#sons edit

The motel smelled like blood and bleach.

Not fresh blood—old. Like it had marinated in shag carpet and cigarette smoke since ’87. The kind of place people check into with fake names and never leave through the front.

You stood barefoot on cracked linoleum, gun still warm in your hand. The victim's body slumped against the headboard, and her neck bent like a wilted flower. Poor girl. Thought she could skim off the top of and flip the Triad's product. Rookie mistake.

You didn’t even turn when Soraya walked in, cigarette already lit, heels sharp against the sticky floor. She leaned in the doorway like this was just another Tuesday. Gold chains clinked over her exposed chest, her dress hanging open from earlier distractions. Her brown skin caught the yellow motel light in a way that made expensive perfume smell like sin.

Not exactly your usual business partner. But in this instance, you’re not able to pick and choose.

“Burner’s chirping,” she said, flicking ash toward the girl’s boots. “Guess who.”

You grabbed duct tape, gloves, and an industrial body bag. Halfway through wrapping the girl’s head, Soraya added - like she’d been waiting for the right spot to stick the knife in:

“Clay Morrow.”

You paused just long enough for the name to settle.

 “He ask for me by name?”

“Didn’t have to. Jax said it first.”

And there it was, the heat crawling up your spine. The club knew you were back. Not just watching. Not just passing through.

You were moving. You were working. And they were feeling flustered.

Good.

You stepped into the dry desert air, body bag slung over your shoulder like gym gear. Soraya had already lit the bonfire. In this town, no one cared about the scent of gasoline or the sound of bones burning.

The fire roared to life like a living thing with a voice made of crackle and hiss, breathing heat into your bones. Hair shriveled into black coils, skin split and peeled in paper-thin curls, releasing the bitter perfume of ruin. Shadows danced in the glow, bending low as if paying respect to the executioner at work.

You didn’t need the Reaper stitched into leather to announce you.

You are the Reaper.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

Clay slammed his palm on the table with a force that rattled the chipped ashtray and sent a stack of paper trembling. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot, sharp and uncompromising, leaving a brief silence in its wake that smelled faintly of tobacco and motor oil.

Tig flinched, shoulders jerking forward as if the blow had landed on him directly. His eyes flicked to Clay, wide and wary, and his fingers tightened around the edge of his beer bottle, knuckles white. The usual smirk that danced on his lips had vanished, replaced with a taut line, as though he was suddenly trying to read the storm in Clay’s gaze.

Juice kept his head down, tracing the scratches in the worn wooden table with the tip of a finger. He could feel the tension radiating off Clay, a heat that made the air heavy, pressing on his chest.

“She ambushed the port,” Clay snarled. “Took the coke. Got the Triads bending over backwards, and now she’s playing house with our damn supplier. What the hell is she doing back in Charming?!”

“Handling business,” Tig muttered. “Like a man.”

“She’s not a man,” Clay snapped.

“No shit,” Chibs said, sipping his beer. “This lass is worse.”

The air thickened. Every man in the room knew Jax’s silence was dangerous - it meant gears were turning, and whatever he was thinking could level the room faster than a hail of bullets. The chapel was never truly quiet, not with the low hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint banging of auto tools from the bays outside, but now even those sounds seemed to pull back, wary.

They hadn't gone up against an adversary like you before. You weren’t a name on a paper target or a problem to be hunted, bagged, and buried. You didn’t beg when cornered. Didn’t barter with wide eyes and trembling hands. You didn’t dangle short skirts and fake smiles to worm your way out of trouble. You stood level, steady, and you didn’t need to pretend.

Your father, Grayden, had once sat where Clay sits now - gavel in hand, keeping the blood off the books when he could, pushing back when the club’s greed outweighed its sense. He’d taught you everything before Clay took the seat, before John Teller’s ghost stopped haunting and started watching his prophecy unravel in silence. You’d read those ghostly thoughts yourself, thumbing through JT’s leather-bound memoirs, pages soft with wear, some ink smudged with whatever drink he’d been holding when he wrote them. They had been full of warnings no one listened to. All about the cost of ambition, and the danger of forgetting what the club was supposed to stand for.

