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Hello Loves and Welcome to my Monster Lover Event!
From now July 18th 2026 to August 17th 2026 you may submit requests for this event which will start posting in October! Any questions? Just reach out!
Rules are pretty simple
Choose a character below from either SONS or Mayans. Sons- Clay, Chibs, Halfsack,Happy,Jax,Juice,Kozik,Tig,Opie,Ratboy Mayans- Angel, Bishop, Bottles, Creeper, Coco, Manny, Nestor, Gilly, Guero, EZ
Send in a small blurb for your request including monster type you wish for the guy to be portrayed as or say MYSTERY and I will pick something for you!
You can send in as many requests as you want please just send them as separate asks so I can stay organized! You can also mix and match characters! Who doesn't love a good cross over?
Please and this is the most important! Include 2026 Monster Lover Event in your request so that I know its for this event and not just a normal request!
You call him after having a terrible day and he simply says, "Door's unlocked."
The day had begun badly enough that, by lunchtime, you'd almost laughed at the sheer determination the universe seemed to have to make it worse.
Your alarm hadn't gone off.
You'd spilled coffee all over the only clean shirt you'd wanted to wear.
Your car had refused to start, forcing you to catch a bus that arrived twenty-three minutes late.
Your boss had decided that today, apparently, was the perfect day to criticise everything you'd done over the past month, despite complimenting the exact same work last week.
A customer had yelled at you for something completely outside your control.
Someone had stolen the lunch you'd packed.
Then your mother had called to remind you—without meaning to be cruel, perhaps, but managing it anyway—that you still hadn't "figured life out," unlike everyone else your age.
By the time your shift finally ended, rain had started falling in heavy, cold sheets, soaking through your jacket before you even reached the sidewalk, and when you reached your apartment building, exhausted and aching and emotionally threadbare, you discovered the power had gone out on your entire block.
You stood there in the rain for almost a full minute.
Then you turned around.
Without really thinking about it.
Because there was only one place your exhausted mind wanted to be.
You didn't call people when things went wrong.
That was something everyone around SAMCRO had eventually learned about you.
You smiled. You insisted you were fine. You baked cookies when you were sad.You cleaned when you were anxious. You apologised when other people hurt your feelings. You'd somehow convinced yourself that needing comfort made you inconvenient.
Which was exactly why the phone ringing in Chibs Telford's pocket after nine at night immediately caught his attention.
He looked at the screen.
Your name.
He answered before the second ring.
"...Hello, lass?"
For a few seconds...
Nothing.
Just breathing. Small. Shaky.
He didn't interrupt.
He knew silence wasn't empty.
Not with you.
Finally your voice came, painfully small.
"...Hi."
His entire posture softened.
"What happened?"
Another silence.
Then a tiny, broken laugh.
"You ever have one of those days where literally everything goes wrong?"
"Aye."
"I think... I think I just used up my lifetime supply."
He waited.
You sniffled.
"I don't... I don't actually need anything."
"I know."
"I just..."
Your voice cracked.
"...wanted to hear someone who doesn't sound disappointed in me."
Something inside him twisted so sharply it almost hurt.
For weeks...
Months...
He'd watched you quietly carry burdens that weren't yours. Apologize for existing. Thank people for basic kindness. Smile through tears. Pretend you were okay because you worried your sadness might inconvenience someone else.
He'd hated every second of it.
Without hesitation...
Without asking questions...
Without making you explain...
He simply said, in that calm Scottish voice that somehow always managed to slow the world down,
"Door's unlocked."
Silence.
"...What?"
"My door."
Another pause.
"...It's unlocked."
You blinked.
"You don't..."
"I do."
"But I haven't even told you—"
"I don't care."
"I've probably got mascara everywhere."
"Aye."
"I'm soaked."
"I've got towels."
"I'll probably cry."
"I've got shoulders."
You laughed despite yourself. A watery little laugh.
He smiled into the phone.
"So."
Another beat.
"Door's unlocked."
Twenty-five minutes later you found yourself standing outside his little house.
Your shoes squelched. Your hair clung to your face. Your eyes burned from crying.
You knocked anyway.
The door immediately opened.
Because he'd been standing there. Listening for your footsteps.
Chibs looked at you once.
One single look.
Rain-soaked. Red eyes. Shivering. Lip trembling from trying not to cry again.
His expression immediately became one of quiet heartbreak.
"Oh, sweetheart..."
That was all it took.
You burst into tears.
Not graceful tears. Not pretty tears.
The ugly kind. The overwhelming kind. The kind you'd spent all day refusing to let happen.
He didn't say a word.
Didn't ask permission. Didn't tell you to calm down.
He simply stepped forward and wrapped both arms around you.
His leather kutte became soaked within seconds.
He couldn't have cared less.
You clung to him with both hands, forehead pressed against his chest as months of bottled-up exhaustion finally escaped all at once.
"I know," he murmured softly, one large hand rubbing slow circles across your back. "I know, lass."
"I tried so hard today..."
"I know."
"I wasn't enough."
His hand stopped.
Immediately.
He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes.
"No."
You blinked.
"No?"
"No."
His voice was calm.
Certain.
"Ye had a bad day."
You shook your head.
"I kept messing things up—"
"Ye had a bad day."
"My boss—"
"Ye had a bad day."
"My mum thinks—"
"I dinnae care what she thinks."
You stared.
He gently brushed wet hair away from your face.
"I care what ye think."
"...I think maybe everybody would be happier if I was just..."
You couldn't even finish the sentence.
His jaw clenched.
He looked almost offended.
"Don't."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
His scar shifted slightly as he frowned.
"Ye listen to me."
You nodded automatically.
"Ye are kind."
Another tear escaped.
"Ye are thoughtful."
You looked away.
"Ye care about everybody before yourself."
"...Sometimes."
"Always."
His thumb wiped another tear from your cheek.
"And if people are too bloody blind to appreciate that..."
His voice lowered.
"...that's their failing."
Not yours.
Never yours.
He got you inside.
Wrapped you in the biggest towel he owned. Found one of his old flannel shirts that nearly reached your knees.
Made tea. Real tea. Strong enough to wake the dead.
Then grilled cheese sandwiches because he'd once overheard you mention they were your comfort food.
You sat on his couch curled beneath a blanket while he moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, occasionally glancing over just to make sure you were still there.
Safe.
When he finally sat beside you, you accepted the plate with both hands.
"...Thank you."
He shrugged.
"Ye looked hungry."
"I didn't even tell you I skipped lunch."
"Ye've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one where ye're trying to convince yerself ye're not hungry because it's easier."
You stared.
"How do you notice things like that?"
He smiled faintly.
"I notice everything about ye."
The room became very quiet.
You looked down at your sandwich.
"...Why?"
The answer came so naturally he didn't even realize he'd said it aloud.
"'Cause I love ye."
Silence.
Complete silence.
He froze.
You froze.
His eyes widened.
"...Well."
You looked up.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"...Wasnae exactly how I planned on sayin' that."
"You..."
"I love ye."
No hesitation this time.
No taking it back.
"I have for a long while."
Your heart hammered painfully.
"You do?"
"Aye."
"I'm twenty-four."
"I know."
"You're forty-eight."
"I noticed."
"You deserve someone—"
"I decide who I deserve."
Your eyes immediately filled again.
"I thought..."
"What?"
"I thought maybe you were just..."
You laughed weakly through fresh tears.
"...being nice to me."
He looked almost horrified.
"Lass."
He reached over, taking your hands.
"I don't sit awake wondering if someone's gotten home safely because I'm being nice."
You blinked.
"I don't memorise how ye take yer tea because I'm polite."
Your breath caught.
"I don't keep yer favourite biscuits in the cupboard because it seemed practical."
"...You do?"
He nodded toward the kitchen.
"Top shelf."
You stared at him in disbelief.
"I don't love the sound of yer laugh."
His thumb brushed your knuckles.
"...because I'm friendly."
Your tears finally spilled over again.
This time they felt different.
Lighter.
Hopeful.
"I love you too."
He stopped breathing.
"What?"
"I've loved you for months."
"Ye have?"
"I thought there wasn't any chance you'd ever look at me that way."
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
Warm and disbelieving.
"Lass..."
He leaned forward until your foreheads rested together.
"I've been trying no' to look at ye that way."
"Why?"
"'Cause I wanted to make sure ye never felt pressured."
You smiled through your tears.
"I've been trying not to flirt with you."
"I noticed."
"I was terrible at hiding it."
"Ye were adorable."
You laughed.
"So were you."
"I wasnae flirting."
"You literally fixed things in my apartment that weren't broken."
"...Aye."
"You carried groceries that weighed about three pounds."
"They looked heavy."
"They were chips."
"They're... awkward-shaped."
You burst into laughter.
Real laughter this time. The kind that made your shoulders shake.
He smiled like hearing it might be his favourite sound in the world.
When your laughter faded, he reached up slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away.
Instead...
You closed the distance first.
The kiss was gentle.
Unhurried.
Comforting.
Nothing desperate.
Nothing uncertain.
Just two people who had spent far too long believing they were protecting the other by keeping quiet.
When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours once more.
"Ye know," he murmured.
"Hm?"
"If ye ever have another day like today..."
You smiled.
"I know."
"My door's unlocked."
You laughed softly.
"I wasn't going to ask."
"Ye never have to."
For the first time in what felt like forever, you believed someone completely.
And long after the rain had stopped outside, long after the tea had gone cold and the sandwiches had disappeared and midnight had quietly slipped into the early hours of morning, you fell asleep curled safely against his side on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, discovering that home had never really been a place at all—it had simply been the quiet certainty of the man who had answered one heartbreaking phone call with three simple words, and meant every one of them.
You steal one of Tig's hoodies but a few weeks later are upset cause it no longer smells like him.
Tig has never been more endeared in his life.
You'd spent seven nights barely sleeping before you finally admitted you had a problem.
Not because you were sick. Not because you were stressed.
Because you couldn't sleep alone anymore.
It was humiliating.
You were twenty-four years old, perfectly capable of paying your bills, holding down a job, standing up to half the maniacs that wandered through SAMCRO's clubhouse, but the moment the lights went out and your apartment became too quiet, your brain refused to shut off.
Every little creak became someone breaking in. Every passing car sounded like trouble. Every nightmare jolted you awake with your heart pounding so violently it hurt, and once you were awake, that was it. You'd stare at your ceiling until sunrise, exhausted enough to cry but somehow never tired enough to actually fall asleep again.
After a week of existing almost entirely on coffee and stubbornness, you cracked.
You drove to Tig Trager's house.
You almost turned around four separate times.
This was ridiculous.
You and Tig weren't dating.
There had always been...something.
A ridiculous amount of flirting, lingering touches, stolen smiles that lasted just a little too long, but neither of you had ever crossed that line. Mostly because you assumed he couldn't possibly want someone twenty-four years younger than him in any serious capacity, and Tig—despite being Tig—had convinced himself you'd eventually find someone your own age and laugh about the ridiculous older biker who'd let himself fall in love with you.
So when he opened his front door wearing grey sweatpants, an old black hoodie, and sleep-mussed hair despite it only being eight in the evening, he blinked at you in complete confusion.
"...Babe?"
You immediately wanted to disappear.
"I—"
Your voice cracked.
Wonderful.
"I know this is weird."
He frowned instantly.
"Something happen?"
"No."
"You hurt?"
"No."
"Club?"
"No."
He looked increasingly concerned.
"Then what's wrong?"
You stared determinedly at the porch instead of his face.
"...I can't sleep."
Silence.
"...What?"
You swallowed.
"I haven't slept properly in over a week."
Another pause.
"And?"
"I..."
God.
This was so embarrassing.
"I was wondering if..." You squeezed your eyes shut. "Could I maybe...borrow one of your hoodies?"
The silence that followed felt approximately seventeen years long.
You considered simply throwing yourself off his porch.
Then Tig spoke, very carefully.
"...You drove all the way over here."
"...Yeah."
"...To ask for one of my hoodies."
"...Yeah."
"...Because you can't sleep."
You nodded without looking up.
"...I read somewhere..." you mumbled. "...that familiar smells help."
Another pause.
"And..."
You wanted the earth to swallow you whole.
"...Yours is the smell I thought of."
When you finally dared glance up, Tig looked like someone had hit him over the head with a brick.
His mouth was slightly open.
His eyes were wide.
He looked completely frozen.
"...Tig?"
He blinked once.
Then immediately turned around.
"Stay there."
"...What?"
"Don't move."
He disappeared into the house.
You heard drawers opening.
Closets slamming.
Several muffled curses.
Something falling over.
"...Where the hell..."
"...No, not that one..."
"...Jesus Christ..."
You stood awkwardly on the porch wondering whether this had somehow broken his brain.
A minute later he returned carrying three hoodies.
He held them out like priceless artifacts.
"Okay."
"...Okay?"
"I couldn't decide."
You stared.
"This one's my newest one."
He lifted a charcoal hoodie.
"This one's probably the softest."
A faded navy one.
"And this..."
He held up a battered black hoodie that had obviously seen years of use.
"...This one's my favourite."
You hesitated.
"...Won't you miss it?"
He looked at you like you'd asked whether he'd miss oxygen.
"...Honey."
His voice had gone unusually gentle.
"If one of my hoodies helps you sleep..."
He shrugged one shoulder.
"...You keep the damn thing."
Your throat tightened.
You reached for the black one.
The favourite.
It smelled unmistakably like him.
Leather. Soap. Cigarettes. Motorcycle. The faintest trace of cedar aftershave. Something that was just simply.. Tig.
Comfort.
You hugged it against your chest before you even realized what you were doing.
Tig actually made a tiny strangled noise.
"...Thank you."
His face softened into something almost unbearably fond.
"Anytime, sweetheart."
The hoodie worked.
Embarrassingly well.
The first night you wrapped yourself in it and actually slept eight uninterrupted hours.
The second night was just as good.
By the end of the week you weren't even pretending anymore.
You practically lived in it whenever you were home.
It became your safe place.
Whenever anxiety crept in, you put it on. Whenever nightmares woke you up, you buried your face in the hood. Whenever you missed Tig—which was happening with increasing frequency—you wore it.
It smelled like him.
It smelled like home.
Three weeks later...
...it didn't anymore.
You noticed immediately.
You pulled the hoodie over your head after work, automatically lifting the collar to your face.
Nothing.
Well...
Laundry detergent. Fabric softener. Your own shampoo.
But not...
"...No..."
You sniffed again.
Nothing.
Your heart actually sank.
"No, no, no..."
You'd washed it because it desperately needed it.
You'd known it would probably happen.
You just hadn't expected to be so...
...sad.
It was stupid.
It was just a hoodie.
Except...
Not really.
It had become your comfort object.
And now it didn't smell like Tig anymore.
Which somehow made it feel less comforting.
You actually pouted at the stupid piece of clothing for two days.
Tig noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He found you sitting outside the clubhouse wearing the hoodie despite the warm afternoon, absentmindedly rubbing the sleeve between your fingers with an expression that looked suspiciously mournful.
