#opiewinston

SUMMARY: The world doesn’t stop when Opie dies. It just… drags. Slower. Heavier. Like every mile is uphill, and no one told your lungs how to breathe without him in the room.

You’re left picking up pieces that don’t fit anymore—his cut still hanging by the door, his voice living in the silence, his absence louder than anything else. And Jax… he’s just as wrecked. Different kind of broken, but just as deep. He lost his brother. You lost your husband.

Grief makes strangers out of people. Or it stitches them together.

WARNINGS: Grief and loss, major character death (Opie), emotional trauma, slow-burn romance, guilt, mentions of violence, canon-typical themes, healing through shared loss.

CHAPTER 1 - BROKEN BONES

CHAPTER 2 - FRACTURED LINES

Time didn't heal. That was a lie people told so they could sleep at night. Time didn't stitch you back together — it just dulled the edges until you stopped bleeding on everyone around you.

Weeks stretched into months, and the hole Opie left in your chest was still wide open. But you'd learned how to cover it up. You went to TM every morning, put on a smile that didn't reach your eyes, and buried yourself in work. Grease under your nails, paperwork stacked high, and Abel tugging on your shirt when he wanted you to chase him around the lot.

Abel was your anchor. That little boy could drag a laugh out of you when no one else could. You held him through tantrums, through sticky popsicle fingers, through nights when he cried for a mother who wasn't there. You whispered to him in the dark that he was safe, that you'd never leave, even though you weren't sure you believed in forever anymore.

Jax noticed. He noticed everything. The way you lit up when Abel reached for you. The way your hands shook less when you had him in your arms. And the way your grief, sharp and raw, softened around his son.

One night, after a long day at TM, Jax leaned against the garage doorframe, cigarette glowing between his fingers, watching you wipe grease off Abel's cheeks. His voice was low, rough.

"You're good with him, darlin'."

You shot him a look, tired but fond. "He's the only man around here who doesn't drive me crazy."

Jax smirked, but there was something in his eyes. Something heavy. He didn't push it, just took a drag of his smoke and exhaled slow. But that look stayed with you long after you drove home.

Sleep never came easy. Nights were the worst — the house too quiet, the bed too big. You started leaving the TV on, static voices filling the silence, but it didn't fool your body. You'd wake in a cold sweat, reaching out for a man who wasn't there.

One of those nights, there was a knock on your door. You dragged yourself out of bed, hair a mess, sweatshirt hanging loose on your frame. Jax was standing there, helmet in hand, eyes tired like he hadn't slept either.

"Couldn't stay at the clubhouse," he muttered.

You didn't even hesitate. You stepped aside, and he walked in. He didn't take the couch — he just dropped down on the floor by your bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

For hours, you lay there in silence, both of you staring at the ceiling. Every now and then, he'd shift, the leather of his kutte creaking. Finally, in the dark, his voice came quiet.

"I see him everywhere, y'know? Close my eyes, he's there. Hear his laugh, his voice. Then I wake up, and he's fuckin' gone."

Your throat tightened. "Me too."

Jax didn't move, didn't look at you. But after a beat, his hand slid up onto the bedspread, resting close enough that your fingers brushed. He didn't grab your hand, didn't push. Just let it sit there, steady, until you finally closed your eyes and drifted off.

It was the first time you'd slept more than an hour since Opie died.

The weeks stacked up, grief twisting into routine. You and Jax worked side by side at TM, fixing bikes, running parts, sharing smoke breaks in the alley. You didn't talk much about Opie — sometimes the silence said more than words could.

But there were moments.

Like when you found one of Opie's old ratchets buried in a toolbox and froze, staring at it like it might burn you. Jax was at your side instantly, his hand curling over yours, voice low. "He'd want you to use it, babe."

Or when you saw Opie's photo taped to the memorial wall, that wide grin that had been yours alone. Your knees went weak, and Jax was there again, arm steady around your waist, holding you up without a word.

The bond between you was unspoken. Shared loss welded you together.

But there were cracks in the weld, too — sparks of something you didn't want to name.

Like the way your heart thumped when Jax leaned over your shoulder, warm breath brushing your ear as he showed you how to fix a carb. The way his laugh pulled a smile from you, even when you swore you'd forgotten how. The way Abel's little voice calling "Mommy?" by mistake made your chest ache in a way you didn't know how to handle.

You shoved it down. You had to. He was your husband's best friend. The man who carried his coffin. Anything else was betrayal.

At least, that's what you kept telling yourself.

One evening, you and Jax sat on the porch steps outside Gemma's, Abel asleep inside. The crickets buzzed in the warm air, smoke curling from Jax's cigarette. He passed it to you, and you took a drag, the burn grounding you.

"You ever think it's wrong?" you asked suddenly, voice sharper than you meant.