Now Grayden is ash in a box, sitting on a mantel no one visited, and Clay gripped the gavel like a crown he’d stolen from the corpse of the man who deserved it.

“Put her down,” Clay ordered, his voice like gravel dragged over concrete. “Before she takes the rest of what we built.”

The vote came quick, like pulling triggers. Tig went first - a quick, jerking nod, knuckles tapping the table like the decision was just business. Juice followed, eyes flicking toward Clay for the briefest moment before he lifted his hand, the corner of his mouth tight. Bobby leaned back, chewing on a toothpick, then shrugged as if to say it was inevitable and gave his nod. Chibs, half in shadow, turned the silver ring on his finger once before he joined them, his 'aye' soft but final.

Eyes locked across the table, glances sharp enough to cut. None of them said out loud what they didn’t have to - that you were a problem, yes, but also a mirror. And none of them liked what they saw when they looked too long.

Only one abstained.

Jax leaned back in his chair, kutte creaking against the worn leather. His voice came low, smooth, with that dangerous edge that curled at the end of certain words. “You sure that’s the play?”

Clay’s gaze cut to him, cold as a knife left in the freezer. “You hesitating?”

“No,” Jax said, eyes like steel under the dim lights. “I’m warning you.”

Something flickered between them. Too quick for the others to catch, but it was there. An unspoken memory. Something that had nothing to do with the club’s bylaws and everything to do with keeping certain truths buried.

The gavel slammed, the sound cracking through the room like a shot.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

You sat on the hood of your Charger, elbows on your knees, watching the smoke rise in lazy ribbons before it twisted high into the sky.

Soraya wiped soot from her fingers, leaving dark streaks along her dress. The orange light flickered across her face, making her look carved from the same heat that was eating the body. You were about to say something when your phone buzzed.

Blocked number. You answered anyway. 

“Thought you said you’d stay gone.” His voice. Low. Familiar.

You licked your lips. “Didn’t say how long.”

“You stole from Clay.”

“Technically, I took it back.”

Pause. Static. Breathing. Then—

“Where are you?”

“Close.”

Another pause.

“You planning on burning everything down?”

You smiled. Voice calm. “Not everything. Just what’s rotten.”

The line goes dead.

You hold the phone a second longer, like it might say something else. Like maybe Jax is still there, breathing on the other end, trying to figure out who you’ve become.

You toss the burner into the glove box.

Behind you, Soraya leans against the car, smoke trailing from her lips. She doesn’t ask what he said. She doesn’t have to.

“He still think you’ll come running?” She murmurs, one brow raised, gold catching moonlight.

“I’m not running,” you say. “I’m reminding.”

That makes her laugh. A laugh that's soft but knowing. She pushes off the hood and walks past you, trailing fingers along your arm.

“Room 103,” she says, holding up the keycard between two fingers. “No more hits. No interruptions.”

You don’t smile. Don’t speak.

You just follow.

Tonight, before the war begins, you yearn to lose yourself in something that doesn’t require much thinking.

The door closes behind you, sealing your escape like a promise -heavy motel air thick with cheap floral detergent and cigarette smoke. The walls seem to absorb sound, the hum of the air conditioner is the only steady noise.

Your mind drifts to how you effortlessly infiltrated the Triads - the largest distributor since the Sons lost their connection. Southern California had scrambled to rethink their suppliers, and in the chaos, SAMCRO crossed paths with them fast.

It hadn’t taken much; a silicone toy, a well timed smile, and your mouth. Shortly thereafter, Soraya told Daddy all about your cleanup and removal services.

Then, the Triads were open to you like an unlocked safe. Soraya was easy to bend, all ego and expensive perfume. She was spoiled, restless, and believed she was the smartest person in the room.

But things had taken a different turn. What started as unbearable, with teeth-gritting and clock-watching encounters, had shifted into something more mechanical. Still not pleasure, but necessity. The connection had to be maintained. Doors only stay open if you keep walking through them.

Without hesitation, you step forward, closing the space between you. Your hands slide to her hips, fingers digging into the silk of her dress, feeling the heat of her skin beneath. She smells faintly of jasmine perfume and the red wine she’s been sipping since you arrived. Her nails scrape lightly at the back of your neck as you guide her backward toward the bed. The mattress dips under her weight, the springs creaking in protest as she leans into the pillows.

