#tig soa

When he puts Matty down in his crib that night, he spends a long time standing over his son, watching the raise and fall of his chest.  Sometimes he can’t believe that this is real, that he can be this lucky. He knows he doesn’t deserve it, he’s done some terrible shit in his life but when he looks at you and Matty, he counts his blessings because he’s never been as happy as he is with the two of you.

You’re folding laundry in the bedroom when he finds you. You smile as he wraps his arms around your body, drawing you back against his chest. He buries his face into the curve of your neck, his lips trailing lightly over your skin.

“You know I’d be a shitty husband right?” He murmurs into your ear as you reach up behind you, your fingers threading through his unruly dark curls.

“I’d be a shitty wife.” You remind him.

It’s a familiar conversation. The women in his life before, they wanted to settle, get married. Crow eaters aspire to become old ladies and getting pregnant is the ideal way to trap a man. It doesn’t matter with who.

You’ve always been an anomaly in his life, unpredictable and unrelenting. You don’t want a ring on your finger, you don’t agree with what it symbolises, you belong to yourself and yourself only.

 For Tig the idea of marriage feels like a stranglehold, he’s been there done that and he hated every single second of it. The love he has for you it goes far beyond anything he’s ever felt for anyone else but a wedding ring isn’t where it leads.

He withdraws the necklace from the pocket of his jeans, his fingers fiddling with the clasp before he drapes it around your neck. Your fingertips skate over the three little circlets entwined together, gold for him, silver for Matty and rose gold for you. He’d had it made especially by a jeweller up in Stockton because whilst neither of you wants a ring, he wants to show his commitment to you, his dedication.

“I love you Suzy.” He whispers as you settle back into his arms, his cheek coming to rest upon the top of your head. “I hope you know just how much.”

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He returns a day early from the trip he took up to Santo Padre to discuss some business with Bishop Losa and his crew. That chapter of the Mayans are looking at getting out of the drugs game and moving towards more legitimate enterprises. It’s been a successful endeavour within the Sons so far and Bishop had wanted to pick his brain.It was meant to be a three-day thing, but they’d ended up covering everything they needed in two. He had been eager to get home because he hated being away from you for too long.

It’s when he’s washing his hands in the bathroom sink that he finds the white stick. The blue cross glares at him as he picks it up and studies it intently. He thinks he knows what it means but he goes through the bin and finds the packaging just to be sure.

Positive.

You’re having a baby.

His baby.

He’s going to be a father again at 50.

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry because a couple of months ago he got a vasectomy because the two of you had decided not to have kids. He’d taken a lot of shit off the guys about getting neutered, but it had been worth it because it meant you could come off your birth control. It had been fucking with your hormones and shit, messing with your mental health…

Tig thinks he can pinpoint the night that the baby was conceived. There was a small gap, just a tiny one between him getting the ‘all clear’ and you tossing away the birth control. He remembers the taste of wine on your lips, the music you had on in the kitchen when he went down on you, how he’d fucked you on the kitchen table because you in those pyjama shorts…

…it made him hard just thinking about it.

He carries the stick with him into the bedroom, setting it down upon the nightstand. He knows that you didn’t leave it for him to find on purpose. He can tell you were in a rush this morning, that you didn’t have your shit together. There’s a couple of shirts thrown onto the bed, and you’ve left the lid off your moisturiser. He sighs before returning the clothing to the wardrobe and resealing the container. He can’t imagine what must be going through your mind right now, you’ve just started to get back on track after everything that had happened with Clay.

When he thinks about that, about what almost happened, his heart feels like it’s being ripped out of his chest. If Clay had been successful, Tig would have lost both the woman he loved and his child. It would have completely destroyed him.

The thing is he wants this baby.

His first marriage to Colleen was an absolute shit show, he’d walked out on it by the time Fawn was five years old because he knew that both the girls were better off without him. He knows he can do better this time.

This baby would be born out of love. A crazy, fucked up kind of love but love no less.