He dropped into the chair beside you.
"You okay?"
"...Yeah."
"Liar."
You sighed dramatically.
"It's stupid."
"Try me."
You looked around to make sure nobody was listening.
Then leaned toward him.
"...Your hoodie doesn't smell like you anymore."
Silence.
You immediately regretted saying it.
"I know that's weird."
Silence.
"I washed it and now—"
Silence.
"I probably shouldn't have even—"
"Baby."
You blinked.
"...What?"
He hadn't moved. Hadn't blinked. Hadn't breathed.
"Tig?"
His brain had completely short-circuited.
"You..."
His voice sounded faint.
"...You're upset......Because..."
He pointed weakly at the hoodie.
"...It doesn't smell like me anymore?"
You covered your burning face.
"I told you it was stupid."
He stared.
Then very slowly—
Very deliberately—
He stood up.
"...Where are you going?"
He ignored you completely.
Walked straight into the clubhouse.
Five seconds later everyone inside heard him yell—
"OI!"
The room went quiet.
"I GOTTA GO HOME FOR A MINUTE."
Someone asked why.
His answer echoed through the building.
"MY GIRL'S SAD BECAUSE MY HOODIE STOPPED SMELLING LIKE ME."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Then laughter exploded throughout the clubhouse.
You slapped both hands over your face.
"Oh my God..."
Bobby was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his beer.
Juice looked like he might actually pass out.
Chibs pinched the bridge of his nose.
Happy, somehow, looked genuinely amused.
Even Clay looked confused.
Tig ignored every single one of them.
He marched straight outside again.
Grabbed your wrist.
"C'mon."
"...Where?"
"My house."
"...Why?"
"So I can fix it."
"Tig—"
"Nope."
"But—"
"No arguments."
"You can't just—"
"You want it to smell like me again?"
You hesitated.
"...Maybe."
"Then let's go."
At his house, Tig took the hoodie from your reluctant hands with all the seriousness of a surgeon preparing for an operation.
He disappeared into his bedroom.
You heard drawers opening.
The wardrobe.
A laugh.
Then another.
When he finally came back, roughly twenty minutes later, he looked unbearably pleased with himself.
"There."
He handed it back.
You blinked.
"...What did you do?"
"Wore it."
"...What?"
"For like..."
He checked the clock.
"...Twenty minutes."
"Tig."
"Also sprayed my aftershave."
"Tig."
"Could sleep with it on my pillow tonight."
Your eyes widened.
"You what?"
He shrugged shamelessly.
"Figure it'd work better."
You stared.
"You..."
He looked completely unapologetic.
"...want it to smell right."
You hugged the hoodie instinctively.
"...You're insane."
"I know."
You lifted it cautiously.
Breathed in.
It smelled exactly like him again.
Exactly.
Your shoulders visibly relaxed.
"Oh..."
That tiny, relieved little sound absolutely destroyed Tig.
He watched your eyes close. Watched you smile against the fabric. Watched every ounce of tension melt out of your body.
And something inside him simply...
...gave up.
He was done pretending. Done dancing around it. Done convincing himself this was one-sided.
Because no woman who didn't love someone looked that happy over the smell of their hoodie.
"You know..."
His voice was unusually quiet.
"You don't actually need the hoodie."
You looked up.
"What?"
"If what helps you sleep..."
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
"...is me..."
Your heart started pounding.
"...Then maybe..."
He took one hesitant step closer.
"...You could just come here."
You blinked.
"What?"
"I mean—not because you have to."
Another step.
"I'm saying..."
God.
The fearless, reckless Tig Trager suddenly looked terrified.
"...I'd rather you have me than my laundry."
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
"...Really?"
He laughed softly.
"Honey."
He reached up, brushing your hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
"I've been in love with you for months."
"...You have?"
"I figured I was too old."
"You idiot."
"I've been called worse."
"I've been in love with you too."
His entire face transformed.
He looked years younger.
Almost boyish.
"...Yeah?"
You nodded.
"So..."
He smiled that wonderfully crooked smile.
"...Can I kiss you?"
Instead of answering, you stepped forward and kissed him first.
It was soft.
Careful.
Long overdue.
When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, grinning so widely his cheeks actually hurt.
"...I cannot believe," he laughed, "that the thing that finally got us together..."
He tugged gently on the sleeve of the oversized hoodie.
"...was the fact you wanted my stupid sweatshirt to smell like me."
You smiled.
"It wasn't the hoodie."
"No?"
You shook your head.
"It was never really about the hoodie."
His expression softened.
"It was about what it reminded me of."
"And what's that?"
You slipped your hand into his.
"...Home."
For perhaps the first time in his entire forty-eight years, Tig Trager found himself completely speechless.
Then, because he was still undeniably Tig, he immediately wrapped you up in his arms, buried his face dramatically in your hair, inhaled once, and declared with absolute satisfaction, "Good. Now you smell like me too."
You burst into helpless laughter, and somehow, that only made him hug you tighter.
From then on, you never needed to borrow one of Tig's hoodies to sleep again.
If either of you had trouble sleeping, the solution was much simpler.
You die.
After getting revenge, Happy practically becomes a recluse.
figured if i was going to traumatise us by writing Happy's death, i would also traumatise us by writing reader's death - reader is said to be 26 but that doesn't really matter
The funeral was held beneath a gray California sky that couldn't seem to decide whether it wanted to rain or simply hang heavy over everyone who had gathered, the clouds swollen and low enough that even the crows circling overhead sounded quieter than usual, as though the entire world understood instinctively that something precious had been ripped out of it and that making too much noise would somehow be disrespectful.
The parking lot outside the cemetery was lined with motorcycles instead of polished sedans because there had never been another way the Sons would have said goodbye to one of their own, especially not to you, the girl who had somehow wandered into their chaotic, violent lives with a laugh that could stop arguments before they started, with a smile that made even the hardest men soften around the edges without realizing it, with enough stubbornness to scold patched members twice your size when they forgot to eat or pushed themselves too hard, and there wasn't a single person present who didn't have at least one story about you tucked away somewhere inside them like a tiny piece of sunlight.
Happy stood at the front the entire time.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't cry.
His face was carved from granite, expressionless beneath the dark sunglasses hiding his eyes, hands folded behind his back so tightly that the scars across his knuckles had turned white with strain, and nobody—not Juice, not Chibs, not Tig, not Bobby, not Jax—was brave enough to touch him because every single one of them knew that the only thing holding him together right now was discipline, and discipline was a fragile thing when grief this enormous was trying to claw its way out.
Juice cried enough for both him and Happy.
He cried openly, shoulders shaking, hiding his face against Chibs' shoulder like he couldn't bear to look at the casket because looking made it real, and Chibs held him without saying a word because his own throat had closed too tightly to manage one.
Tig cried.
Nobody had ever seen Tig cry like that before.
He wasn't loud.
He wasn't dramatic.
He simply sat on the curb after everyone else had started leaving, staring at the ground while tears slid silently down his face, mumbling every few minutes that this wasn't right.
"Kid was supposed t' outlive all of us."
Nobody argued.
Because you were.
You had been twenty-six.
Twenty-six was supposed to mean decades.
Twenty-six wasn't supposed to end with polished wood and flowers.
The man responsible didn't live long enough to enjoy it.
Happy made certain of that.
The Sons found him three days later.
Happy found him first.
Nobody ever asked exactly what happened inside that abandoned warehouse because they didn't need details.
The blood on Happy's boots had told them enough.
The look in his eyes had told them the rest.
Whatever the bastard had begged for...
He hadn't received.
Revenge changed nothing.
That was the cruelest part.
The man was dead.
You still weren't coming home.
Happy stopped sleeping at the clubhouse. Stopped drinking with the guys. Stopped sitting around the table after church.
He still rode. Still handled club business when he absolutely had to. Still killed when the club required killing.
But the moment the work was finished...
He disappeared.
Every.
Single.
Time.
He went home. Locked the door. Didn't answer his phone. Didn't answer knocks. Didn't answer anything.
Three months later, Tig kicked the front door hard enough that the frame rattled.
"Hap!"
Nothing.
"HAPPY!"
Silence.
Tig looked at Chibs.
"I swear t' God if he ignores me one more—"
The door finally opened.
Happy stood there wearing old jeans and a faded black shirt that hung looser than it used to.
He'd lost weight.
Too much.
His beard had grown longer.
His eyes...
His eyes looked tired in a way sleep couldn't fix.
"What."
It wasn't even a question.
Just a word.
Tig pushed past him.
"...Jesus Christ."
The house looked exactly the same.
Exactly.
Same blankets folded neatly over the couch because you had liked blankets.
Your favorite mug still sat beside the coffee machine.
Your books remained stacked exactly where you'd left them.
A cardigan still hung over the back of a chair.
The framed photo of the two of you at a county fair sat on the mantle.
Nothing had moved.
Nothing.
It was less a home than a museum.
A shrine.
Happy hadn't changed a thing.
"You eat?" Chibs asked quietly.
"Yeah."
"Liar."
"..."
"When's th' last time?"
"...Yesterday."
Tig opened the refrigerator.
"...Happy."
Silence.
"There is literally one beer and ketchup."
The club started rotating visits.
Not because Happy wanted them.
Because they were afraid one day he'd simply stop opening the door forever.
Bobby brought groceries. Chibs cooked without asking permission. Jax dragged him out on rides. Juice came over with movies neither of them watched.
Tig mostly insulted him.
"You smell like depression."
"..."
"Seriously."
"..."
"You know she would've hated this."
That one landed.
Happy looked away.
Months became a year.
The Sons healed.
Not completely. Never completely.
But enough to laugh again. Enough to tease one another. Enough to move forward.
Happy...
Didn't.
Time simply stopped for him.
On your birthday, he drove three hours to the beach you'd loved.
The one where you'd once insisted the sunset looked like melted peach ice cream.
He remembered laughing at that. He remembered pretending it was ridiculous. He remembered secretly thinking it was adorable.
He remembered thinking that one day, he'd propose to you there.
He sat on the sand until dark.
Talking.
Not to himself.
To you.
Like you were sitting beside him.
"I got revenge."
The waves answered.
"It didn't help."
Silence.
"I don't know what to do now."
Nothing.
"I miss you."
The words came out so quietly they nearly disappeared into the wind.
"I miss you every damn second."
He buried his face in his hands.
For the first time since your funeral...
He cried.
Really cried. The kind that stole your breath. The kind that hurt. The kind that left you shaking afterward because your body simply couldn't hold that much grief inside anymore.
Years passed.
Two.
Then three.
The clubhouse changed.
Prospects became members.
Kids were born.
People moved away.
Life insisted on continuing.
Happy remained...
Present.
But absent.
Like a ghost wearing a kutte.
He laughed maybe three times in three years.
Every one of them surprised the room.
One evening Chibs found him alone behind the clubhouse watching the sunset.
"Mind if I join ye?"
Happy shrugged.
Chibs leaned against the railing.
"...She loved sunsets."
"Yeah."
Long silence.
"She loved ye too."
"...I know."
"Ye gave her everythin' ye had."
"...Wasn't enough."
Chibs looked at him sharply.
"No."
Happy's jaw tightened.
"I should've protected her."
"And if she'd heard ye say that she'd smack ye upside the head."
"..."
"Because ye couldn't control every bloody thing in this world."
Happy didn't answer.
"You've been dyin' with her every day since she left."
"..."
"And she'd hate that."
Another silence.
Finally...
"...I know."
The next morning, for the first time in years...
Happy came to breakfast.
Actually sat down. Actually drank coffee with everyone else. Actually listened while Tig argued with Juice over something completely ridiculous involving pancakes and motorcycles.
Nobody pointed it out.
Nobody dared.
But everyone noticed.
Healing wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't sudden. It wasn't a miracle. It was tiny.
Painfully tiny.
One meal. One conversation. One ride. One laugh. One sunrise. One more day survived than the day before.
Happy never stopped loving you. Never packed away your photograph. Never forgot the sound of your voice.
The grief remained with him, stitched into every scar he carried.
But eventually, after years of carrying it alone, he allowed the people who loved both of you to carry a little of the weight beside him.
Because that was the truth the entire club had been trying to teach him from the beginning.
He hadn't only lost you.
They had, too.
And while none of them could bring you back...
None of them were going to let Happy disappear after you.
So they dragged him, stubborn inch by stubborn inch, back toward the living, until one day he looked around the crowded clubhouse filled with laughter, arguments, terrible jokes, roaring motorcycles, and people who still spoke your name with affection instead of fear, and realized that loving you had never truly ended.
It had simply become something he carried forward instead of something that buried him.
And somewhere, in every story they told about the young woman who had loved an old killer until he remembered there was still a heart beating beneath the scars, your memory lived on—not in silence, not in empty rooms frozen in time, but in the family you had left behind, who refused to let either of you be forgotten.
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You arrive at the scrapyard covered in blood. Every Mayan is ready for war..until you quietly admit none of it is yours.
Creeper still insists on checking every inch of you for injuries.
The scrapyard went silent.
Not quieter. Not subdued.
Silent.
The familiar soundtrack of grinders whining against rusted steel, laughter echoing across stacks of stripped engines, Rat barking at Bottles over some completely pointless argument, Angel revving a bike just because he liked the sound of it—all of it stopped the exact second you stepped through the front gate.
You looked like you'd crawled out of a massacre.
Your jeans were soaked dark from the knees down. Your hands were crimson. There were streaks of drying blood across your throat, your cheek, your hairline, splattered across the front of your old hoodie until it was impossible to tell what color the fabric had originally been, and even your boots left faint bloody prints against the cracked concrete as you walked.
Every single Mayan froze.
Bishop looked up from the table he'd been leaning against.
Hank slowly lowered the wrench he'd been holding.
Gilly muttered a quiet, "...Jesus."
Even Coco, who usually had a joke ready before common sense, simply stared.
Then chairs scraped.
Metal clanged.
Someone reached for a shotgun.
Someone else grabbed an axe.
The atmosphere transformed in less than three seconds from a lazy afternoon into the opening moments of a war.
"Who?" Bishop asked, already moving toward you.
His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
The question hung in the air like a death sentence.
Who did this?
Who needed killing?
Before you could answer, Creeper appeared.
He'd been around the back with EZ, sorting parts from a wrecked truck, and the second he'd heard the silence—the unnatural, impossible silence—he'd come around the corner.
Then he saw you.
Everything inside him stopped.
His heart.
His lungs.
His thoughts.
All he could see was blood.
So much blood.
On your face. Your hands. Your clothes. Your neck.
You were standing upright, somehow, but his brain immediately supplied a dozen catastrophic explanations anyway.
Gunshot. Knife wound. Internal bleeding. Head trauma.
He was moving before he realized he'd started.
The distance between you disappeared in seconds.
"Baby."
His voice cracked.
Actually cracked.
He reached you so quickly he nearly collided with you, both hands immediately grabbing your shoulders with just enough pressure to steady you without hurting you, his eyes frantically scanning every visible inch of your body.