Soraya’s a pillow princess — always has been — which doesn’t bother you. It just means you can get it over with faster.

“So, what’s your grand plan after stealing that shipment, hmm?” Soraya asks, her voice low and curious, eyes half-lidded as if the question is just another form of foreplay.

Her question goes unanswered as your hand slides up the smooth line of her thigh, lifting her dress until the slit opens and the fabric gathers higher. Your eyes lock on hers, warm brown with a glint of mischief she thinks hides her naivety.

Her hand comes up, fingers curling around your dad's dog tag, tugging you closer until you feel her breath against your cheek.

“None of your business. I work alone,” you reply, tone flat.

“But you don’t even deal co—”

“Please shut up. You ask too many questions,” you said, cutting her off as your mouth found hers before she could speak again. Her lips are soft, gloss-slick, and she tastes faintly of sugar and wine.

You push her dress strap down, followed by the bra strap, revealing the curve of her breast. Your tongue flicks over her nipple, tasting the salt of her skin, while your free hand grips the other firmly. Her back arches instinctively, a small gasp breaking free before she bites it back.

You leave her nipple exposed to the cool sting of motel air conditioning as you kiss your way down her stomach, pausing at the waistband of her underwear. You pull it down in one smooth motion, the fabric sliding easily over her hips.

Your lips trail fire against the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate You revel in the way she starts to shift, the way her breath changes when anticipation digs its nails in.

Your tongue flicks once. Twice. Testing. Then you commit — licking, sucking, teasing with purpose. She moans, grabbing at the sheets with one hand while the other tangles briefly in your hair before falling away. Her head tips back, eyes closing, thighs trembling in that quick, uncontrollable way you’ve learned to read. The same old rhythm, tedious and expected.

She comes fast, as she always does.

You don’t stop. Not until her thighs twitch hard enough to nudge your shoulders, not until she’s whimpering through her teeth and trying to turn away from the overstimulation. Her chest rises and falls raggedly, like she's run a sprint.

Soraya blinks at the ceiling, disoriented, as if she’s forgotten where she is. “You’re insane,” she whispers, voice soft but carrying just enough awe to amuse you.

“And you’re loud,” you say, already standing, reaching for your jacket from the floor. The leather is cool against your skin as you pull it on. You grab your burner off the nightstand, checking the screen for missed calls.

“You’re leaving?” she asks, propping herself up on one elbow, curly hair falling loose over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” you reply, zipping your jacket. “I’ve got shit to do, Clay to annoy, and a ghost to follow.”

Her lips part as if she wants to argue, but she knows better. She’s learned your boundaries, or at least enough to avoid testing them when you’re already halfway out the door.

You pause at the side of the bed, leaning in to press a surprisingly gentle kiss to her temple. She smells like sex and sweat and jasmine.

“Tell your dad the hit is done,” you say, voice low enough to carry weight.

For a moment, her eyes flicker with something sharper. Suspicion maybe, or realization, but it fades as fast as it comes.

You straighten, pocket your burner, and head for the door. The hallway outside smells of stale coffee and cleaning chemicals, and the low hum of the soda machine lingers in the silence you leave behind.

The night is far from over.

back to navigation

The clubhouse reeked of beer and smoke, noise bleeding out of the bar in waves. Voices rose over it anyway, drunken shouts and laughter, the scrape of boots on concrete. You hadn’t set foot in here since you left Charming. Not once. Not until now.

The kuttes hit you first. The patchwork of black leather and white reaper faces flashing under shitty lighting, stitched into every shoulder and back. Too many of them at once, moving, shifting, filling the room like ghosts. It was all too loud, too close. Your chest seized before you even realized you were clawing at your jacket zipper, nails catching on the teeth. Your skin burned. Every nerve alive, screaming. Why does it feel like fire? Like your body’s trying to peel you out from the inside? Your breath fractured, coming too fast, too shallow. You couldn’t pull air past your collarbone. The crowd blurred and the faces you should’ve known turned into shapes and smears, the weight of every laugh and every slap on the back pressing in until it felt like the walls were closing. Your hands shook.  No one saw you like this. Ever.