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Clay starts to look into you after that. He thinks you must be some premium fucking pussy to keep Tig on the hook. However, the more he discovers the more he doesn’t get it, because you are just so normal. You aren’t a porn actress like he originally thought, you don’t have a great ass or huge tits. You aren’t even much to look at.

It’s only when he sees the two of you interacting that something clicks in his brain. When Tig kisses you, it’s soft, his thumb caressing the blush of your cheek, those rings of his contrasting against your skin. There’s a tenderness in it and Clay fucking hates it. His Sergeant at Arms is a rabid dog on a leash, when he lets him off, he expects him to go feral.

Clay decides to fuck it up.

He wants to break the hold you have on his Sergeant in Arms. He wants the other man violent, reckless, untamed. He needs the other man at his worst. The more blood thirsty the better.

He picks a night when he knows Tig’s going to be at the clubhouse and he stages a little private party. He picks a couple girls, ones that are just Tig’s type and he pays them to do whatever the fuck the other man wants. In his heart he knows that Tig’s still the same deprived son of a bitch he’s always been.

When the blonde climbs in his lap, Tig isn’t having any of it. Six months ago, he would have given her the ride of her life, he would have fucked her until she didn’t know which was up, instead he simply leaves.

Clay feels like he doesn’t even know the other man anymore.

It’s clear you’re a bigger influence than Clay realised. Tig’s become a different person since he’s taken up with you and Clay can’t have that. He needs him unhinged; he needs him loyal. He needs to destroy the other man so badly that there’s no coming back from the darkness.

In short, Clay needs to get rid of you and he realises that Amir Ghazeni is the solution to the problem because the disappearance of both his brothers ties directly back to you.  

Clay remembers that visit up to Stockton four years ago, the one where Otto had asked him to get rid of a 22. and a shiny new red convertible registered to Omar Ghazeni. Nothing, related to the club, he’d assured him. One of Luann’s girls had had a problem with a Persian and taken care of it herself, Clay didn’t have to worry about the body but the car, it was distinctive. In exchange Otto had done a couple of favours for him, that had added a few more years to his sentence. Luann loved that girl like a daughter, and Otto would do anything for Luann. It’s not a leap to guess that that girl is you.

Clay has no doubt that Tig killed Kia. Jax had tasked him with cutting him loose after all that drama at the torture porn studio and he guessed that Kia must have said something Tig didn’t agree with because the next thing they know, the club are getting questioned about the younger Ghazeni’s fire engine red jacket floating in the docks.

He tries to confirm a couple of details with Otto but the other man is tight lipped. He thinks that maybe Luann wasn’t the only one, who saw you as more than just an employee. He discovers that you’ve been putting money in Otto’s commissary since Luann had been killed, and that you’ve been visiting him in prison as often as you can.

He meets with the remaining Ghazeni in secret. He keeps Tig out of it. After all he doesn’t want Amir coming after the club, just you. The terms are this, Amir can do whatever the fuck he wants with you, Clay doesn’t give a shit about the details, so long as your body ends up on Tig’s doorstep. That’s all he asks.

It goes wrong from the very fucking beginning because Clay doesn’t count on three things, the fact you carry a 9 Mil., that Tig has been teaching you how to shoot and that Jax is with you at the time.  

When the Persians try to snatch you up, you’re finishing up a meeting with Nero Padilla about expanding into the escort business. Clay’s made sure that Tig is as far away as possible, he has him up in Bakersfield, checking in with Packer about a nasty spot of business regarding some ex-cult members. What he didn’t factor in was Jax attending the meeting on behalf of the club, because Jax didn’t tell him. He’d kept his cards close to his chest because he didn’t know how viable to deal would be.

It ends up with three dead Persians, one of which Jax recognises from the torture studio leading them straight back to Amir Ghazeni. The whole fucking story plays out around the table that evening, when Tig, for the first time in his life comes clean about the whole fucking thing. He tells his brothers about what happened to you, about Omar’s death when he came for you a second time, about the video and how he lost his fucking shit when Kia rubbed his face in it.

