He wakes up after dreaming about you and is genuinely irritated because now he has to deal with having feelings before breakfast.
Happy wakes up annoyed, which is not how mornings are supposed to start, and he knows this in the abstract, logical way he knows most things—like how to strip an engine, how to clean a weapon, how to tell when a situation is about to turn into something messy—but knowing it doesn’t stop it from happening, because the problem isn’t the sun hitting the trailer floor at the wrong angle or the stiffness in his shoulder or even the faint ringing in his ears from too many late nights at the clubhouse, the problem is that he was asleep five seconds ago and now he is awake and, worse, he was dreaming about you.
It isn’t even a useful dream. Not something he can file away as information or justification or anything that fits neatly into the categories his life usually allows. It’s just you—too close, too real, doing something simple like laughing at something he said or leaning into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like his body is something safe instead of something dangerous, and the worst part is how his mind supplies details he doesn’t even get to choose, the exact sound of your voice when you say his name like you mean it, the weight of your hand in his, the impossible softness of it all that feels more vivid than anything in his waking life has any right to be.
So when he opens his eyes, it’s not peaceful. It’s immediate irritation, sharp and almost defensive, because now he has to deal with the consequences of a brain that decided, without permission, to make you the center of everything before he’s even had coffee, and he lies there for a long second staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him, jaw tight, expression set in that familiar blankness that usually keeps the world at a manageable distance, except it doesn’t work today because you are still there anyway, stubbornly embedded in his thoughts like a splinter he can’t dig out.
He sits up too fast, swings his legs off the bed, rubs a hand over his face like that will physically remove the memory of you smiling at him in a way that makes his chest feel too tight, and he mutters something under his breath that sounds like irritation but is really just frustration with the fact that he cannot seem to control this one specific thing about his life, because he can control violence, he can control fear, he can control other men with guns and bad intentions, but he cannot control the way his mind softens every time you exist in it.
By the time he’s standing in the kitchen making coffee—black, bitter, the way he always takes it, because sweetness feels like a risk—he’s already in a worse mood, not because anything is wrong exactly, but because everything is too right in the most inconvenient way possible, because the memory of you from the dream has followed him out of sleep and into the waking world like you have every right to be there, leaning against his counter in his head like you belong, and he catches himself pausing mid-motion just to exhale slowly through his nose as if that will reset whatever is happening to him internally.
And then, because the universe has a sense of humor he does not appreciate, his phone buzzes.
One message.
From you.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing urgent.
Just something simple—too simple.
good morning :)
And he stares at it for a full five seconds longer than is normal for a man who has stared down threats without blinking, because it hits him with the same unfair precision as the dream did, like the world is conspiring to make sure he cannot escape this feeling even for the length of a sunrise, and he hates how quickly his thumb moves to open it, hates how automatic it is, hates even more how the irritation doesn’t survive contact with your name on his screen.
He doesn’t reply immediately, because he refuses to be that predictable, but the silence doesn’t help him either, because now he’s standing in his kitchen holding a mug he forgot he filled, thinking about you awake somewhere out there living a life that somehow overlaps with his, thinking about the way you’d laugh if you knew he woke up already halfway ruined by a dream, thinking about how unfair it is that you exist at all in a way that makes him feel like this—this inconvenient, consuming, ridiculous pull toward something he cannot categorize as anything other than want.
By the time he finally hears the knock at his door, he already knows.
Not logically.
Not reasonably.
But in that deep, irritated part of him that has started recognizing patterns it never used to care about.
Two knocks.
Pause.
Then a third, softer one like you’re debating whether you should be there at all.
And he opens the door before he can talk himself out of it.
You’re standing there like you always do when you’ve decided to be brave about something small and enormous at the same time, looking at him like you’ve also had a morning you don’t know how to explain, like you’ve also been ambushed by your own thoughts and somehow ended up here because there was nowhere else they would settle, and you’re holding a coffee you clearly didn’t buy for yourself alone, and he hates how immediately his brain relaxes just seeing you, like you are the only thing capable of making the noise in his head stop.
