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When a Mayans MC rescue mission for Leticia Cruz uncovers another captive hidden in the basement, Bishop expects a witness. What he finds instead is the missing daughter of a SAMCRO brother—and a woman carrying more scars than anyone should have to bear.
As old alliances bring the Sons and Mayans together, Lex must learn how to live again in a world she no longer recognizes. Healing isn't a straight road, and neither is finding a place to belong.
A story about survival, found family, second chances, and the roads we never meant to travel.
hey, could i get 40 and 41 from the smut prompts with president chibs?
˚୨୧⋆｡ prompt/s; 40) “this isn’t what i had in mind when i yelled fuck you” and 41) “call me that again” — from 150 prompts
˚୨୧⋆｡ warnings; established relationship, husband!chibs x wife!reader, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie + chibs kinda gets reader to lick his fingers clean??, that’s it i’m pretty sure but if not lmk !
˚୨୧⋆｡ a/n; written with this oneshot and the whole fic in mind (tho this doesn’t align with the fic timeline for what i know it as)
— thank you for celebrating 600 with me || submissions are now closed
ever since Chibs had become president, he’d been more stressed than before— which led to more frequent arguments and disagreements between you both.
which always led to makeup sex between you, like now.
he had you sat at the edge of the table, your dress hiked up around your hips and your panties stuffed into his back pocket.
his hips rocking slowly against yours as you clung to him, arms wrapped tightly around his neck as breathy moans fell from your lips.
“i know baby”
he whispered, capturing your lips in a kiss as the coil in your belly wound tighter. his thrusts continued at their pace, while your cunt fluttered around him.
a shaky groan fell from his lips, his forehead pressing to yours and his hands pawing at your hips to pull you closer.
“this isn’t what i had in mind when i yelled fuck you”
you breathed out, which pulled a chuckle from him. watching him shake his head before he caught your lips again, pouring his need and desperation into the kiss.
when your cunt clenched around him, it had him hissing. he knew you were both teetering on the edge by now, and he was determined to make you finish first.
“know you’re there, cum f’me love”
he mumbled, pace picking up ever so slightly and pulling whinier moans from your lips.
your cunt gripped him like a vice, the sounds of your coupling filling the room alongside your shared moans.
he pressed his lips to yours again, his tongue moving against yours as he deepened the kiss—muffling your moans in the process as you toppled over the edge.
cresting over the edge and your cunt gripping him tighter, another hiss leaving his lips as he broke the kiss.
his head dropped to your shoulder as he chased after his own climax, his thrusts lacking their previous force as he grew closer and closer.
“gonna finish inside, aye? then later ‘m all yours again”
he murmured against your neck, his voice strained and his cock throbbing inside you. you hummed in response, fingers brushing through his hair while you pressed a kiss to his temple.
“whatever you say Mr. President”
you told, the words slipping in a teasing tone but you felt the way his hips rolled deeper at the name.
your fingers in his hair pulled back to meet your eyes, and you hummed at the sight of his pupils blown wider with his lust.
“call me that again”
he drawled, and it made a shiver run down your spine at the way his voice had dropped an octave.
you quirked a brow at him but he nodded, capturing your lips in another kiss until you were whispering against his lips.
“cum inside me Mr. President”
you told, not entirely sure what was doing it for him—but who were you to deny your husband?
he groaned again, his pace faltering once more before he toppled over the edge. his hands gripping tightly at your hips as he spilled himself inside you, followed by a breathy moan as your walls fluttered around him instinctively.
“christ love”
he murmured, his forehead to your shoulder as his hips rolled slowly until they came to a halt.
he stayed buried inside for a minute, basking in the throes of both of your climax’s before he reluctantly pulled out.
a whine leaving you at the loss of him while he shushed you softly, tucking himself back into his jeans and kissing you softly in turn.
you watched him take a step back before his left hand slid between your thighs, pushing his cum that had spilled from your cunt back into you in one smooth movement.
lifting his hand from between your legs, his middle and ring finger pushed past your lips— a silent request for you to lick them clean of the remnants of his release.
