#soa fandom

The thing about small towns is that everyone notices everything. By day seven in Charming, you'd been noticed by basically everyone. You were used to attention, but this was different. In Vegas, attention was professional and transactional. Here, it was personal. People wanted to know your story. Where you came from. Why you were here?

You gave them nothing. You smiled and deflected every question with the kind of practiced ease that came from years of customer service. You were just in town visiting a friend. Your old car broke down. You'd be leaving real soon. Nothing to see here.

But they kept looking. Jax kept looking too, but in a different way. He'd stop by his dorm every evening, always with some excuse. Update on your car, question about parts, did you need anything from town? And every time, you'd let him in, and you'd talk, and it felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with Vegas or cops or the hard drives hidden in your suitcase.

You'd gotten comfortable with each other. Comfortable enough that on night seven, when he showed up with Chinese food and some whiskey, neither of you commented on it.

"Your engine's more fucked than I thought," he said, settling onto the bed next to you while you sat cross-legged against the headboard. "I had to order parts. They won't be here until next week."

Next week. Another week in Charming, another week of being visible, another week of risking it all. "How much is this going to cost me?"

“Let’s not worry about that right now,” Jax quipped.

“Jax...” you whined, poking out your bottom lip in exaggerated sadness.

He mimicked your pout, and you couldn't help but smile. "I'm serious. We'll figure it out. You're not the first person to roll through here with more problems than cash."

You picked at your lo mein, not hungry but needing something to do with your hands. "I can't stay here forever."

"Nobody's asking you to."

"Aren't you curious?" The question came out before you could stop it. About what I'm running from?"

"You told me. Self-defense, Vegas, bad situation," he said, taking a bite of his lo mein.

"That's not the whole story."

"I figured." He took a swig of his drink, watching you over the rim. "You gonna tell me the rest?"

You should keep your mouth shut, finish your food, and maintain the careful distance you'd built between yourself and everyone in this town. But there was something about Jax. Something in the way he looked at you like you were a person and not a problem, like your past was just information and not a judgment—that made you want to trust him.

Trust got you hurt. But you were so tired of being alone.

"My manager was laundering money through the club," you said quietly. "Him and some other guys. I found out by accident because of some paperwork I wasn't supposed to see, overheard some conversations. I didn't think much of it at first. Vegas, you know? Everyone's got something shady going on. But then I realized it was bigger than that. Trafficking. Girls from overseas, promised dancing jobs, ending up in... other situations."

Jax's expression had gone very still. "You have proof?"

"I have hard drives with about five years of financial records and some very incriminating emails." You met his eyes. "That's why he came at me. He figured out I knew. He was going to kill me, Jax. So I killed him first."

The silence stretched between you, heavy with implications. You'd just confessed to murder. To a man you barely knew. In a town where you had no allies and no escape route. Possibly the stupidest thing you'd ever done, and you'd done some stupid things.

"Where are the hard drives?" Jax asked finally.

"Safe."

You set down your food, appetite completely gone now. "I know it was stupid to keep it. I should've destroyed it, but it's insurance. If they find me, if the cops come after me, I can trade it. Information for immunity. Maybe."

"Or you could use it to take down a trafficking ring."

You laughed, bitter and sharp. "Nobody's going to care."

"I care."

The words hit you like a truckg, unexpected and overwhelming. You looked at him and saw something in his face that made your chest tight. Concern maybe. Anger on your behalf.

"Why?" you asked. "You don't know me. I'm just some girl who rolled into town with a broken car."

"You're not just some girl." He set down his drink, leaned forward. "You're smart. You're a survivor. And you're sitting on evidence that could save lives. That's not nothing. That's not just some girl."

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him. 

"I can't stay here," you said. "Once my car's fixed, I need to go. LA, or maybe further. Mexico, if I have to. Somewhere they won't find me."

"Orrr," Jax said slowly, "you could stay. Let me help you. SAMCRO's got resources. We've got lawyers, connections. We could figure this out."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because it's the right thing to do."