Strip me of my rank, he tells them, take my kutte, but don’t tell me that any one of you wouldn’t have done the same thing if it was someone you loved.

In the end Tig loses his position but keeps the kutte because there isn’t a soul in the room other than Clay that can begrudge his actions. Of course, the story endears you to them even more. Prior to this you were just a business partner and the girl that they knew Tig was fucking.

Now he’s telling everyone you’re his old lady, that he’s killed for you. It makes you part of the family and just like that you have the protection of the club.

It infuriates Clay but he’s sure that none of this shit can lead back to him because they’ve already found Amir Ghazeni on his yacht with a bullet in his head.

Clay doesn’t realise that they’ve taken a vote until two days later. He’s done a lot of dirty shit up until this point, the waters are so muddied that even he can’t tell what’s in the name of the club or for himself.

When he comes to table that night, he sees Jax sitting in his seat at the head of it, the gavel grasped firmly in his hand. He recognises the hardened expressions on each of his brothers faces as they march in, one after the other.  

It’s Tig he looks to, the one he’s always been able to turn to in his time of need. There’s murder in those vivid blue eyes of his, he runs his tongue along his bottom lip as if he can already taste Clay’s blood in his mouth because he knows what he’s done, what he tried to do.

It’s Otto that blew him up. Otto that heard about what almost happened to you and put the pieces of his last conversation with Clay together. Otto, who summoned Tig and Jax to Stockton.

They find the recording on Amir’s yacht, the one that the Persian had made of the conversation between the two of them. Bobby thinks he was planning to use it as leverage in case the rest of the MC ever found out it was him that had taken you. The worst part Jax tells him is that he knew what Amir would do to you, that he looked at your history and decided to play it out all over again, that he told Amir to leave your body on another brother’s doorstep.

There isn’t a person in the room who doesn’t understand the implications of that, of what that level of brutalisation would do to another man, to someone that Clay was supposed to care about.

“For what?” Jax asks him. “What the fuck was all of this for?”

Clay turns his head to Tig and meets his gaze. There’s a moment of understanding between the two of them before he says.

“She makes you weak brother.”

“No.” Tig responds, shaking his head. “She makes me human.”

Clay throws back his head and laughs.

“Pussy can’t give you redemption Tiggy, you know that.”

It ends with Clay kneeling over an open grave on the outskirts of Charming, staring into the depths of the soil below him.

“Any last words?” Tig asks him as he jams the barrel into the back of Clay’s skull.

“She’s not right for you Tig, you know it and I know it…”

Tig pulls the trigger, splattering Clay’s brains into the earth before his body tips forward landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the hole. He stares down at the man he’s served for the majority of his adult life and wonders when the presidency started to twist him, when the power sunk it’s claws into his skin and shredded his soul.

“He’s wrong you know?” Jax says as Tig passes the gun to him. “She’s good for you.”

“I know.” Tig tells him, his gaze shifting back to the mass of flesh and bones in the depths of that hole. “That’s why he tried to take her away from me.”

“Go home.” Jax tells him, his gloved hand clasping Tig’s shoulder and squeezing tightly. “Tell your girl she can sleep easy tonight.”

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He isn’t fucking kidding. The stench is acrid as he closes the bathroom door taking it with him. A few seconds later you hear the shower turn on and you wonder what the hell is going on because the mood he’s in, you’ve never seen that before. You pick up the fire lighter from the side table and use it to light the wick of the scented candle in the middle of the coffee table.

It’s ‘Driftwood’ apparently. The scent of sage and sea salt floods the room, reminding you of the trip you’d taken up the coast last month. Two days of sun, sea and sex, your fingers running through Tig’s hair, gripping it as he makes you come so hard you can’t fucking think in the aftermath. He’s been in a great mood since then, happy. You wonder what’s changed.