“prettiest fuckin’ thing”
he drawled and it had your face heating, almost shying under his gaze.
you let his fingers fall from your lips, pulling off of the table and pressing a kiss to his lips.
pulling away from him and grabbing your bag, calling out to him over your shoulder before you left.
“need to pick up the baby, i’ll see you later Mr. President”
you teased and it had him shaking his head. already counting down the minutes until he got home to have you all to himself again.
"i think...i think i'm in love with you."
"tell me again when you're sober..."
The call came a little after midnight.
You were half asleep already, curled beneath your blankets with a book facedown on your chest when your phone buzzed across the nightstand.
“Hello?”
A pause. Bar noise in the background. Loud music. Men shouting.
Then Chibs sighed heavily into the receiver.
“Need a favor, lass.”
You sat up immediately.
“What happened?”
“Nothin’ catastrophic yet,” he muttered. “But if somebody doesn’t come collect Tig soon, there’s a good chance he’ll either start a bar fight or cry. Possibly both.”
You blinked.
“Cry?”
“Exactly my point.”
That dragged a laugh out of you despite your exhaustion.
You rubbed your eyes. “Where is he?”
The clubhouse smelled like beer, smoke, leather, and bad decisions.
Normal.
You stepped inside wearing an oversized hoodie, and the kind of exhaustion that made your limbs feel heavy.
Several heads turned when you walked in.
A few of the guys grinned knowingly.
You ignored them.
“Where is he?”
Chibs jerked his chin toward the pool table. “Been spiralin’ for hours.”
You looked over and immediately spotted him.
Tig sat slouched in a chair, knees spread wide, whiskey glass dangling loosely from tattooed fingers. His kutte hung open over a black shirt, curls messy, silver rings catching dim light.
He looked devastatingly handsome.
And deeply miserable.
His eyes lifted the second you walked in.
The change in him was instant.
Like the whole room narrowed into focus.
“There she is,” he mumbled.
Your chest did a stupid little flip.
God.
That man was dangerous to your emotional stability.
You walked over carefully. “Hey, trouble.”
Tig stared at you for a long moment like he was trying to remember every detail of your face.
“You came.”
“Chibs called.”
“Traitor,” Tig muttered toward the Scot.
Chibs raised his beer. “You’re welcome.”
You crouched slightly in front of Tig’s chair.
“How drunk are you?”
He considered this very seriously.
“Emotionally?”
You snorted.
“Tig.”
“Pretty drunk.”
“Thought so.” You gently took the whiskey glass from his hand before he could spill it. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”
He frowned immediately.
“Don’t wanna.”
“Tough.”
“I like lookin’ at you here.”
Your stomach tightened.
The guys nearby suddenly became very interested in literally anything else.
You ignored the heat climbing into your face and hooked your arm beneath his.
“Up.”
Tig let out a dramatic groan but allowed you to haul him to his feet.
The man was huge. Warm and solid and heavy with muscle beneath leather and denim.
The second he steadied himself, his hand landed automatically at your waist.
Possessive.
Instinctive.
Like it belonged there.
Your breath caught.
Tig looked down at you slowly.
And for one dangerous second, the entire room disappeared.
Then he stumbled slightly and ruined the moment.
You rolled your eyes. “Okay, Casanova. Let’s move.”
Getting Tig into your car was an ordeal.
Mostly because he kept staring at you instead of cooperating.
“You’re pretty.”
“You’ve said that six times.”
“Still true.”
You shut the passenger door on his grin before he could say anything worse.
The drive was quiet for a while.
Tig leaned against the window, watching passing streetlights blur across the glass.
You glanced over occasionally.
Even drunk, he looked tired.
Not physically.
Soul tired.
There was always something aching about Tig when people looked closely enough. Most people didn’t. They saw the violence first. The recklessness. The sex jokes and chaos and instability.
You saw the man underneath.
Which was probably why this was such a bad idea.
You cared about him too much already.
“You mad at me?” he asked suddenly.
