#happy lowman

[m0ldy-p3ach]

hey so uh…..

[m0ldy-p3ach]

MEOWWW

[belleeebelleee]

[belleeebelleee]

happy loves your thighs and your tummy.

he loves resting his hand over your thigh when driving in his truck or when you're sitting next to him in the clubhouse and he loves digging his fingers into the soft flesh when you're squished next to him on the couch or he's got his face buried between them. loves the way they feel when he's lowered onto his stomach between them, tongue lapping at you, while one hand stays firmly over the soft plush of your thighs and the other snakes up to grab at the flesh of your tummy, half-heartedly keeping you pressed to the bed, while he continues to pull sounds from your mouth. loves to hike your calves up over his shoulders while he buries his thick cock into your pussy, hands roaming from your thighs and over your stomach constantly, like he can't make up his mind what he wants to touch more. loves to curl up next to you in bed, head starting on your chest before he inevitably migrates down so his cheek is pressed firmly to your plush stomach where he's forced your shirt up and out of the way, occasionally pressing little pecks and open mouthed kisses to the skin there.

[scrmqwn]

happy lowman x reader

(yea sorry i won't shut the fuck up about happy lowman and his sweet babygirl who he absolutely worships!!!!! happy was raised by women & he treats his lady as such. his baby who's a canvas for new art ideas, loves his mom & aunt & grandma as if they were her own. holds the fort with ten toes down when happy is away on club business. she is sugar, spice & everything nice.)

[ravennaortiz]

Operation Get Back In

*Snippet as this fic didn't quite fell complete when shorter, full fic will be out in 2027!

Summary: Happy is a man on a mission. Which wouldn't be unusual for him except instead of it ending in death he hopes to end it with getting you back.

Requested by @arkytiorlecter

You stood silent on your porch. Arms crossed and no sign of your usual sweet smile. Waves of anger and annoyance travelled from you to the biker parked in your driveway.

Juice sighed as he contemplated how he had gotten himself in this situation. Simply helping a friend out is all he wanted to do and now he was thinking better of it as he got off his bike and walked up to your porch with the pink envelope with a letter from Happy.

"Umm....Happy asked if I could give you this" he stated awkwardly as he waved the letter in the air.

"Tell the bald prick to stop sending shit and stay the hell away from me" you snapped making Juice flinch. You felt bad but bit your tongue to hold the apology that almost fell out. "He got what he wanted and made it clear what I was good for" you added before turning and yanking your door open quickly dislodging your wreath before slamming it closed with a loud crack.

Juice sighed as he moved up your porch and picked up the wreath before reattaching it to your hook. Turning around he pulled out his phone and dialed Happy. "Think you may have left out some info before sending me on this errand brother" he stated as Happy picked up.

[belleeebelleee]

I rewatched Sons of Anarchy for the first time since I was like 14/15 and back then I was just watching bikers do insane shit and thinking "this is so fucking cool,” and now I’m 24 and watching a bunch of deeply fucked-up people love each other as best as they know how, and sometimes the way they love each other is beautiful and sometimes it's catastrophically destructive, so here’s my thoughts and feelings and general musings (this will contain spoilers, and a lot of them):

The review

Season 1 & 2

Season 3

Season 4

Season 5

Season 6

Season 7

#° braindead watches: SOA

[belleeebelleee]

Happy Lowman (Sons of Anarchy) x fem!reader

You spend years thinking he doesn't want you. Happy eventually gets fed up, grabs your face, and says, "Sweetheart, I've been in love with you since Bush was president. Help me out here."

selfishly made it my year of birth

so for my non-American peeps (aka me), there were two Bush presidents, the first serving from 1989 to 1993, and the second from 2001 to 2009 - you choose which Bush you think he's meaning

please this is supposed to be funny and a silly lil comedy piece not something serious

The problem with being in love with Happy Lowman was that Happy Lowman was possibly the most unreadable man to ever walk the face of the earth.

You had known him since you were twenty-one.

Known.

Not known known.

Not the way you desperately wanted to know him. Not the way your heart wanted every single time he looked at you for one second longer than necessary before turning away. Not the way your stupid brain replayed every tiny interaction for days afterward.

You knew him in the way everyone knew Happy.