Except Opie.

He caught it before anyone else did. Across the room, one glance, and he was moving—pushing past bodies, ignoring the sloshed beer that splashed against his boots. He didn’t say a word when he reached you. Just a steady hand at your elbow, the kind of quiet anchor that never needed explaining.

“Come on,” he muttered low, barely audible under the crash of the music, pulling you toward the chapel door. His tone wasn’t pity, wasn’t panic, just knowing. The way only someone who’d grown up in the same dust and blood could know. He’d seen you strong. He’d seen you violent. He watched you vanish. But this? This was buried. Hidden. And he understood. Almost as well as Jax did.

You pushed through the doors with your head high, every step measured. Eyes followed you. Some were curious, some hostile, a few openly showing disdain. Let them. You weren’t here to cower. Your Glock sat heavy at your hip, tucked under your jacket. A reminder to them all: you didn’t walk in defenseless. You’d never been that stupid. By the bar, Jax leaned against the counter. His gaze found you the second you entered, scanning, catching on the side of your jaw where last night’s bruises are. His mouth twitched like something between relief and recognition. You tore your eyes away and kept it moving.

The chapel door creaked open, and silence rolled in its wake. Clay was waiting at the head of the table, leaning back in his chair like a man who thought he owned the room. His kutte hung open, rings glinting as he toyed with the gavel. When he saw you, he smiled—too easy, too slick.

“Glad you came,” he said, voice gravel low. “Been too long since we sat down proper.”

You slid into the chair opposite him, slow, deliberate, Glock shifting against the wood beneath your jacket. “Cut the bullshit, Clay. You wanted me here, so here I am. Friendly talk, right? That what we’re calling it these days?”

A flicker passed over his face before the charm snapped back into place. He poured two whiskeys, sliding one your way like it was some kind of peace offering.

“Misunderstandings happen,” he said. “I just want us square.”

You didn’t touch the glass. “Square? After what you tried?”

The bar noise on the other side of the wall seemed to dip, as if even the music knew better than to push too loud against this moment. Clay’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing before he leaned back again, playing casual, not responding. You leaned forward instead, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a dangerous calm.

“Here’s the thing, Clay. Money is power. And I know SAMCRO is running out of it.” That got him. Just the smallest twitch at the corner of his eye, a crack in the mask. You saw it, and you smiled, slow and sharp.

“I could gut you tomorrow. Let you bleed until you’re begging me to keep the lights on. Or—” you paused, letting the silence stretch, letting him feel the edge of it. “—I could wait. Let you run yourself dry, then be the one holding the rope when you’re ready to hang.”

For the first time, Clay didn’t smile. He just stared at you, weighing, calculating. Finally, he lifted his glass, downed the whiskey in one long swallow, and set it down with a quiet thud.

“You sound more like your old man every day,” he muttered.

Your throat clenched, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of a flinch. You let him think he’d scored a point, that the jab had landed. The room held its breath until you pushed back your chair. When you stood, Clay rose too. He reached across the table, heavy hand clamping down on your shoulder, that easy charm sliding back over his face like armor.

“Family,” he said. “Always.”

“Sure...” You peeled his hand off like it burned. “Family.”

It was bullshit. Every word out of his mouth. And yet, beneath the weight of his stare and the stink of whiskey between you, the truce settled like smoke. Fragile. Temporary. The kind of deal both of you knew would break the second it served one of you better. But for now, it held.

You walked out of that chapel with your plan already set: the key card, the debt, the lies. The betrayal. You’d dig until there was nothing left to bury. Clay thought he was untouchable, but you’d seen the cracks. You’d read John Teller’s words, your father's too, pages that bled with warning: deceit, brother killing brother, betrayal rotting the foundation. Sometimes it made you wonder if you were slipping into psychosis. The way their ghosts crowded your head, whispering about what the club was and what it had become. You weren’t patched. You weren’t a Son. But this place had raised you all the same. It was where you’d taken your first steps, stolen your first kiss, fallen in love. Gemma’s door had always been open, her blunt truths cutting sharper than any blade. This had been family—your only family. And now it was splintering. You weren’t going to let it burn. Not without a fight.