You glanced over. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“‘Cause I keep callin’ you.”
“You don’t call me. Chibs calls me.”
“Yeah but everybody knows I want him to.”
Your fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
“Tig—”
“You always come.”
The softness in his voice hurt worse than flirting ever could.
You swallowed hard.
“Somebody’s gotta keep you alive.”
“Maybe I just like you takin’ care of me.”
Your heart betrayed you completely.
You parked outside his place and turned off the engine.
“Tig.”
“Hm?”
“You’re drunk.”
“Very.”
“You’re also saying things you won’t remember tomorrow.”
His head turned slowly toward you.
The look in his eyes nearly wrecked you.
Because underneath the alcohol, there was something terrifyingly sincere there.
“I always remember you.”
Silence.
God.
You looked away first.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s get you inside.”
You’d done this enough times that getting him settled had become routine.
Shoes off.
Aspirin and water on the counter.
Make sure he didn’t pass out in some ridiculous position that would destroy his spine.
Tig sat on the edge of the couch while you moved around his kitchen.
Suspiciously quiet.
Which was concerning.
You glanced over.
He was watching you again.
Not lustful.
Not playful.
Just… looking.
Like he couldn’t stop.
“What?” you asked softly.
Tig’s throat bobbed.
Then he said, very carefully:
“I think…”
Your pulse quickened immediately.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
Everything stopped.
The air.
Your breathing.
Your ability to think.
Tig looked almost surprised by his own words after they left his mouth.
Like they’d been trapped inside him too long and finally forced their way out.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Vulnerable.
Terrified.
Drunk enough to be honest.
And suddenly every moment between you over the past year came crashing together all at once.
The lingering touches.
The late night phone calls.
The way his entire body softened around you.
The jealousy he tried and failed to hide.
The way he looked at you like you were something precious.
Your chest ached.
Because you loved him too.
And that was the problem.
You stepped closer slowly.
Tig’s eyes tracked every movement.
“Tell me again when you’re sober,” you whispered.
Pain flickered across his face instantly.
Like he thought you were rejecting him.
“Tig,” you said quickly, softer now. “Please.”
He looked down at his hands.
“You think I don’t mean it.”
“I think you’ve had a lot to drink.”
“I still mean it.”
Your heart cracked a little.
You moved carefully until you stood between his knees.
His hands twitched like he wanted to touch you but didn’t trust himself to.
“You’re drunk,” you repeated gently. “And emotional. And tomorrow morning I need to know you still want this.”
Tig finally looked up at you.
“You scared?”
The question hit too close to home.
“Yes.”
His expression softened instantly.
Not smug.
Not victorious.
Just understanding.
“Me too.”
God.
You cupped his face before you could stop yourself.
Scruff rasped against your palm.
Tig closed his eyes immediately and leaned into your touch with a quiet, shaky exhale that nearly destroyed you.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured.
Your thumb brushed across his cheekbone.
“I probably do.”
His hands settled carefully on your hips then.
Not rough.
Not greedy.
Like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“I’m too old for you,” he whispered.
You almost laughed at the absurdity of that coming from a man currently looking at you like you put the stars in the sky.
“You really think that’s the issue here?”
“Ain’t it?”
“No.”
“What is it then?”
You looked at him for a long moment.
“The issue is that if I let myself love you, I’m never doing it halfway.”
Tig stared at you like nobody had ever offered him something so terrifyingly gentle before.
Something in him visibly broke open.
His forehead pressed against your stomach.
You felt his arms tighten around your waist.
And very quietly, almost painfully, he said:
“Nobody’s ever stayed long enough to love all of me.”
Your eyes burned.
You threaded your fingers into his curls.
“Well,” you whispered, “that sounds like their mistake.”
For a second neither of you moved.
Then Tig tilted his head back just enough to look at you.
“So if I say it again tomorrow…”
You smiled despite yourself.
“Then maybe I’ll answer properly.”
His mouth twitched.
“Think I’m gonna throw up from nerves.”
