You stepped closer until barely inches separated you.
“Too late.”
He stared at you helplessly.
Then finally— finally— he broke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just suddenly.
His face crumpled and he covered his eyes with one shaking hand like he was ashamed of it.
“Oh God,” he breathed raggedly. “Sorry.”
“No, no.” You grabbed him immediately. “Hey. Hey.”
The second your arms wrapped around him, Juice made the most heartbreaking sound you’d ever heard.
Not crying.
Not exactly.
More like someone collapsing after holding themselves upright too long.
He folded against you hard enough to nearly knock you backward.
You held him tighter automatically.
“It’s okay,” you whispered into his hair. “You’re okay.”
His hands clutched the back of your shirt desperately.
And you realized with sudden horror that nobody had probably held him through a breakdown before.
Nobody had let him fall apart safely.
So you stood there in your tiny apartment holding Juice Ortiz while he shook apart in your arms.
And when he finally whispered brokenly, “I’m trying so hard,” your own tears fell too.
“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”
After that, things changed.
Not instantly.
Juice still startled sometimes when you touched him unexpectedly.
Still apologized too much.
Still acted surprised every time you kissed his forehead absentmindedly or handed him coffee or waited up for him.
But something softer started growing between you.
Trust.
Real trust.
One night you found him asleep on the couch with the TV still on.
You smiled softly and reached for the remote.
Juice stirred immediately, panic flashing across his face before he focused on you.
“Oh.”
“It’s just me.”
His shoulders dropped.
That alone nearly destroyed you.
It’s just me.
And somehow that meant safe now.
You brushed a hand over his forehead gently.
“You coming to bed?”
The question slipped out naturally.
Like it belonged there.
Juice stared at you for a second.
Then something unbearably tender crossed his face.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
He followed you into the bedroom.
And sometime during the night, half asleep, he wrapped himself around you like he finally believed you’d still be there in the morning.
The first time he said “I love you” happened accidentally.
Which honestly felt very Juice.
You were both cooking dinner.
Well.
You were cooking.
Juice was aggressively stealing ingredients and pretending he was helping.
“Stop eating the peppers.”
“I’m quality testing.”
“You’ve eaten six pieces.”
“And all six passed inspection.”
You snorted.
Then yelped when he stole another piece directly off the cutting board.
“Oh my God, you menace—”
He grinned.
Big. Bright. Beautiful.
The sight hit you square in the chest the way it always did now.
Because happy Juice still felt rare enough to treasure.
Without thinking, you smiled helplessly at him.
And Juice looked at you with so much unguarded affection it nearly stopped your heart.
“I love you,” he said automatically.
Silence.
Juice froze.
You froze.
His eyes widened in horror.
“Shit.”
Your pulse thundered.
Juice looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
“I didn’t— fuck, I mean—”
“You love me?”
He looked terrified.
Actually terrified.
Like you were about to destroy him.
And suddenly you understood:
He thought he’d ruined everything.
You crossed the kitchen in two seconds flat.
“Juice.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”
You kissed him.
Hard.
Immediate.
All the fear drained out of him in one stunned breath.
Then he kissed you back.
And it felt like everything.
Weeks of yearning.
Months of restraint.
All the tenderness between you finally breaking open.
His hands cupped your face carefully like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed.
You kissed him until breathing became difficult.
When you finally pulled apart, Juice looked dazed.
“You kissed me.”
“You said you love me.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I love you too.”
He went completely still.
You watched the exact second those words landed.
Like he genuinely didn’t know what to do with them.
“You…” His voice broke. “You do?”
You could’ve cried right there.
“Of course I do.”
Juice stared at you with devastating vulnerability.
Then suddenly hid his face against your shoulder.
You laughed softly through your own tears and wrapped your arms around him immediately.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
The shaky breath he let out warmed your neck.
“Nobody’s ever…” He stopped.
You held him tighter.
“You don’t have to finish that sentence.”
But you understood anyway.
Nobody had ever loved him gently before.
Not like this.
Not safely.
You pressed a kiss into his hair.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His arms tightened around you hard enough to ache.
“Promise?”
The word came out so quiet it almost killed you.
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.
“I promise.”
And for the first time since you’d known him, Juice looked like he believed someone might actually stay.
Sitting on Juice's lap.
It starts because there's no where else to sit. It's a bit awkward at first and then over the course of the evening it becomes comfortable.
Eventually, over months, you start sitting on Juice's lap all the time, even when there are seats available. The Samcro boys give you guys so much shit.
Which wouldn't be a problem if only he wasn't so damn in love with you.
The first time you sat on Juice's lap, it was entirely accidental.
Which was probably why it ruined both your lives.
Friday nights at the SAMCRO clubhouse were chaos incarnate.
Music too loud. Beer spilling everywhere. Half the guys yelling over each other while some old rock song rattled the walls hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling beams. The scent of grease, whiskey, cigarettes, leather, and engine oil hung thick in the air like permanent atmosphere.
You’d only stopped by to drop off food.
That had been your first mistake.
Your second mistake had been staying.
“C’mon,” Jax had said, waving a beer in your direction. “You bring homemade food, you’re obligated to hang around.”
“Pretty sure that’s not a law.”
“It is here.”
And unfortunately, everyone in SAMCRO had decided they liked you.
So suddenly you were trapped between loud bikers playing cards and arguing over bullshit while someone shoved a drink into your hand.
The clubhouse was packed wall-to-wall that night.
Every chair occupied.
Every couch crowded.
You stood awkwardly near the bar trying not to look uncomfortable about having nowhere to sit.
That was when Juice looked up from where he sat in one of the armchairs near the pool table.
“Hey,” he called over the noise. “You can sit here.”
You blinked. “Where?”
He patted his thigh casually.
Your face heated instantly.
The guys around him immediately started making sounds like a pack of hyenas.
“Oooooh.”
“Ortiz got game.”
“Little quick there, brother.”
Juice looked horrified almost immediately after saying it.
“No—I mean—shit, not like that,” he stammered. “I just meant there’s no chairs and—fuck, that sounded weird.”
You laughed despite yourself.
Because he looked genuinely panicked.
And because Juice Ortiz was kind.
Dangerous, sure. A biker. A criminal. A man with tattoos and scars and a gun tucked into the back of his jeans.
But kind.
You’d noticed that immediately.
“You sure?” you asked.
He swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
The room waited.
You hesitated only a second before carefully lowering yourself onto his lap.
The second your weight settled against him, Juice stopped breathing.
You felt it instantly.
How rigid he went.
How his hands hovered awkwardly at his sides like he had no idea where to put them.
The guys burst into immediate laughter.
“Oh, he’s SWEATIN’.”
“Juice about to pass out.”
“Someone get this man a cigarette.”
“Shut up,” Juice muttered, ears bright red.
You tried not to laugh as you adjusted carefully, hyperaware of the warmth of him beneath you. He was solid. Warm. One arm of the chair wrapped around both of you, forcing you closer than expected.
“This okay?” you asked softly.
Juice looked at you like you’d asked whether he wanted oxygen.
“Yeah,” he croaked.
It should’ve ended there.
One awkward moment.
One crowded night.
Instead, somehow, it became a thing.
The next week, the clubhouse was crowded again.
You walked in carrying takeout containers and immediately saw there were no open seats.
Juice looked up from the couch.
You looked at him.
He looked at his lap.
Everyone around him started grinning.
“Oh no,” Tig said immediately. “Not again.”
You laughed.
Juice looked simultaneously hopeful and terrified.
So you walked over and sat on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The cheering was deafening.
Juice nearly choked on his beer.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered while everyone lost their minds around him.
But this time?
His arm settled around your waist automatically.
Like instinct.
Like it belonged there.
And honestly, that should’ve been your warning sign.
After that, it just… kept happening.
At first only when seats were full.
Then when there were technically seats available, but they were far away from Juice.
Then eventually because it felt strange not to.
Nobody ever acknowledged when the habit officially formed.
One day you just walked into the clubhouse, saw Juice sitting alone in a chair, and immediately crossed the room to climb into his lap without a word.
Like muscle memory.
Like home.
The silence that followed was catastrophic.
Every biker in the room stared.
Juice froze mid-sentence.
You blinked around at everyone. “What?”
Chibs grinned around a cigarette. “Nothin’. This is adorable.”
“It is NOT adorable,” Juice snapped instantly.
You tilted your head up at him. “You want me to move?”
His answer came so fast it almost overlapped your question.
“No.”
The room exploded.
“OH MY GOD.”
“He said it so fast!”
“Brother starving.”
Juice buried his face in his hands while you laughed hard enough your shoulders shook against his chest.
That became dangerous too.
Because Juice started associating your laughter with warmth.
With your body leaning into his.
With your head tucked beneath his chin while everyone around you blurred into background noise.
And God help him, he was already too far gone.
By month three, sitting in Juice’s lap had become completely normal to both of you.
Normal enough that you didn’t even think before doing it.
Normal enough that his hands automatically found your waist.
Normal enough that you leaned back against his chest during movie nights.
Normal enough that sometimes he’d absentmindedly rub circles into your hip while talking to the guys.
That one nearly killed him the first time he realized he was doing it.
You hadn’t seemed to mind though.
If anything, you’d leaned closer.
Which made everything so much worse.
Because Juice was hopelessly, painfully in love with you.
And you apparently had no idea.
“You gotta tell her eventually.”
Juice glanced up from cleaning a gun in the garage office.
Jax leaned against the doorway watching him with the exhausted expression of a man witnessing another man destroy himself slowly.
“Tell who what?”
Jax stared.
“Really?”
Juice went back to cleaning.
“There’s nothin’ to tell.”
Jax barked out a laugh. “Brother, she sits in your lap like she pays rent there.”
“That don’t mean anything.”
“She literally played with your hair for twenty minutes yesterday.”
Juice’s hands stopped moving.
Because yeah.
You had.
Absentmindedly.
While listening to Tig tell some insane story, your fingers had started brushing through the limited hair at the nape of Juice’s neck.
Juice had nearly fucking ascended.
“She’s affectionate with everybody,” he muttered weakly.
Jax looked unconvinced. “Not like that.”
Juice didn’t answer.
Because if he admitted the truth out loud, he might actually lose his mind.
The truth being:
Every time you sat on his lap, he had to actively remember how to function.
Every time you smiled at him, his stomach flipped.
Every time you curled against his chest during late nights at the clubhouse, he imagined what it would feel like if you were actually his.
And every single time another man flirted with you, something ugly and possessive twisted in his ribs.
He was in so deep it was embarrassing.
The worst part was how comfortable you were with him.
Trusting.
Careless in a way people only became when they felt safe.
You’d steal bites from his plate.
Wear his hoodies when you got cold.
Fall asleep against him during long nights at the clubhouse.
Once, during a movie marathon, you’d climbed into his lap half-awake and mumbled, “You’re comfy.”
Comfy.
Juice had stared at the ceiling for two straight hours afterward.
Because what the fuck was he supposed to do with that?
The breaking point came on a rainy Tuesday night.
Most of the guys were out handling club business, leaving the clubhouse quieter than usual.
You and Juice sat alone on the couch watching some terrible reality show while rain hammered against the windows.
As usual, you sat curled in his lap beneath a blanket.
At some point your fingers found his tattooed forearm, tracing patterns absentmindedly while you watched TV.
Juice wasn’t paying attention to the television at all.
He was paying attention to you.
To your legs draped over his.
To the scent of your shampoo.
To the warmth of your back against his chest.
To the fact that he was absolutely, catastrophically in love with you.
And then—
Without thinking—
You tilted your head back against his shoulder and kissed his jaw.
Soft.
Absentminded.
Affectionate.
Like it was natural.
Juice stopped breathing.
You froze too.
The room went dead silent except for the rain.
Slowly, you looked up at him.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
Juice’s heart slammed violently against his ribs.