The quiet man. The dangerous man. The terrifying man. The man who somehow said more with a single glance than most people managed in an entire conversation.

The problem was that nobody had ever taught you how to interpret those glances. Especially not when they were directed at you.

So for three years you suffered.

Silently.

Pathetically.

Hopelessly.

You watched him bring you coffee without asking how you took it because somehow he'd memorised your order after hearing it exactly once. You watched him save your favourite seat whenever the clubhouse got crowded. You watched him fix things around your apartment without mentioning it afterward. You watched him stare holes through men who got too friendly. You watched him appear out of absolutely nowhere every time you needed help.

And because you were twenty-one when this whole disaster started and because Happy Lowman was approximately one thousand years old in comparison, your conclusion was obvious.

He felt sorry for you.

That had to be it.

There was no other explanation.

Because why would a forty-nine-year-old man look at a twenty-four-year-old woman that way? Why would someone like Happy want someone like you?

It didn't make sense.

So every time your heart tried to get hopeful, you crushed it immediately. Every time someone suggested Happy liked you, you laughed. Every time you caught yourself imagining impossible things, you forced yourself to stop.

Three years.

Three entire years of being hopelessly in love with a man who seemed completely unaware of it.

Meanwhile Happy was having the exact same experience.

Which would have been funny if it hadn't been driving him slowly insane.

Because from Happy's perspective, you clearly weren't interested.

Obviously.

How could you be?

You were young.

Beautiful.

Smart.

Funny.

You had your whole life ahead of you.

Every time he worked up the nerve to say something, he'd remember the year on your driver's license and immediately want to walk into traffic. Or the ocean. Maybe the abyss.

The first time he'd realized he was in trouble you'd been twenty-one.

Twenty-one.

Happy had nearly had a heart attack.

Not because you'd done anything wrong, no that would have been survivable.

Because you'd smiled at him.

That was it.

A smile.

A normal smile.

A perfectly innocent smile.

And suddenly a man who had survived prison, gunfights, federal investigations, cartel negotiations, and approximately ten thousand near-death experiences was standing in a garage feeling like he'd forgotten how breathing worked.

It was humiliating. Mortifying even.

Then he'd learned you were born in 2001, and that had made it worse.

Two thousand and one.

A year that sounded fictional.

A year that should not belong to an actual adult woman.

A year that made Happy feel approximately nine hundred years old.

"Ye okay?" Chibs had asked after catching him staring blankly into space.

"She was born in 2001."

Chibs blinked.

"Who?"

Happy just stared.

Realisation dawned slowly, and then came the laughter. Lots of laughter.

Happy had considered murder.

Unfortunately, that only encouraged Chibs.

For years afterward every time someone mentioned your birth year Happy looked personally offended.

"You were born in 2001."

"Yes, Happy."

"That's ridiculous."

"It's not."

"It is."

"You act like you were born during the Renaissance."

"Might as well have been."

You'd laughed and Happy had stared at you.

And then spent the next three hours wanting to smash his own head into a wall because you looked cute when you laughed.

Three years.

Three years of this nonsense.

Three years of mutual pining so obvious that everyone around you wanted to scream.

At some point the club had started placing bets on who would finally crack first. Because it was inevitable. Everybody knew it.

Everybody except the two people involved.

The breaking point came on a random Tuesday.

The most unremarkable Tuesday imaginable.

You were sitting outside the clubhouse after dinner, with Happy, in the warm evening air, and the noise of the day dwindling.

And you and Happy were sitting alone, a space carefully left between you. Not touching. Never touching.

God forbid either of you make things easy.

You were talking about something insignificant. Something that had happened at work, that flowered into groceries you remembered you needed, and other general life topics that Happy wasn't really listening to, because he was too busy noticing the way the sunset caught in your hair. The way you smiled. The way you always leaned slightly toward him when you talked.

And because he was a complete idiot, he found himself wondering what would happen if he finally kissed you.

Then his brain immediately reminded him that you probably didn't want that.

Because if you did, surely something would have happened by now.

Right?

At that exact moment you sighed.

A soft, sad sound.

Happy looked over.

You were staring out toward the road.

"What?"

You hesitated.

Then shrugged.

"Nothing."