"Bullshit." You stood up, pacing the small room in your pink nightgown, feeling trapped and restless. "Nobody does the right thing just because it's right. There's always an angle. So what's yours? You want the hard drives? You want to use it for leverage? You want—"

"I want you to be safe." Jax said while watching you spiral.

You stopped pacing. Turned to look at him. "What?"

He stood up too, and suddenly the room felt very small. "I want you to be safe," he repeated. "I want you to not have to run. I want you to not have to look over your shoulder every five minutes. I want—" He stopped, ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck. I don't know what I want. But I know I don't want you to disappear."

The air between you felt electric, charged with something you didn't want to name. You'd been attracted to him from the start but this was different. This was dangerous.

"Jax," you said, and your voice came out softer than you'd intended. "I'm a mess. I have a pink revolver in my purse and I tend to ruin everything I touch. I'm not... I'm not someone you want to get involved with."

"Little late for that."

You moved closer, drawn to him like gravity, like something inevitable. Your hand came up, fingers trailing down his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart. He sucked in a breath, and you felt power surge through you—the same power you'd felt on stage, the knowledge that you could affect someone, make them want you.

But this was different. Because you wanted him too. What you didn't know was that your Cadillac could've been fixed already. That the parts had come in yesterday. That Jax had told Juice to hold off, to wait, because he needed you to stay. Just a little longer.

Your hand slid lower, tracing the line of muscle down his stomach, and you felt him tense. "Tell me to stop," you whispered.

Jax doesn't say anything. Your fingers found the waistband of his white boxers, and you hesitated for just a moment. This was a line. Once you crossed it, there was no going back. You'd be trusting him with more than just your secrets. Without thinking, you pushed him down onto the mattress and followed, positioning yourself between his legs. Face down, ass up, the way you knew would drive him crazy.

You slid your hand inside, slowly, from the bottom of the fabric, and wrapped your fingers around him. He was already half-hard, and you felt him grow harder in your warm grip. Jax sucked in a sharp breath.

"Fuck," he breathed.

You pulled him free from his boxers, and God, he was pretty. Thick and hard in your hand, flushed perfectly in your fist. You stroked him once, twice, watching his face strain, watching the way his eyes went dark with want.

"I wanna taste you," you said.

You were soaking wet, heat pooling between your thighs, and you realized with startling clarity that you trusted him. Actually trusted him. This man you'd known for seven days, who'd offered you shelter and kindness and asked for nothing in return. You took him in your mouth without preamble, no teasing, just straight to satiating your hunger.

The tip of him hit the back of your throat and you gagged, but you didn't pull back. You took him deeper, hollowed your cheeks, let yourself gag and choke around his thickness. He was so hard, so swollen in your mouth, and you could feel him getting lost in it—the warmth, the wetness, the way you were completely surrendered to this.

He couldn't help but think about what your actual cunt would feel like if your mouth was already driving him this fucking insane.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, strips of spit falling from your swollen bottom lip, connecting you to him. His cock looked so beautiful against your pink nails with their Hello Kitty decals. Pretty and obscene and perfect. You looked up at him through your lashes, and the expression on his face made heat pool between your thighs.

You looked divine like this. He couldn't stop staring at your submission, and the way you were giving yourself over to him completely. You took him deep again, and this time you didn't stop.

"Jesus Christ," Jax groaned, his hand coming to the back of your head, not pushing, just holding. "Fuck, darlin'."

You hollowed your cheeks, took him deeper, and felt your nightgown ride up your thighs. You were wearing a matching pink thong underneath—of course you were—and you knew the moment Jax noticed because his other hand came down hard on your ass.

The smack echoed in the small room, and you moaned around him, the vibration making him curse. He did it again, harder this time, and you arched into it, wanting more.

"You're so fucking perfect," he said, his voice rough. "So fucking—"

You felt him getting close, felt the tension in his thighs, the way his breathing changed. But before he could finish, he pulled you off him, repositioning you with surprising gentleness given the urgency in his movements.

