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savetherealartists · 25 days ago

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AWWWWWWW RAT

Sons of Anarchy Preference "How they react when you accidentally call them "Daddy" in bed" (NSFW)

(Ok so i’m trying for my first SOA preference :3 Hope it’s okay and you all like it! Hope it is as requested :D Also I plan on keeping this list relatively short as I don’t want it to be as long as my TWD list, hope you all understand! Gif not mine/found them on google/credit to the original owners.)

Jax-The first time he’d hear you calling him “Daddy” in bed, he’d take a little step back and start to chuckle as he realizes you had a little dirty mind. He’d start to tease you, grinning and pretending to be in disbelief that you just said that, making you plead for him to get back at it and for him to give into your demands but only after you’d repeat yourself. “What? Daddy? You just called me Daddy! Yes you did!Fuck I never thought you were this dirty…Oh no I am not letting it go! Not until you tell me what was that all about! Come on, call me Daddy again!”

Opie-The first time he’d hear you calling him “Daddy” in bed, he’d be stunned and wouldn’t know what to say at first apart from calling your name curiously. However, seeing your sudden shocked expression as you’d realize yourself, he’d start to smile and laugh before cupping your cheeks and kissing you sweetly as he asks you what’s wrong. “Y/N? Did you just…Call me daddy? What’s that all about…You okay baby? It was an accident? Really? Well let me tell you what…I don’t mind if you call me that…”

Chibs-The first time he’d hear you calling him “Daddy” in bed, he’d smirk and get cockier about himself. Letting out a chuckle, he’d lean in closer to you ear and whisper about how dirty minded you are to even think of such things, truly not letting you get away with what you just said before gripping you tightly and thrusting harder. “You dirty little girl…Calling me Daddy so loudly and eagerly…Is that what you think of me? Hmm…Say it again! Call me Daddy again! Louder!”

Tig-The first time he’d hear you calling him “Daddy” in bed, he’d stop everything and just to stare into your eyes, making you both get quiet before looking at you lustfully and smirking darkly. Seeing you shake your head and sigh in denial of what just happened, he’d then pin you down to the bed and would thrust even harder and spank your ass to make you repeat yourself. “You…You just called me Daddy…Wow…Fuck…That’s so fucking hot! Y/N! Baby! Call me Daddy again!”

Juice-The first time he’d hear you calling him “Daddy” in bed, he’d blush and actually be so happy about it that he couldn’t stop smiling. However, he’d pretend to be bashful and would deny enjoying it as you’d ask him whether he might like it or not, yet despite his denial, he’d actually seem more confident. He’d end up pinning you down tightly and thrust even harder. “You just called me Daddy…What? No…No I-I am nothing like that…But that doesn’t mean i hate it…”

Happy-The first time he’d hear you calling him “Daddy” in bed, he’d smirk and let out a satisfied chuckle. He’d growl and grip onto your hair, pulling you back and simply tell you point blank to keep repeating yourself. He’d claim you as his and wouldn’t give a fuck if you both made too much noises, even going as far as to thrust even harder and make you beg for more. “Daddy?! Was it?! I didn’t hear you right you dirty little slut! You’re mine! Say it again! Let everyone know that i’m your Daddy!”

Kozik-The first time he’d hear you calling him “Daddy” in bed, he’d actually get confident about himself and wouldn’t be able to stop smirking and grinning as he’d look at you. Still thrusting, he’d tease you by getting you to get to be even louder. He’d even go as far as to mimic you at some point, only to make you blush even more from what you just said. “Daddy! Daddy! Oh…That’s you a few seconds ago! Huh, Y/N! You like that?! Calling me Daddy! Yeah you do! Look at you! Oh no don’t hide yourself!”

Rat-The first time he’d hear you calling him “Daddy” in bed, he’d get oddly quiet and would take time to process what had just really happened. He’d be actually overwhelmed with joy but just couldn’t find the right things to say or do in the moment that he’d kinda stay still for a moment. As you’d wonder if he’s okay and apologize for it, he’d panic and reassure you. “I-I’m fine! I’m really fine! I-I just never expected it…B-But I-I like it a lot! I swear! I really didn’t mind…”

Half-Sack-The first time he’d hear you calling him “Daddy” in bed, he’d smirk and get so overly confident that he’d start to play into it with you, acting as if he has always been your daddy dom. He’d laugh to hear you and would try his best to be rough with you, pulling on your hair or spank you but doing so lightly you’d laugh more than moan. “Yes baby girl?! You like that calling me Daddy?! Alright! Why don’t you say it louder! For everyone to hear!”

Tags : @baba-yaga-bitch, @dontaskmemyfavoritesong, @pan-and-proud-writes, @Erikaaferns, @ecurrier109, @purplemuse89, @fandomwritingismylife, @ichimaruai, @nekodalolita

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savetherealartists · 1 month ago

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After the shitty 12+ hours I’ve had…this helps me so much.

