"Don't go setting fires when there's nothing to burn."
A sick turn of events sees Isla Telford thrown in at the deep end, battling to govern the sudden pressures of all that her father's club decidedly bestow upon her.
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Tig Trager x Fem!OC...
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Warnings: mentions of death (murder) and violence, PTSD, gun talk. Usual SOA shit.
It never did take much to wake Isla up—she couldn't seem to recall the last time she fell into a deep enough sleep that didn't see her rouse at the faintest touch, or most dulcet of sounds.
And this morning was no exception.
Clay was loud. Completely unintentionally, the Pres was too loud for his own good and, no matter where he was, everybody on the premises was aware of his presence.
He had no regard for the time of day, how the low baritone of his voice shook the clubhouse whenever a thunderous laugh rumbled from his core, and just how heavy fucking footed he was.
And Clay being there—before anybody else—was what subsequently hindered Isla's escape plan, pulverizing it into the wooden slats before she even had the chance to relocate her heels.
But she wasn't scared to face him. He was brutal and bitter and whatever else preceded the title he upheld, but he was also considerate when it came to the two ladies in his life—the women tangled within the intricately woven web of SAMCRO.
And maybe that was hard to believe, but it was true. Clay valued both Gemma and Isla so very deeply.
Still. He might've wanted to safeguard her, but he would've ripped her to shreds if he discerned her fleeing the dorm this morning.
She'd fallen asleep beside Tig, curled up comfortably, fully dressed. Cardigan, and all. And she thanked the Catholic God that Diane had drummed into her skull for her decision to stay with him, and not anybody else.
Because he made her feel safe. He made her feel comfortable and secure—ironically enough—and she didn't really have anybody that'd sit with her, listen to her ramblings and unnecessary profession of every last feeling, and continue to look at her the same way.
Gemma was a wonderful listener and she trusted her with her fucking life, but she feared that there were some things she couldn't elucidate. Some things that would impede her opinion of the blonde had she found out just what thoughts she harbored.
The same went for Jax and Ope.
And Chibs—her rock—was always going to coddle her. He would always baby his little girl and take every last plight to heart, because he was her dad. He was the one that'd been trusted to protect her, to make sure she never had to endure the same anguish as her mother.
But it was too much. Sometimes she just needed that impartial advice. The words from a man who'd seen it all, suffered enough, but refused to let it obstruct his ability to think about things (semi) rationally.
Tig wasn't exactly the most forward thinking man, but he was trustworthy. He was bold and brazen and everything that Isla needed in a confidant—and he always pulled through. He always listened to her, comforted her, laughed with and at her, and he never looked at her like she was fucking insane.