Because suddenly you looked panicked.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, starting to move. “I didn’t even think, I just—”
His arm tightened around your waist instinctively.
“Don’t move.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
Juice swallowed hard.
“You kissed me.”
Your face turned pink immediately. “I know.”
“Why?”
The question came out rougher than intended.
You stared at him for a long moment.
Then laughed nervously.
“Honestly?”
“Please.”
Your fingers tightened slightly against his arm.
“Because somewhere along the line,” you admitted softly, “this started feeling less like sitting in a friend’s lap and more like…” You trailed off.
Juice’s pulse thundered.
“More like what?”
Your eyes met his.
“Like being where I belong.”
Fuck.
Actually fuck.
Juice kissed you before he could think better of it.
One hand cupped your jaw while the other held your waist tight enough to keep you close but gentle enough not to scare you. His lips crashed against yours with months of restrained longing behind them.
You made the softest startled sound before immediately kissing him back.
And that—
That nearly destroyed him.
Because you kissed him like you’d wanted this too.
Like every lingering touch and every shared glance and every moment curled in his lap had been leading here.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.
You stared at each other for a second.
Then burst into laughter simultaneously.
“We are so stupid,” you said.
Juice grinned helplessly. “Yeah.”
“How long have you been in love with me?”
His eyes widened. “Whoa, that’s a crazy sentence.”
“Juice.”
He groaned dramatically, dropping his forehead against your shoulder. “Since, like… the third lap sit.”
You laughed so hard you nearly fell off him.
“THE THIRD?”
“You played with my hair! That’s intimate!”
“It is not!”
“It IS for me!”
Still laughing, you kissed him again.
Softer this time.
Certain.
And when the clubhouse doors opened an hour later to reveal the rest of SAMCRO returning home, they found you exactly where everyone secretly knew you belonged:
Curled in Juice Ortiz’s lap.
Only now his mouth was swollen pink from kissing you.
Your fingers rested around his neck.
And the look on his face when he glanced at you—
Completely gone.
Tig took one look and groaned loudly.
“Oh, I am NEVER hearing the end of this.”
Happy smirked. “Called it months ago.”
Jax just shook his head. “Bout damn time.”
Juice flipped them off without even looking away from you.
You smiled against his mouth as he kissed you again.
And this time, when you settled deeper into his lap, nobody pretended it was because there weren’t enough seats anymore.
the first time Happy Lowman calls you sweetheart, you blush so hard you both think you're going to explode.
Nobody warned you that falling in love with Happy Lowman would feel like slowly handing your heartbeat to a loaded gun.
Not because he was cruel.
Happy wasn’t cruel to you.
That was almost the problem.
Everyone else in Charming looked at him and saw violence first. Saw the dead-eyed hitman with tattooed knuckles and a smile that usually meant someone was about to disappear into the desert.
You looked at him and saw the quieter things.
The way he always noticed when your gas tank was low and filled it without mentioning it. The way he stood slightly behind you in crowds like a wall nobody could get through. The way he brought you coffee exactly how you liked it after memorising your order one single time.
The way his hand always found the small of your back.
Protective.
Grounding.
Possessive in that terrifyingly gentle way that only Happy could manage.
And maybe that was why you were so completely screwed.
Because once Happy decided someone mattered to him, it became absolute.
There was no halfway with him.
No uncertainty.
No almost.
The trouble was that you and Happy weren’t technically together.
Not officially.
Not in words.
But everyone in SAMCRO looked at you like you already belonged to him.
Including Happy himself, apparently.
You just hadn’t realised how deep that went yet.
The clubhouse was chaos that night.
Music blasted loud enough to vibrate through the walls while prospects hauled beer crates inside. Tig was yelling at Juice over a card game. Chibs was smoking by the bar with half-lidded exhaustion after a run that had gone sideways somewhere near Stockton.
And Happy—
Happy was in one of his moods.
Quiet.
Brooding.
Dangerously still.
He sat at the edge of the bar nursing whiskey while blood dried across his knuckles from a fight earlier that evening.
Nobody bothered him.
Nobody except you.
You slipped onto the stool beside him and gently grabbed his wrist before he could lift the glass again.
His dark eyes flicked toward you immediately.
“What?”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I know.”
“You gonna let me clean it?”
Happy stared at you for a second.
Long enough that your stomach fluttered nervously.
Then he slid the whiskey aside without argument.
That alone made Chibs smirk from across the room.
Because Happy listened to approximately nobody.
Except you.
You guided him toward the bathroom at the back of the clubhouse where the noise became muffled behind closed walls.
The fluorescent light overhead buzzed softly.
Happy leaned against the sink while you dug through the first aid cabinet.
“You get the other guy worse?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“You start it?”
“No.”
“Finish it?”
His mouth twitched slightly.
“Yeah.”
You shook your head, unable to stop your smile.
“Psychopath.”
Happy watched you wet a cloth beneath warm water.
“You still here.”
“Unfortunately.”
He made that low rumbling sound again. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
God.
That sound did things to you.
You moved closer carefully, taking his hand in yours.
His fingers were massive compared to yours. Scarred. Rough. Tattooed.
Capable of terrifying things.
Yet he let you hold them with impossible gentleness.
You cleaned the split skin over his knuckles carefully while Happy watched your face instead of the injury.
You could feel his eyes on you.
Heavy.
Intent.
The air between you had been changing for weeks now.
Maybe months.
Lingering looks.
Hands brushing too long.
Happy showing up at your apartment late at night under weak excuses neither of you believed.
You’d fallen asleep against his chest on his couch more times than you could count.
Nothing explicit ever happened.
But everything felt intimate anyway.
Like the space between friendship and something far more dangerous had become paper-thin.
You dabbed antiseptic against his hand.
Happy hissed quietly.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You wanna see dramatic?”
You snorted softly. “Not particularly.”
The corner of his mouth moved again.
Tiny.
Barely there.
But real.
Your heart stumbled.
It always did when you made Happy smile.
Because nobody else got to see those moments.
They belonged to you somehow.
The realization both thrilled and terrified you.
You wrapped gauze carefully around his knuckles before murmuring, “There.”
Happy looked down at the bandage.
Then at you.
Then back at the bandage.
“You’re good at this.”
“My dad was reckless.”
“Yeah?”
“Motorcycles. Bar fights. Stitches every other week.” You smiled faintly. “Guess I got practice.”
Happy’s expression shifted slightly at that.
Something thoughtful.
“What?”
“You got a type.”
You blinked.
Then laughed before you could stop yourself.
“Oh my god.”
His gaze stayed fixed on you.
“You think this is funny?”
“You’re jealous of my father?”
“No.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I’m not.”
The immediate response only made you grin wider.
Happy’s eyes narrowed more.
“You keep smiling at me like that, I’m gonna become a problem.”
Your pulse skipped.
Because his voice had changed.
Lower now.
Rougher.
The tiny bathroom suddenly felt much too small.
You swallowed hard. “You already are a problem.”
Something hot flashed behind his eyes.
The tension snapped taut instantly.
And because apparently your survival instincts were broken, you reached up and brushed your thumb lightly against the bruise along his jaw.
Happy froze.
Completely froze.
His breathing changed first.
Slower.
Heavier.
Like he forgot how to do it properly.
Your hand should’ve dropped immediately.
Instead your fingers lingered.
“You should put ice on this,” you murmured softly.
Happy stared at you like you’d just set fire to the room.
Then, very quietly:
“You worry too much, sweetheart.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Your brain stopped functioning.
Sweetheart.
He’d never called you that before.
Never anything like that.
Usually you got your name. Sometimes kid when he was teasing you. Once baby after you fell asleep against him during movie night and he thought you couldn’t hear him.
And judging by the way Happy’s eyes widened slightly afterward, he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Heat exploded across your face instantly.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Happy stared at you.
You stared at Happy.
Neither of you moved.
Your blush got worse.
Painfully worse.
You could literally feel your face burning.
Happy looked horrified.
Not because he regretted it.
Because he could see exactly what it did to you.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“You called me sweetheart.”
“I know.”
Your voice came out embarrassingly small. “Happy—”
“You’re blushing.”
“You noticed?”
“You’re red as fuck.”
Mortification consumed you instantly.
You covered your face with both hands. “I’m gonna die.”
And then—
Then something incredible happened.
Happy laughed.
Not the small exhale he usually gave.
Not the quiet amused grunt.
An actual laugh.
Deep.
Warm.
Real.
You’d heard it maybe twice before.
The sound hit you directly in the chest.
“Oh, this is bad,” he murmured, still laughing softly.
You peeked through your fingers. “What?”
“You’re cute.”
Your entire body nearly short-circuited.
“Happy.”
“Look at you.”
“Stop talking immediately.”
He stepped closer instead.
Of course he did.
Towering over you now in the cramped bathroom, broad shoulders blocking the fluorescent light overhead.
His eyes stayed locked on your burning face with open fascination.
Like he couldn’t believe he’d done this to you.
“You like that?” he asked quietly.
You made the mistake of looking directly at him.
Big mistake.
Because suddenly he wasn’t teasing anymore.
Now he looked hungry.
Not sexually.
Not only sexually.
Something deeper.
More dangerous.
Like he’d just realized the effect he had on you and didn’t know what to do with the information.
Your heartbeat became violent.
“You know I do,” you admitted softly.
Happy went very still.
The air shifted.
Outside the bathroom, muffled music still pounded through the clubhouse walls, but inside everything narrowed down to the two of you breathing too close together.
His hand lifted slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was giving you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
His knuckles brushed your flushed cheek.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?”
“You’re killing me.”
Your stomach flipped hard.
Happy looked genuinely affected by this.
By you.
The realization felt surreal.
“You called me sweetheart,” you repeated weakly.
“I know.”
“You can’t just do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because now I’m gonna think about it forever.”
That earned another soft laugh from him.
God, you loved that sound.
Happy’s thumb brushed slowly along your cheekbone.
“You got any idea,” he said quietly, “how hard it’s been not calling you worse?”
Your breath caught.
“Worse?”
“Baby. Honey. Mine.” His jaw flexed slightly. “Shit like that.”
You thought your soul briefly left your body.
Happy saw the exact moment your brain melted completely.
His eyes darkened immediately.
“That one got you too, huh?”
You covered your face again with a groan. “Please stop talking.”
“No.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Yeah.”
The honesty nearly killed you.
Happy gently pulled your hands away from your face.
“You know what the problem is?” he murmured.
“What?”
“You have no clue what you do to me.”
Your heart thudded painfully.
He stepped even closer.
Close enough that you could smell whiskey and smoke and leather.
Close enough that one slight movement would press you directly against his chest.
“I think about you constantly,” he admitted quietly. “And then you blush like this because I call you sweetheart and suddenly I’m losing my fucking mind.”
Your hands instinctively grabbed the front of his kutte.
Happy looked down at them briefly.
Then back at your face.
“Tell me to stop.”
You couldn’t.
That was the problem.
You couldn’t stop any of this even if you tried.
So instead you whispered, “Say it again.”
Happy’s eyes darkened instantly.
Dangerously.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly.
Your face burned all over again.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, sounding genuinely affected now. “You’re adorable.”
And before you could respond, Happy kissed you.
Hard enough to steal every coherent thought from your brain.
One massive hand cupped your jaw while the other settled against your waist, pulling you flush against him with unmistakable possession.
You melted immediately.
Happy kissed like he did everything else — intensely, completely, like restraint had never been an option to begin with.
The sound you made against his mouth seemed to wreck him further.
His grip tightened.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips. “Sweetheart…”
There it was again.
And somehow it sounded even better now.
You laughed breathlessly into the kiss, still blushing so hard your cheeks hurt.
Happy rested his forehead against yours afterward, breathing unevenly.
“You’re still red.”
“Shut up.”
“No.”
You smiled helplessly.
Then his expression softened into something almost unbearably tender.
“You know you’re it for me, right?”
The words hit harder than the kiss did.
