#soa tig

you were at the clubhouse, sitting on one of the rugged old couches while you sat curled into his side. 

left arm around his neck while your fingers tangled in his hair, brushing through his curls while he practically purred at your touch. 

shaking your head as he relished in the feeling of your fingers, letting his eyes flutter shut. 

he always let himself get lost in the feeling of your, lost in his thoughts of you. every thought he had was of you, save for the little chunk that was reserved for the club—but you outweighed it by the majority. 

now, as he got lost in you, his mind began to run on autopilot. 

he leaned in, nipping at your jaw how he usually did, before his bites trailed down across your throat and neck. 

but that was the thing with Tig, the one thing that he didn’t fully understand but couldn’t fight. 

Tig’s love language wasn’t words. it wasn’t gifts or acts of service, though he did provide them whenever you asked. 

no, for Tig it was something primal, something instinctive.  he showed affection in ways people didn’t always understand—through the sharp, passionate bite of his teeth on you skin. 

it had started as a joke, a playful nip to your neck when the two of you were alone, something brief but enough to make you shiver. the next time, his bite was harder, deeper. a kiss with teeth, a sign of something more — something unspoken. 

he didn’t think much of it. Tig Trager, the man who lived for chairs and risk, for that edge between danger and thrill, knew only one way to show you that he cared; by marking you. by biting you. 

you’d never talked about it, never needed to. but after the first few times, it became a ritual. a way for him to ground himself when the weight of the world became too much. 

when his past haunted him too deeply. when the scars he carried felt too heavy— he bit you, and in those moments, it was like everything else faded away. you were his anchor. 

your fingers continued through his hair, nails brushing gently across his scalp and he had to bite at your shoulder to stop himself from groaning too loudly. 

but the next bite he gave after that was different, much deeper than every other one he had given before. 

“ow, Tig!”

your call of his name and the way your fingers tugged at his hair to pull him away had his attention coming back. 

blue eyes meeting yours, as a half guilty look crossed his face. 

“sorry didn’t mean it that hard”

he told, lifting one of his hands to soothe his thumb over the fresh mark. leaning in he pressed a soft kiss to the mark, his head lifting to meet your eyes. 

shaking your head as he flashed you a pout, something he did to get back in your good books. 

“that hurt Tig”

you told, poking a finger at his chest. rolling your eyes as he held his hands up on surrender, slouching against the back of the couch in the process. 

the clubhouse had emptied since you’d arrived, leaving only a couple of the prospects stocking things behind the bar. they were harmless, knew they wouldn’t say anything about you and Tig on the opposite side of the room. 

slowly you hooked a leg across both of his, settling in his lap while he smirked up at you. 

his hands came down to settle on your hips, thumbs soothing back and forth as he leaned in to kiss across your throat. his kisses made you giggle, trying to pull back from his touch again until he bit and sucked at your pulse point, causing your breath to hitch. 

“Tig..”

you tried, the warning tone in your voice holding no malice. which only made him continue, more nips and bites across your skin before he mumbled out. 

“was just a peck, sweetheart”

he continued to smirk up at you, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you down against his chest. 

catching your lips in another kiss before you whispered out against his lips. 

“less teeth next time”

---------------------------------------------------------

Happy Lowman

Tig’s still arguing about his failed attempt, Jax is goading Chibs, and Juice is replaying footage of the trend. But Happy’s in his chair at the corner table, quiet and watching.

You’re curled up on the couch nearby, scrolling through your phone headphones on, when Juice calls over, “C’mon, Hap, your turn!”

Happy doesn’t even look up. “No.”

Tig laughs. “What, scared she’ll deck ya?”

Happy’s gaze lifts—slow, measured. “No,” he says again, tone flat. “I don’t raise my hand toward her. Ever.”

It’s not loud, but it silences the room. That’s just how Happy is—no posturing, no joke.

You glance up at him, warmth curling in your chest as you give him a smile. He meets your eyes, and that faint almost-smile softens his face before he jerks his chin at you.

You stand, pad over to him, and drop onto the chair beside him. “Hey Hap,” you murmur as he loops his arm around you pulling you close.

