happy lowman and the absolute diva that bosses him around
(part 2!). (part 3) (part 4)
Hap knew he was fucked from the second they all walked in the door. Dirty boots leave tiny crumbs of dried mud, and the few other men who had been on the run with him mumble confused words to each other.
Why the fuck is Happy Lowman’s house so…put together?
Everything is brown toned, and clean, and it smells absolutely wonderful. Soft, fur blankets cover a tan couch, and the only light on is one warm lighted lamp. There’s animal print towels hanging off the kitchen counters, and plants draping from over the top of them. Nobody even knew he had a goddamn house.
“You into interior design, Hap?” Tig questions from behind him, looking around in quite a bit of wonder with Chibs.
“Just…shut the fuck up, man.” Hap already sounds defeated while he rubs a hand down his face. A door creaks from down the small hallway connected to the living room, and suddenly, a huge ass dog is clomping over to the tall man.
He sighs, and mutters a greeting to the big guy while he bends over to give him a big pat on the side.
“And what the fuck is this, David?” A Jersey accent echoes through the home.
A woman, in a black silk robe and her hair up in rollers, now stands at the entry of the hallway with hands on her hips. Happy snaps right up, and starts walking towards her.
“I know, baby, i’m sorry,” Happy starts to reach out for her, to grab her waist, but when he receives a ‘mhm’ and an unimpressed look, decides not to push it. “Had no other choice, wouldn’t have brought ‘em here if I ain’t have to. You know that.”
He’s pleading basically, while she peaks over his shoulder and looks the men up and down with a mean mug.
“I want them out by noon, latest. And you’re taking Cairo out in the morning.” She disappears back down the hallway, the massive Cane Corso trotting right after.
“Damn, we get you put in the dog house?” Jax grins, arms crossed over his chest and leaning back into the very comfortable couch.
“Nah,” Hap throws his wallet and sunglasses in the catch all bowl sitting on the kitchens island. “Went better than I thought it would.” He’s quick to leave the three men to fend for themselves and walks right down that hallway after her.
She may not have wanted them in her house, but being the good host she is, still cooks up a delicious breakfast.
The men wake up to the smell wafting through the house and find her back in that silk robe with a cigarette dangling from her lips. There’s perfectly cooked eggs, french toast in the pan, and crispy bacon.
They stand there awkwardly, watching her grab plates out of one of the cabinets. She spots the three, and after setting her glass dish-ware on the counter, waves a hand with pretty manicured french tips to the bar stools at the island.
“Well, are you going to sit down?”
As the three clamber to sit, the door leading into their backyard swings open and in comes Happy, yawning, with that big dog weaving through his feet.
“Hi, baby,” She mutters when the dog patters over to her feet and nudges against her knees. “You missed your daddy, huh, Cairo? My sweet baby, he’s such a good boy,”
Cairo gets a couple pieces of scrambled egg and sausage, the spoiled boy he is, before the rest is separated onto plates with powder sugar dusted french toast and fresh fruit.
“Eat and get out of my house.” She pushes the last plate in front of Jax, who sat the closest to the fridge, before leading Cairo to his bowl full of nothing but the best possible options. Sometimes, Hap thinks that dogs groceries are more expensive than theirs, with all that raw shit.
“Get me a water.” Happy speaks up for the first time that morning, at least outside of their bedroom. She remains right next to her baby, doesn’t even glance up.
“Uh, sweetheart,” Jax starts with a mouthful of french toast after they all sit in a minute of awkward silence. “I think your old man’s asking for a water.”
“Oh,” She scoffs, leaning against the island, and pointing to the fridge. “My man doesn’t talk to me like that. Get him a goddamn water blondie.”
The rest of the breakfast is as awkward as you’d assume. The three stand by the door after they’re all done eating, and pretend like they can’t hear the two talking in the kitchen twenty feet away.
She leans her back against the sink with all six feet of Hap crowding around her.
“David, you know I said I was fine with the club shit as long as you kept it out of my house. You know that, I’ve said that for all seven fucking years of our marriage-“
“Seven years?” Tig can’t help but breathe out under his breath. “I didn’t know he was even goddamned married.”
“I didn’t know he had a house.” Jax responds.
“Hell, nobody knows ‘is name is David.” Chibs exasperated.
“Ain’t ever gonna happen again,” Haps voice interrupts their hushed conversation. “I swear on my life, baby, I swear on yours, it’s a lot more fuckin’ important to me, it ain’t happenin’ again. This was the last option, I swear, it won’t even be an option again. Never again.”
His big tattooed hands cup her face as gently as possible while she pouts up at him all pretty.
“David,” She starts again, gently and sweetly, pushing up against his chest, and wrapping around his waist. “If I ever see another reaper that doesn’t belong to you in this house…near my baby…you will never see the light of day again.”
Jax decides to lead himself and the other two men outside after that.
another series master list..... yes, i should be finishing the ones i've started... but here we are.
i have developed an unhealthy addiction to single mom reader fics (im not even a mom, i have no interest in being a mom !! but they go so fucking hard???) i did my BEST to be unspecific but i may have mentioned blush a few times throughout idk.