Jax was waiting near the bar, leaning against the counter. His blue eyes cut toward you, sharp and assessing, a flash of something unreadable passing through them before it vanished. He smirked, but it wasn’t warm. Just recognition, sharp as a blade. When you got close enough, his mouth brushed your ear, his voice deceptively soft, the kind of low whisper that could’ve been tender if not for the mocking edge beneath it.

“Good giiirl,” he murmured, drawing the word out like a taunt, like he was testing how far he could push you. His fingers caught your jaw, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch, to remind you who was steering this moment. “Playing nice now, huh?”

His words hit like a spark on dry tinder. Your jaw snapped tight. “Don’t fucking start with me, Jackson.”

But he was already pushing off the counter, corralling you down the hallway like he’d been waiting for this all night. His hand clamped around your arm, steady, unyielding, pulling you into his dorm. The door clicked shut before you could shove him off.

“You think I don’t see it?” he said, crowding you back against the wall, heat rolling off him. “That look in your eye when you go toe to toe with him? You love that shit. You live for it.”

Your chest rose hard, defiant, every breath sharpened to a blade. “And what about you?” Your voice came out like smoke, low and scathing. “Still Clay’s good soldier while he drains you dry?”

That landed like a punch. His laugh cracked the air, jagged and bitter, a sound that hurt to hear. It wasn’t humor; it was rage turned inside out. And before you could breathe again, his mouth was on yours. The kiss was violent, hungry, years of anger and lust colliding. His hand found yours, dragging it roughly between your bodies, pressing it flat to his hardening length.

“Feel that?” His voice was raw gravel, half-growl, half-plea. His hips ground forward, a deliberate, filthy grind that stole your breath. “That’s all you.”

The words coiled through you like barbed wire, truth and filth tangled together. Your body responded before your mind could catch up, arching into him, nails digging into his shoulders. His breath came hard against your mouth, the taste of him bitter and wild as his teeth caught your bottom lip and bit down. The sharp sting made you gasp, and when you felt the warm, metallic tang of blood bloom across your tongue, his low groan told you exactly how much he liked it. Jax kissed you harder, like he wanted to drink every last drop of defiance from you. You yanked at his shirt with one fist, shoving and pulling, while his hands locked tight around your hips, his grip unrelenting and possessive, bruising you with every squeeze. His touch wasn’t careful—it was a promise and a threat, a warning that there was no going back from this.

Clothing fell away in messy, half-rushed movements, more urgency than finesse. When Jax shoved your leggings down to mid-thigh, he paused just long enough to pat the pocket of your jacket with a sharp, crooked grin.

“Hope that Glock’s on safety,” he muttered, his tone a filthy mix of tease and warning, before his hands were back on you, shoving, claiming. His kutte stayed on, the weight of it a constant reminder of who he was, who you were, and the dangerous line you were both crossing.

Jax dropped to his knees without warning, his mouth hot and hungry as he pressed a kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh. “Fuck, baby,” he rasped, voice reverent and filthy all at once. “Look at you—so wet for me already.” His fingers spread you open, and when his tongue dragged over your slick folds, you nearly screamed. Your back slammed against the wall, your hands tangling in his hair as his tongue worked you with maddening precision—licking, sucking, devouring you because he hadn’t tasted you in years. He growled low in his throat when you tried to close your thighs, pinning you wider with a rough shove of his hands. His stubble scraped your tender skin, a sweet burn that made you cry out, chest heaving.

“Quiet,” he snarled against you, glancing up through his lashes. The dominance in his tone wrecked you. You bit your knuckles to keep from screaming as his tongue plunged deeper, curling inside you while his thumb circled your clit in ruthless rhythm. The sounds were almost too much: your choked-off sobs, the wet, obscene suck of his mouth. When your orgasm hit, it was like a dam breaking, a wave of heat crashing through you so violently that your legs buckled. Jax didn’t let up. He kept you pinned in place, tongue dragging you through every shudder and aftershock until you were shaking and weak, your head thrown back against the wall. Before you could even recover, he was on his feet, towering over you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His pupils were blown wide, chest heaving.