Jax's brows furrowed. "What?"

"This." You gestured between you. "Us sittin' here, pretendin' like it's normal. Like we ain't thinkin' about him every second."

Jax was quiet for a long beat. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "It ain't wrong to breathe, darlin'. He'd want you to. He'd want me to. If all we do is drown in it, then what the hell did he die for?"

You stared at him, anger and guilt and longing all tangled in your chest. "You make it sound so simple."

He huffed a humorless laugh. "Ain't simple. Nothin' about this is. But I can't lose you too."

The words hung heavy in the night. You didn't respond. You just handed the cigarette back, fingers brushing his, and stared at the stars until the silence swallowed you both whole.

The first time it almost happened was at TM, late one night. You were both finishing up paperwork, the shop quiet except for the ticking of cooling engines.

You looked up from the desk to find Jax watching you. Not in the casual way he always did, but something deeper, heavier. His eyes swept over your face, lingering like he was memorizing every line.

Your breath caught.

He leaned in, slow, hesitant, like he was giving you every chance to stop him. His hand brushed your cheek, thumb trailing soft along your jaw. For a second, you swore you felt the world tilt.

But just before his lips touched yours, you flinched back, heart pounding. "I can't. Jax, I—"

Pain flashed in his eyes, but he pulled back instantly, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I'm sorry."

You wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled in your throat. So you just turned back to the paperwork, pretending the moment hadn't just split you in two.

The push and pull tore at you in the weeks that followed. Every time you laughed with him, guilt gnawed at your ribs. Every time his hand brushed yours, you burned and froze at the same time.

But the truth was there, unspoken, lurking between every glance, every shared silence. Jax was the only one who understood the depth of your loss because it was his loss too. And in that shared grief, something new was taking root, whether you wanted it to or not.

One night, Abel crawled into your lap, half-asleep, mumbling against your chest. Jax watched from across the room, a softness in his eyes you hadn't seen in years.

"You look good with him," he said quietly.

Your throat tightened. "Don't, Jax. Don't make this harder."

He stood, crossing the room, stopping just inches from you. His voice dropped low, rough. "Ain't tryin' to make it harder. Just tellin' you what I see."

You met his gaze, heat sparking in your chest despite the guilt, despite the grief. And for the first time, you didn't look away.

SUMMARY: The world doesn’t stop when Opie dies. It just… drags. Slower. Heavier. Like every mile is uphill, and no one told your lungs how to breathe without him in the room.

You’re left picking up pieces that don’t fit anymore—his cut still hanging by the door, his voice living in the silence, his absence louder than anything else. And Jax… he’s just as wrecked. Different kind of broken, but just as deep. He lost his brother. You lost your husband.

Grief makes strangers out of people. Or it stitches them together.

WARNINGS: Grief and loss, major character death (Opie), emotional trauma, slow-burn romance, guilt, mentions of violence, canon-typical themes, healing through shared loss.

Chapter 1 - BROKEN BONES

The clubhouse smelled like stale beer and smoke, like it always did, but the air was heavier tonight, thick enough to choke you if you let yourself breathe too deeply. You'd been pacing outside, back and forth under the buzzing porch light, cigarette forgotten between your fingers. It burned low, filter hot against your skin, but you didn't even flinch.

You knew something was wrong. The minute Jax called, that low gravel in his voice saying, "Darlin', I need you to come down here," you'd felt it in your chest. That gnawing dread you'd lived with every time Opie walked out the door wearing his kutte.

The sound of boots against the wooden floor dragged your attention up. Jax stepped out, blond hair messy, his kutte hanging heavy on his shoulders. His eyes found yours, and right then, you didn't even need him to speak. You saw it. The crack in him. The grief trying to crawl out but getting buried under the weight of having to carry it for both of you.

Your throat tightened. "No," you whispered, shaking your head before he even got close. "Don't—"

"Babe..." He said it soft, a word that should've been gentle, but it cut like a blade. He tried to step closer, but you backed up, hand up like maybe you could stop him from saying it. From making it real.

"Don't you fuckin' say it, Jackson." Your voice broke sharp. "Don't you put it in the air."

He swallowed hard, jaw flexing, and for a second, he looked like the kid you'd known years ago instead of the man weighed down by a crown of shit he never asked for. He ran a hand over his mouth, breathing hard, then met your eyes again. Blue and burning, drowning all at once.

"They... they took him inside," he rasped, voice shredding on the words. "Prison yard. He didn't make it out."

It felt like the whole world cracked down the middle.

Your knees went first. Jax caught you before you hit the dirt, his arms strong and shaking at the same time, holding you up while you sobbed into his kutte. The leather smelled like smoke and oil and blood, and you hated it, hated that it wasn't Opie holding you, hated that this was the way your love story ended.