Jax's adopted sister by circumstance. I don’t make the rules, but I do write them. Your dating life sucks so your daughter picks a father for herself. I'll be listing the TW part by part this time bc it'll vary per section.
Part 1 - juice
Part 2 - coffee
Part 3 - happy
Part 4 - camera
Part 5 - fever
Part 6 - sunshine (mdni)
Part 7 - fast
Part 8 - surprise
Part 9 - daddy
Part 10 - mommy
Part 11 - jealous
Part 12 - girl
general taglist: @vaugarkel @coffeedreaminanreadin
if you want to be added just lmk
Characters included: Filip “Chibs” Telford, Alexander “Tig” Trager, Happy Lowman, Jackson “Jax” Teller, Harry “Opie” Winston, David Hale, Herman Kozik, Juan Carlos “Juice” Ortiz, Nero Padilla
Chibs:
If anyone looks at you too long, he stares them down until they leave you alone.
He will always have his hands on you in some way in public, hands on your waist, lower back or arm slung around your shoulder.
He always refers to you as “my old lady” emphasis on my .
He always lingers close by. Like a protective shadow.
He gets jealous easily, if he sees you talking to some guy, even if they’re just a friend, laughing too easily at their jokes he gets jealous. When he gets you alone he pushes you against the closest wall, kissing your neck and whispering in your ear “mine.”
He leaves marks on you. Somewhere easily spotted. Like your neck. Even your cleavage, because you often have your cleavage on show. (Mostly because you know it drives him wild when he sees you in low cut tops)
Softer possessive moments at night when you’re alone. He holds you close kissing you softly still saying “mine” but in a softer voice
Tig:
Anyone looks at you too long and he’s by your side. Arm sliding around your waist. He glares at the guy and says “stay away from my girl or I’ll cut your dick off.” The guy clearly gets the message
He has a special stare that he gives people if they get too close to you. A lot of the time he doesn’t even need to open his mouth before they run away.
If he still needs to make it clear to others that you belong to him, he will grab you by the back of the neck, fingers in your hair roughly kissing you to send the message.
He will have his hand in yours or hand on your thigh whenever you’re sat at the clubhouse together.
He constantly tells you that you’re “stuck with him”
When he’s not with you he constantly checks in on you, texting you, making sure you’re ok. If you ever need him he will drop everything and be there immediately.
He leaves marks, hickeys and teeth marks all over your body. Huge hickeys too. That way when someone sees them they know you’re taken.
He always whispers “mine” as he’s fucking you.
Rare vulnerable moments where he holds you close and begs you to “never leave him”
Happy:
Happy doesn’t need words. Anyone gets too close he glares at them making them feel uncomfortable.
Or if they know him and what he’s capable of, he will lift his shirt showing the smiley faces tattooed over his torso.
He always lingers nearby. Making sure you’re in his eye line. Ready to step in if need be.
There’s always a physical reminder of who you belong to. A firm hand grasping the back of your neck as he kisses you. Teeth grazing your skin as he kisses your neck. He gets rough during sex. Pulling your hair. But he also has a softer side where he holds you close. Fingers tracing your skin.
When you’re around others he always kisses your forehead.
If you get hurt he doesn’t leave your bedside until you’re better. He doesn’t show much emotion but inside he dying.
He pulls you into his lap when you’re at home alone. Running his fingers through your hair as you rest your head against his chest.
Jax:
He pulls you into his lap at club parties, wrap his arm tightly around your waist, and kisses you in front of anyone.
Whenever he’s around everyone knows you belong to him.
If someone didn’t realise and tried hitting on you, he will punch them in the face saying “back off she’s mine” before kissing you passionately.
Always touching you, hand around your waist, kissing your temple. Finger hooked in your belt loops, pulling you closer.
Behind closed doors his possessiveness turns hungry. Fucking you so hard that you remember you’re his. Not that you could ever forget it.
He shows a softer side too. Telling you “I can’t lose you.”
Opie:
He’s quietly possessive. If someone hits on you, he will stand behind you, glaring until the man runs away.
His hand is always on your lower back or around your shoulders, holding you close to him.
Opie always calls you “my woman”
He gets jealous easily but tends to keep quiet. His jaw clenches, but later he will pull you close and whisper “mine”. His large hands cup your face before kissing you passionately. A gentle reminder that you’re his.
He leaves subtle marks on you. Mostly beard burn on your neck from when he kisses your neck. even though he doesn’t intentionally leave the marks he’s happy when it makes people realise you’re taken.
Protective giant. He will linger close by you at all times. Ready to step in if need be.
In private he’s softer. Pulling you close saying “I’d do anything for you”
David Hale:
He’s quietly intense. He’s not loud about it, but if someone flirts with you, his jaw clenches, and his posture changes. He is used to control and the only thing he needs is to make sure you’re safe.
He becomes your protective shield. Always standing between you and any potential threat.
If anyone flirts with you. He will glare at them intensely. But pull you close later telling you “I don’t share”
Any chance he gets he introduces you as his girl. The badge usually scares people off.
He leaves soft but deliberate hickeys over your neck, he also grips your waist firmly as he’s kissing you goodbye.
Frequent check in texts to make sure you’re ok and safe. Even if he’s busy with work if anything goes wrong, and you need him he will drop everything to rescue you.