You laughed softly.
“There’s the Tig I know.”
“Baby, I been panicking for like six months.”
Your cheeks warmed instantly at baby.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
A slow grin spread across his face.
“Oh my God,” he whispered dramatically. “You love me too.”
“Tig—”
“You do.”
“You are unbelievably drunk.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
You shoved lightly at his shoulder while trying not to smile.
He caught your wrist gently before you could pull away.
And then suddenly all traces of teasing faded.
He lifted your hand carefully to his mouth and pressed one soft kiss against your knuckles.
Slow.
Reverent.
“I’ll tell you again tomorrow,” he promised quietly.
Your heart absolutely folded in on itself.
Because somehow you already knew he would.
The next morning, you woke up to thirty-seven missed calls.
Twenty-eight from Tig Trager.
Nine from Chibs Telford.
You stared at your phone for a full five seconds before groaning into your pillow.
“Oh no.”
The voicemail notification glared at you ominously.
You clicked the first one.
“Tried makin’ coffee. Burned myself. Think the machine’s possessed.”
Second voicemail.
“Okay listen, important question. Did I actually tell you I loved you or did I dream that?”
Third voicemail.
“…if I dreamed it that’s honestly worse.”
Fourth voicemail.
“Chibs says I gotta ‘court you properly.’ Don’t know what the hell that means.”
You laughed helplessly into your blanket.
Fifth voicemail.
“I am sober now though. So. That’s… y’know. Relevant.”
Your stomach flipped.
You sat up slowly.
The sixth voicemail was just silence for ten seconds before Tig muttered:
“Jesus Christ, I’m in love with a woman young enough to know how TikTok works.”
Click.
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped the phone.
Then another call came through immediately.
Tig.
You answered before you could overthink it.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then:
“…hi.”
The roughness in his voice sent warmth straight through your chest.
“Hi.”
Another pause.
“You awake?”
“No, Tig. This is actually my ghost.”
“Smartass.”
You could practically hear him pacing.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
“No.”
That made you sit up straighter.
“What happened?”
“I remember everything.”
Your heartbeat stumbled.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched.
Not awkward.
Just fragile.
Then Tig cleared his throat.
“So unfortunately I am still deeply in love with you.”
You covered your face with your hand instantly, smiling helplessly into your palm.
“Tig—”
“Nope. Lemme finish. I had a whole thing planned.”
“A whole thing?”
“You’re ruinin’ the dramatic tension.”
“There’s dramatic tension?”
“There was until you started mocking me.”
You laughed again.
God.
You were already gone for him.
“What’s the whole thing?” you asked.
There was rustling on the other end.
Then a car door slamming.
Then Tig saying, “Okay don’t be mad.”
Immediately suspicious.
“…why would I be mad?”
“I might be outside your apartment.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“And before you say anything, this is romantic.”
You hurried out of bed and pulled your curtain aside.
Sure enough, Tig stood beside his bike in the parking lot.
Holding flowers.
Well.
What remained of flowers.
They looked… battered.
Like they’d lost a fight.
You stared.
He looked up at your window immediately.
And actually waved.
Your heart nearly stopped.
Because this terrifying man — this fifty-year-old outlaw biker covered in scars and tattoos and violence — looked genuinely nervous.
You opened the window.
“Tig.”
“Morning!”
“…why do those flowers look concussed?”
He looked down at them.
“I dropped ‘em.”
“Tig.”
“Twice.”
“Oh my God.”
“I got nervous!”
You were laughing too hard to function by the time you made it downstairs.
Tig straightened the second you stepped outside.
His eyes dragged over you slowly — oversized shirt, messy hair, sleep-heavy eyes — and his entire expression softened in a way that felt devastatingly intimate.
“There she is,” he murmured.
Your stomach flipped hard.
“You’re ridiculous,” you told him.
“Yeah.”
He held out the flowers awkwardly.
They were peonies.
Your favorites.
Bent slightly sideways.
One stem looked broken.
And somehow that made it even worse.
“You remembered my favorite flowers?”
