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Summary: Pregnancy cravings?

Half of the room was painted when you and Tig arrived at Jax's house. Abel was coming home soon and since Clay fired all the professionals you volunteered to help out over the weekend, spare him and the prospects the time and money.

Tig didn't necessarily agree, but after your lecture about him needing the practice, he yielded. You're a lot scarier now that you're pregnant yourself.

You had Gemma clear out with a coffee and a kiss on the cheek. She'd been there before Jax got out of the hospital, you could tell because her car was in the driveway more than his Harley.

"So," Tig said, shifting his hands to his hips. "What do you want me to do?" No enthusiasm, just acceptance.

You smiled knowing he wasn't gonna volunteer himself. "Get out."

His faux smile dwindled into a frown. "I don't understand."

You scoffed playfully, snapping a rubber band from your wrist. You gathered your hair up, twisting it into a steady knot and turned to the paint. "I need the room."

With no further explanation, you reached for the brush slushed in blue and started slow strokes against the manila colored wall. He didn't ask you to elaborate again, unsure if this was a test or if you were certain, he backed out tensely, bracing for when you changed your mind.

It didn't come.

Not in thirty minutes, the first time he checked in. Probably unnerved by the lack of command. He lingered around the room. Ranted about the blue, the shade being "breath of fresh air" as if that was a color. Then he left. Not before deciding the almost pastel color complemented the carpet more than the dull tan.

Not fifteen minutes later when he came in asking if you wanted anything from the store.

Not in the next hour when he came in, saw you perched against an unpainted patch, one hand over your stomach, the other holding a white sprinkled donut he bought you, crumbs sprinkling over the mouth of the sprite he bought you.

"Want a massage?" He offered randomly.

You stopped mid-chew, eyes flicking up to him. He leaned against the door frame, dressed like he had dropped by rather than spent his morning tied up with Stevie Nicks and indecisive Jax.

Your back ached a little, but your ankles weren't sore and you still had some buzz from earlier. You shrugged.

"Did I do something wrong?" He asks after a minute.

"Not that I know of."

He nodded back, but his eyes said otherwise. Still, he didn't push, he looked down at your donut and then back at you. He smiled.

You offered one back, letting your hand fall into your lap before you extended your limp wrist. "Help me up?"

"Course'," he muttered under his breath, stepping toward you. He stepped between your legs, cupping your elbows in his palm, he pressed only slightly to steady you as he guided you forward.

You huffed, pushing up against him, your premature bump rubbing up against his shirt. "Need anything from me?" He asks, arm slithering around your back, pulling you closer.

"This," you leaned up, pressing your lips to his. Your kisses were usually warm, sweet, like gentle sparks on skin. This one wasn’t that. It was fire. Heat rolled through your chest as your fingers tangled in his kutte, gripping, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to him. The clash of teeth was eager as you captured his lower lip between yours.

Your body leaned into his, raw and hungry, almost feral. Every motion felt like claiming, a deep, urgent possession that left you dizzy. You growled low, vibrating against him, letting your primal desire slip. With hands locked, lips fused, and breaths tangled, it felt like you were binding yourselves together, lassoing him to you until there was no space left between two bodies.

When you finally drew back, your forehead rested under his chin, chest pressing against him. Your arms circled him tenderly, the fierce grip on his vest loosening as you exhaled. For a moment, you thought about the donut on the counter, and how absurd that felt after what just passed.

At 29 weeks, you hadn’t experienced any weird cravings. No onions and vinegar like your mother once shared, no caramel and pepperoni like your best friend with twins, no chicken nuggets and syrup. You’d refused anything that wasn’t sugar or dairy. But this… this almost primal need to have him close, he was smoking hot, a little kicked puppy vibe, goofy, ambitious, had eclipsed it all.

“Am I weird?” you murmured, head still resting against his chest, voice barely above his heartbeat.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, fingers running up and down your back, rolling the rings along your spine in a soothing rhythm.

“I haven’t had any cravings,” you admitted, letting a small sigh escape. Your thumb brushed absentmindedly against the curve of his ribs, a quiet nod to the heat that had just passed.

“What do you mean?” His gaze flicked down to meet yours, subtle amusement dancing at the corners of his mouth, though his touch stayed gentle.