In quiet he pulls you close, constantly reminding you “I will always protect you.” He also tells you how much he loves you and can’t lose you.
He will bend the rules if it means keeping you safe.
Kozik:
He is never subtle about anything. He will throw an arm over your shoulder, pulling you close. Kissing your temple.
He will always tell anyone and everyone “she’s mine” whenever he gets the chance.
Anyone gets too close or flirty he will crack his knuckles, clench his jaw, before stepping in their face and warning them.
Always touching you in some way. Hand on your thigh. Hand in yours. Or just holding you close to him.
He will kiss you roughly in front of everyone. Hand on the back of your neck, other hand gripping your waist firming. “Mine” he will mutter against your lips.
Marking during sex. Lots of biting. Scratches, hickeys. Later he admires them with that cheeky smirk on his face. Proud of his work.
Soft vulnerability where he admits he’s scared of losing you.
Juice:
He is quiet but intense. Lingering close by at all times. When someone gets too close his smile is gone. He slides an arm around your waist pulling you close to him and kissing your temple.
He gets jealous easily. He’s also terrified of losing you. The only reasurance he has is when you kiss him, and promise you’ll never leave him.
He often tracks your location (with permission of course). He just needs to know you’re safe.
He pulls you onto his lap, at the clubhouse. Kissing your forehead or temple. Holding your hand.
He always calls you “my girl”.
Soft vulberability where he tells you “you’re the only one who keeps me grounded. And begs you to never leave”
He leaves hickeys on your neck, a subtle reminder to everyone that you’re his.
He will always defend and protect you no matter what.
Nero Padilla:
Nero is possessive in a calm but protective way. He pulls you close and tells anyone “she’s with me.”
His hand will protectively nestle on your lower back or waist, as he holds you close.
He always stays close to you. Making sure he can step in if you need protecting.
He will get jealous if someone flirts with you. But he quickly steps in, pulling you close and warning the person to stay away because you’re with him.
He loves leaving subtle love bites along your jawline, neck and collar bone.
He’s patient and caring but he also has that firm possessive edge.
The first time you casually say “Jackson” instead of baby or Jax, he immediately pauses whatever he’s doing. His head lifts slowly, brows knitting together as he studies you like you just spoke another language.
He assumes something is wrong. Jax knows you rarely use his real name unless you’re serious, so he leans on the counter, arms crossed, watching you carefully. “Alright… what’d I do?”
If you pretend nothing is wrong and keep talking normally, he gets even more suspicious. His eyes narrow slightly while he studies your face like he’s trying to read a hidden message.
He walks closer until he’s right in your space, hands braced on either side of you against the counter. “Say that again.”
The moment you repeat “Jackson”, his lips twitch because he secretly likes hearing it from you.
He’ll tease you about it immediately. “You mad at me or you just trying to get my attention?”
If you keep calling him Jackson for a while, he starts smirking every time, because it feels oddly intimate, like you’re the only person who gets to use it that way.
Eventually he hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to his. “Careful, darlin’. Only my mama calls me that.”
But he won’t actually stop you. If anything, he starts testing it. He’ll lean close and murmur, “Go on… say it again.”
If you say it during a serious moment, though, his demeanor changes instantly. The joking drops and he listens very carefully.
Hearing his full name from you makes him feel oddly grounded, like you’re reminding him he’s more than just the club.
If one of the guys overhears you say Jackson, he’ll glance over and smirk proudly because you saying it feels personal.
Eventually he’ll pull you into his arms and murmur against your hair, “You know you’re the only one that can get away with that, right?”
𝗢𝗽𝗶𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
When you call him “Harry”, Opie freezes mid-step.
He turns slowly with a confused expression because almost nobody calls him that anymore.
“You just call me Harry?” he asks, voice low but amused.
The name feels strangely nostalgic to him. It reminds him of childhood and the few people who knew him before the club life took over.
If you keep talking like nothing happened, he watches you with this soft, curious look.
Eventually he walks over and wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. “That’s new.”
Opie doesn’t get mad about it at all, he actually finds it sweet.
If you say it affectionately, he melts a little inside even if he doesn’t show it.
He’ll quietly admit, “Been a long time since anyone called me that.”
Sometimes he’ll test you by leaning close and murmuring, “Go on then… say it again.”
If you say Harry during a serious talk, he listens extra carefully because he knows you’re being sincere.
The name makes him feel like you see the part of him that existed before the club hardened him.
Eventually he pulls you into a hug and kisses the top of your head. “Don’t tell the guys you call me that.”
But secretly? He loves it when it’s just between the two of you.
𝗛𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
You casually say “Happy”, and he immediately looks up from whatever weapon he’s cleaning.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly because you usually call him something softer.
“You mad at me?” he asks bluntly.
Happy knows people use his name when they’re serious, so he scans your face like he’s checking for danger.
If you say it again calmly, he just stares for a moment before giving a quiet chuckle.
“That’s my name,” he says like he’s amused by the novelty.
If you keep doing it, he starts teasing you by slowly saying your name back in the exact same tone.
Happy actually likes hearing his name from you because you say it differently than everyone else.
