The Wrong Thing | NC17 | Sons of Anarchy
Title: The Wrong Thing
Prompt: She clings to the guilt because she should feel guilty--shouldn’t she?
Fandom: Gemma/Tara, Sons of Anarchy
Requested by: callieluvr
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 1044
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: Set during 2x07. I’ve never written for this fandom before, but these two are so damn shippable that I just couldn’t help myself. Let me know what you think!
-
“This is wrong.”
The words that hang in the air would have more impact if the room didn’t reek of sex, but Tara can’t take them back now. Instead she scoots to the edge of the bed and tugs on an oversized t-shirt, drawing up her bare legs until she can rest her forehead against her knees.
She’s not sure what she expected when she spoke, but she’s not surprised by the answering silence. She hears the flick of a lighter.
Running her fingers through her hair, Tara closes her eyes, inhaling the acrid smoke. She wishes that her body didn’t feel so damn good-the little tendril of guilt that curls in the pit of her stomach seems muted by the fact that she feels completely sated. She clings to that guilt because she should feel guilty.
Shouldn’t she?
“Playing the guilty conscience card loses its effect when you’ve cheated more than once.”
Tara looks over her shoulder, casting a dark look at Gemma. The older woman appears entirely too calm for Tara’s liking. It’s the sort of calm that is developed with practice, and an unpleasant chill skitters down her back at the realization that Tara may not be Gemma’s first.
“You don’t think this is wrong-that they’re in prison and we’re doing this behind their backs?”
There’s a moment of silence, during which time Gemma flicks ashes off the glowing stem of her cigarette. “We take care of our guys by taking care of ourselves. It’s what we do, baby. It’s what we all do.”
Tara turns back to stare at her knees when her gaze lingers for too long on how the sheen of sweat makes the ink on Gemma’s chest more vibrant than usual. She has a point, but her words seem hollow in the wake of their repeated indiscretions. Sometimes, Tara’s guilt doesn’t even seem to belong to her-it’s like it’s someone else’s, and she’s borrowed it because she cannot summon it in herself.
“Has it always been this way? The men get busted, and the women fuck around?”
“Maybe not always with each other,” Gemma adds wryly, the inflection of her voice leading Tara to think that the other woman is smirking. Gemma sighs. “You don’t think they’re not doing the same thing when the situation is reversed?”
Tara’s eyes squeeze shut, blinking back images of Jax doing to her what she’s doing to him. She would leave him if he ever screwed around behind her back.
Wouldn’t she?
“All of these goddamn unspoken rules,” Tara spits out, opening her eyes again. “There should be a book.”
“This works because we don’t talk about it. Talking just messes shit up.”
Tara can hear the discomfort in Gemma’s voice now. Gemma is a rock, all granite and sharp edges, but the knowledge of even the tiniest crack is immensely reassuring. “Maybe if we talked about it, we’d all stop doing it. Maybe we’d all be able to do the right thing.”
“In this life, there is no such thing as ‘the right thing.’ We gave up that luxury the minute we got involved with the club.”
She’s right. The moral code doesn’t seem to apply to killers and gun runners-why should it apply to old ladies? Do the sins of the husbands cancel out the sins of the wives? Isn’t this what anarchy is all about-a lack of social order and a belief that rules simply do not apply?
Tara shivers.
Gemma shifts behind her, stubbing out the butt of her cigarette before she moves. Tara cannot look at her; she can’t bear to see the older woman in nothing but a lacy black camisole. The rest of her clothes are gone, scattered around the bedroom. Tight jeans lie tangled beside the bed, her panties draped off the edge of her jewelry box on the other side of the room. She doesn’t have to look at Gemma because the image of her is already seared into her eyelids. She thinks that if she looks at Gemma, she’ll forget that she’s supposed to be feeling guilty, and she can’t let herself forget.
But then Gemma is behind her, positioning herself so that her bare thighs cradle Tara’s hips. Steady hands grip Tara’s shoulders, pulling her back until she’s leaning against Gemma’s chest. “Don’t do this to yourself, baby,” Gemma urges, her hands guiding Tara’s arms to release her legs. She rearranges Tara’s limbs, easing her feet to the floor and spreading her thighs apart.
Tara can’t breathe. She can’t think about Jax or her fucked up lack of regard for fidelity when Gemma’s hand is pressing between her legs, seeking still-swollen, slick folds with nimble fingers. She whimpers when Gemma rubs her clit with the ease of a woman who knows what she’s doing. She tilts her head back against Gemma’s shoulder, surrendering herself completely.
“It’s not gonna do anybody any good if you beat yourself up like this. You can’t change what we’ve done. It’s too late to take it back.”
The doctor moans as she grips her nails into Gemma’s thighs. The other woman’s voice echoes in her head, the rasp of her lips against the curve of her ear making her shudder. Gemma’s words are softer than her touch, which is almost too rough on Tara’s sensitive clit. Tara is only one woman-one weak, terrible woman-and she can’t chase the guilt and the pleasure. She knows that Gemma is filling her head with poison, telling her what they both need to hear so that this fucked up game can continue. Tara’s supplication serves Gemma, giving the woman exactly what she wants…
…but Tara wouldn’t be in this position, legs spread wide on her boyfriend’s mother’s bed, if it didn’t serve her too.
She makes her choice. When she tilts her head and searches for Gemma’s mouth, she gives in. She needs this. She wants this. It’s already too late to turn back. Gemma is right, in her own fucked up, selfish way.
She’ll deal with the guilt later, when she’s face to face with the son of the woman who’s fucking her.
When Tara comes, violently shuddering against Gemma’s solid, warm body, she lets go of right and wrong.