You stared at him.
Happy rarely spoke openly about feelings. Everything about him existed in actions instead.
But right now?
Right now he looked at you like he was handing over something fragile and dangerous all at once.
“You’re it for me too,” you whispered.
Something settled in him then.
Visible.
Immediate.
Like a man finally coming home after years of wandering.
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Today, Sam accidentally touches a piece of wet food while doing the dishes. He shakes the feeling out of his head and hands before continuing through the chore.
Hiya sweets. So my thought is a little season 15 angst. Dean x Reader. Dean finds out about God manipulating their lives, and starts doubting if reader really cares about him or if they would have gotten together if God hadn't intervened. A little angst, a little fluff? K love you byeeee
⋆｡ ˚ not his to write
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after learning god’s been shaping your lives, dean starts to doubt whether your love was ever really yours.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( gn )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 2037 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ hurt / comfort
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ season 15 spoilers, god/chuck manipulation, existential crisis, relationship insecurity, dean’s self-worth issues, emotional argument, fear of being unloved
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
dean gets quiet once he learns the truth.
not the usual quiet, either. not the kind where he’s tired from a hunt and needs ten minutes with a beer before he can talk without biting someone’s head off. not the kind where the case got ugly, where the blood took too long to wash from his hands, where the drive back to the bunker stretched out under bad radio static and nobody knew how to make the car feel normal again.
this is different… this is dean sitting at the library table with his hands around a bottle he hasn’t taken a sip from in twenty minutes, staring at the label. this is dean flinching when sam says chuck’s name. this is dean looking at you from across the room and then looking away so fast your stomach twists before you can stop it.
you give him space at first. you hate giving him space. space, with dean, is a dangerous thing. space turns into walls. walls turn into locked doors. locked doors turn into dean making decisions alone because he convinces himself that pain counts as protection.
but you try anyway.
sam disappears somewhere down the hall, probably to read until his eyes burn or call eileen with that terrible softness he tries not to show too much around dean. the bunker settles into its late-night hum, pipes ticking behind concrete, old lamps throwing tired yellow light over books and weapons and half-empty cups of coffee.
you stand in the doorway for a long time before dean speaks.
“you should go to bed.” his voice is low. flat.
you fold your arms. “is that what you’re doing?”
he does not look at you. “eventually.”
“dean.”
his jaw tightens. the warning sign. the little shift in his face that means your voice got too close to something sore. you step into the room anyway.
“don’t do that” he says.
you stop beside the table. “do what?”
“do the thing.”
“the thing where i care about you?”
he laughs once, but there’s no humor in it. only something bitter and worn thin. “yeah. that.”
your chest goes cold. “look at me.”
he doesn’t. you wait. you’re good at waiting when you need to be, even when every part of you wants to reach across the table and drag his face up with both hands.
finally, after what feels like an eternity, dean looks at you. he looks awful. something underneath him has come loose. there’s a crack in his expression you don’t know how to patch, and the worst part’s that he looks embarrassed by it. ashamed to be this shaken. ashamed to need anything after finding out need itself might have been written into him by a cruel little man with a god complex and a writer’s room in his head.
“what’s going on?” you ask, softer now.
dean looks away again. “nothing.”
“don’t insult me.”
his mouth hardens. “i’m not.”
“you are. you think i don’t know when you’re spiraling?”
that gets him, but not enough to make him talk. enough to make his fingers tighten around the beer bottle until his knuckles pale.
you sit across from him. “say it.”
he shakes his head.
“dean.”
“what do you want me to say?” he snaps, sudden and sharp, and the sound of it cracks through the library. “that i’m having a bad night? that finding out every screwed-up thing in my life was some sick bastard’s entertainment doesn’t exactly make me feel great?”
“yes,” you say. “start there.”
he stares at you, breathing a little harder. “fine. i feel great. fantastic. i love knowing my mom burning on the ceiling was a plot point. love knowing sam’s pain was a season arc. love knowing every choice i fought for, every person i lost, every time i thought i was doing something right, chuck was sitting there getting off on it.”
his voice breaks on the last few words.
dean scrubs a hand over his mouth. “and now i keep thinking about you.”
something inside you tightens. “what about me?”
“all of it.” he gives you a look then. wrecked. angry at himself before he even answers. “you showing up when you did. staying when anybody with half a brain would’ve run. loving me.” the word comes out rough, almost resentful. “how am i supposed to know that was real?”
the room seems to tilt. you hear the heater click somewhere in the walls. hear the tiny shift of paper under your elbow. hear your own breath come in too slowly, because if you breathe the way you want to, you’ll start shouting before he finishes digging the grave he apparently plans to throw both of you into.
dean’s eyes drop to the table. “maybe chuck wrote that too,” he says. “maybe he needed me happy for a minute so it’d hurt worse later. maybe he wrote you into this because it made better television. maybe you and me were just—”
“don’t you fucking dare—” the word leaves you quiet.
dean stops.
you stand so abruptly the chair legs scrape against the floor. “do not finish that sentence.”
his face tightens. “i’m just saying—”
“i know what you’re saying.” your hands curl at your sides, shaking now from the effort of not throwing something. “you’re saying he gets to have that too.”
dean blinks.
“you’re saying he gets your childhood. your mother. sam. every awful thing you survived. fine. he took enough. he wrote enough. he poisoned enough.” your voice rises despite the way you try to hold it steady. “but now you’re sitting here trying to hand him me.”
“how dare you,” you say, and it comes out less polished than you meant. too honest. almost ugly with hurt. “seriously, dean, how dare you look me in the face and tell me loving you might be something he made me do.”
his jaw works, but no words come out.
“i chose you when you were unbearable,” you say, stepping around the table because distance suddenly feels insulting. “i chose you when you shut me out. i chose you after hunts where you came back mean because you were scared and didn’t know how to say it. i chose you in motel rooms with bad water pressure and diner booths at three in the morning and in that stupid car when you sang too loud on purpose because you knew i had a headache.”
his eyes flicker.
you keep going, because if you stop now, you might cry, and you’re too angry to cry first.
“i chose you when it was inconvenient. when it hurt. when i had every reason to walk away and could have. don’t you dare make that small. don’t you dare make me into some line in a script because you’re scared there’s no other reason i’d stay.”
that lands. you see it hit him, see the flinch he tries to bury under his usual hard stare. except there’s nothing usual about him right now. he looks younger, almost. not softer, exactly. exposed. standing there in the wreckage of a thought he probably carried alone for hours before you ever came into the room.
“i don’t know how to trust anything,” he says finally.
the anger in you stumbles.
dean’s voice is quieter now, scraped raw at the edges. “i look at you, and i want to believe it’s mine. that this is ours. but then i think about him watching, moving pieces around, putting people in the right place so i’d break the right way, and i can’t—” he stops, swallowing hard. “i can’t tell where his story ends and my life starts.”
your throat tightens. you move closer, slowly this time, until you’re standing in front of him. dean doesn’t reach for you. his hands stay braced on the table, like touching you without certainty would be another kind of sin.
“i can’t prove it,” you hate the truth of that. hate it. there’s no neat answer, no holy stamp you can press onto your heart to make it undeniable. chuck has ruined that, too. certainty. memory. trust in the shape of your own choices.
his eyes lift to yours.
“i can’t prove he didn’t shove us into the same room the first time,” you say. “i can’t prove he didn’t make the road bend or the hunt go bad or whatever else he does when he wants to feel clever. but he didn’t make me sit with you afterward. he didn’t make me learn how you take your coffee. he didn’t make me stay up when you couldn’t sleep, or get pissed when you threw yourself in front of something dangerous again, or love that stupid face you make when you’re trying not to smile.”
dean’s mouth trembles faintly.
“he didn’t make me angry at you right now,” you add, voice breaking a little. “that’s all mine.”
dean looks down.
“and i am angry,” you say, quieter. “because i love you. because you’re scared and you decided the safest thing to do was doubt me before i could disappoint you.”
his eyes shut. the silence after that is heavier than anything either of you has said.
you reach for him, then stop before your fingers touch his sleeve. for once, you let him see the hesitation. let him see that this hurt you too. that love isn’t endless softness, not with him, not with anyone. sometimes love is standing in a cold library at night, furious and scared, trying to pull the truth out from under god’s dirty fingerprints.
“i’m not asking you to be okay,” you say. “i’m not even asking you to believe me all at once. but don’t punish me for what he did.”
dean’s face crumples so briefly you almost miss it. then his hand catches yours. fast. desperate. rougher than he probably means. he holds onto your fingers without looking up, thumb pressed hard against your knuckles as if he needs the bones of you to argue with the thoughts in his head. “i’m sorry.”
you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “i know…”
he nods once, still staring at your joined hands. “i didn’t mean—”
“i know.”
and you do. that’s the awful part. you know him well enough to understand the wound and still be hurt by where he pointed it.
dean’s grip loosens, giving you the chance to pull away. instead, you step closer until your knees bump his, until he has to tilt his head to look at you. his eyes are red but dry, jaw tight with the kind of restraint that’s ruined him more than once. you lift your free hand and touch his face, careful at first, two fingers against the rough edge of his cheek.
he leans into it.
“you’re not a puppet to me,” you whisper. “you’re not a character. you’re not some doomed thing i was assigned to love.”
dean’s breath shakes.
“you’re my dean,” you say, and it sounds too simple for what you mean. too small for the size of him in your chest. “and i’m here because i want to be.”
his hand rises to your waist then, hesitant, almost asking. the first touch is careful. then firmer. he draws you in by inches, giving you time to refuse even now, even after everything. when your body meets his, his forehead drops to your shoulder, and something in him finally gives. just the slow, heavy exhale of a man who’s been holding himself together with both hands and is too tired to keep pretending he doesn’t need somewhere to put the broken parts.
you thread your fingers through his hair.
dean’s voice comes muffled against your shirt. “i don’t want him to have this.”
“then don’t give it to him.”
his arms tighten around you. for a while, neither of you moves. the bunker keeps humming. somewhere far away, the world remains terrible and watched and written over in ways you don’t know how to undo. but dean’s warm against you, breathing unevenly into the fabric at your shoulder, and his hand is splayed over your back as if he’s trying to memorize something chuck can’t narrate properly.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
Still thinking about a few months ago when someone asked Emily and TJ how they shot the Gravedigger scene when they got pulled out of the dirt after being buried alive and TJ goes “Well they dug a hole. We got in it. And they buried us” like they literally buried Emily and TJ alive for that scene
This isn’t anything new but I 1000000000% Temperance Brennan would be bisexual and the only reason she’s not is bc the writers were cowards
I think she’d have the opinion of “logically there’s no reason for women in the modern era to solely seek out relationships with men.“ and then go into a long rant abt not needing men for procreation, land, money, security, etc.
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Rewatching bones is weird bc hodgins crazy conspiracies aren’t that crazy anymore, like hodgins will be like “yo the government isn’t helping people and are all rich assholes who say they want to help to stay rich whilst everyone else get poorer” and everyone around him will call him crazy. But I’m here watching from a third person perspective from the other room behind a glass wall and all I can do is bang on it and scream he was right but no one can hear bc it’s a fucking tv show.
Like no booth the government starting wars isn’t taboo anymore girly it’s fucking true they do it all the time.
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***This is smut. Like, smut. Not vulgar, but not much of a backstory or different settings. Just you and Juice in your house and he’s pissed. So if that’s not your thing, ya know, skip this one. If it is then 🤘🏼😘😘***
“Fuck you Juice. Seriously.” “Watch your mouth.” “What are you, my dad?” “I saw you flirting with him.” “I wasn’t flirting with him!” “I know what I fucking saw!” “I don’t have time for this shit.” You hopped off the counter and turned around, taking a step but he grabbed your wrist. “Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you.” You sneered and snatched your hand away from him before continuing to walk away. You hadn’t even left the kitchen when his hands grasped your waist firmly and spun you around again, this time shoving you against the wall and getting in your face. “What part of don’t walk away from me didn’t you understand.”