When you say Happy softly, he gets this oddly affectionate look in his eyes.
He’ll step closer and tilt his head slightly. “Sounds better when you say it.”
If you say it in a scolding tone though, he immediately smirks because he knows he probably deserves it.
Sometimes he’ll deliberately make you repeat it just to hear it again.
Eventually he pulls you into his side and mutters, “Don’t get used to that tone, sweetheart.”
But the tiny smile he hides says he secretly enjoys it.
𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗯𝘀 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
The moment you say “Filip”, Chibs nearly chokes on his drink.
His head snaps toward you in total surprise.
“Did ye just call me Filip?” he asks with a thick amused accent.
Almost nobody uses his real name anymore, so hearing it catches him completely off guard.
If you keep talking normally, he bursts into laughter.
“Christ, lass, that’s the name my mum uses.”
But there’s a warmth in his eyes because it feels strangely intimate.
He walks over, hooking an arm around your waist while still grinning.
“Where’d ye learn that, eh?”
If you say it again teasingly, he shakes his head in disbelief.
He’ll gently tap your chin and say, “Careful now… ye make it sound too nice.”
Hearing his real name from you reminds him of home and the life he had before SAMCRO.
Sometimes he’ll whisper your name back in retaliation just to see your reaction.
Eventually he kisses your forehead and murmurs, “Only you get away with that, lass.”
𝗧𝗶𝗴 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
The second you say “Alex”, Tig freezes like someone hit pause on him.
He slowly turns with a shocked expression. “Excuse me?”
Tig is used to nicknames, chaos, and teasing, but hearing his actual name throws him off.
“Did… did you just government name me?”
If you say it again calmly, he starts laughing in disbelief.
He dramatically clutches his chest. “Wow. I feel like I’m in trouble.”
Tig assumes you’re about to lecture him for something.
He immediately starts trying to guess what he did wrong.
If you insist nothing’s wrong, he studies you suspiciously.
Eventually he leans closer and lowers his voice. “Okay but why was that kinda hot?”
Hearing you say Alex makes the moment feel weirdly intimate for him.
He’ll grin and whisper, “Say it again.”
If you say it during an argument though, he knows he’s absolutely screwed.
But when it’s affectionate, he wraps his arms around you and murmurs, “Alright… I kinda like that.”
𝗝𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
When you say “Juan Carlos”, Juice immediately panics.
His head snaps toward you so fast he nearly drops whatever he’s holding.
“Whoa whoa—why are you using my full name?”
He automatically assumes he’s in serious trouble.
Juice starts nervously listing things he might’ve done wrong.
If you keep repeating Juan Carlos, he groans dramatically.
“That’s the name my mom uses when I mess up.”
But he secretly smiles because hearing you say it sounds affectionate instead of scolding.
If you shorten it to Juan, he relaxes a bit.
“Okay… that’s less scary.”
He’ll jokingly start calling you by your full name too in retaliation.
But there’s a shy softness in his expression because it feels personal.
Juice loves that you know his real name and aren’t afraid to use it.
Eventually he wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your shoulder. “Alright, alright… I admit it. I kinda like when you say it.”
After a long bad day, Happy's grumpy and annoyed and he raises his hands in frustration, to run them through his hair or something, doesn't know, can't remember, because you flinch away, scared, and Happy sees it.
He frowns, because there's no universe in which he would ever lay a hand on you.
And then he promptly loses his mind trying to make sure you know what he would never hurt you.
The first time you met Happy Lowman, he stared at you for so long you thought maybe you’d done something wrong.
Not in a creepy way.
Not even in an interested way.
Just… intensely.
Like he was trying to figure out what kind of person you were with one look alone.
You’d been standing behind the bar at the clubhouse, drying glasses while Gemma argued with Tig about god-knows-what and Chibs laughed into his beer. The air smelled like cigarettes, engine oil, whiskey, and California heat. Loud. Chaotic. Familiar for them.
Terrifying for you.
And in the corner booth sat Happy Lowman.
Silent. Tattooed. Dark-eyed.
Watching.
“Don’t mind him,” Gemma had said casually when she caught you glancing over nervously. “That’s just his face.”
Which, honestly, had not helped.
Because his face looked like he’d killed people.
Which—okay, technically—
He had.
Everybody knew what Happy was. What he did for SAMCRO. The club’s enforcer. Their attack dog. Quiet violence wrapped in denim and leather and unsettling calm.
You should’ve been scared of him.
Instead, somehow, over the following months, he became the safest thing in your life.
It happened slowly.
Tiny pieces.
Happy wasn’t talkative. He wasn’t charming like Tig or smooth like Chibs. He didn’t flirt. Didn’t tease. Didn’t smile much either, unless it was sharp and brief and gone before anyone else noticed it.
But he noticed things.
He noticed when you were cold and silently draped his flannel over your shoulders before stepping outside to smoke.
He noticed when loud arguments made you tense and would position himself between you and the fight without acknowledging it.
He noticed when one of the croweaters got too mean after too many drinks and stared her down until she shut up.
And he noticed when you stopped sleeping.
“You got shadows under your eyes,” he muttered one night.
You’d looked up from the bar. “That bad, huh?”
His gaze lingered on your face.
