#jackson teller fluff

jax hates when you’re pissed at him. when you give him the cold shoulder—eyes sharp, words short. he hates even more how often he happens to piss you off. it’s happened so many times now, in fact, that he knows exactly how to handle it. his hands are already on your hips when you roll your eyes the second time and when you open your mouth to bitch at him some more—his mouth is already on yours. tongue swirling around your mouth like it’s his own.

and when you try pushing him away—his hands are wrapped around your wrists by the time you blink, pushing your arms above your head as he pins you against the door.

“you done bein’ a brat?” he breathes, nose brushing yours, breath hot and heavy from the kiss.

you glare. you don’t answer. you won’t give him the satisfaction. he grins—fucking grins—like you not answering is all the answer he needs. “mm. didn’t think so.”

his knee comes up between your thighs, spreading your legs wider against the door. he’s already rutting his hips against yours, slow and deliberate—just enough friction to make your eyes flutter shut for a second before you remember you’re mad.

“you’re such an ass,” you hiss.

“yeah?” he smirks. “but you love this ass. and you’re fuckin’ soaked already, baby. don’t lie.”

you want to slap him. or fuck him. maybe both. especially when he leans in again—voice all low and smug at your ear,

“wanna keep pretendin’ you’re mad? or you gonna be a good girl and let me make it up to you?”

his hand is already sliding under your shirt. you don’t stop him.

you never do.

not when he touches you like this. not when he knows you like this. not when he kisses the apology into your skin instead of saying it out loud—tongue and teeth and hands gripping your thighs like he’s never letting go.

I just need fluff, love and aftercare!!

you’re already shaking when he slides inside you—hands still caught in his hair, legs trembling around his waist, voice all hoarse from crying his name.

jax doesn’t slow down, not yet. not until he’s sure you’ve felt all of it—every ounce of love he’s been too fucked up to say out loud.

“just like that,” he whispers, lips at your jaw, “doin’ so good for me, baby. such a good girl.”

you whimper something—he doesn’t catch the words, just the way you cling to him, breath catching on a sob. jax leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. “i know, baby.”

you’re curled up on the ratty leather couch in jax’s house, legs draped over his lap. he’s still wearing his kutte, smelling like smoke and the road. one of his big hands is resting on your bare thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles over your skin. you’ve got an old quilt thrown over your shoulders because the ac rattles and never quite works.

he’s watching you more than he’s watching the late-night rerun on TV—those sleepy eyes of yours, the way your lips are a little swollen from kissing. you think he doesn’t notice the way your breath catches when he squeezes your thigh, but he notices everything about you.

sometimes you swear he’s more wolf than man, prowling in your shared living room at this hour—dangerous, possessive, inexplicably gentle.

your phone buzzes on the coffee table, some friend checking in, but jax just smirks, slides his palm a little higher up your leg, and mutters,

“they’ll still be there in the morning, darlin’. right now, you’re mine.”

you pretend to look annoyed, but the flush on your cheeks gives you away.

outside, charming is dead quiet. the club is all tucked in their own beds (or not), and you’ve got him all to yourself. he likes that. likes knowing there’s nowhere you’d rather be at almost 3am than tangled up with an outlaw whose fingerprints are all over your heart.

he leans over, hooks a finger under your chin, and kisses you—slow, a little rough, tasting like whiskey and marlboros.