---
Prompt: She clings to the guilt because she should feel guilty--shouldn’t she?
Fandom: Gemma/Tara, Sons of Anarchy
Requested by: callieluvr
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 1044
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: Set during 2x07. I’ve never written for this fandom before, but these two are so damn shippable that I just couldn’t help myself. Let me know what you think!
-
“This is wrong.”
The words that hang in the air would have more impact if the room didn’t reek of sex, but Tara can’t take them back now. Instead she scoots to the edge of the bed and tugs on an oversized t-shirt, drawing up her bare legs until she can rest her forehead against her knees.
She’s not sure what she expected when she spoke, but she’s not surprised by the answering silence. She hears the flick of a lighter.
Running her fingers through her hair, Tara closes her eyes, inhaling the acrid smoke. She wishes that her body didn’t feel so damn good-the little tendril of guilt that curls in the pit of her stomach seems muted by the fact that she feels completely sated. She clings to that guilt because she should feel guilty.
Shouldn’t she?
“Playing the guilty conscience card loses its effect when you’ve cheated more than once.”
Tara looks over her shoulder, casting a dark look at Gemma. The older woman appears entirely too calm for Tara’s liking. It’s the sort of calm that is developed with practice, and an unpleasant chill skitters down her back at the realization that Tara may not be Gemma’s first.
“You don’t think this is wrong-that they’re in prison and we’re doing this behind their backs?”
There’s a moment of silence, during which time Gemma flicks ashes off the glowing stem of her cigarette. “We take care of our guys by taking care of ourselves. It’s what we do, baby. It’s what we all do.”
Tara turns back to stare at her knees when her gaze lingers for too long on how the sheen of sweat makes the ink on Gemma’s chest more vibrant than usual. She has a point, but her words seem hollow in the wake of their repeated indiscretions. Sometimes, Tara’s guilt doesn’t even seem to belong to her-it’s like it’s someone else’s, and she’s borrowed it because she cannot summon it in herself.
“Has it always been this way? The men get busted, and the women fuck around?”
“Maybe not always with each other,” Gemma adds wryly, the inflection of her voice leading Tara to think that the other woman is smirking. Gemma sighs. “You don’t think they’re not doing the same thing when the situation is reversed?”
Tara’s eyes squeeze shut, blinking back images of Jax doing to her what she’s doing to him. She would leave him if he ever screwed around behind her back.
Wouldn’t she?
“All of these goddamn unspoken rules,” Tara spits out, opening her eyes again. “There should be a book.”
“This works because we don’t talk about it. Talking just messes shit up.”
Tara can hear the discomfort in Gemma’s voice now. Gemma is a rock, all granite and sharp edges, but the knowledge of even the tiniest crack is immensely reassuring. “Maybe if we talked about it, we’d all stop doing it. Maybe we’d all be able to do the right thing.”
“In this life, there is no such thing as ‘the right thing.’ We gave up that luxury the minute we got involved with the club.”
She’s right. The moral code doesn’t seem to apply to killers and gun runners-why should it apply to old ladies? Do the sins of the husbands cancel out the sins of the wives? Isn’t this what anarchy is all about-a lack of social order and a belief that rules simply do not apply?
Tara shivers.
Gemma shifts behind her, stubbing out the butt of her cigarette before she moves. Tara cannot look at her; she can’t bear to see the older woman in nothing but a lacy black camisole. The rest of her clothes are gone, scattered around the bedroom. Tight jeans lie tangled beside the bed, her panties draped off the edge of her jewelry box on the other side of the room. She doesn’t have to look at Gemma because the image of her is already seared into her eyelids. She thinks that if she looks at Gemma, she’ll forget that she’s supposed to be feeling guilty, and she can’t let herself forget.
But then Gemma is behind her, positioning herself so that her bare thighs cradle Tara’s hips. Steady hands grip Tara’s shoulders, pulling her back until she’s leaning against Gemma’s chest. “Don’t do this to yourself, baby,” Gemma urges, her hands guiding Tara’s arms to release her legs. She rearranges Tara’s limbs, easing her feet to the floor and spreading her thighs apart.
Tara can’t breathe. She can’t think about Jax or her fucked up lack of regard for fidelity when Gemma’s hand is pressing between her legs, seeking still-swollen, slick folds with nimble fingers. She whimpers when Gemma rubs her clit with the ease of a woman who knows what she’s doing. She tilts her head back against Gemma’s shoulder, surrendering herself completely.
“It’s not gonna do anybody any good if you beat yourself up like this. You can’t change what we’ve done. It’s too late to take it back.”
The doctor moans as she grips her nails into Gemma’s thighs. The other woman’s voice echoes in her head, the rasp of her lips against the curve of her ear making her shudder. Gemma’s words are softer than her touch, which is almost too rough on Tara’s sensitive clit. Tara is only one woman-one weak, terrible woman-and she can’t chase the guilt and the pleasure. She knows that Gemma is filling her head with poison, telling her what they both need to hear so that this fucked up game can continue. Tara’s supplication serves Gemma, giving the woman exactly what she wants…
…but Tara wouldn’t be in this position, legs spread wide on her boyfriend’s mother’s bed, if it didn’t serve her too.
She makes her choice. When she tilts her head and searches for Gemma’s mouth, she gives in. She needs this. She wants this. It’s already too late to turn back. Gemma is right, in her own fucked up, selfish way.
She’ll deal with the guilt later, when she’s face to face with the son of the woman who’s fucking her.
When Tara comes, violently shuddering against Gemma’s solid, warm body, she lets go of right and wrong.
---