"What happened?"
You blinked.
"...Hi?"
"Nena."
He wasn't smiling.
Wasn't teasing.
He looked terrified.
"What happened?"
Behind him, Bishop's voice rang out.
"Get the bikes."
Immediately.
No hesitation.
Mayans scattered in every direction.
Keys appeared.
Engines started.
Weapons were pulled from storage.
Hank disappeared into the clubhouse and returned carrying two rifles.
Angel was already stuffing magazines into his kutte pockets.
Coco slammed a pistol onto the table before checking another.
EZ yelled, "WHO ARE WE KILLING?"
"No idea yet!"
"GOOD ENOUGH."
You frowned.
"...Guys?"
No one heard you.
Or maybe they did.
They just didn't care until someone had names.
Creeper was still staring at you like you might collapse at any second.
"I need you to talk to me."
"I am talking."
"Not enough."
"I—"
"What hurts?"
"...Nothing?"
He frowned harder.
"What do you mean, nothing?"
"I mean..."
You looked down at yourself.
"...nothing hurts?"
He looked like he physically didn't believe you.
His hands moved automatically. One slid carefully to the side of your neck. The other checked your shoulder. Then your arms.
His fingers searched gently, methodically, pressing lightly through the soaked fabric while watching your face for even the smallest flinch.
Years around violence had taught him something important.
People lied.
Especially when they were hurt. Especially people trying not to worry everyone else.
So he ignored your words entirely.
Instead, he trusted what he could see.
Or, more accurately...
What he couldn't.
Because despite the blood...
You weren't reacting. No sharp inhale. No wince. No instinctive pull away.
Nothing.
Still...
He wasn't convinced.
"Take the hoodie off."
You blinked.
"...Here?"
"Now."
There wasn't even a hint of embarrassment in his voice.
Just urgency.
Pure, overwhelming concern.
You quietly peeled the hoodie over your head.
More blood.
Across your shirt. Across your arms. Across everything.
A collective hiss came from the gathered Mayans.
"Holy—"
"What the hell—"
"Creeper..."
But Creeper had already started checking again.
His hands slid over your shoulders.
Your upper arms.
He carefully turned each wrist over, inspecting your palms before lifting your elbows to search underneath.
Nothing.
No cuts. No punctures. No bruises.
His confusion only grew.
He crouched.
Checked your knees. Your ankles. Your boots.
"You twist anything?"
"No."
"You hit your head?"
"No."
"You dizzy?"
"No."
"Nauseous?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"...Yes?"
He looked up at you.
Really looked.
Your eyes were clear.
Breathing normal.
Standing steadily. Not pale. Not shaking. Not showing any signs of shock.
Behind him, Bishop spoke again.
"Talk."
You rubbed the back of your neck.
"So..."
Everyone waited.
"...it's not mine."
Silence.
"...What?"
"The blood."
You gestured vaguely at yourself.
"...It's not mine."
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
"...Explain," Bishop said slowly.
You winced.
"I was driving home from work."
"Uh-huh."
"There was a car accident."
"Uh-huh."
"I stopped."
"...Uh-huh."
"There was a guy trapped inside."
The yard remained completely silent.
"So I climbed in."
"You climbed..."
"...inside."
"...The crushed car."
"...Yeah."
"You."
"...Yeah."
"Without thinking."
"...Pretty much."
"You pulled him out."
"...Eventually."
Coco stared.
"...You're telling me..."
You nodded sheepishly.
"...it's his blood."
"...Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"There was another passenger."
Creeper closed his eyes.
Of course there was.
"There were...two people."
You gave him an apologetic smile.
"They're okay."
"You sure?"
"The ambulance took them."
"You stayed?"
"Until they left."
"So..."
You looked down at yourself again.
"...I forgot I looked like this."
Dead silence.
Then Coco let out one single bark of laughter before immediately clamping both hands over his mouth.
EZ started laughing next.
Then Gilly.
Angel doubled over.
Within seconds half the yard was laughing—not because anyone found the accident funny, but because they'd collectively gone from preparing for a blood-soaked revenge mission to discovering you'd simply been...being yourself.
"You almost started a damn war," Angel wheezed.
"I didn't mean to!"
"You look like a horror movie!"
"I know that now!"
Bishop pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I'm getting too old for this club."
"Same," Hank muttered.
Engines shut back off.
Weapons disappeared.
The immediate threat dissolved into relieved grumbling.
Everyone slowly drifted away.
Everyone...
Except Creeper.
He still hadn't let go of your hand.
He was still studying your face.
Still unconvinced.
"You sure you're okay?"
You smiled softly.
"I'm okay."
"You could've gotten hurt."
"I know."
"You climbed into a wreck."
"I know."
"You scared the hell out of me."
That one came out quieter. Smaller. Almost fragile.
You looked at him. Really looked.
His hands were still trembling. Just slightly.
You hadn't noticed before.
Now you did.
Because while everyone else had been preparing for revenge...
Creeper had simply been terrified.
Terrified that he'd lose you.
You reached up and wrapped your fingers gently around one of his hands.
"Neron."
He looked at you.
"I'm okay."
"I need to make sure."
"You already did."
"I'm checking again."
You laughed quietly.
"You've checked me like six times."
"Not enough."
Before you could protest, he stepped closer again, gently brushing your hair back from your forehead, examining your scalp with surprising care before tilting your chin upward to inspect your neck one more time, his fingertips impossibly gentle against your skin as he searched for cuts hidden beneath drying blood, then moving to your shoulders once again, every touch careful and respectful, driven entirely by worry rather than panic now.
"You missed a spot," Coco called.
Without looking away from you, Creeper answered flatly.
"Shut up."
"You checked her elbow twice."
"I know."
"You looked at the same arm three times."
"I know."
"You've lost your damn—"
"I know."
You couldn't help smiling.
His eyes softened the moment he saw it.
"There it is."
"What?"
"Your smile."
"It went away?"
"When I thought you were hurt."
Something inside your chest tightened painfully.
"You really got that scared?"
He laughed once.
It wasn't humorous.
"I've been shot."
"I know."
"Stabbed."
"I know."
"Beaten."
"I know."
"I've stared down people trying to kill me."
You nodded.
"But seeing you walk through that gate covered in blood..." His voice became rough. "...That was the most frightened I've ever been."
You reached for him without thinking. Your arms slid around his waist.
"I really am okay."
He hugged you back immediately. Tightly. Like letting go wasn't an option anymore.
"I know."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm not."
You laughed against his chest.
"I'll shower."
"Mhm."
"And change."
"Mhm."
"And let you inspect me one last time."
He pulled back just enough to look down at you.
"One last time?"
"You've already checked every inch of me."
"I'm checking again after the shower."
You grinned.
"You're impossible."
"I'm thorough."
"You are paranoid."
"I'm in love with you."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Everything froze.
Again.
Not the yard this time.
Just the two of you.
His eyes widened.
"...Well."
You blinked.
"...Well?"
"I wasn't planning on saying it like that."
A smile tugged at your lips.
"I kind of like that you did."
"You do?"
Instead of answering, you rose onto your toes and kissed him.
Softly.
Carefully.
Despite the blood.
Despite the scrapyard.
Despite the audience that definitely hadn't wandered as far away as they'd pretended.
When you pulled back, Creeper looked completely stunned.
"You kissed me."
"I did."
"So..."
"So," you echoed, smiling.
"I love you too."
For a moment, the hardened Mayan simply stared at you as if the world had narrowed to the space between your faces.
Then, with a laugh so warm it surprised even him, he gathered you back into his arms, heedless of the blood staining his own shirt now, because he'd spent the last ten minutes convinced he was about to lose you, and instead he'd somehow found the courage to tell you the truth—and discovered that the woman who had terrified an entire motorcycle club by arriving drenched in someone else's blood loved him back.
From somewhere across the yard, Coco yelled, "Can somebody hose those two down before they start hugging more crime scene onto each other?"
Request by @ravennaortiz : Would it be possible to get a Juice Ortiz x reader requests with them just trying to stay cool and beat the heat since I'm in the middle of a heatwave? Lol.
Warnings: 18+, language, slight steam 😏
Word Count: 2.2k
A/N: the way this heat wave would be bearable if i had juice ortiz and an air conditioner in my life 😂😂 hope you enjoy!!! xo
You were on the phone with Juice as you gathered up your things to leave work. It'd been a long, brutal day and it was only going to get worse once you stepped outside. Sure, work had been rough but at least your boss made sure there was a semi-functional AC system. That was more than you could say for most places—namely the clubhouse, where Juice was currently trying to convince you to go.
“You can't come over to my place?” you asked, hoping that giving an alternative would convince him to drop it. “I'm beat after today and all I want is to shower and—”
“You can shower here,” he said, not quite ready to budge.
The eye roll on your part was reflexive, and you were glad that he couldn’t see it. You knew your annoyance was amplified far more than usual because you'd stepped out into the brutal heat. The walk to your car felt like it was miles long. Sweat was beading along the edge of your forehead by the time you were hitting the unlock button on your keys.
“Okay, sure, but I'd rather shower somewhere that has actual water pressure. Y'know, that doesn't just feel like the showerhead is drooling on me.”
Your response got a laugh out of him. “It's not that bad.”
“Most days I can deal with it. Like I can deal with the sticky floors and the smoke in the air. But today? Today it is a hundred goddamn degrees out, Juan. And that's not me exaggerating! I'm reading the thermometer in my car right now and it is literally in the triple digits.” His lack of interruption let you know that he was sat and listening, and that you wouldn’t have to put up too much more of a fight to pry him away from the clubhouse to join you. “So tonight, yeah, I'd rather use my own shower. And hang out in my nice clean apartment that has central air. And I would love it if my boyfriend would join me.”
There was a pause and when he spoke up again, he was a little quieter than before, like he was still halfway trapped in thought. “Forgot about the central air.”
Now it was your turn to laugh. “Your call, baby. You wanna stay at the clubhouse tonight with the guys, that's fine. But I'm heading home.”
The stretch that followed was a silent game of chicken. One that you knew you weren’t going to lose because you were pulling onto the road in the direction that would take you home. You could hear Juice's breathing on the other end of the line, the distant chatter of other conversations happening inside the clubhouse. When you heard him sigh, you knew you had him.
“I'll finish up a couple things here and then head over.”
You were grinning wide enough to give the Cheshire cat a run for his money. “Sounds good.”
He chuckled. “You sound real pleased with yourself.”
“You'll be pleased too once you come over.” Before he could fire back at you, you said, “I love you.”
You could hear the grin in his voice too as he said, “I love you too.”
Your commute was about two-thirds of the way over when the AC in your car gave out. The effect was immediate. Letting out a groan, you slapped one hand on the dashboard while you kept your car straight on the road with the other on the wheel. A few more slaps and trying to turn it all off then back on again didn’t kick it back into gear. Shaking your head and letting out a string of expletives you were glad no one else was around to hear, you rolled the windows down to at least get some airflow.
Sweat was running down the column of your spine as you trudged up the stairs of your apartment building. It was a few degrees cooler inside than out, but not much. You were thankful that you were only on the second floor.
You were swinging the door shut when you heard Juice calling out your name from the end of the hallway. Despite all the little inconveniences and discomfort, the sound of him saying your name brought a smile to your face. You backpedaled, hanging half out the door as he jogged to close the distance.
He greeted you with a kiss on the lips. He was about to bring his hand to your back, pull you in close like he so often did, but you stopped him. Your grasp on his forearm was gentle, but enough to give him pause.
“You okay?”
You chuckled and slid your hand so it was interlocked with his as you tugged him into your apartment. “Yeah. Just don't need you feeling how sweaty I am.”
He shook his head knowingly as he let go of your hand so he could shut and lock the door behind you. His back was still to you as he said, “Wish you'd just drop your car off at the shop and let me work on it. Could’ve fixed that and—”
“You clocked out of being a mechanic an hour ago, Juan,” you joked as you dropped your bag to the floor beside your shoes. “Give it a rest.”
He cracked a grin. “Cranky.” He walked by, pressing a kiss to your temple as he went towards the kitchen. “Need a Snickers?”
“Need a shower.”
He was laughing as he gestured towards the bathroom that was just down the hall from where you stood. “Go. Not like I'm going anywhere now.”
You hummed in amusement. “More comfortable than the clubhouse, right?”
He grabbed a beer out of the fridge and nodded. “Oh yeah.” He took a sip and watched you wipe the sweat from your forehead—your apartment was cool but your body hadn't quiet caught up yet. “Normally I'd offer to keep you company, but—”
“If you touch me right now I'll chop your hand off,” you said with no hesitation.
Juice laughed as you headed down the hall. He called after you, “You gotta stop hanging out with Happy!”
When you came back out of the shower, you felt like an entirely new person. You had on the smallest pair of shorts your owned and your sports bra. Eventually the AC would catch up with you and you'd throw on a t-shirt, but you weren’t at that point yet. Juice was camped out comfortably in your living room, boots by the door and kutte hanging off the back of one of the chairs at your small kitchen table. He'd been lost in his phone until you reemerged.
Setting his phone off to the side, he looked at you with a smile. “Feel better?”
You nodded, feeling comfortable for the first time all day. “Way better.” You grabbed a beer for yourself. “You wanna take one?”
He shook his head. “I'm good. Got drooled on by the shower in my dorm at the clubhouse.”
The fact that he managed to say it with an almost-straight face got you to laugh. Not hard enough to make beer come out your nose, but close. “You could've taken one here, y’know.”
He shrugged. “Heat doesn't bother me as much as you. Kind of like the sticky floors and—”
“Alright, alright,” you cut him off, waving dismissively with your free hand to emphasize your point. “Maybe I was a little crabby.”
“Maybe. A little.”
“Okay, okay.” You walked over and stood between his legs. He was staring up at you with those big brown eyes like he would do just about anything for you if you asked. You smiled. “You gotta admit, this beats the clubhouse, right?”
He was nodding before you even finished the question. Leaning forward, he went to rest his hands on the backs of your thighs and then caught himself. “Am I still gonna lose body parts if I touch you?”
Laughing, you took another swig of beer and shook your head. “I'll let you keep all your fingers.”
With no hesitation he rested his hands on the backs of your thighs, just above your knees. He slid them up at a creeping pace, rings and callouses dragging and leaving goosebumps in their wake despite the warmth radiating off your skin. Once his hands were resting on your hips, he pulled you closer.
A smile on your face, you collapsed onto his lap, straddling him with a practiced ease. The two of you could go through the motions so smoothly now that you didn’t even spill your beer in the process. He slid his hands up your sides and along the exposed skin of your back.
Taking one hand off you, he gestured to the bottle in your hand. “Gimme that for a sec.”
You handed it over, thinking he was just going to steal a sip and hand it back like the two of you always did with each other. Instead, he leaned and set it on the small end table just beside the couch. Before you could ask what he was doing, he pulled you into a kiss. A real one. One he'd been dying to give you since he laid eyes on you.