"Need to be inside you," he said.

"Yes," you breathed. "Yes, Jax, fuck."

He positioned you on your hands and knees, slid your pink thong to the side rather than taking it off, and you instantly felt the head of his cock press against you. You were so wet he slid in eassily, filling you in one smooth thrust that made you both groan.

"Look at me," he said, his hand coming to your jaw, turning your face toward him. "Need to see you."

You looked back over your shoulder, met his eyes, and he kissed you.

It was sweet and brutal at the same time, gentle and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours while he fucked into you with steady, deep strokes.

The intensity of it overwhelmed you, and you fell forward, face pressing into the pillow as he continued to move inside you. You were practically drooling, mumbling incoherently into the fabric—his name, pleas, sounds that weren't even words.

Then you felt his hand wrap around your hair, gathering it in his fist. He pulled, firm and commanding, lifting your head up and back so your neck arched.

"Want everyone to hear you getting rammed into this bed, darlin'?" he growled in your ear, his voice rough and possessive. "Want the whole clubhouse to know who's making you feel this good?"

You clenched around him involuntarily, the words and the dominance of it sending a shock of pleasure through you. He groaned at the sensation.

"Fuck, that's it," he said, pulling you up further so your back was against his chest. His hand came to your jaw again, turning your face toward him. "You feel so good," he murmured against your mouth. "So fucking good, darlin'."

You couldn't speak, could only moan and push back against him, chasing the pleasure building in your core. His hand slid around to your front, found your swollen clit, and you shattered as he rubbed circles on your bud.

"That's it," he encouraged, his rhythm faltering. "That's it, darlin, come for me."

Waves of pleasure crashing over you, and you felt him follow moments later, his grip on your hip tightening as he came with your name on his lips.

"Stay," he said. "At least for a while. Let me help you."

"I don't need help. Just fix the Caddy"

"I know. But maybe you want it anyway."

He collapsed beside you on the bed, immediately pulling you into his arms. You went willingly, letting him tuck you against his chest, your head finding the space between his shoulder and his jaw like it was made for you. His arm wrapped around you, solid and warm, while his other hand came up to stroke your hair, fingers gentle as they worked through the tangles.

Your legs tangled with his, and you felt his heartbeat start to slow beneath your palm. This intimacy after was almost more overwhelming than the sex had been. You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of the last seven days, the last three years, the last lifetime of running and surviving and never quite being safe.

"I don't know how to do this," you whispered against his skin. "The staying thing. The trusting thing."

His hand moved from your hair to your back, tracing slow, soothing circles.

"We'll figure it out," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

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@bethexo07 @queenreignssupreme @bluevenus19

i need you, i need you babe like i have never needed anyone

you’d spent the night at the clubhouse with Jax, having drunk a little too much for Jax to have taken you home on his bike. 

you’d woken up alone in his bed and hearing the shower in the next room. eyeing him when he walked back into the room, and his towel wrapped lowly on his hips. 

knowing the look you were giving him had a chuckle spilling from his lips, leading to now. 

he had you sprawled out on your back, arms bracing himself on the pillows around your head, hips rocking against yours at a steady pace.

his voice soft and small, gentle coos leaving his lips. mumbled ‘i knows’ into your ear, while your legs wrapped around his waist and feet locked at the small of his back. arms loosely wrapped around his neck, and fingers tangled in his hair. 

this was more intimate than sex ever normally was between you, it was softer and a lot more gentle. 

tilting your head to capture his lips in a kiss and humming as he deepened it, his tongue pushing past your lips and meddling with yours. 

each thrust of his hips had more moans falling from your lips, breaking the kiss and laying back against the one lone pillow on the bed. your eyes flicking across his face and admiring him, reaching a hand up to cradle his jaw while your thumb soothed across his cheek. 

giggling softly as he tilted his head to press a kiss to your palm before leaning down to capture your lips again, both of you lost in the moment and missing the knock at the door. 

