You've spent months taking shit and attitude and beating from everyone, the bikers, the crow-eaters, the clients — because you were a prospect, an apprentice, haven’t yet earned your cut, nor your patch, or anything else for that matter.

Basically your job in the club of Sons of Anarchy was to do the dirty work and get made fun of, and in the meanwhile fix their bikes and work in the garage.

The initiation would be brutal, sure, but hey, you didn't expect anything less from them. Jax was just trying to give you advice on it, really.

“You want the patch?” He asks, tilting his head with a conviction too dangerous to look away from. His hands undoing his belt, taunting you, a little bit. ”You should give it a taste, see if it suits you before you have to go through all the bullshit for it.”