His hands ran up your back, pinning you tighter to him as his lips locked with yours. You cupped his face in your hands, feeling the very beginnings of patchy stubble beneath your fingertips. Breathing him in, you caught the scent of soap and cigarette smoke. He sank deeper into the back of the couch the more you leaned into him.
The heat blooming across your skin now had nothing to do with the heat wave wreaking havoc over Charming. Catching your bottom lip between his teeth as he pulled out of your kiss. He dragged his lips along your jaw and down your neck, leaving a trail of feather light kisses down to your shoulder.
“Missed you,” he murmured against your skin.
You smiled, running your hand over his head until it rested on the back of his neck. It didn’t matter if it was an hour, a day, or a week—that was always what he said. You never doubted if he meant it.
You pulled his lips back up to yours when you felt his fingers hook over the waistband of your shorts. “Missed you too,” you said before kissing him again.
When you reached for the bottom hem of his t-shirt, he looked at you with a smirk on his face. “Careful,” he said, a joking lilt to his tone underneath all the want, “gonna work up another sweat.”
Your response came with the flourish of throwing his t-shirt to the floor. “I think I’m okay with that.”
Juice grinned, catching you in another kiss as he quickly maneuvered the two of you on the couch. Before you could pull away to catch your breath he had you on your back underneath him, legs hooked around his waist. You ran your hands along the planes of muscle in his chest.
Just as he started to slide your shorts down your legs, just as you lifted your hips off the sofa cushion to make it easier for him to do so, there was a knock at the door. The first knock you didn’t realize it was your door and you were content to ignore it. The second knock gave you pause.
Turning your head towards the door, you let out one breathless, “Who the fuck is that?” The annoyance in your voice now wasn't because of the heat; it was one hundred percent because of the interruption.
Juice clocked it, too. He laughed, head dropping to your chest for a moment. “Shit. Sorry.” He started prying himself away from you. “I got us takeout.”
You flopped back flat against the cushion. “I’m thankful in the part of my brain that doesn't feel extremely cheated right now.”
He was laughing as he went towards the door. “Timing is everything.”
When he was about to flip the lock on the door, you called out to him to get his attention. He looked back at you, confused by the urgency with which you'd said his name. Leaning down, you scooped his shirt off the floor and chucked it at him.
“You are not the tip for the delivery driver,” you chastised as he tugged his shirt on.
He beamed. “Your eyes only—got it.”
Once he tossed the bag of takeout onto the table in the kitchen, he was back on you again like he'd never left. You laughed as he kissed your lips, your cheek, your jaw. When he ran his hands up the outsides of your arms, he felt the goosebumps that had risen there.
Pulling away from you, he looked down, first at your arms, then your face. “Are you cold?” he asked with a laugh.
“I won't be if we get back to what we were doing.”
Humor made his eyes sparkle. “Wow. First, I couldn't touch you because you were too hot. Now you're—”
You rested your hands against his chest. “You're really gonna make touching me seem like a punishment right now?”
He shook his head before kissing you again. “Never.” Cupping the side of your face, he grinned as he said, “You're gonna be real thankful for that AC in a minute.”
You yelped with laughter as he whipped your shorts off and onto the floor. “Already am.”
(divider by @secretlysamcro 🖤)
SOA Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added!): @garbinge @darqchilddaydreamz @withmyteeth @narcolini @justreblogginfics @winchestershiresauce @proceduralpassion @kmc1989 @lv7867
You think Happy hates you.
Happy thinks he's courting you. Or something.
Everyone is fed up.
reader is said to be 25 but like it really doesn't matter
Nobody in SAMCRO understands how you and Happy Lowman have managed to misunderstand each other this badly for this long.
At this point, it’s honestly impressive.
Like performance art.
Like watching two people stand in the middle of a road insisting they’re not about to get hit by a truck while everyone around them screams.
Because from the outside?
Happy is catastrophically in love with you.
Inside, however, Happy thinks he’s being subtle.
And you—
You are fully convinced the man despises you.
It starts small.
You move to Charming after getting a job at the local veterinary clinic.
You’re twenty-five, exhausted, and trying very hard to rebuild your life after a brutal breakup that left your self-esteem somewhere near the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.
You don’t want romance.
You don’t want complications.
You especially don’t want to accidentally antagonize terrifying outlaw bikers.
Unfortunately, the first time you meet Happy Lowman, you immediately assume he hates you.
Mostly because he stares at you like this:
Stone-faced.
Unblinking.
Deeply intimidating.
You’re carrying a cardboard tray of coffees into the garage for the clinic staff when Gemma waves you over.
“You met Happy yet?”
You glance toward the heavily tattooed man leaning beside a motorcycle.
Your survival instincts activate instantly.
“Oh,” you say weakly. “He looks… nice.”
Happy snorts softly.
You nearly jump out of your skin.
Gemma grins maliciously.
“Happy, this is the new vet tech.”
Happy looks directly at you.
The eye contact alone lowers your life expectancy.
Then he says:
“You smell like antiseptic.”
You stare.
“…Thank you?”
He nods once.
Then walks away.
You watch him leave in complete confusion.
Gemma bursts out laughing.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t explain anything.
The problem escalates quickly after that.
Because Happy keeps appearing around you.
Constantly.
At first you think it’s coincidence.
Then it becomes statistically impossible.
You show up at the diner before work? Happy’s there.
You stop for gas? Happy pulls in.
You grab groceries? Suddenly there’s six feet of terrifying biker silently taking cereal off the top shelf for you.
It would almost be sweet if he didn’t look so deeply unhappy every single time.
Because that’s the issue.
Happy never smiles at you.
Never flirts.
Never acts normal.
He just… stares intensely and says bizarre things before disappearing.
One afternoon you’re unloading dog food at the clinic when he suddenly appears beside your truck.
You nearly scream.
“Jesus Christ!”
Happy takes the bags from your arms effortlessly.
“You shouldn’t lift heavy shit.”
You blink.
“…Okay?”
“You’ll hurt your back.”
Then he carries everything inside and leaves without elaborating.
You stand there clutching the clipboard to your chest in bewilderment.
Your coworker Denise watches him go.
“That man wants to climb you like a tree.”
You stare at her.
“No he absolutely does not.”
“He carried forty pounds of dog food for you.”
“He looked angry about it.”
Denise laughs so hard she snorts.
Meanwhile, inside Happy’s brain: Courtship.
He’s doing courtship.
Probably.
Maybe.
Honestly he’s not entirely sure.
Happy’s understanding of romance is deeply limited.
He knows:
Bring things.
Fix things.
Protect person.
Stay near person.
That’s basically it.
He’s like a particularly violent crow presenting shiny objects.
Unfortunately, because he’s Happy, every act of affection looks vaguely threatening.
He doesn’t realize this.
“You’re losin’ your fuckin’ mind,” Tig tells him one afternoon.
Happy ignores him while replacing your windshield wipers in the clinic parking lot.
“She smiled at me yesterday.”
Tig stares.
“That’s your evidence she likes you?”
“She gave me banana bread.”
“She gives everyone banana bread.”
Happy pauses.
“…She wrote my name on the container.”
Tig physically puts his face in his hands.
You, meanwhile, are going through psychological warfare daily.
Because the more time passes, the more confusing Happy becomes.
He fixes things around your house without asking.
Your porch light suddenly works.
Your fence stops squeaking.
One morning your car has a full tank of gas despite definitely being near empty the night before.
You ask Gemma about it eventually.
“Does Happy… have a problem with me?”
Gemma chokes on her cigarette.
“A problem?”
“He always looks annoyed when I’m around.”
Gemma stares at you for a solid ten seconds.
Then bursts into hysterical laughter.
You look mildly offended.
“I’m serious.”
“Oh honey,” Gemma wheezes. “That man is gone over you.”
Your stomach flips instantly.
“…No he’s not.”
“He sharpened a knife because your ex-boyfriend liked your Facebook photo.”
You blink slowly.
“What?”
Gemma immediately realizes she wasn’t supposed to say that.
Oops.
After that, things get worse.
Because now you’re watching Happy differently.
And unfortunately once you start noticing things, you can’t stop.
The way he automatically positions himself between you and strangers. The way he remembers tiny details you mention once in passing. The way his eyes track you constantly in crowded rooms.
Still.
You remain unconvinced.
Because surely if Happy liked you, he’d actually act like it.
Right?
Wrong.
Very wrong.
But nobody tells you that because the club has collectively decided this is funnier.
The breaking point comes during a clubhouse party.
You’re helping clean up empty bottles while everyone else drinks and plays pool.
Happy sits nearby silently watching you.
As always.
Your nerves are completely fried at this point.
Because honestly?
You kinda like him.
Which is objectively terrible.
He terrifies you and confuses you and apparently haunts your daily routines like a very large emotionally constipated ghost.
You’re trying to carry a heavy crate toward storage when someone bumps into you.
The crate slips.
Before it can hit the floor, Happy catches it one-handed.
You stare.
He stares back.
Too close now.
Way too close.
“You okay?” he asks.
The concern in his voice catches you off guard.
“Yeah.”
Happy keeps holding the crate.
Keeps looking at you.
Your pulse jumps nervously.
Then, because your brain betrays you completely, you blurt:
“Why do you hate me?”
The entire room goes silent.
Actually silent.
Pool cues stop moving.
Music still plays faintly somewhere, but every person nearby freezes.
Happy looks genuinely stunned.
“…What?”
Your face burns immediately.
Too late now.
“You always glare at me,” you rush out. “And randomly appear places, and say weird cryptic things, and honestly I can never tell if you’re mad at me or planning my murder—”
Tig physically collapses against the bar laughing.
Chibs looks seconds from cardiac arrest.
Happy still stares at you like you just announced the sky is green.
“You think I hate you.”
It isn’t a question.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
The immediate certainty in his voice makes your stomach twist.
“Then why are you always staring at me like that?”
Happy frowns slightly.
“…Like what?”
“Like you’re angry.”
A horrifying realization dawns across Happy’s face.
“Oh.”
Tig is openly crying laughing now.
“Oh my God,” Juice wheezes. “He doesn’t know his face.”
Happy ignores all of them.
Still looking directly at you.
“I ain’t angry.”
“You literally sharpened a knife while watching me talk to a FedEx guy.”
“He flirted with you.”
Your brain stalls.
“…What?”
Happy looks confused now. Like this should be obvious.
“He touched your hand too long.”
Silence.
Then:
“You were jealous?”
“Yeah.”
Like it’s the dumbest question imaginable.
Your mouth falls open slightly.
Across the room Tig shouts:
“THANK CHRIST.”
Happy keeps talking before you can recover.
“I bring you shit.”
“You anonymously left twenty pounds of oranges on my porch.”
“You said you liked oranges.”
“That was.. courting?”
“Thought so.”
You stare at him in disbelief.
“You’ve been courting me?”
Happy’s jaw flexes slightly.
“…Maybe.”
“Oh my God.”
Suddenly everything rearranges itself inside your head.
The staring. The gifts. The protective hovering. The constant fixing things.
This terrifying man genuinely thought he was wooing you.
You burst out laughing.
Not meanly.
Just helplessly.
Happy immediately looks offended.
“What’s funny?”
“You are so bad at flirting.”
The club erupts instantly.
Tig nearly falls off his stool.
Chibs is openly cackling.
Happy glares at everyone murderously before looking back at you.
“You knew I liked you.”
“I thought you wanted me dead!”
Happy looks genuinely horrified by this possibility.
“Why the fuck would I buy dead people fruit?”
You laugh harder.
Happy watches you helplessly for a second.
Then something softens in his expression. Warmth. Affection. Relief.
“You laughin’ means you ain’t mad?”
You smile despite yourself.
“No.”
Happy steps closer slowly.
Still watching you carefully.
“Good.”
Your heartbeat starts pounding harder.
Because now that you know what you’re looking at—
God.
The way this man looks at you is devastating.
Like you’re something precious.
Like he’s been trying to hand you pieces of his heart for months and accidentally used intimidation tactics instead.
“You really like me?” you ask softly.
Happy snorts.
“Been carryin’ around your favorite snacks for three months.”
Your eyes widen.
“…Seriously?”
He pulls strawberry candies from his pocket immediately.
The exact kind you love.
Your heart absolutely melts.
“You giant weirdo.”
Happy shrugs once.
Then, quieter:
“You like me back?”
The vulnerability hidden beneath the question nearly destroys you.
You step closer until your hands lightly catch the front of his hoodie.
“Yeah,” you murmur.
Happy goes very still.
“Yeah?”
You nod.
Then kiss him before your courage disappears completely.
Happy makes a rough startled sound against your mouth immediately, like he genuinely didn’t expect this to work.
His hands settle carefully against your waist.
Gentle despite their size.
The kiss deepens slowly while the clubhouse erupts behind you.
Cheers.
Swearing.
Tig yelling:
“HE DIDN’T EVEN KNOW HE WAS SCOWLING.”
When you finally pull back, Happy rests his forehead briefly against yours.
“So,” you whisper, smiling, “next time maybe try flowers instead of ominous staring.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Running to Happy when something terrifies (genuinely scared shitless) you, burying your face into his chest and wrapping your arms around him.
He's startled, you guys have never touched on purpose before, but he quickly holds you to him, a hand pressing protectively over the back of your head as he hushes your tears.
He's full of rage and violence but he holds you to him as carefully as he can.
Warnings: reader is followed by a creep
Nobody in Charming ran to Happy Lowman for comfort.
For protection? Absolutely.
For violence? Without hesitation.
For fear? Never.
Happy was the thing people hid behind when they were scared, not the person they collapsed into.
He was too sharp-edged for softness. Too brutal for gentleness. Too dangerous.
At least that’s what everyone thought.
Including him.
Especially him.
Which was why the feeling of your body slamming into his chest nearly stopped his heart.
The clubhouse was loud that night.
Music blaring.
Bikers yelling over poker games.
Half-drunk croweaters laughing too loud near the bar.
Happy sat at the table in the corner cleaning one of his guns while Tig and Kozik argued over something pointless nearby.
It was normal chaos.
Until the front doors burst open hard enough to rattle the walls.
Everyone looked up instinctively.
You stumbled inside.
Pale.
Breathing hard.
Terrified.
Not upset.
Not startled.
Terrified.
Happy knew the difference immediately.
Your eyes darted frantically around the room before landing on him.
And then—
You ran to him.
Actually ran.
Happy barely had time to stand before you crashed into him hard enough to knock his chair backward.
Your arms wrapped around his middle desperately.
Your face buried against his chest.
The entire clubhouse went dead silent.
Happy froze.
Every muscle in his body locked instantly.
Because you’d never touched him like this before.
Never.
You joked with him.
Sat near him.
Talked to him more than most people dared.
But this—
This was different.
This was instinct.
Fear.
Need.
Your entire body was shaking.
“Hey,” Happy said automatically, startled by how rough his voice sounded.
You made a small, broken sound against his chest that twisted something vicious inside him.
Without thinking, Happy’s arms came around you.
One wrapped tightly around your waist.
The other pressed protectively against the back of your head.