“I mean pregnancy cravings. The craziest thing I’ve tried to eat was marshmallows and strawberry jelly,” you said, and for a fraction of a second your lips quivered, a shadow of insecurity passing over your features.

“Aw, sugar, I’m happy I don’t have to make you brussel sprouts and honey. You should be too,” he teased, and the corner of his mouth twitched up, a small smile in his eyes as he nudged you lightly with his shoulder.

You let a laugh escape, leaning into him anyway, closing the distance without hesitation. “Yeah, I guess.”

“What do you say I get us out of here? We’ve been here long enough.”

“I have to finish,” you said, glancing back at the almost-done wall.

Summary: the moment Tig decides your his kinda girl

Your date said he’d be by in five.

That was seven minutes ago.

The extra two had been spent layering roll-on and perfume until you smelled like some strange blend of copper and coconut. You gave one last spritz to your wrist for luck, pressing it there a second longer than needed, then slipped your handbag around your waist.

You jingled when you walked. Earrings catching sunlight, bracelets chiming softly with every step.

The breeze hit just right. It kissed along your legs, playing with the hem of your dress that stopped a little past your hips. You almost smiled.

Then you caught it.

An earthy cologne, warm and grounding, drifting past before you even saw him.

Your gaze lifted.

There he was.

Leaning over the railing, shades dangling from his fingers like he’d forgotten them there. Wild curls, a half-buttoned shirt, dark pants sitting just right. Rings lined his knuckles. Chains at your neck, clipped to his waist.

You had matching ones.

Your breath hitched, just slightly.

When he straightened, there was a bouquet in his hand.

Not roses. Not daisies.

Chrysanthemums.

Your favorite. For no real reason except the pastels.

“Oh,” your lips parted before you caught yourself. “Hi,” you said softly, pulling the door closed behind you.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped forward. Close enough that you caught the faint crease at the corner of his eyes, the way his gaze dipped to your lips before he leaned in. A brief kiss to your cheek. Warm. Intentional.

He handed you the flowers.

“Hi.” His voice was low, easy.

Oh, this was going to be good.

Up close, he was worse. Better. His eyes held just a second too long. His lips… you had to look away.

“Shall we?” he asked, extending his arm.

You looked at it.

And then your body betrayed you.

A sharp, unwelcome shift. That sudden, urgent reminder of being human. The butterflies in your stomach dropped, fast, fluttering lower, pressing insistently.

Your thighs pressed together on instinct.

Now?

Of all times?

Your smile tightened. You glanced at his arm again, then back at his face. Another small shudder ran through you, subtle but enough.

Yeah. It couldn’t wait.

“Could you give me a second?” you asked, already handing the flowers back, your fingers brushing his for just a moment too long.

“All good?” His brow dipped slightly, eyes flicking over you, lingering at your heels. His tongue ran along his lower lip, quick, almost absent-minded.

You noticed.

“Yeah,” you said a little too fast, stepping back. “Just don’t need to find out if you have a piss kink.”

The words left your mouth before your brain caught up.

You winced.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You didn’t think about it until you were sitting, staring at tile, counting lines like they’d save you from yourself.

One. Two. Three.

Why would you say that?

Four. Five.

It was weird. Definitely weird.

But… honest.

You sighed, pressing your lips together, shaking your head at yourself.

Outside, he stood at apartment 3A, bouquet tucked under his arm.

His gaze stayed fixed on the spot where you’d been.

On those words.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not mocking. Not confused. Just… there.

He should’ve found it strange. Most people would’ve. Something safer would’ve come out. Something polished. An excuse.

But she hadn’t.

She’d just said it.

His thumb brushed absentmindedly over a petal.

Honest.

That wasn’t strange.

Not to him.

The door opened again.

You stepped out, a little more composed, though your eyes avoided his for half a second before lifting.

“Ready?” he asked, extending his hand again.

This time, there was the faintest curve to his mouth.

Like he knew exactly what kind of night this might turn into.

I will be writing for SoA on here, just transferred over from Wattpad, so a few things about me:

I will be posting rough drafts on here

I will be reposting series

I am currently writing one-shots only cause I'm still developing my characters and their storyline, but I will post what I have so far