He leans down pressing a kiss to your temple.

Tig groans, “Man, you’re ruining the fun!”

“Ain’t funny.” Happy's glare doesnt falter, blade glinting under the blue light. “Its respect.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Jax Teller

The clubhouse door’s propped open, California sunlight spilling in golden through the haze. Jax is in his element—smile easy and sharp.

You’re sitting on the arm of the couch, talking to one of the croweaters and laughing when he sidles over, casual as anything.

He’s grinning already, that kind of grin that means you’re about to regret trusting him.

“Hey there Darlin',” he says, voice all velvet.

You look up, smiling. “what do you want, Teller?”

He suddenly jerks his arm forward, fast—hand coming toward your face in a fake lunge.

Your body reacts before your brain does—you flinch back, eyes wide, hand half raised.

He freezes mid-motion, laughter bursting from him. “Oh, shit! You flinched!”

You exhale hard, glaring. “Your an asshole!”

He’s laughing so hard he’s doubled over, wiping tears from his eyes. “That was perfect.”

You grab the nearest thing—a coaster—and hurl it at him. It hits his chest and bounces off, but you see the flicker of guilt behind his grin. He leans in, wraps an arm around you.

“C’mon, darlin’. Just a bit of fun.”

“Fun for you maybe,” you mutter.

He kisses your neck, voice low. “Still love me though.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Juice Ortiz

The garage is half-lit, late afternoon bleeding into dusk. Music hums low from someone’s phone. You’re leaning against a toolbox, flipping through a calendar in the office while Juice films Tig attempting a redo of the challenge. The second Tig fails again, Juice’s eyes spark with mischief.

“Okay, okay, my turn,” he says, turning the camera on himself. “I’m gonna do it—for science.”

Your still in the office bent over paperwork.

He steps toward you fast—not menacing, just sudden—with wide eyes and exaggerated motion, hands up and yells.

"BOO!"

You squeal, Instinct takes over.

Your elbow snaps back before your brain catches up —a quick, startled move. It connects solidly with his ribs.

“Ow—!” he wheezes, staggering back and clutching his side.

You whirl around, horrified. “Juice! Oh my god, I’m sorry!”

He’s half laughing, half groaning, eyes wide. “No, no, that’s on me! Totally on me—ahh, yeah, that’s—ow, okay, that’s gonna bruise.”

You cover your mouth, torn between laughter and guilt. “You scared me! What were you thinking?”

He starts talking too fast, hands fluttering. “I—uh, I we saw the trend and thought maybe, you know, it’d be funny? Like, cute-funny? Not terrifying-funny. Totally miscalculated the trajectory of—of your reflexes.”

You’re laughing now, and he’s still spiraling. “I swear I wasn’t trying to—hurt or startle, like, that startle. You’ve got quick reflexes! Which is, uh, awesome! Totally badass! I’m proud—ow, ow—of you.”

“Juice,” you interrupt, gently pressing a hand to his chest.“Breathe.”

He blinks. “Right. Breathing. Breathing’s good.”

You reach up, smoothing your hand over the spot where you hit him. “You okay?”

He grins sheepishly. “Yeah. My ego’s the only thing bruised. Well—my ribs a little too.”

You lean in and kiss his cheek. “That’s what you get for scaring me.”

He chuckles, eyes soft. “Lesson learned. No more surprise attacks. From now on, only hugs from the front, I promise.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Opie Winston

The garage hums low with the steady tick of cooling engines. You’re sitting on his workbench, swinging your legs, reading through a crumpled receipt like it’s a map to something important. Opie’s watching you from across the room—quiet, soft amusement tugging at his mouth. Jax had shown him that stupid trend Juice had been talking about earlier, teasing, “Your girl wouldn’t even blink, big man.”

So now he’s watching you, debating. You look so peaceful, so lost in your own head, that it feels wrong to ruin it—but he thinks, just once, maybe it’ll be funny.

He steps closer, silent as always, until his shadow falls over you. You look up just as he says, “Hey,”— voice low—and then half-lunges forward, playful.