You had to admit, as annoyed and heated as you were at his accusations, Juice was really hot like this. He never got rough with you, he barely ever even raised his voice at you but now here he was breathing heavy, his nose pressed against yours. The look in his eyes pierced you, the usual smooth brown now almost black with anger. He held you to the wall and firmly grabbed your chin to look at him. “I don’t want you with him. I don’t want you near him. You’re mine, no one else’s.” You let out an exasperated sigh and shook your head out of his grasp, placing your hands on his chest and pushing him off of you forcefully. “For the last time, I’m not cheating on you! He’s a coworker. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
To say you were somewhat scared when you felt his hands squeeze around your waist and your feet leave the ground was an understatement. A loud gasp left your lips as he lifted you up like you were weightless and carried you to the bedroom. You fought against him but it didn’t seem to phase him, the anger and adrenaline coursing through his veins giving him a strength you hadn’t seen before. He threw you down onto the mattress and stood at the foot of the bed, pulling his own shirt off before getting started on undoing his belt.
“Take your clothes off.” You stayed looking up at him defiantly, not making a move to undress. “Make me.” You knew you were playing with fire but you couldn’t help it. This was a side of Juice that you had never seen before and you were already wet for him without him even really touching you. He growled at your remark and pulled his pants and boxers down before walking around the bed and grabbed you by your ankles, pulling you towards him. He grabbed the hem of your shirt, which was really his, and pulled it up over your head. You pushed at him with your hands and he grabbed them, pushing you down to the bed and holding your hands above your head. Settling on top of you, he bared all his weight down and grabbed both of your wrists in one of his hands, the other going down between both of your bodies.
His fingers grabbed hold on the band of your panties and yanked, the fabric ripping loudly. You gasped and your eyes widened, looking up at him. He was already looking at you and the look in his eyes caused a shiver to go down your spine. Juice grabbed onto himself and placed himself against you. You gasped loudly as he entered you and threw your head back but he grabbed you by the cheeks and pulled your face back down. “Look at me.” You looked back at him and bit your lip as he set a fast rough pace. “You’re not talking shit now are you?” You shook your head no and your eyes involuntarily slipped closed.
Juice let you keep your eyes closed as he thrusted and bit down harshly on the side of your neck. You whimpered at the painful pleasure that was more pain than pleasure and he worked his tongue against the spot, soothing it. You moved your hands around in his grasp but he wouldn’t let you go. “Juice baby, let me touch you.” He chuckled lightly and looked up at you through his eyelashes. “I don’t think so.” You pouted and struggled against him some more before giving up. You knew he was too strong
His pace picked up as he felt himself start to get close and you groaned, just wanting to grab onto his arms and feel the heat of his skin. “Juicy please. I want to touch you.” “Apologize.” “What?” “Apologize.” “For what?” “For flirting with that mother fucker at your job.” You narrowed your eyes and stayed quiet, refusing to apologize for something you didn’t do. Juice tilted his head and shrugged, knowing you’d give in sooner or later. It turned out to be sooner than later as he stuck his hand between your bodies again, this time rubbing you and giving you that extra bit of pleasure you needed.
“Fuck Juice, fine, I’m sorry. I’m sorry baby, I’m sorry I hugged him. I’m sorry, please just let my hands go.” Hearing you beg did something to him and he released your hands, knowing he needed to feel you touch him as much as you needed to touch him. You instantly placed one hand on his bicep and the other on the back of his head, holding him to you. “Thank you Baby.” It was merely seconds later that you both found your releases and he collapsed on top of you. You smoothed one hand along his head and the other scratched at his back lightly as you both laid there breathing heavily, coming down. You had been like that for minutes in silence when you heard Juices voice, all traces of anger gone.
“I didn’t mean to be such a dick. I just got scared. I though that maybe you liked him or something and that I was going to lose you. I thought that maybe you would want to be with him and have the life that he would give you and I freaked out. I didn’t mean to make you think I didn’t trust you.” You laughed lightly and grabbed onto his head, bringing him up to look at you. “I don’t want anyone else. Just you. You’re it. You don’t have to worry about losing me to someone else.” He nodded and smiled sweetly, putting his head back down on your chest and cuddling up to you before laughing to himself. “What?” “That was wild.”
Summary! Things get shaken up at Stockton State Prison when the head nurse retires and you replace her. Fresh meat is rare in behind Prison walls, and no crew wants you more than SAMCRO. It's a good thing you want them back.
Part 1 -> HERE
Link to ao3 -> HERE
That's all Tig needs to hear before he is shoving your thighs apart and hooking your knees over his shoulders. He mouthed on your inner thighs, tongue dragging over the fabric of your scrubs and leaving them damp. You jerk at the touch, a low sound escaping your throat, and you fight the urge to close your legs.
"Relax, baby," Tig coos and peers up at you with big blue eyes that are glassy with arousal. He noses at the crease of your thigh and pelvis, breathing you in with a soft groan. He could smell you this close, moist with musky slick that he bet tasted like all the fucking fruit you ate. He licked at you again and then smoothed his hand up your thighs and hips to grip the waistband of your pants.
"Lift your hips for me, sweetheart. Lemme see that pretty pussy."
"Christ, Tig," You rasp, but you are doing what he orders and lifting your hips so he can hook his thumbs and drag your pants down along with your panties. He fights with your shoes for two seconds, but then you are completely exposed to him, and Tig sits back to admire.
Jax draws away from your arms with a lingering squeeze so he can step around his club brother and get a good look at what Tig is literally salivating over. He understands why the moment he sees your cunt. Flushed and swollen, puffy folds glistening with sticky slick that Jax wants nothing more than to taste. He watches her twitch when Tig kisses your thigh, clit quivering when he exhales, and warm air blows over the sensitive nub.
"Lookit how pretty, Chibs," Tig gushed and eased his hands forward, thumbs pressing in close on either side of swollen lips and gently tugging them open, exposing the slick inner bits of your pussy. He cursed tightly, and you felt like you might die from sheer mortification.
"Can-Can you stop staring?"
"Nope," Jax said and reached out, trailing his finger tips along your thighs and up to pet the neatly trimmed bush just above that throbbing clit of yours, "Been too long since we've seen anything as beautiful as this. Ya gotta let us have our fill, okay, baby?"
Your cheeks burn at the way Jax speaks to you; that light, condescending tone made your chest burn with something like humiliation, but the heavy feeling of lust far outweighed any kind of second thoughts or feelings you might have on the matter. You lick your lips and nod, voice coming out a little shakier than you had intended.
"Y-yes, Sir."
The reaction you get from that is immediate. Jax's eyes go so dark they look more like the midnight sky, and then he was smirking down at you, tilting his head and tilting your chin up, pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
"That's a good girl," Jax coos, and you feel every bit of blood in your brain rush south to curl hot in your belly, "Now give your President a kiss."
Jax dipped then, and your first kiss with the President of SAMCRO is…surprisingly sweet considering how you knew they could be. It was a soft press of his lips, easy and exploratory, his tongue gliding across the seam of your lips to seek entrance that you gladly give. His tongue curls around your own, and he sucks it past his lips, the sound slick between the two of you.
Tig watches, and then he can't help himself. He needed to taste you.
You make a muffled yelp when Tig dives down and licks through your spread folds, tongue dipping past silky flesh to prod at a fluttering hole and then up to press flat against your clit. He slurps, the sound loud and obscene in the quiet of your office. Jax grins against your lips and kisses you deeper, licking into your mouth and becoming more demanding with every pass of his lips.
There was nothing more beautiful in this world than seeing a woman in pleasure, and to Chibs, you were the most divine thing he had ever witnessed in his life as a Catholic man. Your face was flushed, cheeks pink, your furrowed as you struggled to concentrate between Jax kissing you senseless and Tig slurping your cunt like a melting ice pop. It's a lewd display that Filip hoped he would never forget.
Jax pulled away from the sloppy kiss, stings of saliva hanging between the two of you, before he grinned and they broke to fall and cling to your chin and lips. He cupped your cheek and brought his brow down to press against your own, holding you firm when you shook with desire when Tig wrapped his lips around that swollen clit and sucked.
"You're ours now, _," Jax says, and there is a deep, dark, rattling sort of possessiveness in his voice that makes alarm bells ring in your head, but you are too preoccupied with trying not to come to pay them any mind. Your hips jerk, and you whine, ears feeling stuffy and filled with cotton.
"Are ye understandin' him, lass?" Chibs added, and your eyes fluttered, head turning so you could see the Scotsman across your desk. You blink, and he tuts, huffing and ignoring the pain in his ribs as he leans into the edge of the desk, "Ye don' touch a soul outside of us. Yer ours, just as much as we're yers."
You don't really have time to answer before that edge approaches too fast, and you whine, loud and long, creaming around Tig's tongue and the two fingers he had shoved inside of you. He grins against sticky folds and pumps his hand, drawing out your orgasm.
"Answer us, baby," Jax orders in a low voice, his hand tightening around your jaw, blue eyes growing intense and dangerous. "It's a yes or no question."
You shake between them, struggling to think straight when Tig wasn't stopping, and you could feel three sets of eyes on you, waiting with the patience of a predator. So you do the only thing your poor brain can do. Agree.
"I-I understand."
And just like that, the intensity was gone and replaced with a charged need you knew wouldn't go away until each man in that room had their fill of a sweet nurse who looked at them and saw them as men and not the monsters that lurked underneath.
Tig pulls away from his sweet nurse with a wet smack of his lips, tongue lapping up creamy slick that clings to his facial hair and chin. He rests his cheek against your thigh and kisses the soft flesh, his blue eyes still heavy with arousal but softened by knowing that you were theirs.
"..can we have more, baby?" Tig is asking you, and you have to swallow and clear your throat to righten yourself and pay enough attention to him to understand what he wanted from you.
"'Cause I don't think any of us can stop with just this, _," Tig continued and made sure he held eye contact with you. Alexander wanted you to see how much he needed you, how much he yearned to touch and consume you.
"I-."
You cut yourself off with a low sound of uncertainty. You wanted them so badly it made your very bones ache with need. You'd never felt like this before, like your very life was hinged on if you said yes or no in this moment.
"..Turn on the radio and lock the door."
Chibs laughs, delighted and even more turned on by the change of events. They had originally come to your office to discuss the best way to kill the two men who had jumped him. Now here he was, pushing himself up from the armchair and shuffling over to the door, locking it and making sure the pull curtain was nice and closed over the tiny window there.
Jax had stepped away long enough to turn on the little radio you'd brought in a few weeks into your tenure here at the prison. He doesn't pay attention to the station, but cranks the volume just a little too loud. They didn't need Hillis beating down the door if the guard happened to hear something he didn't need to.
"Up ya get, darlin'," Jax urged, then pushed you forward and into Tig, who scooped you up with ease and loped over to the medical cot. He'd already gotten rid of your pants, so it was easy work to get your shirt off and toss it behind him to land in a heap on the floor. Your bra came next, the men too impatient to take their time and let you undress for them.
That would come later.
Tig cupped a pair of smooth, heavy tits in his hands. He straight up moaned at the weight in his palms and stroked his thumbs over peaked nipples, digging in his nails the slightest bit just to hear the way you suck in a sharp breath. He massages them, hands flexing and fingertips digging into her flesh to leave marks that would most likely fade before the end of the day.
He makes a rough sound at that. Tig didn't want to see you without something from them, so he dips and bites your left tit, just under your nipple and close to where the band of your bra would sit. That way, you'd feel that little ache whenever your bra rubbed that spot, a reminder of who had left it there.
You yelp, hands coming up to grip his shoulders, but not to pull away, but just to keep yourself steady. You hiss when he laves his tongue over the bite, and look down to see the curve of the imprint of his teeth dug deep into your flesh. Tig kisses the spot and then pulls away with a satisfied look on his face.