“You taste the same,” he growled, then kissed you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Turn around,” he ordered, voice ragged.

You obeyed without thinking, bracing yourself against the table behind you. He shoved your leggings the rest of the way down, exposing you completely. You heard the metallic rasp of his belt, the rough curse under his breath as he freed himself. When you dared to glance back, you saw him fist his cock, hard and flushed, veins standing out against his tanned skin. He gave himself one rough stroke before tapping the thick head against your ass, teasing you cruelly. You whimpered, hips jerking back toward him.

“You want it?” His voice was a dark, dangerous purr.

“Y-yes,” you gasped, your voice breaking on the word.

“Say it.”

“Please, Jax. I need you.”

That was all it took. He slammed into you with one brutal thrust, filling you so deep and so suddenly that your vision went white. The stretch burned, delicious and overwhelming, and you screamed into your arm to muffle the sound.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands locking on your hips as he set a punishing rhythm. His hips snapped forward, relentless, the sound of your bodies colliding loud and wet in the cramped room. Every thrust was a claim, every roll of his hips a demand you couldn’t refuse. He leaned over you, one hand tangling in your hair to yank your head back, exposing your throat. The other hand slid up to wrap firmly around your neck, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You like that, huh?” His breath was hot against your ear, his voice a filthy growl. “My good girl, taking my cock like you were made for it.”

The choke sent sparks through your veins, your body clenching around him. You couldn’t answer, could only make a broken, garbled noise that made him laugh darkly.

“That’s it,” he hissed, thrusting harder. “Let me feel you. Fuckk— you’re mine.”

Your body answered with its own language, the one only he could read: I hate you. I need you. I love you. I’ll destroy you.

The weight of his body pressed you into the table, into the wall, into the floor—you didn’t care where, only that he didn’t stop. Sweat slicked your skin, his kutte rough against your back as he drove you higher and higher.

When you moaned too loudly, he clapped a hand over your mouth, snarling in your ear, “Quiet. Can’t let ‘em hear you. Just me. Only me.”

You whimpered against his palm, your tears mixing with sweat, your body spiraling out of control. His pace grew rougher, more frantic, as if he was trying to fuck every memory, every betrayal, out of you both. Your release tore through you like an explosion, white-hot and devastating. Jax followed a moment later with a guttural curse, slamming deep inside you as his body locked tight.

When it was over, you both collapsed, breath ragged and hearts pounding in sync. You lay tangled on the floor, chest to chest, your hands still fisted in leather and denim as if letting go would break something fragile between you. Silently, you traced the lines of each other’s scars, memorizing and destroying in equal measure. There were no words left. Only the heat, the need, and the chaos you had always been to one another.

And then there was bliss—familiar, fierce, the kind you knew well. Breathless, tangled, sweat cooling on flushed skin, both of you staring at the ceiling, saying nothing, because words felt too fragile for this. A sharp knock cut through the quiet, shattering the slice of peace you’d carved out.

“Jax!,” Juice’s voice boomed through the door. “Club’s heading out. Let’s roll.”

Jax pulled back, wiping a rough hand down his face. Whatever had just passed between you was gone from his features, locked away. You sat up slow, watching him with a crooked smile you didn’t bother to hide.

“Run along, good soldier,” you murmured, your voice carrying the kind of bite he couldn’t answer.

He paused at the door, throwing you one last look—sharp, unreadable, the kind of stare that cut deeper the longer it lingered. Then he slipped out, silent as a blade. The room stayed thick with him, the air still humming. Your eyes caught on the edge of the dresser, where an old photograph was pinned to the mirror. You tidied yourself up, and there he was.

Jax, years younger, cigarette clamped between his teeth, grinning at a world that hadn’t chewed him up yet. And you were there too, caught in the frame, shoulder to shoulder with him. You couldn’t believe he’d never taken it down—a relic of the kids still buried somewhere inside you both. You reached out, brushing your fingertips across the frame as if you could touch that version of yourselves, feel the echo of it through the glass. Then you pulled back, your smile fading, already turning toward what had to come next. The door clicked shut behind you as you stepped into the hallway, your plan settling sharper than ever, honed now with purpose—and with the taste of him still burning on your lips.

taglist | back to navigation