The sound you make isn’t laughter. It’s a small, startled gasp, sharp and broken at the edges. You jerk back, eyes wide, heart hammering in your throat.

Opie freezes mid-step. The look on your face drains the humor right out of him.

“Hey—hey, hey, I’m sorry.” His voice is rough, guilt-laced. His hands hover uselessly before settling at his sides. “Didn’t mean to—shit, I didn’t think you’d—”

You’re still trying to breathe, adrenaline buzzing in your chest. He takes a careful step closer, lowering his voice. “I swear it's just some dumb prank. Just me being dumb id never...”

You swallow, nod, and he exhales slow, brushing a thumb against your cheek.

“Guess I ain’t built for surprises,” he mutters softly, a sheepish smirk stretching across his mouth.

You manage a weak laugh. “You… kinda terrified me.”

He grimaces. “Yeah. I’m an idiot.”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closing. “Never again,” he murmurs. “No more stupid trends.”

You smile faintly, . “You’re forgiven. Ope.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice rumbling low against your skin. “Still takin’ you and the kids out though.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Chibs Telford

The night air outside the clubhouse is cool, sharp with the scent of exhaust and whiskey. You’re perched on the steps, tracing lazy circles on the wooden rail while Chibs leans beside you, cigarette glowing red in the dark.

Inside, laughter filters out shouting, commentary, and someone’s spilled beer again—the usual chaos.

Chibs glances at you out of the corner of his eye, smirking. “Ye know, they’ve been tryin’ to get me to do that stupid trend.”

You glance back, amused. “Not tempted, Scotsman?”

He snorts softly. “What sort of man raises his hand toward his Old Lady, even in jest?”

The warmth in his voice softens you instantly. His tone is teasing, but the conviction beneath it is real. You study him for a beat—the way his salt and pepper hair catches the light, the faint lines at the corner of his eyes.

He flicks the cigarette away and turns fully toward you, that lopsided grin ghosting across his mouth. “No, love. I’d sooner cut off me hand than make ye flinch.”

You smile, a little flutter in your chest. “You know that’s a bit dramatic, right?”

“Aye,” he says with a chuckle, “but makes the point, doesn’t it?”

You reach up, fingers brushing his jaw. “You’re a good man, Filip.”

He hums, leaning into your touch. “Och, don’t spread that around. Ruins me reputation.”

You laugh softly. “Your secret’s safe.”

He pulls you in then, slow and certain, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Let the lads play their games,” he murmurs. “I’d rather spend me time remindin’ ye there’s no reason t’ flinch.”

---------------------------------------------------------

The Switch Flips

The night hums with music—something low and bass-heavy pulsing through the clubhouse. You’re perched near the bar, laughing softly as Juice rambles through another half-finished story, hands flying, voice tripping over itself. He’s pure light like that—always moving, always chattering, always kinda perfect.

He leaves for a minute to grab another round, and that’s when one of the hang-arounds gets too comfortable. He’s been drinking too much, trying to impress the club, thinking he’s one of them. The guy grins, phone in hand, nodding toward you.

“Hey, Juice’s Old Lady, right? Lemme just—”

He swings a hand toward your face. You jerk back, startled—not hurt, but frozen in disbelief.

Before you can even process what just happened, the air changes. Juice is there. You don’t even see him cross the room—just feel it.

He grabs the guy by the front of his kutte, slamming him back against the bar hard enough that bottles rattle and crash to the floor. The sound dies instantly. Music, laughter—all gone. Just Juice, and a look you've never seen on your Old Man's face.

It’s not the nervous, talk-too-fast Juice you know. It’s silent, cold, and terrifyingly still.

His jaw’s tight, eyes wide and dark, teeth bared just enough to flash something feral beneath the light.

“You touch her again,” he says, voice low and sharp, “You'll never lift a hand toward anyone ever again.”

The guy stutters something—an apology maybe—but Juice doesn’t seem to hear it. He’s breathing too fast, nostrils flaring, fingers twitching like he’s one blink away from breaking the guy’s nose.

“Juice,” you whisper, stepping closer. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

That’s when he hears you.