"There. Much better, right, baby?"
You are forced to nod when a hand slides into your hair and moves your head for you. Jax smiles down at you, blue eyes locked on your face and the flush high on your cheeks. He tilts your head back, bending your neck and exposing your throat so he can bend and press surprisingly sweet kisses to the sensitive flesh there,
"I think tha's a yes, Jackie," Chibs drawls from your other side, and Jax leads you to turn your head and meet the dark eyes of your Scottish lover. He smirks, Glasgow, scars stretching his cheeks and making him look like the criminal that he was.
"I think she needs a couple more. Jus' ta get our point across."
You can't help but whimper a little at the idea of being marked by the men that surround you, and suddenly, that red flag from earlier was waving a little more in your face. But instead of listening to it like you know you probably should, you shove it away and lick your lips, nodding your head as best you can with how tight a grip Jax has on your hair.
"I-please, Sirs. I want that. I want to wear your marks."
Silence.
Before you can even think about freaking out over their lack of response, Tig was already diving down to press a deeper, meaner bite just to the side of the first one. You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure-filled pain scorches up from where his teeth sink into your skin.
"Knew there was a reason we liked you, _," Jax rasped, and then he was turning you back to him, leaning down so he could mouth at the curve of your jaw and up to the sensitive bit just behind your ear. He nips there, sharp, and your hips jerk, a rough sound escaping your throat.
"Our little nurse is a fuckin' freak. Just like the rest of us are."
You lose yourself a little after that. You are only one woman, and three very large, very attractive men are touching you in so many places that you aren't sure whose hands belong to whom. Their lips were a different story.
You know it's Jax by the sharp stubble that pricks against your outer leg where he kneels on your right, your leg tossed over his shoulder, and lips pressed close to the bend of your knee, making you twitch and jump whenever he breathes too hard against the sensitive spot there.
You know it's Chibs at your throat, his neatly trimmed goatee that scraped across your skin, making you shiver from the coarse hair as he sucked hickies and left behind sharp love bites that he smoothed over with the flat of his tongue.
You know it's Tig back between your thighs, untrimmed beard and mustache rubbing against your folds and leaving behind a bad case of beard burn against swollen, abused folds. He works you closer and closer to the edge, nose nudging against your puffy clit, only to pull back at the last second, grinning up at you with mischievous blue eyes.
"Gonna come on one of our cocks next time, baby," He says the words like they were law, but you were more than eager to obey, a desperate, needy look painting your face as you shook between the three men, hands and body flexing with the need to touch them but being unable to with how they held you.
"Who'd'ya want first, baby?" Tig presses and stands, fingers replacing his lips and tongue, two easing in with a soft squelch, sloppy and wet from him eating you out and the orgasm he and Jax had pulled from you earlier. You keen, and shake when he pumps his fingers, eyes rolling and mind turning into mush until Tig suddenly rears his free hand back and slaps your cunt.
"Tiggy asked you a question, baby," Jax drawled, and you blink up at him, mouth opening to reply when he brings his hand down a second time, and you whine. The sharp sting makes your hips buck only to get pinned right back down by a pair of calloused hands.
"Who do you want to fuck you first?"
The guys didn't give a shit who you picked. They would all get a chance to feel your cunt today, and you were going to let them with a smile on your face… but none of them were known for being very patient men.
"Well?" Chibs demands this time, and this time, you force the words out of your mouth.
"Jax," you cry and sniffle, real tears sprouting in your eyes, "I want Jax to fuck me first."
There was a quick shuffle of bodies, and then Jax was between your thighs, hands on your bare hips and thumbs digging into the soft skin there. He grins at you, that boyish smirk under blonde fringe that made your insides feel like goop and furious heat explode in your tummy every time he looked at you like that. He cupped your cheek, and you saw Chibs and Tig fall in on either side of you, calloused hands coming up to pin you down.
"That's all I needed ta hear, darlin'," Jax cooed, and then he was reaching for his prison sweats and tugging them down to tuck the waistband behind his balls, and you are face to face with his cock for the first time. A rough whine escapes you at the sight, heavy and flushed with need, cock head shiny with sticky precum that you are nearly desperate to taste.
Jax shuffles forward, hand tight around his cock, and groans when he slides that sticky head through your folds, gathering slick that he smears down his shaft with his thumb. It'd been nearly a year since he had even seen pussy, and all three were nearly feral with need for this sweet nurse who was more than willing to spread her thighs for a couple of dangerous criminals.
"Jaxxx," you whine, looking up at him. They didn't have time to play around anymore. The guys had already been here for a while, and there was only so much you could do against the authority here at the prison.
"Shh, lass," Chibs shushed you gently and leaned down to kiss your cheek, sweet and easy, before he pulled away to stroke your hair, meeting wide, needy eyes, "We know."
His words, steady and soft, make the rising anxiousness in your chest settle into something more manageable. You give a nod, take a deep breath, relax, and meet blue eyes hidden behind shaggy blonde hair. You give another nod, just a quick jerk of your chin to assure him that you were good. You were ready.
Jax nods back, just as small, just as quick, and then he was easing forward, eyes fluttering and chest heaving as he struggled not to just slam home and fucking take. Instead, he lingers. The last thing he wanted to do was make this bad for you.
But you were going crazy with his easy pace. You wiggled and then snagged his hips with your legs, wrapping them tight around Jax's hips and forcing him closer. You cursed, a bit too loud over the radio, when he split you open, but that little bit of pain just made it better for you.
"Oh fuck."
Jax hadn't been going slow just for your sake, but for his own, too. Sure, he'd fucked Tig or Chibs, rare as that was, but pussy was different. Pussy stayed nice and sloppy without the help of lube. Pussy was soft and silky and hugged his cock in all the right places and more.
"What the hell, darlin'?"
Tig was laughing, absolutely delighted by this shift in their sweet nurse's attitude. Who would have thought that this slip of a woman who liked to give out sparkly stickers to dangerous criminals was a little freak in the bed. But this just made you all the more appealing, now didn't it?
"Ya heard the lady, Prez," Tig pointed out and then snapped a hand out, gripping you by the chin and smirking down at you, blue eyes intense and full of manic, possessive energy, "If she wants it rough? Let's give it to her."
Jax lets himself enjoy the warmth of your cunt for just a little bit longer before he sighs and flashes you that smug half smirk, grasps you by the hips, and drags you into him. You make a rough, embarrassing sound with how much deeper his prick bullies inside, and the blonde groans at the way you flutter and quake around him. He lets you adjust, but only for a second, and then he is pulling back, and you have no choice but to shove the meat of your palm in your mouth and bite, lest the entire fucking prison hears you get railed by Jax Fucking Teller.
Every rough thrust of his cock sent you spiraling. He felt perfect inside of you, filling you in ways no other partner had before, and you could feel that addiction for these dangerous men growing stronger.
Chibs watched Jax fuck into their nurse, and dropped a hand down to palm himself through the ugly orange prison sweats. He grunts with pleasure, and next thing he knows, Tig is beside him and shoving his pants down so he can wrap a big hand around Filip's prick. He cups the other man's length and bends his head, gathering saliva and spitting into his hand before wrapping tight and stroking just the way he knows his lover enjoys.
Your eyes snap over to the two of them, and just the sight of them wrapped close, Tig's hand on Chibs' cock and the Scotsman's free hand coming up to tangle in Tig's so he could draw him in for a harsh kiss that was all tongue and teeth. You whine, cheeks flushing at the show, and Jax curses tightly when he feels your cunt tighten and drag him in even further.
"Christ, baby," Jax grunts out, and his brow furrows. He was already so close, but he wasn't done. He didn't want to be, but if he didn't now, then his brothers wouldn't have time to have you, and that just wasn't very fair. "You like watchin'?"
You nod shamelessly. Watching the two men kiss, the sight was filthy and enough to have slick pooling heavily and frothing around the base of Jax's cock, creamy, white, and thick. You whine, eyes rolling and hips canting up, meeting Jax thrust for thrust until that edge approached so quickly you could do nothing but bite down into your hand and pray that Hillis couldn't hear anything outside your office.
Your orgasm was all Jax needed to follow over. He whined and fell forward, his face pressed into the crook of your neck as he came, his hips never stopping as he fucked his seed deep. There was a vague thought of shouldn'a done that before it vanished, and Jax is shifting so he could gently pry your hand from between your teeth and kiss you.
Jax breaks the kiss, but not without leaving behind a smattering of sweet pecks across your lips and cheeks. He didn't want you to think this was just about sex. They valued you for you. You being a sexy, mature woman who wanted them back was just a bonus.
"As much as I wanna savor you, darlin'," Jax rasps against your lips, "It's only fair for the guys to have a turn. Don't you think?"
You laugh softly and nod, kissing Jax once more before letting him pull away. He groans when he does, cock still incredibly sensitive after all that. He tucks himself away, and then Chibs was there, smirking down at you with those dark eyes and that accent curling in your ears,
"C'mere, lass. I've been thinkin' bout fuckin' that pretty pussy over yer desk fer months now," He drawled and swiped his fingers through the mess between your thighs before feeding it right back inside, humming at the way your pussy sucked at him and throbbed against his fingertips.
Chibs helps you stand on wobbly legs, then guides you down to rest over your desk, hip bones digging into the edge, and face pressed into the cool mahogany. You shift and pillow your face on your hands, blinking when Filip leaves your side to gather your scrub pants and tuck them under your hips, hands soft as he rubs against your flesh as he slides away.
"Don' want ye gettin' hurt, lass," he murmurs, and you feel quiet affection bloom in your chest at his consideration. You murmur a soft thank you, but then you are smiling at him, all sweet innocence and wiggling your hips at him.
"C'mon, Filip," You coo at him over your shoulder. Your hands flex against your desk, nails scraping over the smooth grain, "Fuck me."
He laughs, low and husky, and shifts behind you, hand catching one cheek to spread you open and shake your ass just so he could watch it jiggle a little. He rubbed his cock head through your folds, watching with fascination as your slick and his president's seed clung to his dick with every pass. You whine and try to wiggle back, wanting nothing more than to feel him stuff you full.
"Easy, lass," Chibs chuffs and then begins to ease forward, a hiss escaping his throat when he slips inside. You were like molten velvet, clinging to his prick and threatening to send him straight into an orgasm, and he wasn't even fully inside of you yet. But he had full control of the situation in this position, and he wasn't going to let you pull what you did with Jax.
It felt like eternity had passed by the time Chibs was fully seated inside of you. He was about the same size as Jax, but his cock curved slightly up, and you felt your breath catch when he dragged across that spongy spot. He grinned behind you and did it again, bangs falling into his face when he rutted forward, short, sharp thrust meant to bully that spot relentlessly.
"Oh, ohhh, oh fuck." You couldn't keep your mouth shut, the way he fucked into you was too much, and you were already so fucking sensitive from the other two orgasms Tig and Jax had pulled out of you. You honestly had no idea if you'd even be able to come for Alexander after this.
"Like a fuckin' vice," Chibs snarled above you and began to pick up the pace, keeping steady and fucking into that same spot, scars pulling at his cheeks in a tight expression the closer and closer he got to his own impending crash.
"Listen to her, Jax," Tig was gushing, a flush high on his cheeks. He'd tugged his own pants down and was jerking himself, quiet, wanton sounds escaping his throat as he watched Chibs fuck into you. He couldn't help himself, needing some kind of relief, and this was the quickest option.
Tig edged himself, hand working like mad along his cock, teeth digging into his bottom lip, eyes locked on the way your cunt sucked Chibs in, the sounds the two of you made were loud and deliciously wet. He couldn't wait to have you split open on his cock, but Tig could be patient. He had to be.
"I know, Tiggy," Jax murmured. He stood with an unlit cigarette between his lips, watching just as closely. His spent cock twitched at the sight, and he had half a thought about round two, but there wouldn't be enough time for that. Not this time at least.
