reading books & watching tv ☆ occasionally writing ☆ queer ☆ '01 ☆ aussie ☆ music lover ☆ language learner ☆ virgo ☆ INFP ☆ you are more than enough to be loved
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You steal one of Tig's hoodies but a few weeks later are upset cause it no longer smells like him.
Tig has never been more endeared in his life.
You'd spent seven nights barely sleeping before you finally admitted you had a problem.
Not because you were sick. Not because you were stressed.
Because you couldn't sleep alone anymore.
It was humiliating.
You were twenty-four years old, perfectly capable of paying your bills, holding down a job, standing up to half the maniacs that wandered through SAMCRO's clubhouse, but the moment the lights went out and your apartment became too quiet, your brain refused to shut off.
Every little creak became someone breaking in. Every passing car sounded like trouble. Every nightmare jolted you awake with your heart pounding so violently it hurt, and once you were awake, that was it. You'd stare at your ceiling until sunrise, exhausted enough to cry but somehow never tired enough to actually fall asleep again.
After a week of existing almost entirely on coffee and stubbornness, you cracked.
You drove to Tig Trager's house.
You almost turned around four separate times.
This was ridiculous.
You and Tig weren't dating.
There had always been...something.
A ridiculous amount of flirting, lingering touches, stolen smiles that lasted just a little too long, but neither of you had ever crossed that line. Mostly because you assumed he couldn't possibly want someone twenty-four years younger than him in any serious capacity, and Tig—despite being Tig—had convinced himself you'd eventually find someone your own age and laugh about the ridiculous older biker who'd let himself fall in love with you.
So when he opened his front door wearing grey sweatpants, an old black hoodie, and sleep-mussed hair despite it only being eight in the evening, he blinked at you in complete confusion.
"...Babe?"
You immediately wanted to disappear.
"I—"
Your voice cracked.
Wonderful.
"I know this is weird."
He frowned instantly.
"Something happen?"
"No."
"You hurt?"
"No."
"Club?"
"No."
He looked increasingly concerned.
"Then what's wrong?"
You stared determinedly at the porch instead of his face.
"...I can't sleep."
Silence.
"...What?"
You swallowed.
"I haven't slept properly in over a week."
Another pause.
"And?"
"I..."
God.
This was so embarrassing.
"I was wondering if..." You squeezed your eyes shut. "Could I maybe...borrow one of your hoodies?"
The silence that followed felt approximately seventeen years long.
You considered simply throwing yourself off his porch.
Then Tig spoke, very carefully.
"...You drove all the way over here."
"...Yeah."
"...To ask for one of my hoodies."
"...Yeah."
"...Because you can't sleep."
You nodded without looking up.
"...I read somewhere..." you mumbled. "...that familiar smells help."
Another pause.
"And..."
You wanted the earth to swallow you whole.
"...Yours is the smell I thought of."
When you finally dared glance up, Tig looked like someone had hit him over the head with a brick.
His mouth was slightly open.
His eyes were wide.
He looked completely frozen.
"...Tig?"
He blinked once.
Then immediately turned around.
"Stay there."
"...What?"
"Don't move."
He disappeared into the house.
You heard drawers opening.
Closets slamming.
Several muffled curses.
Something falling over.
"...Where the hell..."
"...No, not that one..."
"...Jesus Christ..."
You stood awkwardly on the porch wondering whether this had somehow broken his brain.
A minute later he returned carrying three hoodies.
He held them out like priceless artifacts.
"Okay."
"...Okay?"
"I couldn't decide."
You stared.
"This one's my newest one."
He lifted a charcoal hoodie.
"This one's probably the softest."
A faded navy one.
"And this..."
He held up a battered black hoodie that had obviously seen years of use.
"...This one's my favourite."
You hesitated.
"...Won't you miss it?"
He looked at you like you'd asked whether he'd miss oxygen.
"...Honey."
His voice had gone unusually gentle.