“You didn’t reply,” you say, like that matters more than it should, like it’s an accusation and a confession at the same time.
He looks at you for a long moment, expression flat in the way it always is when he’s trying not to show too much of anything, but there’s something in his eyes that gives him away anyway—something tired and raw and far too honest for a man like him—and he finally steps aside without answering, letting you in like it’s the most inevitable thing in the world, because at this point it is.
“I was busy,” he says eventually, which is a lie so transparent it almost feels insulting to both of you.
“With what?” you ask, turning slightly toward him, and there’s that softness in your voice that makes his jaw tighten again because it makes everything worse and better at the same time.
He doesn’t answer immediately, because the real answer is standing in his doorway wearing yesterday’s version of normal and somehow still managing to look like the only thing in his life that isn’t a problem he can solve by force, and when he finally speaks, it comes out quieter than he intends, rough around the edges like it had to fight its way past every instinct he has to keep things buried.
“Waking up.”
You blink at that, confused for half a second, and then your expression shifts like you understand more than you should, like you recognize something in him that he hasn’t said out loud yet but has somehow been broadcasting anyway, and you step closer—not fast, not reckless, just certain in a way that undoes him more effectively than anything else ever has.
“Bad dream?” you ask softly.
His mouth twitches like he almost laughs, but doesn’t.
“Yeah,” he admits.
A pause.
Then, because he’s already ruined the morning anyway, because he’s already failed at keeping you at a safe distance from whatever this is, he adds, quieter, almost like it costs him something real to say it out loud, “You were in it.”
Your breath catches—not dramatically, not performatively, just enough that he notices immediately—and suddenly the space between you feels different, like the air itself has shifted to make room for something neither of you is brave enough to name properly, and you set your coffee down on the nearest surface like your hands needed to be free for whatever comes next.
“I had a dream too,” you say, and your voice is steadier than it should be, considering the way your eyes won’t quite leave his face.
That gets his attention in a way nothing else does.
He stills.
Entirely.
Like a man bracing for impact.
“…Yeah?” he asks.
You nod once, like you’re committing to it now that you’ve started.
“And you were irritated in it,” you add, almost like you find that part funny, like you’re watching him even in your sleep and finding him predictable.
That finally pulls something almost like a sound out of him—barely a scoff, barely a laugh, something caught between disbelief and resignation—and when you step closer again, there’s no hesitation left in you at all, just that same relentless pull that seems to exist between you both whether either of you cooperate or not.
“I think we’re doing something really stupid,” you whisper.
His eyes flick down to your mouth for half a second before he forces them back up, like he refuses to let himself get distracted by the obvious, like he’s still trying to pretend he has control over any of this.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Then, softer, like he’s finally giving up the fight he never said he was fighting, “But you’re here anyway.”
Your answer is immediate.
“So are you.”
And that’s what breaks whatever restraint he had left, because there’s no argument for it, no logic that can fix it, no version of him that doesn’t already know this is where it was always going, and he reaches for you like it’s inevitable rather than impulsive, like it’s gravity rather than choice, pulling you in close enough that the world outside this room stops existing in any meaningful way.
“You’re a problem,” he mutters against your hair, but his arms don’t let go.
You hum softly, pressed against him like you belong there more than the rest of the world does.
“You’re worse,” you reply.
And for a long moment, that’s all it is—morning, coffee gone cold somewhere behind you, two people who woke up irritated at their own feelings and somehow ended up standing in the same small space anyway like there was never any other outcome that made sense.
He exhales slowly, like he’s accepting something he doesn’t know how to live with yet.
“…Stay,” he says finally, like it costs him the last of his resistance.
You don’t even hesitate.
“I was already going to.”
And when he tightens his hold on you just slightly, like he’s making sure you really mean it, there’s no more irritation left in him at all—just the quiet, unavoidable truth that whatever this is, it woke him up before breakfast, stayed with him after, and somehow, against every instinct he’s ever had, is exactly where he wants to be.