"Fuck- 'm close, lass," Chibs hissed, and those rasping words were enough to make your cunt clench around the Scotsman, creamy slick clinging to his cock, so much that the front of his prison sweats were soaked when you come. Your body feels like it's gone three rounds with an MMA fighter, and you can do nothing but try and grip the slippery top of your desk while Chibs fucks you from behind.
The feeling of hot seed flooding you makes your thighs shake, and you press your brow to the cool surface to try and regulate your breathing, shoulders heaving as you suck in great lungfuls of oxygen. You keep your eyes shut, and a quiet whine escapes your throat when Chibs pulls out, slow and deliberate, needing his dear nurse to feel every bit of him.
Tig is already in your office chair, legs spread and cock heavy and flushed a deep red. Precum bubbles and smears around his slit, and your pussy twitches at the sight of how big Tiggy was. You push yourself up on shaky arms and stagger over to him on the legs of a baby deer, nose wrinkling when you feel the mess between your legs begin to leak down your thighs.
"C'mere, baby," Tig cooed, licking his lips, blue eyes alight with possessive, manic energy that should scare you but just makes the burning arousal in your core explode into spots in your vision. "Come ta Daddy."
You flush as Tig addresses himself as that, and climb into his lap, loving the way his big hands settle on your hips and guide you forward. His cock is intimidating, but you are more than determined to take him. Tig lets you go at your own pace, and a wondrous groan spills from between his teeth when you begin to sink down until your hips are flush with his own.
"Fuuuuck," Tig whines the word, eyes fluttering, and he grips your ass, using his superior strength to start bouncing you on his cock himself, head tilting back so he could look down at you, watching expressions of pleasure paint across your face, and he was the artist doing so.
Tig was big, and his dick filled you more than the other two had ever after getting fucked by the other men. You clutched his shoulders, thighs flexing as you helped Tig fuck you on his cock. Your head falls forward, and you rest your brow against his shoulder, too numb and exhausted to do more than that while he seeks his own pleasure.
"Gonna come for me, right, baby?" Tig rasps in your ears and provides a particularly sharp thrust that punches the air from your lungs, "Ya gave the other two one. I want another."
"I-I dunno-"
"Yeahhh, ya can, sweetheart," Tig cut you off and gave you a proud little smile like you were doing such a good job being his cock sleave, "Ya got one more in you, baby. I know you do."
You shudder in his arms and give a weak nod. If your Daddy was saying you had another in you, then you had to. Right?
"O-okay, Tiggy. One more."
You never should have said those damning words.
Within the next ten minutes, Alexander Tig Trager manages to pull not just one but three more orgasms from your wrecked body. You are an overstimulated mess, body limp as you lie across Tig and let him use you. How he hadn't come yet is beyond you, but you needed him to, and soon.
"Tig," Chibs drawled and stood behind his lover. He cupped the other man's chin and brought his head back, dipping so he could press a kiss to his bitten lips, "Ye need ya come, love."
Tig whines immediately, expression turning mulish, and he slows his thrusts into a lazy roll of his hips, making you quake against his chest and dig your nails into his shoulders when it caused a fresh wave of painful pleasure to race across your flesh like static.
"But I don't wanna," Tig grunted out and met dark eyes who stared at him until he broke and caved with a reluctant nod, "Fuckin- fine."
"Tiiggg-"
His name is ripped out of your throat when he starts that brutal pace again, cock head bullying your cervix before you shift your hips, and he somehow slips deeper. Chibs tugs his hair, and then Tig was coming with a muffled shout, teeth digging into his bottom lip hard enough that the flesh split and blood wells up at the corner of his mouth.
You milk him for all he is worth, cunt flexing and sucking his deep, hips grinding down without your permission, your body moving on autopilot as your common sense takes a back seat and your brain goes all fuzzy.
Jax and Chibs share a look. You would be useless the rest of the day after this and would definitely need to be sent home. That, or Hillis would need to cover for her until she could go home. Tig tucks you close for a moment, simply holding you close to his chest before he allows the other two to help you on shaky legs and start cleaning you up with a couple of damp rags they dig out from your medical cabinets.
You are glad they are there to take care of you, because you aren't sure if you can even form a full, coherent thought in that moment. You feel dead on your feet, body swaying back and forth, until Chibs steps up to support your weight while Jax gathers your clothes, and they work together to get you back in your scrubs.
Once they have you dressed, Jax steps out of your office, runs a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face, and lopes down to the security desk. Hillis sits back in his chair, feet kicked up on his desk, and a flush on his cheeks. Jax swallows hard, knowing just from seeing that blush, Hillis had heard plenty going on in your office. He shuffles awkwardly for a moment before clearing his throat and getting the guard's attention.
"Hey-"
"Not sayin' a word, man," Hillis cuts him off and looks over the edge of the magazine he holds. He'd grabbed the first thing he'd seen to try to distract himself from the noises coming from your office.
Jax pauses, taken aback, and blinks dumbly at the other man.
"You guys aren't very subtle. The whole prison knows there is somethin' going on between the four of you," Hillis shrugs then, unbothered, "An' I like _, man. She makes this shit hole less of a fuckin' shit hole, so I'm not gonna say shit about her. Matter of fact? I don't even know what we're talkin' about anymore. Did you need something, inmate?"
Jax stares. Stares a little more, and then shakes his head, turning on his heel, "Nah, man. I'm good, brother. Just out for a walk."
"Well, hurry and get back to your block and take Things One and Things Two with you!"
The blonde hides his smirk until he gets back inside your office, and only then does he laugh, not loud or hard, but with genuine amusement at the interaction he just had with Hillis.
You look up when Jax comes in, still looking exhausted and ready to pass out right where you sat. You give him a concerned look, mouth opening to ask if everything is okay, when Jax speaks up.
"You've got this whole place in your pocket, baby," Jax murmurs, then dips so he can kiss you gently, lingering and pressing his brow to yours. "Hillis is a good man, but you might want to get him a gift basket."
They watch you blush, and Tig immediately starts cackling, clutching his sides at the look of slow mortification that comes over your pretty face. Chibs laughs and shakes his head, and Jax grins, completely unrepentant and smug. You don't even have the chance to ask why before he tells you.
"'Cause he heard everything."
Hillis comes to work the next week, and there is a massive gift basket on his desk. It's full of candies and snacks, along with little desk items and stickers of some of his favorite things. He laughs and leafs through it, knowing exactly who this was from, but reading the little handmade card anyway.
Please don't hate me! <3
He laughs, tucks the card on his desk, and grabs one of the sticker sheets. Hillis peels a 2D corgi off and slapped it on his uniform with a smirk. His dog would be proud of him.
Your retaliation against Bowen and Zou takes the form of severe inconvenience. You speak to Hillis about what had happened, quietly explaining to your friend your plans and awkwardly asking the guard if he could somehow assist you with them.
You didn't think that he would be more than happy to help.
The nurse stands by his desk as he rifles through schedules and work orders. He pulls out spreadsheets and other information he might think would be helpful in your pursuit of revenge. You thank him endlessly and take your haul to the safety of your office to look over everything. It does not take long before you are taking up a pencil and changing things around.
You were so glad that Stockton still functioned in the Stone Age.
You even have a trip to the warden's office, where you bat your lashes and use your womanly charms - Hillis' words. He had been the one to escort you that day, and you hadn't even tried. The old man behind the desk had broken and agreed to whatever you had wanted after the first please left your lips.
It was like a superpower, and SAMCRO was screwed if they thought they could withstand that look if you happened to pull it on them.
Your first plan of action was to separate the two of them. They shared a cell and usually had jobs together, keeping true to the buddy system that kept you alive in prison. Without it, they would both be vulnerable, and it wasn't like their boss cared enough about them to pull the strings needed to get them back together.
Bowen is confused when he comes to his cell and sees a man he doesn't know where Zou would usually be. The guy is massive, with hulking muscles, and covered in so many tattoos that Bowen can hardly see his skin beneath them. He shifts his weight and steps into his cell.
"Who the fuck are you?" Bowen demands and stands his ground when the man turns. He could tell that this guy was Hispanic, and there was a massive MAYANS tag tattooed across his chest that peeks out from under the white tank top. He was an older man, but intimidating regardless.
"Perez," he greets, smirking down at the other man. "Nice to meet you, ese."
Bowen sneers and crosses his arms, nodding to the bottom bunk, "Why'd they move Zou? We haven't done shit to make the warden move us around."
"No?" Perez rumbles, and when he shifts, Bowen sees two incredibly sparkly stickers. One was of a cartoon dog with a big red spiked collar, Spike from Tom and Jerry. The other was a chicken, scraggly and skinny with giant eyes. Bowen had no idea who that one was.
"Maybe you should take a moment and reflect, ese. You ain't exactly the innocent party here, from what I've been told."
Bowen licks his lips, expression hard even as he works to try and figure out what this was about. The Scot and the nurse? There wasn't any way you had that kind of influence over the warden.
But then why was Perez here?
Zou was in the same boat. A guard had come and ordered him to pack his shit while Bowen was at his morning job, and he had been marched right into D Block, where SAMCRO had leered at him with looks that belonged on a pack of wolves rather than a group of bikers. He had avoided looking at them, especially the Scot, and nearly walked into the guard for his troubles.
Harry had only been in the system for a couple of years. He was young and dumb and had been told too many times he was too pretty for his own good. Being a pretty boy in prison landed you in a whole heap of problems. So Harry said fuck it, and wore that shit with pride.
Inmates didn't know what to do with a man who was openly gay. Who would stand there and eye fuck you right back if he caught you staring at him. Would even blow a little kiss if he were feeling zesty. And if the rumors were believed?
Zou was a bit of a homophobe, and the nurse held Harry's loyalty more than any of the other inmates in the prison.
So when Harry looked up from where he was lying on his bunk, he couldn't help but grin. He also wore two exotic stickers, so sparkly Zou almost couldn't tell what they were. Princess Belle, Harry's favorite princess, and then one of Prince Naveem as the Frog. He rolled to his feet and popped up, slim build leaning too close for comfort.
"Ohhhh, Hillis! Is this the new roomie?"
Hillis smirked. God, he loved his fucking job sometimes.
"Sure is, Kid. Warden wanted to shake things up a little."
"I didn't see anyone else moving around," Zou points out, and Harry turns that megawatt grin on the gang banger. Zou grimaces and sneers, disgust dripping from every pore, "I'm not rooming with a fairy."
"Awwwee, poor baby, does the queer make you uncomfortable?" Harry coos, and then he stands at his full height, looming over Zou even with his willowy frame. The kid wasn't in prison just for no reason after all, "Maybe ya just need a little taste. Clear that bad case of homophobia right up for ya, hmm?"
Several cells down the row, SAMCRO burst out into laughter, matching grins all around as Chibs and Tig high-fived in their shared cell and Jax sat smug as can be in his own. Their nurse was something else.
From then on, Harry and Perez were a staple. Where Bowen went, the hulking Mayan wasn't far behind. Zou would think he'd finally lost Harry, only for the man to show up far too close. Whatever freedoms they had before had disappeared with just a couple of changes in a ledger.
But that wasn't it. These men had nearly killed a man you cared for. You weren't done yet.
Two weeks after their sleeping arrangement changes, you go make a trip to the Commissary in the mess hall and speak to the guards in charge of accounts. You explain to them what you want and watch them share a grin and shrug.
"Sure, Miss _," James says on the right, and Jesse matches his smirk, her eyes squinting at the edges.
"We do so love a little bit of fun."
"That's 4.67$."
Zou stares at the man on the other side of the metal grate, blinks a few times, and then looks down at the six cigarettes, half a bar of soap, and a pack of M&Ms that look back up at him. He got the exact same thing, minus the soap, literally last week, and it cost half of the price the freak on the other side of the counter was telling him.
"Bullshit."