Covering you.
Shielding you.
Like his body moved before his brain caught up.
“It’s okay,” he muttered roughly.
Which was ridiculous because he had no idea what happened.
But you were trembling so hard he could feel it through your ribs.
“Hey. Hey.” His hand tightened gently against your hair. “Look at me.”
You couldn’t.
You just clung harder.
Happy’s jaw flexed sharply.
Rage started building immediately.
Cold and violent.
Because somebody had done this.
Somebody had scared you badly enough to send you running into a room full of killers looking for safety.
And somehow—
Somehow—
you’d chosen him.
“Who?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head against his chest.
Couldn’t speak.
Happy looked over your head immediately.
The room had gone eerily still.
Jax was already standing.
Chibs looked deadly serious.
Even Tig had lost the usual humor in his face.
Happy adjusted his hold on you carefully.
Painfully carefully.
Like you were something fragile despite the violence simmering under his skin.
“Take a breath,” he murmured.
Your fingers clenched tighter in the back of his shirt.
Happy glanced down finally.
Really looked at you.
Your eyes were wet.
Terrified.
And Christ.
Happy had seen bloodier things than nightmares.
Had done bloodier things himself.
But seeing you look genuinely afraid hit him harder than violence ever had.
“It’s okay,” he repeated softly.
The softness startled everybody.
Including him.
You finally managed a shaky breath.
“There was a man—”
Happy went still.
“He followed me,” you whispered. “From the grocery store.”
The room temperature seemed to drop instantly.
Your voice cracked.
“I thought I lost him but then he grabbed me outside my apartment and—”
Happy’s arms locked around you tighter immediately.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to anchor.
Rage exploded white-hot behind his ribs.
“Did he hurt you?”
You shook your head quickly.
“No, I got away. I just—I didn’t know where else to go—”
Happy’s expression changed.
Tiny shift.
But devastating.
Because you came here.
To him.
Out of every possible place in Charming, your terrified brain had decided Happy Lowman meant safety.
Not danger.
Safety.
Something ugly and protective twisted violently in his chest.
You finally looked up at him then.
Eyes red.
Face pressed close enough he could feel your breath through his shirt.
And Happy—
Happy melted.
Nobody would’ve called it that.
Not looking at him.
Not with the tattoos and scars and death in his eyes.
But something in him softened instantly around you.
His hand cradled the back of your head more securely.
“You did good,” he said quietly.
Your face crumpled unexpectedly at that.
Like nobody had said the right thing yet.
Tears spilled harder.
Happy visibly panicked.
“Hey.”
You buried your face back into his chest immediately, shaking.
And Happy—
Jesus Christ.
Happy Lowman, who had stabbed men without blinking, looked completely overwhelmed by your tears.
His eyes darted around the room like someone else might know what to do.
Tig made a tiny motion with his hand.
Comfort her, dumbass.
Right.
Happy swallowed hard.
Then lowered his head slightly toward yours.
“It’s alright,” he murmured again, softer now. “Ain’t gonna let anybody touch you.”
You made another shaky sound.
Happy’s hand moved slowly against your hair.
Awkward.
Careful.
Like he was trying not to break you.
And maybe the strangest part was how natural it felt after the first second.
Holding you.
Protecting you.
Keeping you tucked against him while your fear slowly eased.
Like something deep in him had already decided you belonged there.
The clubhouse stayed silent around you.
Mostly because nobody had ever seen Happy like this before.
Gentle.
Patient.
He looked like a wolf trying to hold a wounded bird without crushing it.
Jax finally spoke quietly.
“You know what the guy looked like?”
Your body tensed again immediately.
Happy felt it.
Saw it.
And instantly tightened his hold.
“Nah,” he said flatly without looking away from you. “Not now.”
Jax paused.
Then nodded once.
Because Happy’s tone made it very clear:
This came first.
You came first.
The room slowly resumed movement after that.
Quietly.
Respectfully.
But Happy stayed exactly where he was.
Holding you against his chest while your breathing gradually steadied.
Minutes passed.
Maybe longer.
Eventually, your grip loosened slightly.
Embarrassment started creeping in around the edges now that the panic faded.
You pulled back just enough to wipe your face quickly.
“Sorry,” you mumbled hoarsely.
Happy frowned instantly.
“For what?”
You laughed weakly.
“I basically tackled you.”
“So?”
The answer came so automatically it stunned both of you.
You stared at him.
Happy looked mildly confused by your confusion.
Like he genuinely didn’t understand why this was a problem.
You swallowed hard.
“You don’t really… do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” You gestured vaguely between your bodies. “Comforting people.”
Happy looked down at you for a long moment.
Then his thumb brushed lightly near your temple, wiping away leftover tears before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.
“Ain’t people,” he muttered.
Your breath caught.
The words hit him about half a second later.
Happy froze.
The room went suspiciously quiet again because apparently everyone heard that.
Tig’s eyes widened dramatically.
Chibs looked delighted.
Happy ignored them completely.
Because you were still looking at him like that.
Soft.
Safe.
Trusting him with parts of yourself most people never got close enough to see.
And Happy realized something ugly and undeniable in that moment:
If that man had actually hurt you—
Really hurt you—
they would never find enough of him left to bury.
The violence of the thought should’ve bothered him.
Instead, all he felt was relief that you were here.
Alive.
In his arms.
You shifted slightly, finally realizing you were still pressed fully against his chest.
But before you could step away, Happy’s hand tightened reflexively against the back of your head.
Not forcing.
Just… keeping you there another second.
His eyes dropped to yours.
“You stayin’ here tonight.”
It wasn’t really a question.
You blinked.
“I don’t wanna inconvenience—”
“You ain’t.”
The firmness in his voice shut that down immediately.
Then quieter:
“You’re safe here.”
Something warm and aching spread through your chest.
Because you believed him instantly.
Happy glanced toward the clubhouse doors again, jaw tight with leftover rage.
Then back at you.
And for the first time since you’d known him, the terrifying brutality everyone feared about Happy Lowman became something else entirely.
Not frightening.
Protective.
His violence curled around you instead of toward you.
A wall between you and anything cruel enough to make you cry.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then slowly rested your forehead back against his chest.
Happy’s entire body relaxed.
Just a little.
His chin dipped briefly against the top of your head while his arms settled around you more securely.
And this time when he spoke, his voice was low enough only you could hear it.
“Got you.”
Happy did not sleep that night.
Not really.
He stayed awake on the clubhouse couch while you slept in the room down the hall Gemma had practically forced on you.
The lights stayed low.
The TV muttered quietly in the background.
Most of the club eventually drifted off or disappeared into other rooms, but Happy stayed exactly where he was.
Watching the door.
Knife turning slowly between his fingers.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you bursting through the clubhouse doors again.
Terrified.
Shaking.
Running straight into him like your body already knew he’d protect you.
Something vicious settled deep in his chest at the memory.
Protective in a way he didn’t entirely know what to do with.
By morning, the rage had sharpened into focus.
Happy wanted a name.
You woke up embarrassed.
That was the first problem.
Happy knew it immediately from the way you avoided eye contact over breakfast.
You stayed close to him physically—always within arm’s reach—but now there was self-consciousness wrapped around your movements.
Like you regretted last night.
Happy hated it instantly.
“You eat yet?”
You glanced up from your coffee.
“Hm?”
“Food.”
“Oh. Uh. Not really.”
Happy shoved his plate toward you.
You blinked.
“You don’t have to—”
“Eat.”
You stared at him for a second before quietly taking the plate.
Happy watched until you took the first bite.
Only then did he relax slightly.
Gemma noticed from across the room immediately.
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Interesting.
You looked up suddenly.
“I should probably go home and grab some clothes.”
“No.”
The answer came so fast you startled.
Happy leaned back against the counter, jaw tight.
“Not alone.”
“I’ll be fine during the day—”
“No.”
There it was again.
That dangerous edge under his voice.
Not angry at you.
Just furious underneath.
You looked at him carefully then.
Really looked at him.
At the exhaustion under his eyes. At the tension in his shoulders. At the way his attention never fully left you even for a second.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
“Happy…”
He looked away first.
“Jax is workin’ on findin’ him.”
That got your attention immediately.
“What?”
“You gave enough description.”
Happy rolled his shoulders slowly.
“Guys are askin’ around.”
Something dark flickered behind his eyes.
“If he’s local, we’ll find him.”
The certainty in his voice should’ve scared you.
Instead, it made you feel safer.
Which maybe said something concerning about you at this point.
It took less than two days.
SAMCRO had roots everywhere.
Bartenders talked.
Dealers talked.
Mechanics talked.
And creeps who grabbed women outside apartment buildings apparently talked too.
Happy got the call while you sat beside him outside the garage drinking a soda.
He answered quietly.
Listened.
Went still.
You noticed immediately.
“What?”
Happy hung up slowly.
His face became unreadable in that terrifying way it sometimes did.
The calm before violence.
“We found him.”
Your stomach dropped.
You set your drink down carefully.
“Oh.”
Happy looked at you then.
Really looked.
And the fury in his expression softened instantly at whatever he saw on your face.
“You stay here.”
You swallowed hard.
“What are you gonna do?”
Silence.
That was worse.
“Happy.”
His jaw flexed.
“He scared you.”
The simplicity of the statement sent a chill through you.
Like in Happy’s mind, that alone justified whatever came next.
You stood quickly.
“Don’t kill him.”
Happy’s eyes lifted to yours.
Cold.
Violent.
Protective.
“You askin’ me not to?”
You stepped closer before you could think better of it.
Happy went still automatically.
“You don’t need to do something awful for me.”
Something changed in his face then.
Small.
Sharp.
Almost offended.
He stepped toward you slowly until there was barely space left between your bodies.
“You think this is for you?”
Your breath caught.
Happy looked down at you with an intensity that made your pulse stutter.
“This is for me.”
The words landed heavy.
Possessive.
Honest.
Because somewhere along the line, your fear had become his too.
Your safety had rooted itself inside his ribs like instinct.
Happy reached up slowly.
Like he was giving you time to pull away.
His rough knuckles brushed gently against your cheek.
“You came to me scared,” he said quietly. “Ain’t nobody gonna think they can do that shit again.”
Your heart slammed painfully against your ribs.
Nobody had ever looked at you the way Happy was looking at you now.
Like protecting you was something sacred.
Like hurting you was unforgivable.
You covered his wrist lightly with your hand.
“Please be careful.”
Happy’s expression shifted immediately.
Softer.
God, it was dangerous when he looked soft.
Because it felt earned.
Rare.
Only for you.
“I always am.”
You both knew that was a lie.
The man’s name was Curtis Bell.
Mid-thirties.
Local drunk.
History of harassment complaints that never went anywhere because Charming had always been better at ignoring women than protecting them.
Happy found him behind a run-down bar just outside town.
The guy recognized immediately that he’d made a catastrophic mistake.
Especially when Happy approached wearing his kutte.
No smile.
No hurry.
Just death walking steadily closer.
Curtis backed up instinctively.
“Hey, man, I didn’t do nothin’—”
Happy punched him hard enough to drop him instantly.
The sound echoed sickeningly through the alley.
Curtis gasped, clutching his bleeding mouth.
Happy crouched slowly in front of him.
Calm.
Terrifyingly calm.
“You touched her.”
“I didn’t—”
Happy grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head against the brick wall.
Once.
Hard.
“You scared her.”
Curtis whimpered.
Happy felt absolutely nothing.
No guilt.
No hesitation.
Only rage.
Because he kept seeing your tear-streaked face buried against his chest.
Kept hearing your shaky breathing.
Happy leaned closer.
And quietly—almost conversationally—said:
“You ever look at her again…”
Curtis started crying immediately.
Actual tears.
Begging.
Happy’s expression never changed.
“They won’t find your body.”
The certainty in his voice broke something in the man completely.
Good.
Happy released him roughly.
Curtis collapsed coughing onto the pavement.
Then Happy stood.
Looked down at him one last time.
And realized something deeply inconvenient.
The violence hadn’t satisfied him.
Not fully.
Because what he’d really wanted—
What had actually been clawing at him for two straight days—
was you.
Your safety.
Your trust.
The feeling of you clinging to him.
Like he was home.
That realization followed him all the way back to the clubhouse.
You were sitting outside when his bike pulled in.
Waiting.
The second you saw him, you stood quickly.
Happy killed the engine.
For one moment neither of you moved.
Then you walked toward him fast enough that his chest tightened instinctively.
“You okay?”
The question hit him strangely hard.
Not “did you do it.”
Not “what happened.”
You okay?
Happy stared at you for a long second before nodding once.
“He won’t bother you again.”
Relief washed across your face so visibly it almost hurt to look at.
“Okay.”
That was it.
Just okay.
Because you trusted him.
Completely.
Happy got off the bike slowly.
You stayed close while he pulled off his gloves.
Your eyes caught on the blood across his knuckles immediately.
Tiny cuts.
Split skin.
Your face tightened.
“Happy…”
“Ain’t mine.”
You exhaled shakily.
Then, before he could process it, you reached for his hand carefully.
Happy froze.
Your fingers wrapped around his wrist gently as you inspected the bruising across his knuckles.
Such a small touch.
But it hit harder than violence ever did.
“You should clean these.”
Happy couldn’t stop staring at you.
At the softness in your expression. At the concern. At the way you held his hand like it wasn’t attached to someone dangerous.
You looked up suddenly and caught him staring.
The air shifted instantly.
Heavy.
Close.
Happy stepped toward you slowly.
Your breath caught.
“You ain’t scared of me,” he said quietly.
Not a question.
You frowned softly.
“Should I be?”
Probably.
But Happy found he didn’t want that.
Not from you.
Never from you.
He lifted one hand carefully.
Slower than a man like him had probably ever moved.
Giving you every chance to pull away.
Instead, you leaned into the touch immediately when his palm settled against your jaw.
Happy exhaled roughly.
Like that tiny movement undid him.
“You ran to me,” he murmured.
Your eyes searched his.
“I knew you’d protect me.”
That did it.
Completely.
Something fierce and aching cracked open inside his chest.
Happy lowered his forehead against yours carefully.
Like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
“You got no idea what that did to me.”
Your hands slid slowly up his chest, gripping the front of his kutte lightly.
And when you kissed him—
Soft.
Tentative.
Warm—
Happy made a low sound in his throat that almost sounded pained.
Then his arms wrapped around you fully.
Secure.
Certain.
One hand cradling the back of your head exactly the same way it had the night you came running to him terrified.
Only now he kissed you like he’d been holding it back for far too long.
Deep.
Intense.
Every ounce of restrained feeling finally surfacing all at once.
And when he finally pulled back, breathing rough, his thumb brushed beneath your eye gently.
“Mine now,” he muttered before he could stop himself.
Johnny "Coco" Cruz (Mayans MC) x fem!reader - he's 34, you're 24
You're having a terrible day, so he shows up with tacos and a movie he insists is "life-changing." It's Crazy Rich Asians.
i've only seen like 5 mayans episodes and tiktoks.. so yall are just gonna have to correct me if im wrong on his characterisations
By the time the third thing went wrong before you even left your house, you had already decided the universe had chosen violence.