I’d probably wait to do requests until I’m more familiar.
As for my writing, I would try to be very descriptive! I’m really into Sons Of Anarchy right now, specifically Happy and Juice. Tbh it’d probably just be a fan page for Happy and Juice….😍😛
Primarily, character x female reader and my own OC I’ve been making. Maybe I’ll even make a series??
Happy figures out you're touch-starved. Good luck surviving that one.
I mean, really, if Happy Lowman can figure out you're touch-starved, something might be very wrong.
If anyone else had noticed you were touch-starved, it probably would’ve been embarrassing.
If Happy Lowman noticed?
That was honestly catastrophic.
Because Happy noticed things the way predators did.
Quietly.
Patiently.
With terrifying accuracy.
And once he noticed something, he did not let it go.
It starts with little things.
Things you don’t even realize you’re doing.
The way you linger during hugs a second too long before catching yourself.
How you lean unconsciously toward warmth—Gemma bumping your shoulder, Chibs squeezing your arm, a drunk girl at the bar looping her arm through yours.
How your face softens every single time physical affection is offered to you like you’re starving for it but trying very hard not to ask for more.
Happy notices all of it.
Of course he does.
Happy notices everything about you.
That’s the problem.
The first time it really clicks for him is movie night at the clubhouse.
Most of SAMCRO is spread around the room in various states of exhaustion and intoxication while some terrible action movie plays too loudly on the TV.
You’re curled into the corner of the couch under a blanket, half asleep already.
Happy sits beside you because he always sits beside you now.
Nobody comments on it anymore.
At some point Tig says something dramatic enough to make everyone laugh, and you laugh too—soft and sleepy—and without thinking you lean sideways.
Just a little.
Your shoulder bumps against Happy’s arm.
That’s it.
Barely contact.
But then—
You melt.
Not dramatically.
Not obviously.
Just this tiny unconscious relaxation like your body had been waiting for it.
Happy goes very still.
His eyes shift toward you slowly.
You don’t even realize you’ve done it.
Still watching the movie.
Still smiling faintly.
But your shoulder stays pressed against his arm like you belong there.
Like you needed it.
Something sharp twists in Happy’s chest.
Not lust.
Not even possessiveness, not fully.
Something worse.
Something painfully close to tenderness.
He keeps thinking about it long after you leave that night.
The way you relaxed instantly from one tiny point of contact.
Like nobody touched you enough.
Like maybe nobody had in a long time.
Once he notices it, he can’t unsee it.
You flinch at harshness but lean into gentleness.
You always initiate contact jokingly, casually—playful punches to shoulders, quick hugs, brushing against people in passing—but the second someone touches you first, you go strangely quiet.
Like you don’t know what to do with being wanted softly.
Happy hates how much that realization bothers him.
“Ye look murderous,” Chibs tells him one afternoon.
Happy grunts from his place against the garage wall.
Across the lot, you’re talking to Juice while trying to fix the chain on your bike.
You laugh at something Juice says.
Then, without hesitation, Juice reaches over and brushes grease off your cheek with his thumb.
Your expression changes instantly.
Tiny.
But Happy sees it.
That brief startled softness.
That unconscious leaning in.
Like affection catches you off guard every time.
Happy’s jaw tightens hard enough to ache.
Chibs follows his line of sight.
“Oh,” he says slowly.
Happy says nothing.
Chibs watches you another moment before looking back at him.
“She doesn’t get looked after much, does she?”
That lands harder than it should.
Because no.
You don’t.
You’re independent to a fault. Self-sufficient. Careful not to ask for too much from anyone.
But sometimes Happy catches this look on your face when someone’s gentle with you.
Like you’re surprised kindness exists.
And that makes something ugly and protective wake up inside him.
The first deliberate touch happens by accident.
At least, that’s what Happy tells himself.
You’re sitting at the bar in the clubhouse late one night, exhaustion written all over you.