“You ain’t sleepin’.”
It wasn’t a question.
You shrugged. “Just bad dreams.”
He nodded once.
Then the next night, without explanation, he handed you a small pocket knife.
You blinked. “Happy…”
“Keep it on you.”
“For what?”
His expression stayed flat.
“For whatever’s got you scared.”
And that—
That nearly broke you.
Because nobody had ever said something like that before.
Not softly.
Not like they cared.
Happy knew something was wrong long before he knew what it was.
You startled too easily.
Never liked yelling. Never liked doors slamming. Sometimes if somebody moved too fast near you, your whole body stiffened before you could stop it.
You hid it well enough that most people didn’t notice.
Happy noticed everything.
But he never pushed. Never cornered you with questions.
If there was one thing Happy understood, it was damage.
So he let you come to him in pieces.
One night after closing, you sat beside him outside the clubhouse while he smoked. Your knees were tucked to your chest, chin resting on them.
Quiet.
Happy was good at quiet.
“You ever hurt somebody?” you asked eventually.
He snorted smoke through his nose.
“Yeah.”
“I mean…” You swallowed. “Not club stuff.”
He glanced at you.
And because it was you, because somewhere along the line this terrifying man had started looking at you like you mattered more than breathing, he answered honestly.
“Before the club?” he said. “Yeah.”
You waited.
“My old man liked hittin’ people smaller than him.”
Your chest tightened.
Happy looked out toward the parking lot.
“One day I got bigger.”
Simple.
Matter-of-fact.
But something ugly moved beneath the words.
“And your mom?” you asked quietly.
His jaw shifted once.
“She stopped flinching after he disappeared.”
You stared at him.
Happy took another drag.
Then, after a moment, “You flinch like she used to.”
Your breath caught.
He didn’t look at you while he said it.
Didn’t make you answer. Didn’t ask who hurt you.
But his voice had gone colder than winter.
And you realized something terrifying then.
Happy Lowman was a dangerous man.
But not to you.
Never to you.
Being loved by Happy was strange.
Not because he was bad at it.
Because he loved like a man who didn’t think he deserved to.
There was nothing casual about his affection.
Everything with him carried weight.
If he touched your waist, it grounded him. If he kissed your forehead, it meant he’d been thinking about you all day. If he sat beside you, thigh pressed against yours, it meant he trusted you enough to let his guard down.
And Happy trusted almost nobody.
“You know he stares at you like you hung the moon, right?” Juice told you once.
You laughed. “Happy barely stares at anybody.”
Juice nearly choked on his beer.
“Sweetheart, he stares at you like he’s planning homicide every time another guy talks to you.”
The age difference bothered Happy more than it bothered you.
Forty-nine and twenty-four.
Twenty-five years.
He thought about it constantly.
You didn’t.
Maybe because you saw him differently than everyone else did.
The club saw the killer.
The outlaw.
The man people crossed the street to avoid.
You saw the man who brought you coffee exactly how you liked it without asking. The man who silently fixed the broken lock on your apartment door. The man who checked your gas tank every time he borrowed your truck. The man who woke up snarling from nightmares and softened instantly when he realised you were touching his face.
You loved him so violently sometimes it made your chest ache.
And Happy—
Happy was doomed the second you smiled at him like he was something worth loving back.
The bad day started before sunrise.
A gun deal gone wrong. A Mayan dispute. A prospect screwing up badly enough that Clay nearly put him through a wall.
Three hours of sleep.
Two fights.
One police tail.
And by the time Happy got back to the clubhouse after midnight, he was exhausted, pissed off, and wound so tight he felt like a live wire.
The second he walked into his place, he knew something was wrong.
You were sitting curled on the couch in his shirt, half-asleep with a book in your lap.
Waiting up for him.
His chest tightened immediately.
“Baby,” he muttered.
You blinked awake. “Hey.”
Your voice was soft with sleep.
God.
He loved your voice.
Happy stripped off his kutte and gun automatically, setting both on the table before crossing toward you.
You smiled tiredly when he leaned down to kiss your forehead.
“You eat?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
Lie.
You touched his wrist gently.
“You okay?”
“No.”
Honest.
You studied him for a second before standing carefully.
“I'll make coffee,” you said softly. “Fresh pot.”
Happy watched you move around the tiny kitchen.
Bare legs. His shirt hanging off one shoulder. Sleepy eyes.
Home.
Something ugly in his chest loosened a little.
Until his phone rang.
Happy answered immediately, irritation already clawing back up his spine.
“What?”
You glanced over at the sharpness in his voice.
Whatever Chibs said had Happy swearing instantly.
“No, I handled it—”
Pause.
His expression darkened.
“You let him go where?”
Another pause.
Happy pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Jesus Christ.”
You moved carefully around him, setting a mug of coffee down beside the couch.
Quiet.
Gentle.
Trying not to interrupt.
Happy listened another thirty seconds before finally snapping.
“Well maybe if the idiots used their fuckin’ heads for once—”
He cut himself off with a harsh growl, frustration boiling over as he lifted both hands sharply toward his head.
Not toward you.
Never toward you.
Just frustrated movement. Angry energy. Exhaustion.
But you—
You flinched.