It started with oversleeping because your phone had died during the night without you noticing, which meant waking up in a blind panic twenty-seven minutes later than you were supposed to, stubbing your toe hard enough against the bedframe to make tears spring into your eyes before you'd even had coffee, discovering there was no milk left for said coffee anyway, and then somehow managing to spill the entire mug of black coffee down the front of your clean shirt after deciding you could "just deal with it."
Work wasn't any kinder. Customers were impatient. Your boss was in one of those moods where every tiny mistake became a personal insult to his existence. Someone accused you of losing paperwork that had, quite demonstrably, been sitting on their own desk the entire time. Then, because apparently the universe believed in commitment, it started raining precisely during the four-minute walk to your car after your shift ended, soaking you through before you even got the driver's door open.
By the time you finally dragged yourself into your apartment, you looked like a drowned cat with a headache and the emotional resilience of wet tissue paper.
You didn't cry.
You wanted to.
God, you wanted to.
Instead, you kicked your shoes off with considerably more force than necessary, dropped your bag onto the floor, collapsed face-first onto your couch, and decided that if the ceiling caved in right now, you probably wouldn't even move.
Your phone buzzed.
You stared at it.
Johnny's name flashing on the screen.
You smiled despite yourself.
Johnny:
Alive?
You sighed dramatically before typing back.
Debatable.
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
Johnny:
Scale of one to ten.
You:
Today is actively trying to fistfight me.
Three dots.
Then—
Johnny:
Don't move.
You frowned.
...What?
No answer.
You rolled your eyes.
Typical Johnny.
The man could spend fifteen minutes talking passionately about motorcycles but somehow believed explanations were optional for everything else.
Forty-three minutes later, someone knocked on your apartment door.
You shuffled over wearing mismatched socks, one of Johnny's oversized hoodies you'd stolen months ago because it smelled like cedar, leather, and him, and the expression of someone who had completely given up pretending adulthood was manageable.
When you opened the door, Coco Cruz stood there looking like he'd stepped out of some impossibly cool photograph despite the rain still clinging to the shoulders of his kutte, his curls damp beneath his beanie, tattoos disappearing beneath rolled sleeves, and in one hand—
A paper bag.
In the other—
A DVD case.
You blinked.
"...Is that..."
"Tacos."
"...And..."
He held the movie up with the confidence of a man presenting priceless art.
"Crazy Rich Asians."
You stared.
Then at him.
Then back at the DVD.
"...Johnny."
He pushed gently past you into the apartment.
"Move."
"I don't think—"
"This movie," he announced gravely, already kicking his boots off, "is life-changing."
You laughed once. A tired, confused little laugh.
"Life-changing?"
"Absolutely."
"It's a romantic comedy."
"It is cinema."
"You've seen it?"
"...Six times."
You stopped.
"...Six?"
He looked offended.
"Maybe eight."
You burst out laughing.
His mouth twitched.
"There she is."
The laughter faded slowly as you looked at him.
"...You drove all the way over here."
"You said today's trying to fistfight you."
"That doesn't mean—"
"It does."
He set the tacos on your kitchen counter before moving around your apartment like he'd lived there for years instead of merely spending enough nights there to know where your plates were, pulling them from the cupboard without asking.
"You eat."
"I wasn't really hungry."
"I didn't ask."
"...Bossy."
"Correct."
"You know I can order food."
"You could."
"I can also pick movies."
"You could."
"So why—"
"Because," he interrupted simply, "you've had a shitty day."
Like it was the easiest explanation in the world. Like that alone justified driving across town. Like of course he'd show up.
Why wouldn't he?
Something in your chest tightened painfully.
Johnny wasn't loud about caring.
He wasn't the guy who wrote poetry or made dramatic speeches or announced his feelings to crowded rooms.
Johnny fixed things.
He noticed when your windshield wipers squeaked and replaced them before you asked. He remembered how you took your coffee. He silently moved your hair out of your face when you fell asleep against him. He always walked closest to traffic. He carried heavy things without making a show of it. He listened. He stayed.
This—
This was exactly the kind of love Johnny knew how to give.
Even before either of you had called it love.
Twenty minutes later, the tacos were demolished, the rain drummed steadily against your windows, and Johnny had somehow commandeered your living room entirely.
Blankets.
Lights dimmed.
Movie ready.
He handed you another taco.
"I already ate."
"I know."
"So why—"
"You looked like you wanted another."
"...I do."
"I know."
"You keep doing that."
"What?"
"Knowing."
He shrugged.
"I pay attention."
Like it wasn't extraordinary. Like noticing everything about you was something he'd been unconsciously doing for months.
You settled against the couch.
Johnny sat beside you.
Not too close.
Never assuming.
Even now.
Even after months of dancing around whatever this was.
The movie started.
Within fifteen minutes you realized something.
Johnny wasn't exaggerating.
"This is actually really good."
"I told you."
"I thought you were messing with me."
"I would never joke about Michelle Yeoh."
You snorted.
Halfway through the film, Johnny quoted a line before the character could say it.
You turned slowly.
"...You know the dialogue."
"...Maybe."
"You've memorized it."
"I have not."
The exact next line left his mouth in perfect sync with the television.
You stared.
He refused to look at you.
"I hate that you saw that."
"You absolute nerd."
"I'm cool."
"You've memorized Crazy Rich Asians."
"It's got emotional depth."
"You cried, didn't you?"
"..."
"...Johnny."
"..."
"You cried."
He rubbed a hand over his face.
"...Maybe."
You gasped dramatically.
"Oh my God."
"It was one time."
"Johnny."
"The Mahjong scene gets me."
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
Real laughter.
Not polite. Not forced. Not exhausted.
The kind that stole your breath. The kind that made your shoulders shake. The kind that echoed around your apartment until even Johnny started laughing because your laugh was contagious.
He looked over at you then.
Really looked.
Your hair was messy. You were wrapped in a blanket like an angry burrito. There was salsa on your sleeve. Your eyes had finally lost that defeated look they'd held when you'd opened the door. You were smiling.
His chest did something funny.
Worth it.
The drive.
The tacos.
Everything.
Worth it.
By the time the credits rolled, you hadn't thought about work in nearly two hours.
You hadn't thought about your ruined shirt.
Or the rain.
Or the awful customers.
Or anything except the movie and the man sitting beside you.
You leaned your head against his shoulder automatically.
Johnny froze.
"...You okay?"
"Mhm."
"You've been quiet."
"I'm thinking."
"...Dangerous."
He huffed a laugh.
"You gonna tell me?"
You looked down at your hands.
"...Nobody's ever done this before."
"This?"
"Just..." You gestured vaguely around the apartment. "Shown up."
He frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." You swallowed. "People usually tell you to feel better."
"...Yeah."
"You actually tried."
Silence.
Not uncomfortable.
Just... full.
Johnny looked at you for a long moment before speaking quietly.
"I hate thinking about you having bad days alone."
Your heart stumbled.
"You don't deserve that."
"You didn't have to drive over."
"I know."
"You didn't have to buy dinner."
"I know."
"You didn't have to sit through a movie you've apparently seen eight times."
"It was probably nine."
You smiled.
"...Johnny."
He reached over almost hesitantly before brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with calloused fingers so impossibly gentle it made your chest ache.
"I wanted to."
Three words. Simple. Completely honest.
You looked into his eyes.
Dark.
Warm.
Tired in the way people who've survived too much often looked.
Johnny carried ghosts.
He carried regret.
He carried scars most people never saw beneath the tattoos and easy grin.
But somehow...
Somehow he still chose kindness.
Especially with you.
You reached up and covered his hand with yours.
"I think..."
He waited.
"...I might be falling in love with you."
His breathing stopped.
Actually stopped.
For one suspended heartbeat, he just stared.
Like he wasn't sure he'd heard you correctly.
"...You serious?"
You nodded once.
"I've been trying not to."
"...Why?"
"You scare me."
His eyebrows lifted.
"Me?"
"You matter."
Understanding washed over his face with heartbreaking softness.
He understood exactly what you meant.
Because you mattered to him too.
More than he had ever intended.
More than he'd ever admitted aloud.
Johnny smiled—a small thing, almost shy, completely different from the cocky grin he wore around the clubhouse.
"You know..." he murmured, "I think I fell first."
Your eyes widened.
"When?"
He laughed quietly.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I just..." He shook his head. "One day I realised I was buying your favorite hot sauce without thinking about it. Then I caught myself wondering whether you'd eaten lunch. Then I started driving slower when you were on the bike because I didn't want you nervous."
He squeezed your hand gently.
"And somewhere in there..."
He looked at you like you were something precious.
"...You became home."
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
"Oh..."
"You don't gotta cry."
"I'm crying because you're sweet."
"I literally threatened a guy with a wrench last week."
"You contain multitudes."
He laughed.
"So do you."
You leaned forward first.
Barely.
Giving him every chance to meet you halfway.
Johnny did.
His hand cupped your cheek as though you might disappear if he held you too tightly, and when his lips met yours, the kiss was slow and warm and patient, tasting faintly of lime and tortillas and the promise that neither of you had to keep pretending anymore.
When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.
"So," he murmured.
"So?"
"You still think today sucked?"
You looked around the apartment.
At the empty taco wrappers.
The abandoned blankets.
The television still sitting on the credits.
At Johnny.
At the man who had turned one of the worst days you'd had in months into the day you finally found the courage to tell him how you felt.
You smiled.
"...It had a rough start."
He smiled back.
"Good ending, though."
"The best."
He kissed your forehead this time, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close as the rain continued outside, no longer sounding lonely but comforting instead, because somehow, between tacos, a movie he'd insisted would change your life, and a love that had quietly grown in all the little moments neither of you had noticed until it was impossible to ignore, you realized he'd been right.
Crazy Rich Asians wasn't the thing that changed your life.
You call him when you're scared during a thunderstorm. He shows up before you even ask.
i've only seen like 5 mayans episodes and tiktoks.. so yall are just gonna have to correct me if im wrong on his characterisations
The first crack of thunder rattled the windows hard enough to make the framed picture on your living room wall tilt sideways.
You stared at it from the couch, blanket wrapped around your shoulders despite the warmth of the apartment, phone balanced loosely in your hand while rain hammered against the glass in relentless sheets. Southern California didn't see storms like this often, but when they came, they came with a vengeance, loud enough to shake the bones of old buildings and bright enough to turn midnight into daylight every few seconds.
You'd never liked thunderstorms. Not when you were little, not when you were grown. The sound always seemed too alive, too close, too impossible to ignore.
Lightning split the sky again.
The lights flickered.
Your stomach dropped.
You hated that you were twenty-four years old and still reacted exactly the same way you had at six.
You looked down at your contacts.
Your thumb hovered.
You told yourself not to.
He was probably at the clubhouse. Probably busy. Probably halfway through a beer with the guys or helping someone fix a bike or discussing club business that mattered infinitely more than your irrational fear of thunder.
Another boom rolled through the apartment so violently your kitchen cabinets rattled.
Before you could think yourself out of it, you hit call.
It rang once.
"Nena?"
His voice.
Low.
Calm.
Sleepy enough that he'd probably been resting.
You immediately felt guilty.
"...Sorry."
Silence.
Then, softer, "What's wrong?"
You laughed nervously, embarrassed by how ridiculous this was.
"Nothing."
"Nah."
"It's stupid."
"Nah."
You closed your eyes as lightning flashed again.
"...There's a storm."
He didn't laugh. Didn't tease. Didn't sigh.
Instead he simply asked, "You alone?"
"...Yeah."
"You locked your doors?"
"Yes."
"Windows shut?"
"Yeah."
"You okay?"
Another crack echoed so loudly you instinctively flinched, sucking in a sharp breath that you hadn't meant for him to hear.
He heard it anyway.
There was a pause.
Then—
"I'm coming."
Your eyes snapped open.
"What?"
"I'm on my way."
"You don't have to—"
The line disconnected.
You blinked at your phone.
"...Neron?"
No answer.
The call had ended.
He'd already grabbed his kutte before you'd even finished saying the word storm.
Bishop looked up from the table inside the clubhouse as Creeper crossed the room with the kind of quiet urgency that made everyone notice.
"You good?"
"Yeah."
"Where you headed?"
"Care of something."
Gilly smirked.
"Middle of the damn monsoon?"
Creeper didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
He was already out the door before anyone else could ask another question.
Rain soaked him before he even reached his bike.
Didn't matter.
His only thought was you.
Because you'd called.
You never asked for help.
Never.
You apologised when someone bumped into you. You insisted on carrying your own groceries. You claimed headaches were "fine." You smiled through injuries.
The fact you'd called him—
That meant you were genuinely scared.
He'd seen enough fear in people's eyes over forty-five years to recognize the sound of it over the phone.
And hearing it from you...
That had settled something deep in his chest.
So he rode.
Through rain and thunder.
Ignoring every drop that soaked through denim and leather alike.
You had just sat after making a cup of tea when three heavy knocks echoed through your apartment.
You froze.
Your heart skipped.
Who—
Another knock.
Then a familiar voice through the door.
"Nena."
You practically sprinted across the apartment.
The moment you opened it—
There he was.
Completely drenched.
Water dripping from the ends of his beard. Leather kutte darkened by rain. Boots leaving wet prints on the hallway floor.
His expression immediately softened the second he saw your face.
"...Hey."
You stared.
"You actually came."
His eyebrows furrowed like that was the strangest sentence he'd ever heard.
"You called."
"Asking if you were awake."
"You were scared."
"...I never actually asked you to come."
"You didn't have to."
God.
That somehow made your eyes sting.
He noticed immediately.
"C'mere."
You stepped toward him before thinking.
He wrapped both arms around you.
Warm.
Solid.
Steady.
His soaked clothes were freezing, but somehow he still felt like safety itself.
You buried your face against his chest.
Another clap of thunder exploded overhead.
Your fingers tightened instinctively around the back of his kutte.
He only rubbed your back once.
Slowly.
"It's alright."
"I'm sorry."
"What for?"
"You drove through this."
"You needed me."
"I didn't say that."
"You called."
"I could've called anybody."
"But you didn't."
His words weren't smug. They weren't triumphant. Just...gentle. Matter-of-fact.
Like he wasn't claiming ownership. Just acknowledging the truth.
You stayed there longer than either of you meant to.
Eventually he leaned back slightly.
"You eat?"
You blinked.
"...No."
"Course not."
"I wasn't hungry."
"You were anxious."
"...Maybe."
He nodded toward the kitchen.
"You got food?"
"I think."
"You think?"
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"I'll check."
Forty minutes later your apartment somehow smelled like grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.
You sat cross-legged on the couch wrapped in your blanket while Creeper occupied the opposite end, having finally borrowed one of your oversized hoodies after you'd practically forced him to get out of his rain-soaked clothes before he caught pneumonia.
It fit...surprisingly well.