Everyone else has mostly cleared out.
Just you, Happy, and the low hum of old rock music from the speakers.
You look tired.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
Your eyes are distant, fingers curled loosely around a drink you stopped sipping ten minutes ago.
Happy watches you quietly.
“You alright?”
You blink like you forgot he was there.
Then immediately smile.
Automatic.
Too fast.
“Yeah.”
Lie.
Happy knows lies.
You stare down into your drink again.
“Just a long day.”
He grunts softly.
Silence stretches.
Then, before he fully thinks it through, Happy reaches out.
Hooks two fingers lightly around your wrist.
That’s all.
Barely anything.
But your entire body stills.
Your eyes lift slowly to his face.
Happy suddenly becomes hyperaware of what he’s doing.
Could pull away.
Probably should.
Instead, his thumb brushes once against the inside of your wrist.
Gentle.
Careful.
You inhale sharply.
Not scared.
Worse.
Your expression softens so suddenly it almost hurts to look at.
Like no one’s touched you gently in years.
Happy feels something in his chest cave inward.
“Jesus,” he mutters quietly.
You blink. “What?”
His eyes stay on your face.
“You're touch-starved.”
Mortification floods your expression instantly.
“Oh my god.”
Happy actually looks offended on your behalf.
“Who the hell ain’t holdin’ you enough?”
You let out a startled laugh despite yourself, covering your face with your free hand.
“That is not something you can just say to a person.”
“It’s true.”
“You figured that out from touching my wrist for two seconds?!”
Happy shrugs.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Because if Happy noticed?
Oh, something was deeply wrong.
You groan into your hands. “I’m never recovering from this conversation.”
Happy’s thumb moves against your wrist again unconsciously.
“No wonder you’re always hoverin’ around people.”
You peek at him through your fingers.
“…I do not hover.”
“You absolutely hover.”
“I’m a friendly person.”
“You look like a stray cat hopin’ somebody’ll pet it.”
You stare at him in betrayal.
Happy stares back calmly.
Then:
“C’mere.”
Your stomach flips.
“What?”
“C’mere.”
His voice is quieter this time.
You hesitate only a second before sliding off the stool toward him.
Happy immediately pulls you between his knees like he’s done it a thousand times.
One arm wraps around your waist automatically.
Solid.
Warm.
Safe.
And then—
Then this large, terrifying man with more ink than bare skin, and violence in his bones just… holds you.
No expectations.
No teasing.
No smugness.
Just steady pressure and a rough hand and warmth.
Your brain completely short-circuits.
Because it’s embarrassing how fast your body reacts.
Every muscle unclenches at once.
A shaky breath leaves your lungs before you can stop it.
Happy notices.
Of course he notices.
His arm tightens slightly.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
You could actually die right here.
You bury your face against his shoulder immediately.
“Don’t talk to me.”
A low rumble of laughter vibrates through his chest.
It’s rare enough that you freeze.
Happy laughs again, quieter this time.
And then—
His hand slides slowly up your back.
Not sexual.
Not possessive.
Just soothing.
You might genuinely cry.
Which is humiliating.
Happy seems to realize that too because his movements soften instantly.
“S’alright,” he says quietly.
That does not help.
That makes it so much worse.
Your arms slide around him before you can stop yourself.
Clinging a little.
Happy goes completely still for half a second.
Then his other arm comes around you too.
Firm.
Protective.
Like he’s locking you into place.
And the horrifying thing?
You’ve never felt safer in your life.
After that, Happy becomes unbearable.
Because now he knows.
And apparently decides this is a problem he can fix personally.
You’re cold? Happy’s hand settles on the back of your neck.
You’re stressed? He pulls you against his chest without a word.
You fall asleep during a run to Tacoma? You wake up with your head in his lap and one massive hand absently carding through your hair in the back of the truck.
It becomes constant.
Subtle touches.
Knuckles brushing yours. Hands on your waist guiding you through crowded rooms. His thumb rubbing slow circles into your shoulder while you sit beside him.