Taglist: @tuesdayaddamss @mamawiggers1980 @youngadult9016 @samcrosfaith @staley83 @bethexo07 @anonymouse1807 @raven1234321 @vaugarkel @kellynickelsgirl00 @callmesev @vagharsnextsnack @lunajay33 @punkrockcakepops @sweetestrose569 @xoxo-sarah

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TW: Canon typical violence, interrigation, Happy in his Happy place, cussing, Half-Sack is akward af, tension, throwing food.

Part 10

Sugar Spice & a little bit of Vice - Part 11

The warehouse sat low in the sprawl of some industrial graveyard, a skeleton of steel beams and forgotten brick. Half-collapsed walls leaned inward like weary old men. The rusted door creaked when it opened, groaning like it hadn’t been touched in a decade. Inside, the air was dead—thick with cement dust, motor oil, and that undercurrent of coppery rot that clung to places where men had screamed.

It was past midnight.

Outside, the cold gnawed at the chain-link fences and burned low along the cracked asphalt. But inside—inside it was heavy and still, like the room was holding its breath.

Happy Lowman moved like a shadow in that quiet.

He didn’t speak when he entered. He didn’t make a show of presence or posture. He didn’t need to.

He just was—a solid, unmoving shape dressed in black. Sleeves pushed up, dark gloves hanging from his belt, heavy rings flashing with dull metal when he adjusted the folding chair in front of the other chair.

The man tied to it was shivering now.

He hadn’t been earlier. Earlier, he'd talked tough. Tossed around threats, pretended he didn’t know who Sons of Anarchy were.

But now?

Now that he was stripped to the waist, ankles zip-tied to the steel legs of the chair, blood drying on his temple from the last question—he looked at Happy like a man who knew he was past the point of bargaining.

The room echoed with tiny sounds—the sharp drip of a busted pipe in the far corner, the gentle click of Happy’s blade as he opened it and ran a thumb down the flat.

"Start talking," Happy said finally, voice low.

Like gravel soaked in gasoline.

"You’ve got one more chance. Then I stop listening."

The man wheezed through split lips. “I told you—I don’t know—”

Crack.

Happy’s fist connected with his jaw so fast it barely registered. No wind-up. No warning. Just precision. The sound echoed, dull and wet.

The man choked on his breath.

Happy stood still. Watching. Breathing through his nose. Completely in control.

Happy tilted his head, expression unreadable, eyes flat and cold like river rock.

"Your crew moves weight through SOA turf again…" he started, voice low. Calm. Lethal.

He squatted. Still. Balanced perfectly. Elbows on knees.

"…I find you. I find your ma. I find your dog. You don’t get a second visit."

The man nodded with a trembling jaw, snot running freely. "Y-yeah. Yes. I swear. We’re done. We didn’t know it was SOA turf—"

Happy leaned in, breath steady. "You knew."

He stood. Quietly. Pulled his gloves back on, finger by finger. Then turned his back on the man.

There was a moment of shaking relief in the silence.

Then Happy stopped halfway to the steel table.

This was where he lived. Not in Charming. Not in the Clubhouse. Not even on the open road.

Right here. In between screams. In the stillness before begging started.

Because violence, to Happy Lowman, wasn’t rage.

It was predictable, organized, like breathing or talking apart a engine.

He reached the table beside him and picked up a pair of pliers. Old, stained, slightly rusted. Something forgotten in a mechanic’s drawer, long since re-purposed.

He turned them once in his hand, tested the grip, then walked behind the chair.

The man flinched.

“I—I can pay you. I’ll pay—shit, I’ll pay—”

"You can’t buy respect," Happy muttered, yanking the man’s head back by the hair.

He pressed the pliers to the man’s pinky, just above the first knuckle.

"You can only buy pain."

The warehouse smelled like copper and sweat now.

Happy stood over a ruined man.

He wasn’t dead—but he’d never run another crew. Wouldn’t walk without a limp. Wouldn’t forget what it felt like when his body was no longer his own.

But he talked.

Oh, he talked plenty.

Names. Deals. Schedules. Ports. Even cops in the local PD who’d looked the other way. All of it—spilled across the dirty floor just like the man's teeth.

Happy wiped his blade clean on a torn T-shirt and left the man there—alive, broken, warned. His job wasn’t to kill. Not tonight.

Not unless he had to.

He closed the steel door behind him with a quiet finality. Stepped out into the cold like a ghost escaping a mausoleum.

His breath misted white in the air.

One job done.

One step closer to going home.

NEW MESSAGE — 10:42 PM: Hey uh—don’t mean to bug you, bro, but that guy came back. Navy suit again. Said he wanted to try the raspberry scones. Just stood there smiling at her. I walked her to her car and stayed outside till she locked the door. Thought you should know. I’m keeping an eye out, promise.