Happy waited, he knew you'd talk eventually.

"I just wish I knew what it was about me."

His stomach dropped.

"What?"

You laughed quietly, but it wasn't the laugh he loved from you. This one was sad, hurt.

"The thing that makes people not want me."

The world went very still.

Happy stared.

"What are you talking about?"

You shrugged again.

"Nothing."

"Bullshit."

You looked away.

And because apparently the universe had decided he hadn't suffered enough, you continued, "I mean, it's fine."

"It doesn't sound fine."

You laughed again.

"I'm used to it."

Happy's jaw tightened.

"Used to what?"

You stared at the ground.

Then finally said the words that shattered what remained of his self-control.

"Being the person people care about but never actually choose."

Silence.

A long, torturous, silence.

Then, "Sweetheart."

You looked up to Happy staring at you, with an expression that bordered on offended.

"You think nobody chooses you?"

You looked confused, and a little embarrassed.

"Happy—"

"No."

His voice was firm.

Sharp.

"Explain that to me."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You think nobody chooses you."

You looked increasingly alarmed.

"That's not—"

"It is."

"Happy—"

"No."

Then suddenly he was moving.

One second he was sitting beside you.

The next he was standing directly in front of you.

You barely had time to react before both his hands came up, gently, carefully, to hold you face, his palms warm against your cheeks.

Your entire brain stopped functioning.

So did his.

For a moment you simply stared at each other.

Years of tension stretched between you.

Years of longing.

Years of misunderstanding.

Years of complete and utter stupidity.

Then Happy finally snapped.

"Sweetheart," his forehead nearly touched yours, "You were born in 2001."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You were born in 2001."

"Happy, what does that have to do with—"

"Everything."

"Nothing about this conversation makes sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

"No Happy, it really doesn't."

Happy closed his eyes briefly, like he was gathering patience.

When he opened them again there was so much affection in them that your chest physically hurt.

"So help me God."

"Happy—"

"I've been in love with you since Bush was president."

Your mouth fell open.

Silence.

Total silence.

The kind of silence that changes lives.

You stared.

Happy stared back.

Then he added, with the exhausted frustration of a man who had reached the absolute end of his rope, "Help me out here."

For three full seconds neither of you moved.

Then—

"What?"

"I've been in love with you."

"What?"

"Still."

"What?"

"Sweetheart, please stop saying what."

Your heart was beating so hard you thought you might actually pass out.

"You—"

"Yes."

"You love me?"

"Yes."

"You've been in love with me for years?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Happy looked genuinely bewildered.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

You laughed, a loud and hysterical sound.

"Because I thought you didn't want me."

Happy stared at you.

Then laughed too. Disbelieving. Half-crazy.

"Oh, that's good."

"What?"

"That's really good."

"Happy—"

"I thought you didn't want me."

You blinked.

"What?"

"See? We can both do that."

You were still staring at him.

Still trying to process the fact that the man you'd loved for three years was standing in front of you looking at you like you hung the moon.

"You thought I didn't want you?"

"You never said anything."

"You never said anything."

"You called me old."

"You are old."

Happy groaned.

You burst out laughing.

And suddenly he was laughing too.

The tension shattered.

The years melted away. All those misunderstandings and fears. Gone.

Then his hands slid a little more securely against your face, and his expression softened.

"You really didn't know?"

The question was almost painful.

You shook your head, "No."

Something vulnerable flickered across his face.

"I thought I was obvious."

You stared at him.

"Happy."

"Yeah?"

"You once responded to a compliment with a grunt."

"That was a positive grunt."

You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over, leaning further into his hold.

Happy smiled and the sight nearly killed you.

Then he leaned forward, slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You didn't.

And when he kissed you, it felt like three years of waiting finally coming to an end. Warm and certain and worth every second of agony.

When he finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

"Three years," you murmured.

Happy sighed, "Three years."

"We're idiots."

"Yeah."

You smiled.

He kissed you again.

Just because he could.

And for the first time since you'd been twenty-one years old and hopelessly in love with Happy Lowman, you no longer had to wonder if he felt the same.

Because he did.

He always had.

Apparently since Bush was president. Which, according to Happy, was a completely reasonable and not-at-all dramatic way to measure time.