You screamed. Loud and raw, your voice ripping out of your chest, and you didn't care who heard. The night didn't swallow it — it carried, echoing against the metal and the bikes and the walls of the clubhouse. Jax just held on tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like if he let go, you'd fall into pieces he couldn't put back together.

"I'm sorry," he kept muttering into your hair. "Jesus Christ, darlin', I'm so fuckin' sorry."

But sorry didn't touch it. Sorry was ashes in your mouth. You didn't remember how he got you inside, just that one second you were outside choking on grief and the next you were on the worn leather couch in the clubhouse, knees pulled tight to your chest. Everything around you blurred — the hum of voices, the clink of bottles, even Gemma's sharp tone cutting through the background.

All you could hear was silence. The kind that screamed.

Jax crouched in front of you, hand resting careful on your leg like you were glass. "Look at me, sweetheart." His voice was low, like he was scared if he spoke too loud, you'd shatter right there.

You shook your head, nails digging into your arms. "I can't... Jax, I can't fuckin'—"

He reached up, cupping the side of your face. Rough palm, warm, grounding. "I know. I know, darlin'." His thumb brushed away tears you didn't even realize had carved down your cheeks.

You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to hit him, to make someone else feel even a fraction of what was clawing at your chest. But the way he looked at you — broken, guilty, like he'd failed you too — it killed the fight before it ever reached your fists.

Your voice came out cracked, jagged. "He promised. He promised me he'd come home."

Jax's jaw clenched hard. "He didn't have a choice, babe." His eyes burned, like fire smothered under water. "Opie... he—" His voice broke, just for a second, and you saw it, the crack in the armor. "He went out fightin'. On his feet. That's who he was. He made sure it was him, not one of us."

You pressed your hands over your mouth, trying to breathe, but it just came out as a sob. Loud. Ugly. The kind of sound that ripped your throat raw.

Jax pulled you forward, arms wrapping around you like he could shield you from the truth. You collapsed against him, fists clenching the back of his kutte. His heart was hammering, matching yours beat for broken beat.

It should've been Opie. It should've been his arms, his chest, his voice telling you everything was gonna be okay. But he was gone. And Jax was the one left to pick up the pieces. The night bled into morning without you noticing. You were still curled on that couch, numb, staring at nothing, while voices moved around you. The guys came and went in shadows, heavy boots and heavier silence. Nobody knew what to say.

Jax never left your side. He sat there with you, quiet, cigarette smoke curling up between you both. Every now and then, you felt his hand brush yours, grounding you back into a body that felt like it didn't fit anymore.

When the sun broke through the grimy clubhouse windows, Gemma came over, her arms crossed tight. She looked at you with something fierce in her eyes — not pity, but something sharper. "You need to come home with me, baby girl. Ain't no good sittin' here."

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Words didn't live here anymore.

Jax answered for you. "She's not goin' anywhere she don't wanna." His tone was clipped, protective, the kind of voice that dared anyone to push back.

Gemma rolled her eyes, muttered something about stubborn Teller men, but didn't argue. She crouched in front of you, softer than you'd ever seen her. "Opie loved you. Don't let this place eat you alive the way it ate him."

That was when the first crack of anger cut through the grief. You snapped your head up, voice raw. "Don't you dare talk like he let it happen. He didn't choose this, Gem."

Gemma didn't flinch. She just nodded once, eyes steady. "I know, sweetheart. That's why you gotta keep breathin' for him."

Days blurred. You went back to the house you'd shared with Opie, every corner screaming his name. His boots still by the door. His jacket slung over the chair. His mug in the sink, ring of coffee dried at the bottom.

You broke down a dozen times in a dozen places — on the kitchen floor, in the shower, clutching his pillow. And every time, Jax showed up. He never knocked. He just came in, steady and quiet, like he knew you wouldn't survive the silence on your own.

One night, you were sitting on the floor in front of the couch, empty bottle beside you, when the door creaked open and Jax walked in. He stopped when he saw you, sighed low.

"Darlin'..."

You laughed, sharp and bitter, wiping at your face. "Don't. Don't fuckin' call me that. That's what he called me."

Jax froze, guilt flashing in his eyes. He stepped closer anyway, lowering himself to the floor beside you. "Alright. Then what do you want me to call you?"

You stared at him, anger flickering like a candle in the wind, then blew out in exhaustion. "Nothing. Just sit here. Don't talk."

So he didn't. He just sat, back against the couch, arm brushing yours. Two broken people, side by side, breathing in the same grief.

The only light in the dark came with Abel.

Gemma had you helping out at TM, watching the boy while she handled business. At first, you thought it was just busywork to keep your hands from shaking. But the first time Abel toddled over, arms up, calling your name in his small, sweet voice — something cracked open in your chest.