"If one of my hoodies helps you sleep..."
He shrugged one shoulder.
"...You keep the damn thing."
Your throat tightened.
You reached for the black one.
The favourite.
It smelled unmistakably like him.
Leather. Soap. Cigarettes. Motorcycle. The faintest trace of cedar aftershave. Something that was just simply.. Tig.
Comfort.
You hugged it against your chest before you even realized what you were doing.
Tig actually made a tiny strangled noise.
"...Thank you."
His face softened into something almost unbearably fond.
"Anytime, sweetheart."
The hoodie worked.
Embarrassingly well.
The first night you wrapped yourself in it and actually slept eight uninterrupted hours.
The second night was just as good.
By the end of the week you weren't even pretending anymore.
You practically lived in it whenever you were home.
It became your safe place.
Whenever anxiety crept in, you put it on. Whenever nightmares woke you up, you buried your face in the hood. Whenever you missed Tig—which was happening with increasing frequency—you wore it.
It smelled like him.
It smelled like home.
Three weeks later...
...it didn't anymore.
You noticed immediately.
You pulled the hoodie over your head after work, automatically lifting the collar to your face.
Nothing.
Well...
Laundry detergent. Fabric softener. Your own shampoo.
But not...
"...No..."
You sniffed again.
Nothing.
Your heart actually sank.
"No, no, no..."
You'd washed it because it desperately needed it.
You'd known it would probably happen.
You just hadn't expected to be so...
...sad.
It was stupid.
It was just a hoodie.
Except...
Not really.
It had become your comfort object.
And now it didn't smell like Tig anymore.
Which somehow made it feel less comforting.
You actually pouted at the stupid piece of clothing for two days.
Tig noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He found you sitting outside the clubhouse wearing the hoodie despite the warm afternoon, absentmindedly rubbing the sleeve between your fingers with an expression that looked suspiciously mournful.
He dropped into the chair beside you.
"You okay?"
"...Yeah."
"Liar."
You sighed dramatically.
"It's stupid."
"Try me."
You looked around to make sure nobody was listening.
Then leaned toward him.
"...Your hoodie doesn't smell like you anymore."
Silence.
You immediately regretted saying it.
"I know that's weird."
Silence.
"I washed it and now—"
Silence.
"I probably shouldn't have even—"
"Baby."
You blinked.
"...What?"
He hadn't moved. Hadn't blinked. Hadn't breathed.
"Tig?"
His brain had completely short-circuited.
"You..."
His voice sounded faint.
"...You're upset......Because..."
He pointed weakly at the hoodie.
"...It doesn't smell like me anymore?"
You covered your burning face.
"I told you it was stupid."
He stared.
Then very slowly—
Very deliberately—
He stood up.
"...Where are you going?"
He ignored you completely.
Walked straight into the clubhouse.
Five seconds later everyone inside heard him yell—
"OI!"
The room went quiet.
"I GOTTA GO HOME FOR A MINUTE."
Someone asked why.
His answer echoed through the building.
"MY GIRL'S SAD BECAUSE MY HOODIE STOPPED SMELLING LIKE ME."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Then laughter exploded throughout the clubhouse.
You slapped both hands over your face.
"Oh my God..."
Bobby was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his beer.
Juice looked like he might actually pass out.
Chibs pinched the bridge of his nose.
Happy, somehow, looked genuinely amused.
Even Clay looked confused.
Tig ignored every single one of them.
He marched straight outside again.
Grabbed your wrist.
"C'mon."
"...Where?"
"My house."
"...Why?"
"So I can fix it."
"Tig—"
"Nope."
"But—"
"No arguments."
"You can't just—"
"You want it to smell like me again?"
You hesitated.
"...Maybe."
"Then let's go."
At his house, Tig took the hoodie from your reluctant hands with all the seriousness of a surgeon preparing for an operation.
He disappeared into his bedroom.
You heard drawers opening.