Hard.
A sharp recoil backward. Shoulders hunching instinctively. Eyes squeezing shut for half a second.
Like you expected impact.
Like you’d seen raised hands and learned exactly what came after them.
The entire world stopped.
Happy went dead silent.
On the phone, Chibs was still talking.
Happy couldn’t hear a fucking word.
Because you looked terrified of him.
Not emotionally.
Not metaphorically.
Terrified.
His stomach dropped so fast it felt like being shot.
Your eyes opened immediately when you realised what you’d done.
“Happy—”
He hung up on Chibs without a word.
You looked horrified.
“No, no, I didn’t mean—”
“You think I’d hit you?”
His voice sounded wrong.
Rough.
Too quiet.
You froze.
Happy stared at you from across the room like he’d just watched the earth crack open.
“No,” you said quickly.
Too quickly.
His chest caved in.
“Baby.”
You shook your head immediately, panic climbing your face now.
“No, Happy, I know you wouldn’t, I just— it’s reflex, okay? I didn’t mean—”
“You flinched.”
The words sounded devastated.
Not angry.
Devastated.
And somehow that made this worse.
You swallowed hard.
Happy took one careful step toward you.
Then stopped.
Because you looked nervous.
Jesus Christ.
He felt sick.
“There ain’t a universe,” he said hoarsely, “where I put my hands on you.”
“I know.”
“You scared of me?”
“No!”
Instant.
Certain.
But tears were suddenly burning your eyes because you realised he believed it now. Believed he’d hurt you somehow.
Happy looked genuinely wrecked.
You had seen this man stitch bullet wounds without blinking. Seen him smile after breaking someone’s nose. Seen him walk into violence like it was breathing.
But this?
This had shattered him.
“I know you wouldn’t hurt me,” you whispered.
Happy stared at you for a long moment.
Then, slowly, carefully, he lowered himself onto the couch instead of approaching you.
Giving you space.
Like he thought maybe you needed protection from him now.
That hurt worse than anything.
“I’m sorry,” you said softly.
His head snapped up immediately.
“No.”
The force behind the word startled you.
“You don’t apologize for that.”
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
“Whoever taught your body to do that— that ain’t on you.”
Silence filled the room.
Heavy.
Breathing hard, you wrapped your arms around yourself.
Happy watched every tiny movement.
“C’mere?” he asked quietly.
Not demanding.
Asking.
Like he’d accept no.
You nearly cried at that alone.
Slowly, you crossed toward him.
Happy stayed perfectly still while you approached, like he was afraid sudden movement would scare you again.
The second you sat beside him, he exhaled shakily.
Then very gently—so gently—you felt his hand settle against your knee.
Not restraining.
Grounding.
“You listen to me,” he said quietly, huis eyes locking onto yours. “I would break my own hands before I ever used ‘em on you.”
Your throat tightened instantly.
Happy looked furious.
Not at you.
At the idea.
At the existence of whoever had made flinching instinctive.
“You understand me?”
Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them.
“Yes.”
“No.” His voice cracked rougher now. “I need you to hear me.”
He shifted closer carefully.
“You are the only good thing I got left some days.”
Your breath caught.
“And if anybody ever hurts you again, I’ll bury ‘em.”
You laughed weakly through tears. “Happy—”
“I mean it.”
Oh, you knew he did.
That was the thing.
Happy didn’t say things he didn’t mean.
Ever.
He lifted one hand slowly.
Paused.
Waited.
You understood immediately.
He was making sure you were okay with him touching you.
Your chest nearly split open.
You nodded once.
Only then did he touch your face.
His palm was warm and rough against your cheek.
“So pretty,” he murmured sadly. “Shouldn’t look scared around me.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“You were.”
Your eyes filled again.
Happy closed his eyes briefly like the sight physically hurt him.
Then he pulled you carefully into his lap.
Not rushed.
Not possessive.
Protective.
You curled into him automatically, forehead against his neck.
Happy held you like something precious.
Fragile.
Like he was terrified you’d disappear.
“You know what the worst part is?” he muttered eventually.
“What?”
“That for one second…” He swallowed hard. “For one second I saw you look at me like everybody else does.”
Your heart broke clean in half.
You pulled back immediately.
“Happy Lowman.” His eyes met yours. “You are the safest person I have ever known.”
Something raw crossed his face.
“You hear me?” you whispered fiercely. “You’ve never scared me. Not once.”
His hand tightened slightly on your waist.
“You flinched.”
“Because somebody else taught me to.”
Silence.
Then finally, “Not you.”
Happy stared at you for a very long time.
Like he was trying to believe it.
Then his forehead dropped against yours.
And for the first time since you’d known him—
Happy looked fragile.
“You deserve better than this life,” he whispered.
You smiled sadly.
“Too bad,” you murmured. “I’m in love with you.”
His eyes closed immediately.
Like the words hit somewhere deep.
Dangerous.
Permanent.
When he kissed you, it wasn’t rough.
Wasn’t hungry.
It felt reverent.
Careful hands cradling your jaw.
Slow mouths and whispered breathing.
Like he was trying to love every bruise nobody else could see.