The sleeves stopped halfway down his forearms.
The hood barely reached.
It should have looked ridiculous.
Instead it somehow made one of the most intimidating men you'd ever known look unexpectedly...comfortable.
Domestic.
Human.
Lightning flashed again.
You stiffened.
Without looking at you—
He quietly shifted.
Not dramatically.
Not making a point of it.
Just enough that your knees were brushing his thigh.
"You know," he said.
"Hm?"
"I figured something out."
"What?"
"You got different laughs."
You looked over.
"What?"
"I've heard four."
You laughed.
"There it is."
"What?"
"Five."
You blinked.
"You count them?"
"I notice."
You didn't know why those two words affected you so much.
Maybe because nobody had ever admitted to paying that much attention before.
"You really know my laughs?"
"I know the nervous one."
You smiled.
"The one you do when someone compliments you."
"...Okay."
"The one when Gilly says something stupid."
"That's different."
"It is."
"The one that's real quiet."
"..."
"And..." His eyes met yours.
"...The one I like."
You felt your heartbeat trip over itself.
"...Which one?"
"The one where you forget to be careful."
You frowned slightly.
"What do you mean?"
He watched you for a long second before answering.
"You spend a lotta time making yourself smaller."
The room was quiet except for the rain.
"You apologize too much."
You looked down.
"You think people don't notice when you're scared."
Your fingers tightened around the blanket.
"You don't ask for anything."
Another pause.
"But every now and then..."
His voice became impossibly soft.
"You laugh so hard you forget all that."
You slowly looked back at him.
"That's my favorite."
Nobody had ever seen you that clearly before.
Not your parents. Not old friends. Not people your own age.
Certainly not a man twenty-one years older than you who somehow noticed tiny details everyone else missed simply because he paid attention whenever you existed in the same room as him.
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
"Oh, nena..."
He reached up.
Brushed a thumb beneath one eye.
"You cryin' because I got a favorite laugh?"
You laughed wetly.
His smile grew.
The storm stretched well into the early hours of the morning.
Thunder continued to rumble every so often, but each time it did, you noticed something strange.
You weren't counting the seconds anymore.
You weren't flinching nearly as hard.
Because every time lightning flashed—
He was still there.
Still sitting beside you.
Still talking quietly about motorcycles, prison stories, terrible coffee, club brothers, tattoos, childhood memories he rarely shared with anyone.
He never once acted inconvenienced. Never checked the time. Never hinted he wanted to leave.
Eventually you found yourself leaning against him without realizing it.
He didn't move away.
His arm simply settled around your shoulders like it had always belonged there.
Comfortable.
Protective.
Natural.
"You know," you murmured sleepily.
"Hm?"
"I think I only called because... I knew you'd answer."
"I always will."
The certainty in his voice made your chest ache.
"You can't promise that."
"I can."
"You don't know where you'll be."
"I know."
"What if you're busy?"
"I'll answer."
"What if the club needs you?"
"I'll answer."
"What if—"
"I'll answer."
You looked up at him.
"Every time?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Every time."
The words were simple.
No grand speech.
No dramatic declaration.
Just a promise delivered by a man whose entire life had taught him not to make promises lightly.
Which somehow made them infinitely more meaningful.
You reached for his hand.
Slowly.
Giving him every opportunity to pull away.
Instead—
His fingers immediately intertwined with yours like they'd been waiting for permission.
Your heart nearly stopped.
"Neron..."
He looked at you with that quiet intensity that always made you feel like the only person in the room.
"I think..." he admitted, voice rougher now than it had been all night, "...I stopped coming over tonight because you were scared somewhere around halfway through the ride."
Your breath caught.
"I kept going because I wanted to see you."
Your thumb brushed across the back of his hand.
"I wanted to see you too."
He searched your face, making absolutely certain before he moved even an inch closer.
"You sure?"
Instead of answering with words, you closed the remaining distance yourself.
The kiss was slow.
Patient.
Gentle in a way neither of you expected from a man built like him.
It wasn't desperate.
It wasn't rushed.
It was relief.
Weeks of lingering glances.
Months of quiet conversations.
Countless almost-touches.
Everything finally settling exactly where it belonged.
When you pulled back, another roll of thunder echoed outside.
You blinked.
Then smiled.
"You know..."
"What?"
"I think the storm's letting up."
Creeper glanced toward the rain-streaked window before looking back at you.
"Nah."
"No?"
He rested his forehead against yours, his hand still wrapped securely around yours.
"I think it already did."
And sometime before dawn, while the last of the rain whispered against the windows instead of crashing into them, you fell asleep curled against his side on the couch, your fingers still intertwined with his, knowing with complete certainty that the next time thunder frightened you, you would never have to face it alone again.
Can I request a Shikamaru x fem!reader where shikamaru tried to confess and has choji and Naruto help him be super romantic with flowers and corny one liners MAYBE a jealous shikamaru cameo and reader is very smart but oblivious and it’s super cute!!! Please and thank you!!! <3
For a long time you and Shikamaru were good friends. Almost too good of friends, everyone knew when one of you was around the other was right around the corner. You two were inseparable.. which made it all the harder for him to secretly plan his confession. Over time, Shikamaru realized that he had feelings for you (although it was already obvious to everyone else..). He wanted it all to be perfect despite how much of a drag it might be. He meticulously planned it all for weeks and when you told him that you had to go on a family trip for the weekend he thought that it was the perfect opportunity to really get it in motion.
"Choji! Naruto! I already told you both that just asking her to be my girlfriend isnt enough. As annoying as it is I need to impress her or she might flat out say no."
Both of boys clearly were messing with Shikamaru. This was the most effort they've seen him do for anything.
"Okay listen both of you. Im going to get her alone and then when I give you the signal Choni comes with the flowers and Naruto brings the chocolates. Got it. Its simple you morons dont make this more troublesome than it already is."
The pair snicker at each other. Naruto smirks at Choji. He points out to Shikamaru "How do you know she doesn't know about your little crush on her? She's actually kind of smart.. not as much as me but you get it." Shikamaru signs and looks down. "Trust me I've been subtle about the whole thing. Now stop dragging this whole thing and help me buy the stuff." The trio walks off and looks at all the shops.
"Why is everything so goddamn expensive. Its just flowers"
When he says that Ino walks by. She sees Naruto give her a look and then turns to see Shikamaru clearly bothered about something.
"What do you need flowers for?" She asks
"He wants to ask y/n out but he's too stingy to actually buy the stuff he was going on and on about needing" Naruto tells her.
"NO WAY! Who knew y/n was going to be Shikamarus girlfriend, I always thought she had a thing for Neji since they've been pretty close lately." Once Ino says that Shikamaru immediately looks up.
"Do you think she likes him? I always thought he was too uptight, he walks with a stick up his ass why would y/n want to be with him." He rambles on and on for reasons y/n shouldn't like Neji. The others clearly find this pure fun.
"I dont think she likes him, but just to make sure to ease your jealousy I'll give you a discount on flowers. Remember my family owns a flower shop. You've found me at the perfect time. I NEED to see how this plays out."
They walk off and buy the supplies for the confession. Soon the days pass by and Shikamaru sets the plan in motion. He needed to lure you to their special spot and finally get this over with. The thing was.. he didn't rehearse what he was actually going to say to you.
"So what did you want to show me Shika?"
Shikamaru looks clearly bothered but quickly smirks and looks at y/n.
"Look, there's no simple way to say this, you're the apple of my eye... err no thats not what I wanted to say." He has a light blush on his cheeks, clearly embarrassed by the cheesy things coming out of his mouth.
You're clearly taken aback by the corny attempt at a confession. You've never noticed any signs from him and it never occurred to you that he felt the same way about you that you did towards him. You're thoughts race but you muster up the words to help him.
"I know what you're trying to say silly. Who knew Shikamaru who finds everyone a drag anf bothersome would be too nervous to confess to the girl he likes." You smile at him, assuring him of the mutual feelings you hold for him. The sun sets in the background and the sky is filled with pinks and oranges so beautiful, perfectly illuminating your face which leave Shikamaru in awe. He leans in for a kiss, holding your face with his steady hands, moving the hair from your face. The two of you move in sync, the beautiful breeze perfectly encapsulating the moment. You let go and look at him and he snaps his fingers, giving Choji and Naruto the signal to bring the stuff. Choji hands you flowers and Naruto chocolates while Shikamaru now hold the missing rose from your bouquet and extends it towards you.
"Will you be my girlfriend?" He asks, the blush on his face returning.
You accept the gifts and smile and nod at him, placing a quick kiss on his cheek. Shikamaru sighs loudly.
"I'm glad you said yes or this would've been a drag." He exclaims at you. You smile at him and point at the sunset behind the two of you. As the sun continues to set now turning into blues and purples. You stand by each other, hopeful and happy about the future together and the sweet start of a relationship together.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I hope you liked it!! This was sooo fun and cute to write!
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Happy Lowman (Sons of Anarchy) x fem!reader - he's 49, you're 24
You see happy shirtless for the first time and it breaks your brain a little (a lot)
enjoy the shirtless Happy/David labrava photos at the end - based off unfortunately true events.. yes.. even the fucking taxes line and the squeak
The clubhouse was louder than usual, every room spilling into the next with overlapping conversations, the scrape of boots across old hardwood floors, someone laughing too loudly over the music pouring from battered speakers that had survived more parties than they had any right to, and you had made the mistake—what would soon become one of the most embarrassing mistakes of your entire adult life—of volunteering to carry a box of fresh pastries you'd baked that morning because apparently your greatest talent wasn't baking anymore, it was finding increasingly creative ways to humiliate yourself in front of one particular tattooed biker who barely spoke five words a day and somehow still managed to occupy approximately ninety-eight percent of your conscious thoughts.
You'd been around SAMCRO long enough that everyone knew you now.
The sweet girl.
The baker.
The twenty-four-year-old who somehow fit into the chaos without ever becoming hard enough to match it.
Happy Lowman had started calling you "sweets" months ago by complete accident.
It had stuck.
Much to your everlasting cardiac distress.
Today, however, was going fine.
Actually...
Today was going suspiciously well.
Happy had nodded at you when you'd walked in.
He'd accepted one of your cinnamon rolls.
He'd even muttered, "Good."
Which, from Happy, was practically a standing ovation.
You should've known the universe was balancing the scales.
Because halfway through unloading pastries into the kitchen, Chibs called from somewhere down the hallway.
"Happy!"
A muffled response.
"Bathroom's flooded again."
Someone groaned.
"Bobby clogged it?"
"It wasn't me!"
Laughter erupted.
You weren't paying attention.
You were carefully arranging muffins into neat rows because presentation mattered, thank you very much, when Tig wandered into the kitchen wearing the expression of someone seconds away from causing problems.
"Hey, sweetheart."
"No."
"I didn't even say anything."
"You've got that face."
"What face?"
"The one that means I should leave."
He looked almost offended.
"I was just gonna tell you Happy's in the spare bathroom."
"...Okay?"
"Shower's working in there."
"...Okay?"
"He went to rinse off after fixing his bike."
"...Okay?"
He grinned.
"So if you need paper towels they're in the linen closet."
You blinked.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Nothing."
Then he walked away laughing to himself.
You frowned after him.
"You're a weird man."
You genuinely thought nothing of it.
Until approximately five minutes later when Gemma shouted from somewhere downstairs.
"Sweetheart! Can you grab the clean towels from the hall closet?"
"Yep!"
You hurried upstairs.
Completely unsuspecting.
Entirely innocent.
Not a single survival instinct present.
The hallway was quiet compared to downstairs, music muted through old walls as you reached the linen closet, pulled open the door, stacked fresh towels into your arms...
...and immediately dropped half of them when another door opened.
Your head snapped toward the sound automatically.
Happy stepped out of the spare bathroom.
Fresh from the shower.
Shirtless.
Hair still damp.
Water glistening over black ink that covered broad shoulders and a chest you'd somehow never really appreciated before because Happy almost always wore layers, flannel over shirt, kutte over flannel, sleeves rolled down, and apparently your imagination had been criminally inadequate because absolutely nothing had prepared you for the reality standing six feet away from you with a towel slung carelessly around his neck, tattoos stretching across muscle earned through decades of violence and motorcycles and work, scars weaving between ink like stories written directly into his skin, droplets of water tracing slow paths downward before disappearing beneath the waistband of worn jeans that sat low on narrow hips, and every coherent thought your brain had ever possessed packed a tiny suitcase, wished you luck, and abandoned ship.
Happy noticed you.
You noticed Happy noticing you.
Time stopped.
Your brain made one final, desperate attempt at functioning.
Say hello.
Easy.
Normal.
Adult.
Instead—
Your eyes got impossibly wide.
Your mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
You made a noise.
Not a word.
A noise.
Something between a squeak and the sound a tea kettle makes right before it explodes.
Happy's eyebrow lifted.
"...Sweets?"
You continued staring.
Absolutely frozen.
Because there were muscles.
So many muscles.
Good lord.
How did one human being—
He had—
His shoulders—
Was that another tattoo—
Dear God, his arms.
Happy tilted his head slightly.
"You alright?"
Your brain finally rebooted.
Unfortunately.
The first thought it produced was:
OH MY GOD HE'S LOOKING AT ME WHILE SHIRTLESS.
You panicked.
Utterly.
Catastrophically.
"Nope!"
The word burst out far louder than intended.
Happy blinked.
You pointed at absolutely nothing.
"I—"
Nothing.
"I have—"
No you didn't.
"I forgot—"
Forgot what?
"My... uh..."
Think.
Think!
"My... taxes!"
Happy stared.
"...Taxes."
"YES."
Silence.
"...It's June."
"I KNOW!"
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
Instead—
You spun around so quickly you smacked directly into the linen closet door.
"Ow!"
Recovered.
Barely.
Grabbed approximately three towels instead of the whole stack.
Then, in what would later be remembered by every witness as the least convincing escape attempt in recorded history—
You ran.
Actually ran.
Down the hallway.
Away from the shirtless man.
Away from your dignity.
Away from civilization itself.
Behind you—
There was a long pause.
Then Happy's voice.
"...Sweets."
You ran faster.
Downstairs, Juice looked up just in time to see you bolt through the clubhouse clutching three crooked towels against your chest with the expression of someone fleeing an active crime scene.
"...Everything okay?"
"PERFECT."
"You look like you're about to pass out."
"I AM NOT."
"You sure?"
"I HAVE TO GO."
"You... live thirty minutes away."
"I KNOW."
You dropped the towels and headed straight for the front door.
Behind you came slow, familiar footsteps.
Heavy boots.
Unhurried.
Steady.
Happy.
Tig spotted him immediately.
"...She's runnin'."
"I know."
"You gonna let her?"
"No."
Happy continued walking.
Not fast.
Didn't need to.
You'd barely made it halfway across the parking lot before you heard him.
"Sweets."
You accelerated.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
You could never look him in the eye again.
You'd squeaked.
You'd blamed taxes.
You'd fled.
You deserved exile.
Behind you—
Happy sighed.