The wardrobe.
A laugh.
Then another.
When he finally came back, roughly twenty minutes later, he looked unbearably pleased with himself.
"There."
He handed it back.
You blinked.
"...What did you do?"
"Wore it."
"...What?"
"For like..."
He checked the clock.
"...Twenty minutes."
"Tig."
"Also sprayed my aftershave."
"Tig."
"Could sleep with it on my pillow tonight."
Your eyes widened.
"You what?"
He shrugged shamelessly.
"Figure it'd work better."
You stared.
"You..."
He looked completely unapologetic.
"...want it to smell right."
You hugged the hoodie instinctively.
"...You're insane."
"I know."
You lifted it cautiously.
Breathed in.
It smelled exactly like him again.
Exactly.
Your shoulders visibly relaxed.
"Oh..."
That tiny, relieved little sound absolutely destroyed Tig.
He watched your eyes close. Watched you smile against the fabric. Watched every ounce of tension melt out of your body.
And something inside him simply...
...gave up.
He was done pretending. Done dancing around it. Done convincing himself this was one-sided.
Because no woman who didn't love someone looked that happy over the smell of their hoodie.
"You know..."
His voice was unusually quiet.
"You don't actually need the hoodie."
You looked up.
"What?"
"If what helps you sleep..."
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
"...is me..."
Your heart started pounding.
"...Then maybe..."
He took one hesitant step closer.
"...You could just come here."
You blinked.
"What?"
"I mean—not because you have to."
Another step.
"I'm saying..."
God.
The fearless, reckless Tig Trager suddenly looked terrified.
"...I'd rather you have me than my laundry."
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
"...Really?"
He laughed softly.
"Honey."
He reached up, brushing your hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
"I've been in love with you for months."
"...You have?"
"I figured I was too old."
"You idiot."
"I've been called worse."
"I've been in love with you too."
His entire face transformed.
He looked years younger.
Almost boyish.
"...Yeah?"
You nodded.
"So..."
He smiled that wonderfully crooked smile.
"...Can I kiss you?"
Instead of answering, you stepped forward and kissed him first.
It was soft.
Careful.
Long overdue.
When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, grinning so widely his cheeks actually hurt.
"...I cannot believe," he laughed, "that the thing that finally got us together..."
He tugged gently on the sleeve of the oversized hoodie.
"...was the fact you wanted my stupid sweatshirt to smell like me."
You smiled.
"It wasn't the hoodie."
"No?"
You shook your head.
"It was never really about the hoodie."
His expression softened.
"It was about what it reminded me of."
"And what's that?"
You slipped your hand into his.
"...Home."
For perhaps the first time in his entire forty-eight years, Tig Trager found himself completely speechless.
Then, because he was still undeniably Tig, he immediately wrapped you up in his arms, buried his face dramatically in your hair, inhaled once, and declared with absolute satisfaction, "Good. Now you smell like me too."
You burst into helpless laughter, and somehow, that only made him hug you tighter.
From then on, you never needed to borrow one of Tig's hoodies to sleep again.
If either of you had trouble sleeping, the solution was much simpler.
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"they have to make the choice of their own free will. otherwise, the system doesn't work. It's like ike the harbinger. it's this creepy old fuck, practically wears a sign, "you will die." why do we put him there? the system. they have to choose to ignore him, and they have to choose what happens in the cellar. yeah, we rig the game as much as we need to, but in the end, they don't transgress..."
You die.
After getting revenge, Happy practically becomes a recluse.
figured if i was going to traumatise us by writing Happy's death, i would also traumatise us by writing reader's death - reader is said to be 26 but that doesn't really matter
The funeral was held beneath a gray California sky that couldn't seem to decide whether it wanted to rain or simply hang heavy over everyone who had gathered, the clouds swollen and low enough that even the crows circling overhead sounded quieter than usual, as though the entire world understood instinctively that something precious had been ripped out of it and that making too much noise would somehow be disrespectful.