And every single time, your body betrays you immediately.
Melting into him.
Relaxing on instinct.
Happy watches it happen with increasingly visible satisfaction.
“You purr and I’m puttin’ a collar on ya,” Tig says one afternoon.
“Shut the fuck up,” you mumble from where your head rests on Happy’s shoulder.
Happy, the traitor, actually looks like he’s considering it.
The worst part is how gentle he gets with you.
Nobody warns you about that part of Happy.
Everyone talks about how violent he is.
How dangerous.
Nobody mentions the terrifying tenderness hidden underneath all that brutality.
The way he touches you like he’s afraid of being too rough. The way he checks your expression constantly. The way he pulls you closer anytime you seem even slightly upset.
Like he’s learning your body by instinct alone.
And the thing is—
Happy doesn’t even realize how affectionate he’s become.
One night you’re half asleep on the clubhouse couch when you feel fingers brushing lightly through your hair.
You blink awake slowly.
Happy’s sitting beside you.
Watching TV.
Completely calm.
Still playing absently with your hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You stare at him.
“…Happy.”
“Hm?”
“You’re petting me.”
A pause.
Then:
“Yeah.”
No embarrassment.
No hesitation.
Just yeah.
Your heart basically folds in on itself.
“You are such a weird friend.”
His hand slides to the back of your neck, warm and heavy.
“You like it.”
You smile helplessly into his shoulder.
Unfortunately.
You really, really do.
Happy gets dramatically worse once you start dating.
Not better.
Not smoother.
Definitely not normal.
Worse.
Because before, there had at least been some restraint. Tiny amounts. Barely measurable. But technically present.
Now?
Now you were officially his.
And apparently that meant Happy Lowman treated physical affection like a full-time occupation.
The first morning after you officially become a couple, you wake up confused because you physically cannot move.
At all.
You blink sleepily at the ceiling for several long seconds before realizing why.
Happy is wrapped around you like a human seatbelt.
One arm under your neck.
The other locked around your waist.
One leg hooked over yours.
You are fully trapped.
You shift slightly.
The arm around your waist tightens instantly.
A low grumble sounds against your neck.
“Don’t.”
Your stomach flips stupidly.
“You’re crushing me.”
“Mm.”
No movement whatsoever accompanies this acknowledgment.
You try to turn your head enough to look at him.
“Happy.”
He’s awake.
You can tell immediately.
Even with his face buried in your shoulder, even half asleep, there’s still awareness in him. Always alert. Always tracking.
But his voice is rough with sleep when he mutters:
“Stay here.”
It comes out quiet.
Not demanding.
Not controlling.
Just… wanting.
Like he genuinely can’t think of anywhere better for you to be.
Your heart immediately betrays you.
“Oh, you’re dangerous when you’re sleepy,” you murmur.
Happy presses his face further into your neck in response.
Which is not an answer.
It’s also unfairly adorable.
You make a soft sound despite yourself, and suddenly his hand slides slowly up your stomach like he’s checking you’re still there.
“You real clingy for a guy who pretends he hates everybody,” you tease gently.
“Do hate everybody.”
“And me?”
A pause.
Then, without hesitation:
“Different.”
Jesus Christ.
You stare at the ceiling trying to recover from that.
Happy, meanwhile, seems perfectly content now that you’ve stopped attempting escape.
The bastard even sighs happily.
Actually happy.
You’re doomed.
The touching somehow escalates from there.
You genuinely don’t understand how.
Happy already touched you constantly before you dated.
Now he acts like prolonged physical contact is medically necessary.
You’re beginning to suspect he spent years touch-starved too and simply hadn’t realized until your relationship unlocked something deeply embarrassing in both of you.
Because this man cannot keep his hands off you anymore.
Not sexually, even.
Just constantly.
Possessively.
Tenderly.
You’re cooking? Happy’s leaning against the counter with one hand hooked into your belt loop.
Walking through crowded spaces? His palm settles automatically on your lower back.