Jax’s thrusts continued at a steady past, coaxing soft moans from your lips. dropping his head to the crook of your neck again and peppering kisses across the skin, back arching up into him. 

with no response from Jax the door opened cautiously, and a familiar Scottish accent sounded in surprise and slight disgust. 

“jesus christ Jackie”

feeling your face heat at the sudden intrusion and hiding your face in your hands, feeling Jax pull away from your neck and glance back at Chibs. 

glancing up cautiously at Jax as he pulled the blankets up to cover your body, remaining inside you as he spoke, his tone laced in faint irritation and your walls fluttering around him causing a muffled groan to bubble in his throat. 

“this is on you brother”

his eyes locked with Chibs’ before nodding towards the door in a silent ask to leave, hearing the Scotsman chuckle before leaving; the door slamming behind him while Jax’s attention turned back to you. 

“sorry bout that, darlin’”

his hands pulling yours further away from your face, and loosely wrapping your arms around his neck once more. feeling the pillows dip on either side of your head while he braced himself again, the slow drag of his hips starting again. 

“felt you clench down on me, hm sweetheart?”

despite the softness of the moment, even if momentarily disrupted, Jax’s tone held a little teasing to it once again. thrusts continuing and low mewls falling from your lips, eyes hooded and keeping hold of his gaze. 

“huh, you like that darlin’? you like the thrill of getting caught like this?”

words escaping you, and a lewd moan coming out in response. eyes fluttering shut as he leaned down to capture your lips again, his blond locks toppling into your face. 

the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room again as he chased both of your climaxes, forehead resting against yours and arms crossing above your head. 

his body blanketing yours and moving impossibly closer to you, peaking up at him to find his gaze already on you. 

“you gonna cum f’me sweetheart? or you want Chibs back in here?”

choking back a whine at his proposition, walls fluttering around him again as the words reeled in your head. 

mind feeling fuzzy and body flooding with heat, the familiar pool of warmth settling in the pit of your belly as his thumb pressed to your clit. 

“fuck, that turn you on? shit- cum f’me sweetheart, that’s it”

the words came out in a groan, his head dropping to your shoulder and his thrusts faltering. lips pressing soft kisses across your sweat dampened skin, and his soft coos flooded your ear. thumb pressing tighter circles to your clit and pushing you over the edge, the coil in your belly snapping as you came with a cry of his name. 

arms tightening around his neck and pulling him down impossibly closer, moaning into his ear while your cheeks pressed together. moans turning into whines, and whines turning into incoherent babbles as his thrusts continued; once met with precision now left sloppy as he chased his high. 

“fuck, that’s my girl. such a good girl f’me darlin’”

the possessive tone in his words had another lewd moan tumbling past your lips, nails scratching across his back and into the sons tattoo. 

a barely coherent cry of his name was his undoing, hips stuttering before stilling completely against you. a jagged rock of his hips and a guttural moan past his lips signified his climax, his cock throbbing in your warmth and his release shooting into you. 

the constant flutter of your walls around him had him spilling every drop, the tightness surrounding him milking him for all he had. 

staying connected and limbs intertwined, his breathing heavy against your shoulder as he slowly started to come down from his high. lifting his head enough to meet your gaze before grumbling out to you. 

“my little exhibitionist, hm?“

『••✎••』

It starts as a simple image—soft, ordinary light pouring through half-open blinds—the kind of light that paints the walls gold. Not in a harsh or unforgiving way, but in a gentle manner that’s enough to warm everything it touches. In that light, the house doesn’t feel like a hideout or a cage; it feels like an actual home.

Abel is at the center of it, of course, knees bent with little clumsy hands around his favorite toy cars. He pushes them in crooked lines across the floor, lips pursed in concentration until something makes him laugh—that high, unguarded, pure laugh. It’s the kind of sound that cuts through every scar you’ve gathered. A sound untouched by the world outside these walls.

You find yourself clinging to it, as though you can thread it into your own bones and let it patch over every fracture in your heart.