The parking lot outside the cemetery was lined with motorcycles instead of polished sedans because there had never been another way the Sons would have said goodbye to one of their own, especially not to you, the girl who had somehow wandered into their chaotic, violent lives with a laugh that could stop arguments before they started, with a smile that made even the hardest men soften around the edges without realizing it, with enough stubbornness to scold patched members twice your size when they forgot to eat or pushed themselves too hard, and there wasn't a single person present who didn't have at least one story about you tucked away somewhere inside them like a tiny piece of sunlight.
Happy stood at the front the entire time.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't cry.
His face was carved from granite, expressionless beneath the dark sunglasses hiding his eyes, hands folded behind his back so tightly that the scars across his knuckles had turned white with strain, and nobody—not Juice, not Chibs, not Tig, not Bobby, not Jax—was brave enough to touch him because every single one of them knew that the only thing holding him together right now was discipline, and discipline was a fragile thing when grief this enormous was trying to claw its way out.
Juice cried enough for both him and Happy.
He cried openly, shoulders shaking, hiding his face against Chibs' shoulder like he couldn't bear to look at the casket because looking made it real, and Chibs held him without saying a word because his own throat had closed too tightly to manage one.
Tig cried.
Nobody had ever seen Tig cry like that before.
He wasn't loud.
He wasn't dramatic.
He simply sat on the curb after everyone else had started leaving, staring at the ground while tears slid silently down his face, mumbling every few minutes that this wasn't right.
"Kid was supposed t' outlive all of us."
Nobody argued.
Because you were.
You had been twenty-six.
Twenty-six was supposed to mean decades.
Twenty-six wasn't supposed to end with polished wood and flowers.
The man responsible didn't live long enough to enjoy it.
Happy made certain of that.
The Sons found him three days later.
Happy found him first.
Nobody ever asked exactly what happened inside that abandoned warehouse because they didn't need details.
The blood on Happy's boots had told them enough.
The look in his eyes had told them the rest.
Whatever the bastard had begged for...
He hadn't received.
Revenge changed nothing.
That was the cruelest part.
The man was dead.
You still weren't coming home.
Happy stopped sleeping at the clubhouse. Stopped drinking with the guys. Stopped sitting around the table after church.
He still rode. Still handled club business when he absolutely had to. Still killed when the club required killing.
But the moment the work was finished...
He disappeared.
Every.
Single.
Time.
He went home. Locked the door. Didn't answer his phone. Didn't answer knocks. Didn't answer anything.
Three months later, Tig kicked the front door hard enough that the frame rattled.
"Hap!"
Nothing.
"HAPPY!"
Silence.
Tig looked at Chibs.
"I swear t' God if he ignores me one more—"
The door finally opened.
Happy stood there wearing old jeans and a faded black shirt that hung looser than it used to.
He'd lost weight.
Too much.
His beard had grown longer.
His eyes...
His eyes looked tired in a way sleep couldn't fix.
"What."
It wasn't even a question.
Just a word.
Tig pushed past him.
"...Jesus Christ."
The house looked exactly the same.
Exactly.
Same blankets folded neatly over the couch because you had liked blankets.
Your favorite mug still sat beside the coffee machine.
Your books remained stacked exactly where you'd left them.
A cardigan still hung over the back of a chair.
The framed photo of the two of you at a county fair sat on the mantle.
Nothing had moved.
Nothing.
It was less a home than a museum.
A shrine.
Happy hadn't changed a thing.
"You eat?" Chibs asked quietly.
"Yeah."
"Liar."
"..."
"When's th' last time?"
"...Yesterday."
Tig opened the refrigerator.
"...Happy."
Silence.
"There is literally one beer and ketchup."
The club started rotating visits.
Not because Happy wanted them.
Because they were afraid one day he'd simply stop opening the door forever.
Bobby brought groceries. Chibs cooked without asking permission. Jax dragged him out on rides. Juice came over with movies neither of them watched.
