Tadc Jax Fanart Novels & Stories

Jade screamed angrily, tearing out and crumpling up a sheet of paper from her sketchbook. She threw it across the room and it landed on the floor close to the door, increasing the litter of crumpled paper and broken pencils in the room. She took a new pencil from behind her ears, her fingers shaky as she began to draw lines and curves, in readiness for another sketch. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture a face, Tiger's face - that was what they called him but she knew his name began with the letter H.

“Maybe I could have a telly show. Like the art programs they used to have for children, but for adults.” “So Tom wants to have an X-rated TV art show, sounds about right,” Jade says, grinning to take the sting out of the words. “Just keep it equal rights, yeah? Objectification of all genders. How about you, Tala?” “I want to make movie posters,” she says. “In fifty years time, I want people to say, ‘Everyone remembers this poster,’ and they’ll buy reproductions to put on their wall.”

Jax groaned. "Are you open to a night out at The Tiki Exclusives club? I heard they've got even more flexible women," I offered. "No. I'm looking forward to some alone time at my cabin." "Aw, come with me. It'll be fun. I'd ask Cage, but he'd flat out reject me. So that's not an option." "I think you should take it easy with the clubs and multiple women. You can't let Cleo dominate a part of you forever; this isn't who you are," Jax told me out of concern.

Blurt it out of the narrative. I nod again, already thinking of strategies. “And he also has a wake of broken hearts after him. The girls never learn how unavailable Jax is. I don’t want that to affect our ticket sales.” A Playboy, then, with drug problems. It should be easy to stay away from him. Tara pushes the file in my direction, and I flip it open. His picture stares back at me. Surfer-blonde hair, with killer eyes and tattoos inked all over his body. He has a smirk on his face that has to be a sin.

I reached out and smeared a streak of blue right across his cheekbone, then another down the bridge of his nose. “Lila,” he warned, a low growl of laughter in his chest. “This shirt cost more than your first car.” “Then it’s about to become a masterpiece,” I laughed, grabbing a tube of Crimson and flicking a spray of red across his chest. Jax didn't wait for a second invitation. He grabbed a tube of Titanium White and squeezed it into his palm, lunging for me. I shrieked, darting behind the easel, but he was faster. He caught me by the waist, spinning me around and pressing his paint-covered hand against my neck, the cold, slick sensation making me gasp.

Until that little dare. They wanted me to get a real tattoo. Something small but edgy. A delicate crescent moon wrapped in thin, twisting vines, placed just above my right hip on my lower back. It would peek out under cropped tops and make me feel like I belonged. At least that’s what I kept telling myself on the drive over. The only problem was the artist. Jax—my stepbrother. Twenty-six, built like he bench-pressed motorcycles, covered in dark, aggressive ink that crawled up his arms and disappeared under the tight black t-shirts he always wore.

Warm air immediately wrapped around them. The room smelled faintly of paint and coffee. People moved slowly around white walls covered with artwork. Jessica looked around quietly. Landscapes. Portraits. Abstract paintings. Photography. Sketches. Pieces of people's thoughts hanging on walls. People's memories. People's feelings. People's stories. Jessica moved slowly through the room. Looking. Really looking. One painting caught her attention immediately. It showed a woman standing beneath dark storm clouds. But above her, tiny breaks in the clouds allowed light through.

His eyes move from the table to Tara. Then to the sketch. "...What is that?" Tara beams. "Concept art." Hunter immediately looks at the ceiling. Alpha Marcus leans closer to the drawing. "...Is that a fountain?" Tara nods proudly. "A chocolate fountain." Alpha Marcus studies the scale markings. "...Six feet?" "Eight with the base." Ryan nearly chokes on his drink. Alpha Marcus looks at Hunter. Hunter stares straight ahead like a soldier refusing interrogation. Alpha Marcus glances back at the papers. "Why does the budget column say 'experimental dessert architecture'?"

Even in their own territory, these men lived like they were under siege. She found Jax in his office, hunched over maps and photographs spread across his scarred oak desk. His long dark hair fell in waves past his shoulders, and in the lamplight, she could see the intricate tattoos that covered his muscled forearms—Celtic knots intertwined with images of skulls, roses, and script she couldn't quite make out. He'd removed his kutte, leaving him in just a black t-shirt that stretched taut across his broad chest and powerful shoulders.

Mila's POV Knox, shirtless and wet‑haired, cackles from the corner. "Damn, Mila. I think you got the wrong room. But I can see how you made that mistake. We're a sexy bunch of fellas." My eyes quickly land on Jax. He's sitting on a bench, a white towel wrapped around his waist. And nothing else. His chest is covered in tattoos—waves, a compass, the Maine coastline. Dark ink swirls over his pectorals, down his ribs, across his shoulders. Water drips from his hair, sliding down his throat, over his Adam's apple.