And when you curled against his chest afterward while the room finally went quiet around you, Happy held you through the night without sleeping once.
summary two months in and happy lowman had a soft spot exactly one person wide. those women had absolutely no idea what they'd started.
prompt – crow eaters jealous, full story, happy finds out, possessive party scene
warnings – suggestive content, possessive behaviour, confrontation, jealousy
word count – ~4k
note – the tacoma killer being feral about his girl in the most controlled way possible
requests are open :)
⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆
It was a Tuesday. Completely ordinary. Sun out, Charming doing its quiet thing, the kind of afternoon that asked nothing of anyone.
She left the office at twelve thirty for lunch — same place she usually went, a little spot two blocks down that did the salad she liked, the one with the grilled chicken and the dressing that was apparently worth the slightly longer walk. She had forty five minutes. She was wearing the blue dress. Her hair was down.
She was aware, in the abstract way she was always aware, that people looked at her. She'd grown up with it — the particular experience of being the kind of beautiful that other people noticed before she'd fully walked into a room. She'd learned not to think about it too much. It was just a fact, like her eye colour or her height, and she'd long stopped letting it be the most interesting thing about her.
She got her salad. Found a table outside. Ate in the warm afternoon and scrolled through her phone and thought about the report she needed to finish and whether she had everything she needed for dinner tonight.
She was halfway through the salad when they sat down.
Not at her table — at the one nearby, close enough. Two women she vaguely recognised from the clubhouse, crow eaters she'd seen at the edges of parties, looking at her with the particular quality of attention that she clocked immediately and chose to meet pleasantly because that was what she did.
"Hey," she said. Friendly. Easy.
"Hey," the first one said. The tone was wrong from the first syllable — sweetened over something that wasn't sweet at all. "You're Happy's girl, right?"
"That's right," she said.
"Hm." The second one looked her over with the slow assessment of someone making a point of making a point. "Cute."
She said nothing to that. Kept eating.
"Must be interesting," the first one said. "Dating him."
"It is," she said.
"Doesn't it—" a pause, theatrical, "—bother you? What he does?"
She put her fork down. Looked at them properly. "What he does?"
"He kills people." Said plainly. Watching her face for the reaction. "That's literally what he does for the club. He enjoys it." A small smile. "You know that, right?"
"I do know that," she said. Still even. Still pleasant.
"And you're fine with it."
"I'm fine with him," she said. Simply.
The second one leaned forward slightly. "Honey, you know why he's with you, right? You're pretty. That's it. Men like Happy don't do relationships. You're just—" she paused, smiled the smile that wasn't, "—convenient. For now."
She looked at the woman. Then at the other one.
They were waiting for something. A flinch, a crack, some evidence of the wound they were trying to make. She could see it in the way they were watching her — this was the goal, this specific reaction, and they'd decided on it before they sat down.
She picked her fork back up.
"Thanks for the chat," she said pleasantly. "Have a good afternoon."
She finished her salad. Paid. Walked back to work.
She held it together the whole way. She was good at that.
her
The thing was, it wasn't what they'd said about him.
She knew what Happy was. She'd known from early on — not all of it, she didn't need all of it, but enough. The club, the cut, the particular reputation that preceded him into every room. She'd gone in with her eyes open and she'd chosen it and she'd never once woken up and regretted that choice.
It was the convenient that had landed.
Because she'd thought about that. Of course she had — two months in, this man who kept showing up, who listened in a way that most people didn't, who had never once made her feel like less than the most important thing in his immediate vicinity. She'd thought about whether it was real. Whether someone like him, with his history and his nature and the life he led, could do something like this — something that looked, from the inside, very much like genuinely caring about her.
She'd decided yes. She'd believed it.
And now she was back at her desk, one hour later, staring at a spreadsheet she couldn't read, with convenient sitting in her chest like something she couldn't quite dislodge.
She was being stupid. She knew she was being stupid. Two women who didn't know her and didn't know him had said something designed to hurt and it had worked and that said more about a bad afternoon than it did about anything real.
She knew that.
She went home at five with it still sitting there.
happy
He was on the sofa when she came in.
He looked up. Read her immediately — two seconds, maybe less, the particular quality of her that was different from usual. She was doing the fine thing. The smile that was slightly too fast, the way she moved with slightly too much purpose, the careful performance of a person managing something they'd decided not to show.
He watched her put her bag down. Move to the kitchen. Start doing something with a glass of water that she didn't actually need.
"Hey," she said. Too bright.
"Hey." He watched her. "Good afternoon?"
"Fine, yeah—"
"What happened."
She stopped. Back to him. A pause that told him everything.
"Nothing happened—"
"Don't," he said. Quiet. Certain. "Turn around."
She turned around. The performance dropped slightly — not all the way, but enough. She looked at him with the expression of someone who had been hoping distance would help and was finding it hadn't.
He waited. He was very good at waiting.
She told him.
He sat completely still while she did it. She kept her voice light, kept the edges soft, but the facts were there regardless — two women, outside her lunch place, the things they'd said. What they'd called her. What they'd implied.
The convenient.
When she finished the room was quiet.
"They said it to hurt you," he said.
"I know—"
"They were jealous."