"That's the price, inmate, you got a problem, you take it up with the Warden," James tells him and goes to move the items back. At the same time, another inmate shuffles up to Jesse and orders the exact same thing.
"That'll be 2.23$"
Zou watches in growing disbelief as none other than Tig fucking Trager pays with a smarmy grin, those wild blue eyes staring right at Zou as he confirms his payment with the guard in the other line.
Tig cocks a brow, head cocking to the side as he makes an obvious show of looking the other inmate up and down, "Problem?"
The man doesn't stick around for an answer and instead lopes off without a care in the world, back over to the table where the blonde and Scotsman wait like sentinels. Zou whips back around and slams his hands on the counter, furious and unnerved by the interaction.
"What the fuck was that?"
Jesse cocks a red brow at him and pops her hip, "Business, inmate. Now, if you're not going to get anything, get out of line."
Zou sneers and snatches his things off the counter, pocketing all of them, and stalls when he sees something that catches his eye. There, on both of their uniforms, is a sparkly cat creature with a golden coin between its ears and a smug expression on its face.
How the hell?
Bowen is in the middle of showering with the rest of his block when the door bursts open, and two guards come stomping in. Hillis is one, sparkly corgi on display, and the other is the always disgruntled Goads. Stickerless.
"Inmate 43759. Cut the water and get dressed."
Bowen's eyes snap open, and he immediately curses when soap runs into his eyes. He scrubs at them and flushes when the inmates around him laugh at his misfortune.
"Better hurry, ese," Perez drawls from where he stands under the lukewarm water, smug smirk on his lips, "Guards aren't very patient today."
"Fuck you," Bowen spits out at Perez and quickly rinses, furious and embarrassed at being called on during the shower of all times. He whips around to the guards, glaring, "What do you want?"
"Your help got sick and shit all over the place down in the laundromat," Goads drawls and smirks, smug in his authority like usual, "Figured we'd come get you now. Don't want the stink to linger."
Bowen stares, and then he plants his feet, shaking his head in denial, "No. My shift was this morning. Afternoon shift gets that shit. Not me."
The showers quiet down at his refusal, and Hillis steps forward, one hand dropping down to his baton, and stares down the advancing Asian, "Either that or the hole for a week, inmate. Your choice."
Bowen ends up in the hole for the rest of the week with sore ribs and a busted lip, and when he comes out, he is escorted straight to the laundromat for his morning shift. The other man he's working with keeps groaning, his hand over his stomach as he struggles to fold a pair of towels. Bowen is ready to snap at him to shut the fuck up when the inmate stumbles over to him, face pale and hand over his mouth.
What happens next are some of the most disgusting moments of Bowen's life. It's in his clothes, on his face, in his shoes, and there, not sparkly, but still eye-catching, is a sticker on the other man's chest.
The nurse.
It takes nearly a month before Zou and Bowen see each other again after the initial separation, and in that time, both men have spent more time in the hole than out of it. Or covered in bodily fluids or having the Commissary shut down in their faces. Prices changing before their very eyes, clothes not fully dry, cut yard, and shower time. Miserable all in all.
By some misfortune, their blocks share yard time that day, and they escape from the prying eyes of Harry and Perez, meeting up under the little bit of shade the metal bleachers give them by the West side of the fence.
"You look like shit," Zou grunts out at his fellow gang banger. Bowen flips him off in return, rolling his eyes and tugging out a half-smoked cigarette that he chews on the end of. His lighter had run out the other week.
"Speak for yourself," Bowen hisses and leans against the chain link fence. It had become increasingly obvious that their connections and safety net with the rest of Lin's men had crumbled with the changes that had happened over the past month. The other men wouldn't even acknowledge the two, well, former members. Especially Bowen after the laundromat incident.
"It's the fuckin' nurse's fault," Zou points out and rubs a hand on the back of his head, frustrated beyond belief, "I see those sparkly stickers every god damn where."
"I know. Somethin's gotta give, man."
The two stare at each other, wheels turning at the same time, before they stand and just…start beating the shit out of each other.
What better way to see the nurse?
You are in your office eating lunch when you hear a commotion down the hallway. Curious, you stand and peek out the window, brow cocking when you see two men, the men who you've made lives a living hell, being wheeled down the hallway and into a set of rooms where two nurses are flocking around trying to take vitals and strap them down for safety precautions.
You frown and set away your lunch, slipping on some latex gloves to go across the hall and start to help. You had sworn an oath, and, rocky relationship with these men or not, you would still help where you could. Once they had been stabilized, you shuck your gloves and go to leave the room, only to stall when you feel two sets of eyes staring you down.
Back tense, you turn and meet their eyes head-on, refusing to back down. Neither do they, but you had a lunch you wanted to finish, and it wasn't like they could do anything strapped down like they were.
Still. Having both of them in the medical wing made you a little nervous, and by the time you finished lunch, your stomach had knotted itself up. Once you cleaned up and locked your office, you nodded to Hillis and decided to go on a little walk around the prison.
Inmates waved to you as you walked, smiling and showing off the stickers you'd given them, and it made your tummy settle seeing them. You're pretty sure there is some kind of underground sticker system in place, but you don't pay it any kind of mind. You didn't care what they got up to outside of your office.
You weaved around the facility, going down to the bottom floor and to where the outside visitation was just on the other side of the yard. You stand and wait patiently, knowing your white lab coat and blue scrubs are a signal to a certain trio of men, and don't have to wait very long before three shadows fall over where you rest against the chain link fence that separates them.
"What did a buncha freaks like us," Tig cooed and hooked his fingers through the wire, leering at you with a tilt of his head, "Deserve to get a visit from an angel?"
Jax snickers at the blush that blooms over your cheeks, and you roll your eyes at their antics. Fondly, of course.
"Aye, Ye don' come outta yer dungeon fer much, lass."
You lick your lips then. Chibs wasn't wrong, so your appearance was sure to have already sent off their alarm bells. There wasn't any point in beating around the bush.
"Bowen and Zou are in medical," you tell them, shifting your weight again, blushing a little. You feel like a little girl tattling on someone, but they needed to know.
"What?"
Jax's voice is a low chuff, and you are reminded once more of a pack of wolves rather than a group of bikers. He stops in front of you, a harsh frown on his handsome face. He looks you over, blue eyes raking over your body as if he were looking for any kind of injury, and Jax only marginally relaxes when he sees for himself that you are right as rain.
"Their schedules finally lined up enough that they got some yard time together," you tell them, and squirm in your clothes, growing warm under the California sun. "Apparently, it took less than five minutes before fists started flying, and they got wheeled down to my side of the prison."
"They're up ta somethin'," Chibs drawls immediately and leans against the fence, casting a shadow over where you stand and offering you a tiny bit of shade from the sun, "Shite like that just doesn't happen."
"I figured as much," You tell him and shuffle closer, grateful for the offer. It was a shame that prisons didn't offer all that much greenery.
"That's why I came and told you guys."
You are witness to all three men preening like a trio of smug peacocks at your admission. You can't exactly blame them; you came running to SAMCRO the moment something suspicious was going on around you, trusting the men, even with their limitations, to keep you safe and take care of the problem.
"You did good comin' to us about it, darlin'," Jax murmurs, and his hand twitches, feeling like a junkie staring at some crank but unable to touch it with you so close like this. He breathes deep and reminds himself that he only had a little over a year before he got out, and then he wouldn't have to worry about stupid things like rules and regulations and chain link fences being in the way of what he wanted.
You.
"Aye, lass," Chibs murmurs, and you look up at him, cheeks dusting pink at the look in his eyes. It was dark, almost proud look, and it was enough to make your thighs tingle, and your cunt clench around nothing.
Since that first time in your office, there had yet to be another opportunity to have all three of them with you like that again. Instead, their visits were either in pairs or solo. You were just happy they could come by in general, considering, well… everything.
But you wanted them just as much now as you had before. Maybe even more since you knew how they could make you feel.
That feeling in your gut only grew when Tig plucked at the fence to get your attention, and your line of sight was drawn straight to the obscene bulge in his pants. Your cheeks warm even more, and your mouth salivates, mind flashing back to the other week when he had literally jumped you in the middle of your rounds and dragged you into the closest empty room.
You had understood the term cock drunk after that, and now every time you even caught a glimpse of his cock, even covered by layers of ugly orange prison garb, the urge to sink to your knees and let your mind go deliciously blank was nearly overwhelming.
"I think you broke her, Tiggy, " Jax murmurs just loud enough, and you flush, jerking your face away from him and ignoring the way your whole body burns with embarrassment at getting caught.
"Aye," Chibs teases, smirking at you, dark eyes darkening when he sees your cheeks. "Look at the wee blush."
"Alright," you huff, rolling your eyes at them, shifting your weight, "I'm leaving now."
"Aw, baby, no," Tig whines, but there is a shit-eating grin on. his face that you want to smack off, but Tiggy would probably like that too much, "Don't gooo."
"Nope," You say and pivot on your heel, stalking away from the men and refusing to look back. You know you'll see nothing but smug looks and eyes dark with lust. You didn't need them to distract you right now with the mystery of Zou and Bowen afoot.
The teasing drops as soon as you are back inside, and the three of them share a look. None of them liked that Lin's ex-men had intentionally ended up in medical. It was obvious that they were up to something, and they did not like that one bit. They escaped the fence row for the privacy of one of the few trees they had claimed for themselves.
Jax digs out a cigarette and lights it, the cherry glowing bright as he inhales and then passes it over to Tig, "I want the word put out that Bowen and Zou are planning something. We'll double her guard rotation when possible."
"Do wha' ye do best, Tiggy," Chibs drawls and leans against the trunk, taking his weight off his injured side, "An' star' yappin'."
Tig chuffed and flipped them both off, though his lips tugged into a smirk. He knew where his talents lay in prison. He shuffled closer to Chibs, blue eyes going dark and teeth flashing behind scruffy facial hair, "Yeah, yeah, Chibby. Two of ya only want me for my mouth and my dick."
Chibs snickers, and then tension lifts a little with the quip. He shrugs one shoulder and steals the cigarette from Tig when he leans closer, "Aye, ye daft fucker. Yer mouth, yer hands, that mental head of yers."
Jax chuffs and leans closer to Chibs, sharing the shade of the tree. "That was almost sweet, Filip."
The older man rolls his eyes and puffs, cherry glowing red before he offers it to Jax and then snags a hand out, fisting it in Tig's hair and dragging him forward. The tree, angled how they were, gave them just enough privacy for something like this, and after having you come see them, Chibs needed a little help.
"Aye." Chibs drawls and pushes Tig down without looking at the curly-haired man. Tig fights back once before resolving himself to his fate and sinking to his knees. His Scotsman had a nice prick anyway, and Tig loved a little risk.
Jax situated himself so he shielded the other men as best he could, blue eyes watching Tig hook his fingers in Chibs' sweats and tug them down, tilting his head up to peek through curly bangs.
"Commando, Chibby?" he teases, and Filip huffs at him, hand tightening in his hair as he tugs the younger man back down and lets his cock rub against rough facial hair and soft lips.
"Either shut yer mouth or use it, love."
Jax watches Tig wrap a hand around Chibs' cock and stroke the length with a firm grip, thumb pressing in hard against the flushed head and forcing a bead of precum to well up and smear. He leans in and licks it with a soft groan, eyes fluttering like a whore at the slightly bitter taste. Tig suckles at Chibs' slit, greedy for the taste of the other man.
"C'mon, Tiggy," Jax murmurs and lights another cigarette, reluctantly looking away from the fucking hot scene going on in front of him so he could look around, "Don't have all day."
Chibs groans when Tig suddenly drops his jaw and takes him down as far as he can, gagging when a swollen cock head presses against the back of his throat. Tig's eyes water, but he powers through it, free hand gripping the muscular thigh by his face and digging his nails in to distract him from the need to gag when Chibs humped forward.