***

Under the heat of the shower Tig thinks about how he has just drowned Kia Ghanezi in bathtub full of piss. He has no remorse for his actions, there’s no regret, there’s just the acknowledgement of the event. He thinks of the video the perverse little shit showed him, the one his older brother Omar Ghanezi had made. A videographer who had no idea she was about to become the subject of his first foray into rape porn. There’s a reason Tig never fucks you from behind, that you find it so fucking triggering.

“What’s it like to hear your girl beg?” Kia had asked him. “To know that no matter what she says, what she does, it isn’t going to stop.”

He’d lost his shit then, beaten the fucker with his own laptop before plunging his face into the bathtub and holding him under. He hoped that he felt terror in those final moments, that he understood what it was like to be degraded, humiliated, brutalised.

In a final act of dehumanisation Tig had pissed on him.

Then he had taken that laptop, deleted the file and smashed the fucking thing to pieces, before tossing it and Kia Ghanezi off the edge of the dock.

There used to be three Ghanezi brothers and now there’s one.

***

When Tig comes out of the bathroom, he’s clad in that navy blue robe of his, the one that highlights the darkness in his features. You watch with apprehension because you can sense something underneath the surface, you just don’t know what it is. He sits down beside you on the couch, gently closes your laptop and sets it on the coffee table. There’s an agony in his features, and it feels so fucking visceral that you can’t help but reach out for him.

“Tell me.” You say, pressing your forehead against his, your palm coming to rest on the nape of his neck. “Tell me what’s hurt you so badly.”

He wants to shake his head, to tell you no but he’s never kept a secret from you, not in the time you’ve been together, and he can’t start now. This shit will fester if he tries to hide it, it will erode him from the inside out and he can’t do that to either of you, he values what you have far too much.

“I killed Kia Ghanezi today.” He tells you.

You reel away from him as if he’s fucking slapped you. He doesn’t reach for you; he doesn’t try to explain himself, he just gives you the space to process it. You press your palm to your chest, and he knows your seeking out your own heartbeat, the comforting thrum of it in a moment of panic. He hates this, he hates the fact he’s even fucking doing it, but you need to know.

“There’s more.” He tells you, refusing to look away. “He showed me the video.”

The sound that leaves your mouth fucking kills him. It’s an anguished noise, like a muffled scream and it resonates right through his bones. Out of everything that has happened to you, you think that this could be the worst. The man you love seeing you so fucking degraded. It’s one thing to hear about it but seeing it…

“It’s gone.” He says gently. “I deleted it.”

You don’t look at him, you fucking can’t, because that shame it riles up inside of you like a tsunami, forceful and violent. You feel the wave crest and then it slams into you knocking the air right out of your lungs because Omar Ghanezi is destroying you all over again. He’s reaching out from beyond the grave and tearing away the best thing you have in your life.

“Talk to me.” Tig pleads, his shoulder nudging yours. “Scream, shout, hit me if you need to.”

You don’t want to do any of those things. You want the earth to swallow you up whole, drag you down and shelter you from all the hurt you know is coming because no relationship can survive something like this. The two of you express yourselves through physical intimacy, it’s how you communicate. How the fuck is that going to work now? How can Tig even look at you without seeing what happened to you.

“Did he suffer?” You find yourself asking as you press your palms between your knees.

There’s silence for a moment. You can tell that Tig’s trying to pick and choose which details to tell you.

“Yea.” He says finally. “It was fucking brutal.”

“Good.” You tell him. “Because he’s the one that filmed it.”

Tig wishes he could resurrect the fucker and murder him all over again. Instead, he takes solace in the memory of Kia’s last moments, his airways flooding with piss as he struggles and fights knowing he’s going to die in the hell of his own making.

“C’mere.” Tig says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and drawing you closer. He cradles you to his chest, his lips ghosting over your hairline, before he kisses your cheeks, your nose, your mouth. “It doesn’t change how I feel about you, how much I want you…”

He tips your chin up so that he can look into your eyes. He sees the desolation in them, the power this has to ruin everything if he lets it. Your hair's breadth away from bolting because for you this is too much to take. The knowledge of what he’s seen haunts you and you think it haunts him. The truth is it doesn't, the thing about Tig is, he’s always been great at compartmentalising. It’s how he’s survived all of these years. The video doesn’t change how he sees you, how he feels about you, but it’s made him realise just how strong you really are. Coming back from that shit, working in that industry in the aftermath…

He can’t even begin to fathom the strength that must have taken.