You lifted him into your arms, his little hands grabbing at your hair, and for the first time since Opie's death, you smiled. It was small, fragile, but real.

Jax saw it. He was leaning against the doorway, cigarette between his fingers, watching. His chest ached at the sight — you holding his son like he was your own, light breaking through all that grief.

Later, when you set Abel down for his nap in Gemma's office, Jax caught you in the hall. "He loves you," he said, voice low.

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but your throat tightened. "He's the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm broken."

Jax's eyes softened. "That's 'cause you ain't. Not really. Just bent. And we'll fix that."

You wanted to believe him. But all you could think was: Opie was gone. And nothing fixed that.

Weeks passed, grief dulling from raw and jagged to a deep, constant throb. You learned how to function — how to breathe without sobbing, how to walk into the house without collapsing. But every night, when the dark closed in, you still felt the emptiness pressing in on all sides.

Jax was always there. Sometimes with words, sometimes just silence. Sometimes with Abel in his arms, pushing him into yours like he knew that little boy was the only thing holding you together.

One night, after tucking Abel in, you sat on the TM steps, staring at the stars. Jax dropped down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. Neither of you spoke for a long time.

Finally, you whispered, "It should've been me."

Jax turned sharp, eyes fierce. "Don't you ever say that shit again." His voice was harsh, but underneath was something desperate. "You hear me? Opie made his choice in there. He wanted you safe. Wanted me safe. He went out knowin' you were gonna keep breathin'. Don't throw that away."

You blinked hard, tears slipping free. "I don't know how to do this without him."

Jax's hand covered yours, firm, steady. "We'll figure it out. Together."

And for the first time since the prison yard stole your husband, you believed him. Just a little. Enough to take another breath.

CHAPTER 2 - FRACTURED LINES

Source: cafekitsune

https://www.tiktok.com/@sonsofanarchyedits/video/7024048968883653893?is_from_webapp=1&sender_device=pc&web_id6981042564275750406

I cannot stop watching this.

Cole!! Woman!! Warm a woman next time!! 😝

Summary: The graveyard shift is your favorite. The characters that wandered into the all-night diner are weird and wonderful, none more so than Opie Winston.

Warnings: fluff, slight smut, smidge of angst.

W/C: 2.8k

Characters: Opie Winston, Reader, Jax Teller, OC’s.

Pairing: Opie Winston x You (no descriptions of body type or ethnicity)

Summary: The graveyard shift is your favorite. The characters that wandered into the all-night diner are weird and wonderful, none more so than Opie Winston.

Warnings: fluff, slight smut, smidge of angst.

W/C: 2.8k

Characters: Opie Winston, Reader, Jax Teller, OC’s.

Pairing: Opie Winston x You (no descriptions of body type or ethnicity)

Bingos: @anyfandomangstbingo // @anyfandomgoesbingo Squares Filled: angst - “it’s not my blood, I swear.” // Batman Panties.

Notes: not specific to any season of the show. But Opie is single (not that being married ever stopped him anyway 😂!)

A/N: First time writing for Opie so a little nervous about this one.

Betas: @wonder-cole was a wonderful help as always // and@cockslut-padalecki saved me as always 🥰 // all mistakes belong to me.

Graphics: all by me.

Master Lists: Other Fandoms // AF Angst Bingo // AFG Bingo

The graveyard shift is your favorite. The characters that wander into the all-night diner are weird and wonderful. The regulars, Joe and Arthur, who prefer the world between midnight and dawn, have some of the most enchanting tales to tell. The stories you’ve heard a hundred times before never get old. Then there are the group of ladies that work at Harlot’s strip club two blocks over that always come in every Saturday and Sunday morning, full of energy; dancing to the music they stream from their phones and spending their tip money on mediocre coffee and whatever cake is on offer. You always make sure to bake an extra one and keep it aside especially for them.

Strangers appear every now and then. Groups of friends, families or people riding solo, just passing through, never to be seen again. Some have stories to tell, others keep to themselves and you always know how to decipher between the two. If someone wants to talk they sit at the bar, if not, they choose a booth.

Four-thirty on a typical Saturday morning. Joe and Arthur - the old-timers as you like to call them - occupy the stools at either end of the bar, frequenting the spots so often their ass groves are moulded to the faux leather. In all the time you’ve worked here, they’ve never once sat together because they are too stubborn and set in their ways to admit they are alike and crave the company of others. The ladies of Harlots, occupying their usual two booths nearest to the kitchen, are as boisterous and loud as ever, celebrating Lizzy’s engagement.

The bell above the door tinkles to announce a newcomer and you’ve become so accustomed to it; a latecomer from Harlot’s or Joe coming back in from having a cigarette, you don’t pay much attention until the room falls silent.

Warnings: Talking about death, grieving