“I listen when you talk.”
Your chest physically hurt.
“Tig…”
“And before you say they look bad,” he rushed out, “there was an incident.”
“With what?”
“A fence.”
You stared at him.
“The flowers lost.”
A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it.
Tig looked absurdly relieved by the sound.
Then suddenly nervous again.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I also brought muffins.”
“…muffins?”
“Didn’t know if flowers alone were enough romance.”
You looked down.
Sure enough, there was a bakery box strapped poorly to the back of his bike.
You started laughing again.
“Tig, what is happening right now?”
“I’m courtin’ you.”
The sincerity in his voice absolutely wrecked you.
Because he was trying so hard.
Trying in the only ways he knew how.
You stepped closer slowly.
“You hate muffins.”
“Yeah but you like blueberry.”
Your expression softened instantly.
“You remembered that too?”
Tig looked almost offended.
“Course I did.”
God.
He looked exhausted.
Like he’d barely slept.
Like he’d spent all night wrestling himself bloody over this.
“You really remember everything from last night?” you asked quietly.
His face turned serious immediately.
Every trace of teasing disappeared.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And I meant every word.”
Your breath caught.
Tig stepped closer carefully.
Like he was approaching something fragile.
“You asked me to tell you again sober,” he said softly. “So I am.”
His voice got rougher after that.
Less polished.
More honest.
“I love you.”
The world genuinely seemed to still around you.
Tig swallowed hard.
“I know it’s messy and probably a bad idea and I know I got more issues than a damn magazine stand, but…” He laughed nervously. “Jesus Christ, honey, I love you so much it’s makin’ me stupid.”
Your eyes burned instantly.
He kept going anyway.
“I think about you constantly. I look for you in every room. Every time somethin’ funny happens, you’re the first person I wanna tell.” His voice cracked slightly. “And when things get bad… you’re the only person that makes me feel calm.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
Tig looked terrified now.
Fully terrified.
“But if you don’t want this—”
You kissed him.
You couldn’t help it.
His words disappeared against your mouth with a startled sound.
Then Tig froze completely.
Like his brain genuinely stopped working.
You cupped his face with both hands and kissed him again, softer this time.
Warm.
Certain.
When you pulled back slightly, he looked completely stunned.
“You talk too much,” you whispered.
“T-that usually ain’t the complaint.”
You laughed shakily.
Then Tig’s hands finally found your waist.
Careful at first.
Then tighter when he realized you weren’t disappearing.
“You mean it?” he asked quietly.
You looked up at him.
At the man who brought you crushed flowers and muffins he hated because he wanted to love you properly.
And God help you, you adored him.
“I love you too.”
Tig made the softest, most broken sounding noise you’d ever heard.
Then he kissed you like he’d been starving for it.
Big hands cradling your face.
Mouth warm and desperate and unbelievably gentle beneath all that roughness.
You melted into him immediately.
His forehead pressed against yours when the kiss finally broke.
“You got any idea what this is doin’ to me?” he whispered.
You smiled against his mouth.
“Probably.”
“Think my heart’s havin’ a fistfight.”
“That sounds medically concerning.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Tig stared at you for another long second before suddenly blurting:
“I told Happy I was in love with you.”
Your eyes widened.
“…why would you do that?”
“He threatened to kill me if I hurt your feelings.”
“That’s actually kind of sweet.”
“It was horrifying.”
You snorted.
Tig smiled helplessly at the sound.
Then his expression softened again.
“So…” he murmured. “You wanna maybe let me take you out tonight?”
“Like a date?”
“Yeah.”
You eyed him suspiciously.
“Does your version of romance always involve near-fatal flower incidents?”
“Baby, you haven’t even seen me try yet.”
And somehow that promise made your entire body warm.
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Posting a day early cause I got a fic posting tomorrow.
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When you sit down to write, and the entire scenes plays out perfectly in your mind, but on paper it ends up looking like this: “he smiled, his smiling eyes staring at them with a hint of smile”
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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jacobvanloon
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