When he kisses you, it’s with conviction, one that he hopes reminds you that you’re a badass and that you’re stronger than any of this fucking shit. He pours everything he has into that kiss. His love, his adoration and his fucking passion because despite the hell that has been today, he’s still popping a woody at seeing you in those pyjama shorts.

He feels the moment that things shift, that fire as it ignites inside of you and suddenly you’re kissing him back, your fingers undoing the belt of the robe he’s wearing. He finds himself on his back amongst the couch cushions, his aching cock in your hand and your palm on his throat thrusting his head back. It takes him zero to sixty. He whines, thrusting up into your grasp as your grip on his throat tightens.

“Fuck.” He rasps as your thumb smears the pre-cum over the head of his dick before gliding down along the length of it. “Fuck baby, just like that.”

You work him slowly, your mouth covering his, tongue delving deep as you let him fuck your hand. He can’t get enough of it, his hips arch frantically and he whimpers against your lips as he chases the ecstasy that fucking races through his synapses. His palm comes to rest on the nape of your neck, keeping you close as the sound of his ragged breathing fills the air. He’s close, you know it and he knows it, you just need to give him a little more…

He cries out when you stop, it’s a rough guttural noise that expels from his chest in a single breath. He isn’t above begging you, if that’s what you need. He’d give you anything you God damn wanted.  He opens his eyes, meeting yours and he sees the vulnerability in you, the wavering between taking control and relinquishing it. There’s a desperation in your gaze and he senses his actions in the next few seconds are pivotal. You can’t vocalise what you need, but Tig knows you, he can read you like a book.

“Take off your shorts.” He tells you, shifting into a sitting position on the couch as you stand up and do as you’re told. “I’m gonna fuck you until you’re saying my name.”

His firm hands come to rest on your waist, guiding you so that you’re straddling his hips, chest flush against his. It’s still not enough, he senses you need the skin-on-skin contact, so he grasps the hem of the vest top you’re wearing and strips it from your body, tossing it over the back of the couch.

Fuck, your tits look so fucking good. He’s distracted in the moment by the sight of them, the urge to run his tongue over those pretty nips overcomes him. His palms cover your breasts before he guides the left one, his favourite, because of how crazy it makes you, into his mouth. He sucks just slightly and the sound that comes out of you, it almost makes him come there and then. He eases into you, your tight heat enveloping his cock and clenching around him as his thumb skates over your right nipple, rolling it just slightly.

He keeps you there, seated on his cock as he plays with your tits, drawing out a symphony of moans that make sweet music in his ears. When your hips start to rock, his cock dragging across the walls of your pussy, he knows he has you right where he wants you. His arm loops around your waist, holding you in place so there’s no space, no distance, just intimacy.

“That’s it isn’t it baby?” He murmurs against the corner of your mouth as he thrusts up into you with slow, powerful strokes. “That’s the sweet spot.”

Your fingers tangle in his curls, gripping them tight as you guide his mouth back to yours. He drinks down your pleasure, swallowing each one of your moans as he chases the euphoria until it reaches it’s peak. He holds you on the brink, his hand clasping your jaw so that he can look into your eyes at the moment of climax.

“I love you.” He tells you fiercely. “I will always love you.”

And you fall, you fall so fucking hard you can barely come back up for air. The ecstasy, it consumes you, a tempest of emotion and rapture. You kiss him like you’re drowning, like he’s your lifeline in a torrid ocean, the only way back to the shore. In that moment you know he has you, that he’ll always have you. He’s your anchor, your saviour, the man who loves you no matter what.

“Thank you.” You whisper as he kisses away the tears that stain your cheeks. “Thank you for giving me this.”

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