Jax sees Tig drool around the older man and reaches forward, stroking his cheek and allowing his expression to go soft, "You're doing great, baby. Relax, yeah?"
Tig's eyes flutter, and he feels his brain go blank, just a warm, wet hole for his lover to use for his own pleasure.
Chibs curses and slides his other hand into Tig's wild mane, using the leverage to fuck the other man's throat, hips jerking and cock a wet, perfect slide across Tiggy's tongue. His brow furrows when that perfect throat flutters around his cock head, tightening just enough to have Chibs hissing and spilling hot seed.
Alexander swallows it all greedily, lips closing around the cock in his mouth as he milks Chibs for all he was worth, tongue massaging that thick vein that travels on the bottom of his prick. He whines when Chibs forces him away, cheeks flushed with need and eyes glassy with arousal that burns bright in his gut. His hips jerk, and Tig shifts enough to properly kneel on the ground.
"Chibby, c'mon," Tig whines and peers up at them, voice raw from getting his throat fucked, "Gimme somethin' man. I need it."
"Look at 'em, Jackie," Chibs coos meanly and ignores Tig entirely, Glasgow scars tugging on his lips as he rolls his head to look at the blonde, "Pathetic wee mess he is."
Jax hums lowly in agreement, "Yeah. I see what you mean, brother. Belongs over at Red Woody, instead of at the table."
Without a word, Chibs lifts his foot and presses his shoe against Tig's crotch, the only offering he allows the other man to use to get himself off. Alexander doesn't care. He's horny and angry, and he just needs something.
Shamelessly, he grinds and humps against Chibs, brow dropping to rest against the other man's thigh as he works himself up to that edge. Tig comes in his sweats with a broken sound, cock sore and raw after grinding into the rough material of his pants, but he didn't give a fuck. His sweet little nurse could take a long look next time he came by her office.
Jax urges the other man up and fixes his hair, petting it back into place and dragging Tig in so he could press his lips to the older man's scruffy cheek, "Go clean up, Tiggy. Then get on it."
Tig slumps in Jax's hold, subdued and focused. He leans closer and nods for his president, meeting the dark eyes of his VP, before he reluctantly makes himself move and grimaces at the sticky feel of cooling cum in his pants.
"Mhm, on it, Jax. You can count on me."
Chibs kisses Tig on the cheek, then watches the other man begin to lope away, that lax aura fading for his usual manic cloak of energy that makes people nervous. Jax sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose, worked up over what you had told them earlier.
"We'll handle it, Jackie," Chibs murmured to him, then met blue eyes. "Ye know we will."
"Yeah," Jax rasps and drops his hands, shoving them deep in his pockets as he leans against the rough bark of the tree, "Just worried it won't be enough."
All it takes is a day for shit to hit the fan.
You are at your desk, bent over some reports, eyeglasses on and squinting at the bad handwriting, when the door opens and then shuts. You frown, about to look up, only for your face to explode in pain when a big hand grabs you by the back of the head and slams you into the hardwood of your desk. Your vision whites and your nose immediately begins to gush blood, tears springing into your eyes and clouding your vision when you dare open your eyes.
That hand fists your hair again and slams you into the desk, once, twice more. You whine, the sound low and broken in your ears, and slump into the desk when they finally release your hair.
You know exactly who this is. You just don't know which one grabbed you first.
Where was Hillis? How had Zou and Bowen gotten out of the other room? Had another nurse helped them? You had no idea, and the spiraling thoughts weren't making your headache any better. You breathe through your mouth, your years of nursing slowly beginning to kick in, and you make sure to keep your head turned to the side so that the blood and mucus wouldn't choke you.
"That was for the laundromat," Bowen snarls, and he grabs at the nurse again, ripping her lab coat and sending paperwork and office supplies scattering everywhere across the office. He flipped her around and wrapped his hands around her throat, eyes blazing and seething as he tightened his grip.
"Weeks of the hole! You fucking bitch- this is all your god damn fault! Covered in shit and puke, and every time we saw those fucking stickers."
"Sparkly pink unicorns and fucking Disney princess," Zou snarls and looms just behind his fellow gang banger, eyes narrowed into vicious slits, "The Sons watching us every step of the way. The fucking bunk change."
You whimper, the sound choked and wet. You can't focus on anything, and with every terrible word they snarl down at you, the tighter Bowen's hands get around your throat. You claw weakly at your desk, desperate for anything to help you.
"An' then fucking those white trash faggots," Bowen barks and shakes you, making the back of your head bounce off the desk and your vision blur even heavier, "Whore doesn't even care that the whole prison knows she spreads her legs for all three of the mother fuckers."
Your chest aches when he mentions that. You'd been as careful as you could with your lovers, but obviously, word got around about your extracurricular activities with the Sons. Still, it hurt being called a whore when you knew your relationship with the three men was much more than just sex.
But those thoughts were helping you now. Especially when you felt them begin to tug at your clothes, and the fear you had been feeling ratchets up to a level that makes you physically choke with it. You thrash in Bowen's grip, lashing out with a leg and catching him in the crotch with your knee. His grip loosens just enough that you can shout a strangled Help! before that thick bicep locks down around your windpipe and you gag.
"This will shut her up," Zou snarls and forces your jaw open, stuffing one of the medical rags you had neatly folded on the counter of your office. You drool and choke around the gag, blood and mucus soaking into the white fabric and staining it a light pink.
You can't stop crying, fat tears streaming down your cheeks, when Zou grabs your wrists and jerks them up above your head. Your arms ache at the awkward angle, and you cry harder when a meaty palm gropes your breast through your scrubs. He isn't nice with his touch; there was nothing nice about the way they jerked you around and tore at your clothes.
You shake between them, eyes clenched shut with shame when air meets your bare cunt. You don't want them to touch you, but the way Zou holds your arms strains your elbow to the point that it feels numb from the pain that races down your bicep and up your spine. You force your eyes open when Bowen presses your legs apart, his thumb right beside a dark hickie that Jax had left behind earlier that day.
"See? Fucking slut," Bowen snarls, and then he was forcing your pussy lips apart, staring at the intimate bits of you that only your three lovers should ever see. You shake and cry, legs kicking out around his hips and bucking your own to try and get away from him.
"Let's see what all the fuss is about."
A lot of things happen all at once after that.
The door to your office flies open, and several bodies spill in. Hillis happens to be one of them, and he raises his stun gun, immediately shooting Bowen in the chest and watching with satisfaction as the man seizes up and pisses his pants, dropping to his knees and curling up on his side in the fetal position as electricity arches up his body. The others happen to be Tig and Jax, the two Sons having had a moment to come by and see you.
Tig bodily tackles Zou to the ground with a snarl, and Jax goes for you, wrapping you up in strong arms that hold you tight to his chest and press your ear right over his thundering heart. He pulls you to the corner of the room, careful as he helps you adjust your clothes and rubs the feeling back into your arms.
"Shh, baby," Jax coos to you and tucks you under his chin, lips pressing tight to your temple as he gently rocks you back and forth, "I've got you, _."
Tig can't see past the red in his vision. His hands tighten around Zou's throat, unrelenting and furious, blue eyes wide with such rage that Jax can feel it pouring off the other man from across the room. But he doesn't do anything to stop it.
Alexander doesn't stop, and Hillis is too busy radioing in for backup and dealing with Bowen to stop Tig. Zou's hands scramble at Tig's wrists, pulling on them with slipping strength. Every breath he takes burns, making everything worse, Tig pulling his weight into it, grinning down at Zou and watching the other man begin to fade little by little.
SAMCRO's former sergeant-at-arms strangles Zou through his body thrashing, not letting up, not stopping, not not enjoying the way the man under him begins to still and then lie silent. Only then does he unclench his hands from around the dead man's throat and slowly stand, staggering to the side and over to Jax and his sweet, sweet nurse.
You cry harder at seeing Tig and clutch at Jax, terrified at having watched one of the men you loved kill someone. Kill someone for you
He flinches when you turn away from him and makes a sad, wounded sound, blue eyes going wide and landing on Jax for help. The blonde swallows hard and eases a hand into curly black hair, knowing that he didn't need to just take care of you in this moment, but a wild Tig Trager.
"Easy, brother," Jax murmured, and your crying began to calm at the firm but calm sound of Jax's voice and the vibration you could feel against your cheek on every word, "_ just needs a second."
Tig presses into the hand that grips his hair and breathes deep, making himself focus on his president and the fact that he had gotten rid of the problem. One of them at least. Tig shuffles closer and feels himself slump even more when the familiar touch of the Scotsman slides over his shoulders and eases him against a strong chest.
Jax cursed tightly at the mess all around him, meeting dark eyes full of rage that were locked on the unconscious man lying in a puddle of his own piss. Hillis takes everything in, teeth digging into his bottom lip.
"I need you to let one of the other nurses have _," Hillis tells Jax carefully and steps in front of Zou. Talking to these men was like talking to a lit fuse and would need to navigate this safely, "You know I'm right, Teller. She needs to get out of here."
Jax stares and then nods, a rough sound leaving his throat as he bends and picks you up bridal style, keeping you tucked protectively against his chest as he begins to wade out of the room. Chibs and Tig stay behind, the Scotsman waving Jax on before he focuses on Tig, pressed close to the other man, his lips brushing over Tig's cheek and ear with every word.
Jax sits with you in a room down the hall, wondering what the hell happened to even allow Zou and Bowen to get out of their room and into yours. Was someone helping them? A freak accident?
Only two men knew, and now one of them was dead.
"Tig... he killed him."
Your sad little voice brings Jax out of his thoughts, and he looks down at you, meeting watery eyes that held an immense amount of fright. Jax watches your lip wobble, and tears start to leak, but he doesn't stop you from crying. You needed to let this out.
"He did."
His casual confirmation makes fresh tears fall, and you dig your nails into him, shaking the other man as you cry over too many things all at once. Your face hurt, and you could still feel their hands all over you. The watching Tig…He had looked near gleeful, and it had terrified you.
"Jax…I-."
"What did we say when this first started, _?" Jax asks you then, and your brow furrows, confused about his line of questioning, but then you see the look on his face, and you see those red flags again, that rising sense of uh oh that you have ignored in favor of pursuing what you wanted.
Jax stares at you, and you stare back, throat working as you struggle to wrap your poor brain around what's happened. How quickly your life had changed, even if it wasn't entirely noticeable yet. The blonde cups your cheek, willing you to just…accept it.
So now you were facing the consequences of those actions. These men were dangerous, possessive beasts who took what they wanted and damn the rest. You had become something they wanted, and like hell would any one of them let you go. Not now. Not after Chibs, and not after this. You belonged to SAMCRO now, whether you wanted to or not.
It wasn't up to you anymore.
And hours later, after guards swarmed the medical wing and Zou's body was carted off and Tig thrown in the hole while Jax and Chibs were escorted back to their cells, you understand that now more than ever. Protocol after an attack as extreme as yours called for a pregnancy test, even without penetration, and you feel the world begin to narrow in around you, your eyes locked on the word positive on your medical chart.
The times lined up. You couldn't be sure of the day of conception, but you had sex with all three of them. Multiple times on multiple days, and like a moron…none of you have been careful. You'd be, maybe… six or seven weeks along now? An early catch, and it wasn't unheard of for a woman to still have her period early on in the pregnancy.
You lie in the hospital bed and stare up at the ceiling, wondering what the hell you were going to do when the father(s) of your baby were still locked up in prison, and you were still deep in medical school. Would they want you to keep it? You had no idea, and you couldn't talk to them right now. You didn't know when you would be able to next, actually, after how everything went down.
All you knew was that… despite the red flags and the air horns screaming at you to run, run, run.
You didn't want to run. You wanted to stay here. You wanted to see them again, even if it was only to…show them what they had created with you. Maybe it was selfish to want to keep the baby, but if things went sideways… well, at least you'd always have a piece of them to remember your time with SAMCRO.
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