And then there’s Jax, leaning against the counter in that grey shirt you love with the white sleeves from his undershirt tugged to his forearms, the cotton softened by countless washes. He’s not heavy with exhaustion or hollow-eyed from nights you’d rather forget—no leather, no patch, no ghosts stitched into the fabric. Just him, bathed in that gentle light, with his blonde hair catching the sun like a memory of the man he might have been. It’s untamed and boyish in a way that makes you think of the man he might have been if the world had been kinder.

His smile is soft. Softer than most ever get to see.

He kneels to help Abel with a car flipped upside down, his fingers gentle as his smile. He keeps his movements patient, laughing in that low, warm way that—God—almost breaks you because it feels so possible, so close.

You stand there and drink it in. The brush of his hand as he passes you a mug, thumb grazing yours like he’s done it a thousand times, like he’ll do it a thousand more. The way his shoulders loosen when Abel climbs into his lap, small hands clutching at his shirt, both of them wrapped in some kind of everyday joy you can barely hold onto.

It feels like poetry, this life you build in your mind. A rhythm of mornings spent in tangled sheets, afternoons in sunlight, evenings filled with nothing but the sound of Abel’s footsteps and Jax’s voice reading from a book he picked up just because Abel liked the cover. No shadows waiting outside. No calls that drag him away into blood and smoke. No fear hanging above you like a storm.

But the dream is greedy. It pulls you deeper, dares you to imagine more. You picture birthdays at the park, balloons tied too tightly to benches. Abel, with frosting on his cheeks, is laughing so hard he hiccups. You’re crouched down behind the camera, trying to capture every second, every frame, because for once, you weren’t afraid of time running out.

You imagine late nights, the three of you piled on the couch, Abel half-asleep against his father’s chest, Jax’s arm thrown lazily across you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No tension in his jaw, no restless tapping of his fingers, no wariness in his eyes.

Just peace. Just love.

It is everything you want. Everything you’ll never stop wanting. But even as you hold it close, you feel the familiar pull—the faint judder that warns you this world is too fragile to last.

The warmth fades first, the colors dimming, as though the sun outside suddenly remembers to set. That sweet, golden world dissolves into shadows, piece by piece.

You know why. You’ve always known.

And you stand corrected when that voice sneaks in first, as it always does. Low and sharp, carved with smoke and certainty:

This is the life, sweetheart. Don’t waste your time pretending it’s not.

You can almost see her in the corner of your vision—arms crossed, expression both fierce and cruel, love wrapped in iron. She never lets you drift too far into hope. She anchors you with the reminder that this family—this legacy, is made of blood as much as it is of love.

The dream resists for a moment as you want to stay there and believe in it, but Gemma and reality itself have always had a way of cutting through illusions.

And so, it’s gone.

The sound that replaces it is sharp, jarring: the creak of the front door. The slam of reality walking back into your life.

And there he is.

Not the man in the dream, not the Jackson softened by sunlight and laughter. This Jackson is torn and raw, blood smeared across skin and fabric until you can’t tell which is his and which belongs to someone else. His plaid shirt clings darkly in patches, his knuckles split wide open, his face swollen in places you can’t even track fast enough. The air around him smells like iron, like dirt, like rage.

It punches the air from your lungs.

Your body moves before your mind does—you close the distance and wrap yourself around him, pulling him into your arms as if you can hold him together, as if the strength of your embrace might undo whatever broke him this time. You bury yourself in the bruises, the blood, because what else is there to do? He’s here, and he’s alive, and that has to be enough.

The dream dies in your chest, as it always does, and you hate yourself for how desperately you grieve it every time.

Because you know the truth: there is no sunlight-only life waiting for you. There is no quiet kitchen, no simple happiness, no safe future untouched by the weight of the cut. There is only this.

This man you love. This family held together by threads of devotion and despair. This cycle that will always pull him back out that door and return him to you broken.

And you will always take him back, and you will always do everything in your power to put him back together because even though you know how this story ends, you can never bring yourself to give it up.