Sitting beside each other? One of his hands is on your thigh within thirty seconds or he apparently starts dying.
At one point you’re literally brushing your teeth when Happy wanders into the bathroom half asleep, wraps both arms around your waist from behind, and just stands there.
Silent.
Eyes closed.
Holding you.
You stare at him through the mirror, toothbrush still hanging out of your mouth.
“...You good?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why are you standing here like a haunted weighted blanket?”
Happy only tightens his arms.
“You’re warm.”
Your soul leaves your body immediately.
The guys at SAMCRO are relentless about it.
Mostly because Happy—the same terrifying man who once stabbed someone with a barbecue fork during a disagreement—now follows you around like you personally hung the moon.
“Ye created a monster,” Chibs informs you one afternoon.
Happy’s sitting beside you on the clubhouse couch, one massive arm draped across the back behind your shoulders while you read.
Without looking up, Happy hooks two fingers through one of your belt loops and tugs you closer absentmindedly.
You slide against his side automatically.
Neither of you even seem to notice you’ve done it.
Chibs looks deeply disturbed.
“He was emotionally constipated before,” he says. “Now the bastard’s domesticated.”
Happy flips him off without lifting his head from your shoulder.
Honestly, you don’t fully realize how bad it’s gotten until Lyla points it out.
“You know he watches you constantly, right?”
You glance up from your drink. “What?”
Lyla tilts her head subtly across the clubhouse.
Happy’s across the room talking to Jax.
Well..
'Talking.'
Mostly glaring while Jax speaks.
But the second you look over, Happy’s eyes shift immediately toward you like he felt it.
Instantly softer.
Your stomach flips.
Then he does something even worse.
He holds his hand out toward you without breaking conversation.
Just reaches blindly in your direction with complete confidence you’ll come to him.
You stare.
Lyla starts laughing.
“Oh my god, you do it automatically.”
And horrifyingly enough?
You do.
Your body moves before your brain catches up.
You cross the room and slide directly into his space while Happy’s hand settles immediately on your hip like this was always the intended outcome.
Jax watches the entire thing happen with visible amusement.
“That’s actually disgusting,” he says.
Happy ignores him completely.
Too busy absently rubbing his thumb against your side.
You look up at him. “You summoned me.”
His gaze drops to your face instantly.
“Yeah.”
“That’s insane behavior.”
A shrug.
“You came over.”
You open your mouth.
Close it again.
Because unfortunately he’s right.
The worst incident happens five months into dating.
You’re exhausted.
Absolutely dead on your feet after a brutal week.
Happy notices immediately, of course, because he notices everything about you.
“You’re tired,” he says the second you walk into his room at the clubhouse.
You drop face-first onto the bed with a groan. “I’m actually dying.”
A moment later the mattress shifts under his weight.
Then rough hands slide under you without warning.
You squeak as Happy physically lifts you into his lap like you weigh nothing.
“Happy—”
“Shh.”
And then—
The giant terrifying biker hitman proceeds to manhandle you against his chest and wrap himself around you completely.
One hand in your hair.
The other rubbing slowly up and down your spine.
You melt instantly.
Actually melt.
Every coherent thought exits your body.
Happy notices immediately.
A smugness enters the room so powerful it’s almost visible.
“Told you,” he mutters against your temple.
“Told me what?”
“You like gettin’ held.”
You grumble something incoherent into his neck.
His chest vibrates with quiet laughter.
“You’re cute when you’re sleepy.”
Your head lifts immediately. “I have literally never said anything that embarrassing to you in my life.”
Happy grins.
Actually grins.
Sharp and rare and devastating.
Then he kisses your forehead.
Like it’s nothing.
Like he does it every day.
Maybe he does.
You’ve lost track at this point.
All you know is that this terrifying man who once scared you senseless now treats you like something precious.
Like touching you is instinct.
Like loving you is the easiest thing he’s ever done.
And you’re pretty sure you’d let Happy Lowman hold you forever if he asked.
