#nool

you’re grayden’s daughter. legacy kid. outlaw blood. you don’t exactly hand out that last name like a business card — in charming, it’s enough to get you followed or feared. maybe both.

you were raised on garage fumes and gunpowder, on late-night runs and clubhouse lullabies. your crib was a cot in the back of your dad’s dorm. he taught you how to clean a gun before you could drive, how to bleed an engine before you could spell horsepower.

he also taught you never to trust a man too much — especially one wearing a patch.

grayden? he was old school — sharp with his mind, heavy with his hands. before he died, he started acting different. watching his back more. told you someone inside samcro was playing dirty, but never got the chance to name names. 

so now you carry the ghost of a man who never got to finish his sentence.

you ride solo — no patch, no crew, no clubhouse politics. just your blacked-out ride, your gleaming purple bike, and whatever burner you’ve got that week. you ghost through california, oregon, nevada — dropping bodies, lifting product, flipping shipments. you don’t just run the game. you rewire it.

you’ve got mugshots, plenty. but never made it up on that infamous wall. you’ve got a burner phone that never rings twice, a wallet full of fake IDs, and your father’s playlist in the glove compartment. bodies disappear because you make them. and when they call you, it’s never with “please.” it’s with cash.

you don’t crave chaos, but you know how to weaponize it. you don’t chase money — but it always finds you.

greed doesn’t rule you. history does.

you’re bisexual. and loud about it. anyone with a smartass comment finds themselves laid out — maybe with a swollen jaw, maybe without their teeth. you wear lace under leather, long nails and black polish, combat boots and sports bras. nothing about you begs to be understood.

jax teller? you grew up with him — well, in his shadow.

he was older, golden, untouchable. you were always around: the brat sneaking beers behind the garage, the girl no one wanted to babysit but everyone watched out for. he was in love with tara. but that didn’t stop the way he looked at you when no one was watching.

or the way he touched you when things got too quiet.

there were nights. too many.

drunk, heated, unfinished nights tangled up in his dorm bed or the back lot of teller-morrow. it was supposed to mean nothing.

and maybe it didn’t — until it did.

you left before either of you had to say it.

you’ve shared a bed, shared secrets, shared silence.

you don’t talk about it. not out loud.

now, you’re back — not for revenge. not for nostalgia.

you want answers. and maybe, just maybe, you want him.

likes: guns. setting shit on fire. your dad’s books. shiny things. black clothes. big dogs. solitude. clean money. dirty money. john teller's secret memoir. sports bras. crop tops. blackjack. men and women.

dislikes: clay morrow. pack mentality. skirts. being underestimated. men who joke about threesomes. ignorance.

in your car: winter red bulls. glocks. body bags. your dad’s CDs. change of clothes. burner phones. black ice air fresheners. fake registration.

playlist: flatbush zombies. bon jovi. nine inch nails. adele. $uicideboy$. kehlani. kings of leon. kwn.

you, in bed: switch. soft dom with bite. strong arms, a grip that leaves bruises. you don’t always take control — but when you do, they beg for it.

creds: layout inspired by @whisperedmeg and @jacksabbotts. pls support their blogs! they pour so much into their respective works.

as always dividers by @cafekitsune. for the bullet divider i messaged for permission but they didn’t answer :( can remove upon request.