"I know that too." She looked at him. "I'm not — I'm fine. I know it wasn't true. I just—" she stopped. "It landed weird. That's all."
He looked at her for a moment. At the thing she was still carrying despite knowing better, the small persistent doubt that two stupid women had planted in twenty minutes.
He stood up. Crossed to her. Stood in front of her and took her face in his hands — both of them, careful, the way he touched her that was different from everything else — and made her look at him.
"You're not convenient," he said. Flat. Certain. No performance in it, no softness for softness's sake, just the plain truth delivered the only way he knew how to deliver things. "You're the reason I come back here. You understand the difference."
She looked at him. Something in her face shifting.
"I know," she said, quieter now.
"Say it like you mean it."
She almost smiled. Almost. "I know, Happy."
"Good."
He held her face for another moment. She leaned into it slightly — the small unconscious movement she made when she was letting something go — and he felt it and stayed where he was until she'd finished letting it go.
"Where were they," he said then.
"No."
"I'm just asking—"
"You're not just asking and we both know it." She looked at him with the warm steel she occasionally produced, the version of her that was sunshine with a spine underneath it. "You're not doing anything. It's handled."
"It's not handled—"
"Happy." She put her hands over his where they were still at her jaw. "I need you to let this one go. Not forever. Just — for now. Okay?"
He looked at her.
"This week," he said.
She pressed her lips together. "Fine. This week."
He nodded once. Let her go. Went back to the sofa.
She stood in the kitchen for a moment, watching him, with the expression she got when she was trying to work out whether she'd won or not.
She probably hadn't won. But she'd gotten this week, which was something.
the party
Friday came.
She wore the red. He'd seen her getting ready and had said nothing because saying things wasn't particularly his mode, but she'd caught his face and known — she always knew — and she'd smiled the pleased smile and that was that.
The clubhouse was full. The kind of full that happened when there was something worth celebrating and the club decided to celebrate it properly. She moved through it with the ease she'd developed over two months — finding Tara, laughing at Tig, being entirely herself in a space that had slowly, quietly become familiar.
Happy watched her from across the room.
He always watched her. It was not something he decided to do — it just happened, the way his eyes went where she was the way a compass went north. He tracked her through the room with the comfortable attention of someone who had found the most interesting thing in the space and saw no reason to look anywhere else.
He clocked the two women when they walked in.
He recognised them. Not because she'd described them — she hadn't, she'd kept that part deliberately vague — but because of the way they looked when they saw her. The particular quality of it. Jealousy wearing disdain like a coat.
His jaw tightened.
She hadn't seen them yet. She was mid-story, hands moving, laughing at her own punchline before she'd finished delivering it the way she did — and he looked at her and looked at the two women and made a decision that wasn't entirely about sending a message.
It was also just about her.
He crossed the room.
She sensed him before she saw him — she always did, he'd stopped trying to understand it — and looked up as he came to stop in front of her. Close. The particular proximity that left no room for ambiguity.
"Hey," she said. Reading his face. "What is it."
"Nothing," he said.
He took her face in his hands.
She went still, looking up at him, curious and entirely trusting in the way she was always entirely trusting which was one of approximately a thousand things about her that had undone him over two months.
He kissed her.
Not briefly. Not for the room — or not only for the room. He kissed her the way he kissed her when it was just them, thorough and unhurried, his hands at her jaw and his full attention on her and nothing else, and she made a small sound and her hands came up to his chest and gripped his cut and kissed him back without hesitation.
The room noticed. Of course it did. He'd known it would. That had been partly the point.
When he pulled back he didn't look at the two women immediately. He looked at her first — at the slightly wide eyes, the expression doing several things at once, the colour in her cheeks.
"What was that for," she said softly.
He looked across the room. Once. Deliberately. Long enough.
She followed his gaze. Found the two women, who were very carefully looking somewhere else in the specific way of people who were absolutely looking.
She looked back at him.
"Happy—"
"Two months," he said quietly. Not for the room this time, just for her. "You're not convenient. You're not temporary. You're mine." He held her gaze. "That's it."
She looked at him for a long moment.
The warm steel was there — she was deciding whether to be exasperated — but underneath it was the thing that had been there since the beginning, the specific warmth she had for him that he still wasn't entirely used to and suspected he never would be.
"You're impossible," she said.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true." She looked across the room once more. The two women had found somewhere else to be entirely. She looked back at him. "Did it make you feel better?"
He considered it. "Yes."
She laughed. The quiet helpless one. Then she stepped forward and kissed him again — briefer this time, her choice, her terms — and when she pulled back her hand stayed on his chest, flat against his cut, the warmth of her palm through the leather.
"Thank you," she said softly. Not for the show. For the other thing. The you're not convenient. The you're mine. The fact that he'd crossed a room and done something that was, in its own particular Happy Lowman way, the most tender thing she'd ever seen.
He put his arm around her. She leaned into his side.
Across the clubhouse Tig made a face at him. He ignored it.
"Tig's doing something," she said, without looking.
"He always is."
"He looked impressed."
"Don't tell him that."
She smiled into his shoulder. The party carried on around them — loud and warm and ongoing — and Happy Lowman stood in the middle of it with the most beautiful woman in the room against his side and felt, quietly and completely, like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.