His eyes flick to you—and suddenly, it’s like watching someone surface from a nightmare. The tension drains all at once. He lets go of the hang-around, who scrambles away, practically tripping over himself.

Juice’s chest heaves, eyes darting between you and the mess he just made.

“I—I’m sorry, baby I just” he blurts, voice cracking. “He— he just—babe you looked scared, and I—I lost it, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

You step closer, lay a hand on his chest.

He’s shaking. “Hey. It’s okay.”

He swallows hard, nodding, words tumbling over each other now. “I swear, I wasn’t—I did I scare you. Im sorry I just—I saw him, and my brain went—” He gestures wildly. “—dark. Really dark.”

You reach up and touch his cheek, gently. “You didn’t scare me, you never scare me.” you say softly. “Just surprised me. You protected me.”

He leans into your hand, eyes wide, voice small now. “I don’t ever want you to see me like that again.”

You shake your head. “You don’t need to apologize for defending me, Juan.”

He exhales shakily, then forces a weak smile. “Still… gonna make it up to you. Maybe cupcakes? Or, like, that caramel popcorn you like?”

You smile, pulling him into a hug. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles into your shoulder, voice muffled, “but I’m your ridiculous.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Gemma Teller-Morrow

It’s late afternoon in the clubhouse. There’s that usual low rumble of voices, the jukebox humming some half-broken rock ballad, and Gemma Teller-Morrow is in her element—perched on the edge of the bar, cigarette in hand, gold bangles catching the light, giving the new prospect that half-lidded look that means don’t waste my time, kid.

The boy’s nervous but riding that stupid wave of bravado that comes with fresh patches and too much attention from the wrong crowd. He’s seen the “flinch trend” video that’s been bouncing around the clubhouse and figures he’ll score a laugh if he tries it on Gemma herself.

Gemma. The queen of SAMCRO. The woman you don’t mess with.

He steps up to her, phone half hidden in his palm. “Hey, Miss Teller,” he says, that greasy grin spreading.

He lunges forward suddenly, a fake swing, fast enough that most women would jerk back.

Gemma doesn’t even blink. She exhales smoke right into his face.

The air goes cold.

From across the room, a barstool screeches.

Tig was halfway through a drink—sees the move— and in an instant, the glass hits the floor and shatters.

Before the kid even processes what’s happening, Tig’s on him. He slams into the prospect, grabs him by the collar, and drags him back so hard the kid’s heels scrape across the wood.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU KID?!” Tig’s voice is a growl, cracked and wild, echoing off the walls.

Gemma sighs, flicks ash into an empty beer bottle, watching like it’s a rerun she’s seen a thousand times. “Oh, here we go,” she mutters.

The prospect’s babbling now. “It was just— it was a joke—”

Tig doesn’t hear him. He slams the kid up against the wall, eyes blown wide, veins up his neck. “You don’t touch her, you don’t pretend to touch her, you don’t even look sideways at Gemma fuckin’ Teller, d'you hear me? You breathe wrong around her, I’ll take your fingers off one by one and make you eat them!”

The prospect nods frantically, eyes wide. “Y-yes— yes, sir!”

Gemma finally speaks, voice calm, low, full of steel. “Tig.”

He freezes, chest heaving.

“Put him down,” she says, not even raising her tone. “He’s learned his lesson.”

Tig hesitates, still trembling with fury, then lets go. The kid drops like a sack of potatoes, stumbling back, face pale.

Gemma tilts her head, giving the prospect that cat-and-mouse smile. “Sweetheart, if you ever try that again, it won’t be Tig you have to worry about.” Her eyes narrow. “It’ll be me.”

The boy nods, mutters something that might be “Yes ma’am,” and bolts for the door.

Tig’s still breathing hard, watching him go, then turns to Gemma, voice ragged. “You okay?”

She smirks, crushing her cigarette out. “Please. Takes more than that to make me flinch.”

He huffs out something between a laugh and a growl, shaking his head. “You scare the shit outta me, Gemma.”

She pats his cheek like he’s a good dog that just bit a burglar. “That’s why you love me, honey.”

Tig mutters, “Damn right, we all do.”

Gemma fixes Tig with that look that can level a man faster than a gun.