Tig mostly insulted him.
"You smell like depression."
"..."
"Seriously."
"..."
"You know she would've hated this."
That one landed.
Happy looked away.
Months became a year.
The Sons healed.
Not completely. Never completely.
But enough to laugh again. Enough to tease one another. Enough to move forward.
Happy...
Didn't.
Time simply stopped for him.
On your birthday, he drove three hours to the beach you'd loved.
The one where you'd once insisted the sunset looked like melted peach ice cream.
He remembered laughing at that. He remembered pretending it was ridiculous. He remembered secretly thinking it was adorable.
He remembered thinking that one day, he'd propose to you there.
He sat on the sand until dark.
Talking.
Not to himself.
To you.
Like you were sitting beside him.
"I got revenge."
The waves answered.
"It didn't help."
Silence.
"I don't know what to do now."
Nothing.
"I miss you."
The words came out so quietly they nearly disappeared into the wind.
"I miss you every damn second."
He buried his face in his hands.
For the first time since your funeral...
He cried.
Really cried. The kind that stole your breath. The kind that hurt. The kind that left you shaking afterward because your body simply couldn't hold that much grief inside anymore.
Years passed.
Two.
Then three.
The clubhouse changed.
Prospects became members.
Kids were born.
People moved away.
Life insisted on continuing.
Happy remained...
Present.
But absent.
Like a ghost wearing a kutte.
He laughed maybe three times in three years.
Every one of them surprised the room.
One evening Chibs found him alone behind the clubhouse watching the sunset.
"Mind if I join ye?"
Happy shrugged.
Chibs leaned against the railing.
"...She loved sunsets."
"Yeah."
Long silence.
"She loved ye too."
"...I know."
"Ye gave her everythin' ye had."
"...Wasn't enough."
Chibs looked at him sharply.
"No."
Happy's jaw tightened.
"I should've protected her."
"And if she'd heard ye say that she'd smack ye upside the head."
"..."
"Because ye couldn't control every bloody thing in this world."
Happy didn't answer.
"You've been dyin' with her every day since she left."
"..."
"And she'd hate that."
Another silence.
Finally...
"...I know."
The next morning, for the first time in years...
Happy came to breakfast.
Actually sat down. Actually drank coffee with everyone else. Actually listened while Tig argued with Juice over something completely ridiculous involving pancakes and motorcycles.
Nobody pointed it out.
Nobody dared.
But everyone noticed.
Healing wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't sudden. It wasn't a miracle. It was tiny.
Painfully tiny.
One meal. One conversation. One ride. One laugh. One sunrise. One more day survived than the day before.
Happy never stopped loving you. Never packed away your photograph. Never forgot the sound of your voice.
The grief remained with him, stitched into every scar he carried.
But eventually, after years of carrying it alone, he allowed the people who loved both of you to carry a little of the weight beside him.
Because that was the truth the entire club had been trying to teach him from the beginning.
He hadn't only lost you.
They had, too.
And while none of them could bring you back...
None of them were going to let Happy disappear after you.
So they dragged him, stubborn inch by stubborn inch, back toward the living, until one day he looked around the crowded clubhouse filled with laughter, arguments, terrible jokes, roaring motorcycles, and people who still spoke your name with affection instead of fear, and realized that loving you had never truly ended.
It had simply become something he carried forward instead of something that buried him.
And somewhere, in every story they told about the young woman who had loved an old killer until he remembered there was still a heart beating beneath the scars, your memory lived on—not in silence, not in empty rooms frozen in time, but in the family you had left behind, who refused to let either of you be forgotten.
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im rewatching sons of anarchy for the first time since i was like 14/15 and i forgot the 13 year old who was raped in the 3rd episode of season 1.
the rage that the sons have, the pure fucking rage and disgust, and the way they just simply decide that that is their problem and fuck that guy he's going to pay.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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