Long-suffering.
Then—
"Sweets."
Closer now.
You risked one glance over your shoulder.
Big mistake.
He'd pulled on a black T-shirt.
Which honestly wasn't helping.
Because now you knew what was underneath it.
Your face somehow became even hotter.
"Oh my God..."
Happy watched realization dawn across your expression.
Then watched you turn and immediately speed-walk even faster.
His mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile.
Close.
He caught up effortlessly.
You stubbornly refused to look at him.
"I'm busy."
"Mm."
"I have somewhere to be."
"You don't."
"I absolutely do."
"I parked behind your car."
...
"...That's unfortunate."
"You can't leave."
"...I could walk."
"Thirty miles."
"...Exercise is healthy."
He stopped in front of you, calmly blocking your path without an ounce of aggression, simply existing there with his hands tucked into his pockets, looking down at you with that unreadable expression that usually terrified grown men but somehow only made your heartbeat worse.
You stared determinedly at the laces on his boots.
Anywhere but his face.
Or... anything else.
Happy waited.
Patient.
Finally—
"Sweets."
"...Mm?"
"You gonna look at me?"
"No."
"Why?"
"...Reasons."
"What reasons?"
"...Personal reasons."
Silence.
Then—
"...Was it because I didn't have a shirt on?"
Your soul left your body.
Gone.
Departed.
Ascended.
You covered your face with both hands.
"Oh my God."
Happy had his answer.
A tiny sound escaped him.
Barely audible.
A low huff.
It took you a full three seconds to realize...
He was laughing.
Not loudly.
Not mockingly.
Just...
Amused.
You peeked between your fingers.
"...Are you laughing at me?"
"No."
"You are!"
"I'm not."
"You literally are!"
"Little bit."
"Oh, this is horrible."
He looked at you for another long moment before quietly murmering, "You ran because I took my shirt off."
"I ran because my brain stopped working."
"...Mm."
"I embarrassed myself."
"You squeaked."
"I KNOW."
"You said taxes."
"I KNOW."
"It's June."
"I KNOW IT'S JUNE."
He nodded once.
"I liked that."
You blinked.
"...What?"
"The squeak."
Your eyes widened.
"You... liked it?"
"Yeah."
"...Why?"
A shrug.
"'Cause it was honest."
You stared.
Happy met your gaze without looking away.
"You don't fake much."
"I wasn't trying to fake anything."
"I know."
"I genuinely malfunctioned."
"I noticed."
"I made the noise of a distressed guinea pig."
"You did."
"You'll never forget that."
"No."
"I have to move countries."
"No."
"You'll tell the guys."
"No."
"You'll think about it every time you see me."
Another pause.
Then—
"I'll think it's cute."
Your head snapped up.
"...Cute?"
"Mm."
"I made a complete fool of myself."
"I know."
"You found that..."
"...Cute."
"You don't think I'm ridiculous?"
"I think you're twenty-four."
"...That's your explanation?"
"You've got a big heart."
His voice remained quiet.
"So when you feel things..."
He gestured vaguely.
"...Your whole face says it."
You frowned.
"...That's embarrassing."
"I like seeing it."
"...Why?"
"'Cause I always know where I stand."
You looked at him then.
Really looked.
Happy wasn't teasing.
Wasn't smirking.
Wasn't making fun of you.
He genuinely looked... fond.
Like your spectacular failure to behave like a normal person had somehow become one of his favorite things.
"You really thought I was...Handsome?"
Your face exploded into fresh color.
"I wasn't gonna say it!"
"You were thinkin' it."
"..."
"..."
"...Maybe."
That tiny almost-smile returned.
"So."
"So?"
"You think I'm handsome."
"I think you're impossible."
"Didn't answer."
You groaned dramatically.
"You are absolutely impossible."
"Sweets."
You sighed the sigh of someone accepting unavoidable defeat.
"...Yes."
He waited.
"...Yes, I think you're handsome."
Silence.
"...Very handsome."
Another pause.
"...Stupidly handsome."
He nodded once.
"Good."
"Good?"
"'Cause I think you're beautiful."
Everything stopped.
The parking lot. The motorcycles. The voices drifting from inside. The breeze moving through the trees.
Your heart forgot how to beat altogether.
"...What?"
Happy stepped closer.
Close enough that you could smell clean soap instead of engine grease.
Close enough that his voice stayed low.
"I've thought that for a while."
"You..."
"I wasn't in a hurry."
"You were waiting?"
"You would've gotten there."
"...Eventually."
Your laugh came out shaky.
"I don't think I was."
"You would've."
"I literally ran away."
"You came back."
"I had to."
"You always do."
He wasn't wrong.
No matter how flustered you got.
No matter how nervous he made you.
You always ended up gravitating back toward him.
Like it was instinct.
Like somehow, somewhere along the way, he'd quietly become home.
Happy reached out slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and brushed one escaped strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that seemed impossible for hands that had spent decades throwing punches and fixing motorcycles.
"So."
"So?"
"You done runnin'?"
You looked up into warm brown eyes that somehow held more tenderness than words ever could.
Then smiled.
"...Yeah."
"You sure?"
"I don't think I could outrun you anyway."
"No."
A tiny laugh escaped you.
"So... what happens now?"
Happy's hand settled lightly around yours.
Simple.
Steady.
Like it had always belonged there.
"Now," he said quietly, "I take my girl inside."
Your breath caught.
"...Your girl?"
"If she'll have me."
You looked at your joined hands.
Then back at him.
"I've been making a fool of myself over you for months."
"I noticed."
"I'd really, really like to be your girl."
For the first time since you'd known him, Happy smiled without reservation.
Small.
Soft.
Entirely real.
"Good."
He squeezed your hand once before leading you back toward the clubhouse, and when the front door opened to reveal every single Son pretending very badly not to have been watching through the windows, Tig immediately grinned and called, "So... taxes all sorted?"
You buried your burning face against Happy's shoulder with a groan of absolute defeat.
Happy wrapped an arm around your waist without hesitation, looked directly at Tig, and said in the calmest voice imaginable, "Yeah."
Then he kissed the top of your head.
"My girl's good now."
The laughter that erupted around you barely registered, because tucked safely against his side, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the very shirt that had caused your spectacular collapse in the first place, you realized you didn't mind making a fool of yourself anymore—not if every time you ran, Happy Lowman was always going to be the one who came after you.
After the events of Mayans, where Happy dies, you find a letter he wrote, addressed to you.
Chibs and Tig have to break down the bathroom door, where you've locked yourself in, to get to you because you're sobbing too hard to move. (think Izzie in greys anatomy after Denny died)
uhh, yeah, i broke my own heart with this
The first few days after Happy died didn't feel real.
That was the problem.
Everyone kept looking at you with that expression people got when they were waiting for grief to hit, as if they were standing on a beach watching a tidal wave approach from the horizon, knowing exactly what was coming while the person in its path remained stubbornly unaware, and maybe that was why you had managed to keep functioning when nobody expected you to, because while the rest of SAMCRO was mourning a brother, while Tig drank himself sick and Chibs grew quieter than you'd ever seen him, while even the prospects stopped laughing so loudly around the clubhouse, you simply kept moving.
You made coffee.
You cleaned dishes.
You answered questions.
You slept occasionally.
You breathed.
You existed.
And every single time somebody tried to talk about him, tried to say his name with that careful tone people used around the recently bereaved, you would smile tightly and change the subject because none of this felt permanent, none of it felt real, and somewhere inside your chest existed the irrational certainty that Happy was simply late, that he would walk through the clubhouse doors any minute wearing that familiar expression of permanent annoyance, muttering something sarcastic under his breath while everyone stared at him like they'd seen a ghost.
You'd never lost anyone like this before.
You didn't understand yet that sometimes the mind protected itself by refusing to acknowledge a wound until it absolutely had to.
The letter changed everything.
It happened almost a week after the funeral.
You'd gone to the small house Happy had owned because Chibs had gently suggested you should collect the things he'd wanted you to have, and you'd agreed because it sounded simple enough, just boxes and clothes and belongings, practical things that required action rather than emotion.
The house smelled like him.
Leather.
Motor oil.
Soap.
Gunpowder.
Something so distinctly him it could never be described.
The scent hit you the second you opened the door, and for a moment your chest tightened so painfully that you had to grip the frame to stay upright.
But still, you managed.
Somehow.
You packed shirts.
Folded jeans.
Collected photographs.
You found the ridiculous coffee mug he'd claimed not to like despite using it every morning.
You even laughed once when you discovered three identical knives hidden in three different drawers because apparently Happy had never trusted himself to remember where he'd left one.
And then you found the envelope.
It was tucked inside the top drawer of his dresser beneath a stack of old paperwork.
Your name was written on the front.
Not printed.
Written.
In Happy's unmistakable handwriting.
For Y/N.
Your hands started shaking immediately.
Because somehow you already knew.
The world felt strangely quiet as you sat on the edge of his bed.
The mattress dipped beneath your weight.
Your pulse hammered inside your ears.
And slowly, carefully, you opened the envelope.
The letter inside was only three pages long.
Three pages.
Three pages from a man who barely spoke when he was alive.
You read the first line.
Sweetheart,
If you're reading this, something went wrong.
And that was it.
That was the moment the dam broke.
Not the funeral.
Not the phone call.
Not seeing his body.
Not standing beside his grave.
Three stupid words written in black ink by a man who was no longer alive.
Something went wrong.
As though he wasn't talking about his own death.
As though he was apologizing for being late.
As though he was sorry he couldn't make it home.
You didn't even remember leaving the bedroom.
The next thing you knew you were sitting on the bathroom floor clutching the letter against your chest while sounds you didn't recognize tore themselves out of your throat.
The grief arrived all at once.
Not in waves.
Not gradually.
It crashed into you like a freight train.
Happy was dead.
Happy was dead.
Happy was dead.
The thought repeated endlessly inside your skull until you couldn't breathe around it.
The man who called you sweetheart.
The man who pretended not to care while memorising your favorite snacks.
The man who always positioned himself between you and danger without even thinking about it.
The man who kissed your forehead when he thought you were asleep.
The man who promised he'd come home.
Gone.
Gone forever.
You slid to the floor beside the bathtub and curled into yourself, pressing the pages against your chest so hard they crumpled beneath your grip.
Tears blurred the ink.
Your lungs burned.
Every breath felt impossible.
You couldn't stop crying long enough to think.
Couldn't stop long enough to stand.
Couldn't stop long enough to unlock the door.
Hours passed.
Maybe.
You weren't sure.
The knocking started eventually.
Soft at first.
Then louder.
Then accompanied by voices.
"Y/N?"
Chibs.
"Darlin', open the door."
You couldn't answer.
You tried.
God, you tried.
But the second you opened your mouth another sob ripped free and stole whatever words you'd meant to say.
The silence that followed must have terrified them, because the knocking became pounding.
"Y/N!"
Tig this time.
Sharp.
Panicked.
"Open the damn door!"
You wanted to.
You just couldn't.
The letter remained clenched in your fist.
Your vision swam.
Your entire body shook uncontrollably.
And somewhere outside the bathroom, concern began transforming into fear.
"Get the key."
"It ain't workin'."
"Y/N!"
More pounding.
The door rattled.
You barely noticed.
Happy's handwriting blurred through your tears.
There was one sentence you'd read at least twenty times.
If I could've chosen anything in my life, I would've chosen more time with you.
The words shattered something inside you every single time.
Outside, voices grew louder.
Footsteps.
Arguments.
Then suddenly a violent crash.
Wood splintered.
The door burst inward.
And there they were.
Chibs and Tig.
Both breathing hard.
Both looking terrified.
For one horrible second neither of them moved.
Because the sight in front of them was devastating.
You were sitting on the floor in one of Happy's old hoodies.
Face swollen.
Eyes bloodshot.
Hands shaking.
Curled against the bathtub like a broken thing.
Still clutching that letter.
Still crying so hard you could barely breathe.
Tig looked away immediately.
Not because he didn't care.
Because he did.
Too much.
The pain on his face was almost unbearable.
Chibs swore softly under his breath.
Then crossed the room.
"Jesus Christ, lass."
You made a sound somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
The letter slipped from your fingers.
Chibs picked it up automatically.
His eyes skimmed the first few lines.
And suddenly his expression changed.
Not surprise.
Understanding.
Because now he knew.
Happy had left you a goodbye.
A final conversation.
A final I love you.
A final piece of himself.
And it had destroyed whatever fragile wall had been holding your grief back.
"Oh, sweetheart."
The words broke you completely.
You doubled over.
Sobbing.
Unable to stop.
Unable to breathe.
Unable to think.
And before you knew what was happening, Chibs was kneeling beside you while Tig dropped heavily to the floor on your other side, neither man saying much because there wasn't anything to say.
Happy was gone.
No words could fix that.
No comfort could undo it.
No promise could bring him back.
So instead they simply stayed.
Chibs wrapped an arm around your shoulders.
Tig rested a hand against your back.
And when you finally collapsed against them, crying so hard your entire body shook, neither man let go.
Hours later, after the storm inside you had exhausted itself enough to leave you trembling and hollow and barely conscious, you sat wrapped in a blanket in the clubhouse office while Chibs quietly handed you a fresh cup of tea.
The letter rested in your lap.
You'd read it three more times.
Every line hurt.
Every line mattered.
Tig sat nearby staring at the wall.
Eventually he cleared his throat.
"You know."
His voice sounded rough.
Older.
"He loved you."
Fresh tears filled your eyes instantly.
Tig laughed sadly.
"Yeah. Knew that'd do it."
Chibs shook his head.
"Brother wasn't exactly subtle."
That earned the tiniest, weakest laugh from you.
The first one since his death.
And somehow both men looked relieved.
You glanced down at the final page.
The final paragraph.
The final words Happy had ever written.
I don't regret much.
But I'd regret not telling you this. You made my life better. Every damn day.
If there's anything after this, I'll spend it looking for you.
The tears returned immediately.
But this time they felt different.
Still painful.
Still devastating.
Yet softer somehow.
Less like drowning.
More like remembering.
You pressed your fingertips against the ink.
Against the words he'd left behind.
Against the evidence that you'd been loved by one of the hardest men in California.
And as Chibs sat beside you and Tig silently guarded the doorway, you realized something important.
Happy hadn't left because he wanted to.
He hadn't stopped loving you.
Hadn't forgotten you.
Hadn't chosen to leave.
The letter proved that.
His last thoughts had been of you.
His last words had been for you.
And while nothing would ever erase the hole he'd left behind, while grief would remain a companion for a very long time, there was comfort in knowing that the greatest love of your life had carried your name in his heart right until the very end.
In the years that followed, the pain never disappeared completely.
But neither did he.
Because every time you reread that letter, every time you traced the familiar handwriting across those worn pages, every time you remembered the way he looked at you when he thought nobody was watching, it felt a little less like a goodbye and a little more like a promise.
And, in the quiet moments between grief and memory, you loved him still.
And somehow, impossibly, it still felt like he loved you too.