“Jesus Christ, Tiggy” she says, voice cool but cutting. “You really think you need to go full psycho every time somebody breathes near me?”

Tig’s still glaring at the door the prospect disappeared through, jaw flexing. “He lunged at you, Gem. You don’t do that shit.”

Gemma leans back against the bar, crosses her arms. “You boys been doing it to your Old Ladies all damn week,” she says, eyes narrowing. “You scare them, they smack you, everybody laughs. Don’t start acting like the rules change when it’s me.”

Tig blinks, sputtering. “That’s—that’s different!”

Her brows lift. “How, exactly?”

Tig’s shoulders drop a little, guilt creeping in through the cracks of his temper. He runs a hand through his hair.

She lets out a dry laugh, low and knowing. “Yeah, don’t go playing knight in shining leather now, shithead.”

Gemma, pushes off the bar. “And next time, let me be the one to teach him what stupid looks like, huh?”

That gets him to laugh—just barely—rough and shaky, but real. “Deal,” he says.

“Good boy,” she says patting his cheek and turning away, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Now go clean up your mess before Clay comes in and starts asking why the wall’s dented.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Chapel

The chapel smells like stale smoke and oil. The reaper table gleams under the flickering overhead light, scarred from years of bottles, and bad tempers. Every chair is filled—patches and prospects alike sitting tight, the air heavy with the weight of whats been happening.

Happy sits at the far end, knife turning slow between his fingers. Beside him, Chibs leans back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. Clay’s at the head of the table, watching the room with that kind of patience that’s seconds from cracking.

Tig’s trying not to meet anyone’s eye. Juice looks like he wants to disappear into the floorboards.

Clay clears his throat. “Alright. Hap, Chibs—Let’s hear it.”

Happy sets the knife down. The sound of metal on wood rings through the room like a warning.

His voice is low, controlled—the kind that makes every man in the room sit straighter. “You think this ‘flinch challenge’ shit is funny? You think it’s cute to raise your hand—to an Old Lady? To your own Girl?”

The room’s dead silent. Even Tig’s fidgeting stops.

Happy’s gaze cuts to the prospect who flinched at Juice's old lady. The kid can’t hold it. He drops his eyes.

“We don't play games with our women,” Happy growls, voice dropping even lower. “We don’t make them think for half a second we would ever hurt ‘em.”

He leans back, jaw working, then gestures toward Chibs.

Chibs exhales slow, rubbing a hand over his face. “Christ, lads…” he mutters, accent thickening with his temper. “Ye’ve forgotten what it means to wear that patch, eh? Respect—it ain’t just for the road or goddamn hierarchy. It’s for everyone under this roof.”

He looks toward Juice, then around the table. “We live in fuckin' chaos every day. Out there,” — he jerks his thumb toward the door.

“We’re monsters when we have to be. But in here?” He thumps the table. “In here we dinnae bring that home. We dinnae bring fear tae the women who love us.”

His tone drops to something colder, quieter. “If a man can’t do that—then he’s not fit to wear the reaper.”

There’s a long, heavy pause. Clay nods once, slow, then leans forward, elbows on the table.

“With the shit we do,” he says, voice rough as gravel, “You’d think you bunch of idiots would know better.”

He glares at the table, scanning each face. “We run guns, we live on the edge of a war zone half the damn time—and somehow, this clubhouse still manages to feel like home because of those women out there.” He stabs a finger toward the wall separating chapel from the bar. “You start makin’ ‘em feel unsafe here, you burn down the only safe place we got left.”

He leans back, chair creaking. “No more of this trend bullshit. No fake swings. No scaring your Old Ladies. You got that?”

A chorus of quiet “Yes, Pres.” ripples through the room.

Clay’s gaze hardens on the offenders. “Prospect, you’re on cleanup for the next two weeks. You so much as breathe wrong in Gemma's direction again, you’ll be polishing bikes with a damn toothbrush.”

Happy gives a curt nod. Chibs just leans back, muttering.

The gavel hits the table once. “Meeting adjourned.”

The men rise, some sheepish, some thoughtful, boots heavy on the old floorboards as they file out.