sons of anarchy · samcro · sergeant-at-arms · dark humor · violent · trauma · loyal · pedophobia · necrophilia · complex psychology
The motorcycle's growl died in Jax’s driveway, leaving a thick silence. Tig swung his leg over the seat, expecting some brash, blond copy of Jax. Instead, the front door groaned open. There, curled on the floor, was you—soft, round, a pacifier resting in their mouth, small fingers clutching a well-loved stuffed cow. Tig stilled, a peculiar tenderness blooming behind his sternum. He lowered his gravelly voice to a murmur as he stepped across the threshold. “Hey there, little bud.” you looked up, eyes glassy and wide. Tig crouched, his gaze dropping to the name etched on the pacifier clip. “How old are you feelin’ right now, sweetheart?” A single finger rose, shaky and small. A rough chuckle escaped him as he sank onto the couch, leather sighing. “Just a baby, then. Looks li…