Happy didn’t reply.

Instead, he put his phone face down on the motel nightstand, stared at the ceiling, and clenched his jaw hard enough to pop cartilage. He thought about her—his girl, probably humming softly to herself, tidying flour tins with precious fingers that never expected to get bruised.

He thought about what he'd do to that man in the suit if he pushed his luck.

"Lowman," the Oregon VP said, lighting a cigarette, hands twitching with the nerves of someone who’d seen the interrogation footage. “You got a way of... fixing things.”

Happy shrugged. "Guy talked. Crew’s pulling out."

"What about the ear?"

Happy’s stare said don’t ask twice.

The VP swallowed, nodding. “Alright. I’ll pass it along to Oakland. Appreciate it. You heading back to Charming?"

Happy’s fingers curled around his helmet. "Yeah."

He didn’t say more. He didn’t need to.

The Tacoma Killer had no interest in pleasantries.

NEW VOICEMAIL — 3:14 PM: “Hey, man. So… weird thing today. She, uh, she had a bruise on her wrist. Tiny. Barely there. Said she bumped it on a tray. I didn’t want to press but… I don’t think she even noticed she was rubbing at it the whole time she was talking. She’s still smiling. Just... thought you'd wanna know.”

Happy sat in a parking lot off Highway 5. Helmet beside him. Smoke curling from a cigarette pinched between two fingers.

He didn’t blink for a long time.

She bruised easy. He’d noticed that early. Like peaches. Delicate.

He’d made a quiet promise to himself—one only he knew.

No one would ever leave a mark on her.

Not while he was still breathing.

The ride back to Charming was long. But Happy didn’t stop much. He didn't listen to music, didn't speak at gas stations. Just rode. Let the roar of the bike and the wind rip through his thoughts like a storm through dry leaves.

As the pine trees gave way to scrub and low-hung clouds over the familiar stretch of highway into town, something in his chest shifted.

Not softened.

Just... tightened.

The way it always did when he got close to her.

She smiled like someone who believed in the good in people.

She believed in him and God help any man who tried to take that away.

The rumble of the Harley was different when Happy rode it.

Lower somehow, deeper in its chest—like it carried something carved from old bone and blood. The sun was barely cresting the edge of the treeline, casting long shadows through the alley behind Teller-Morrow as the Reaper’s silhouette glided into view. The familiar sound echoed off the tin of the clubhouse roof and died in the warm hush of early evening.

Happy Lowman dismounted in one unhurried motion. No wasted energy, no swagger—just the bone-deep efficiency of a man built for quiet violence.

His boots hit the gravel with purpose. Black jeans dusty from the road, a fresh smear of something dark on his knuckles. Leather kutte hanging heavy over a plain shirt, sweat at the collar.

He didn’t speak right away. He never did. He took in the garage, the lot, the clubhouse doors. Familiarity sank into him like a weight. But it didn’t settle.

“Hey, man,” Half-Sack piped up too fast, jogging awkwardly out of the garage bay, wiping his hands on a rag and trying to seem casual. He stopped a few feet short, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Happy raised an eyebrow.

“You’re back,” Half-Sack added, sheepish.

“Yeah.” One word. Flat.

“Uh—so, just, uh... while you were gone, I kinda kept an eye on the bakery. Like you said. Nothin’ crazy. Just, you know, driving by. Walkin’ her to the car. Stuff like that.”

Happy didn’t answer. Just stared at him.

Half-Sack fidgeted. “The guy. Suit. Real clean. He uh... didnt show up again. She said he was just some fancy guy but... Gave me the creeps. She didn’t seem scared or nothin’, just ... y’know polite.”

Happy’s jaw twitched. “She alright?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I think so.”

Happy nodded, once then finally moved, brushing past the prospect without a word. Half-Sack followed like a dog who knew better than to bark.

The Chapel was thick with smoke, oil, and testosterone. Sunlight angled through the slatted blinds, striping the hardwood table in narrow lines of amber. The room always smelled the same—burnt rubber, stale sweat, leather, and the ghost of blood that never quite washed out of the cracks.

The reaper loomed up from the table, cast in flickering shadows from the overhead ceiling fan that clicked with a mechanical tick-tick-tick like a distant countdown.

Every seat was filled.

Heavy boots silent on concrete. Hands tattooed and loose at his sides. Kutte crisp, but worn in all the right places—Nomad on the rocker across his back.

Happy’s eyes swept the room. Didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. Just pulled out the empty chair like it owed him money and sat down slow, spine straight, forearms planted wide on the table. His jaw was tight, unreadable. But his presence spoke volumes.

Chibs gave a nod. Tig grinned like a dog spotting another dog with sharper teeth. Juice gave him a twitchy smile and quickly looked down. Even Clay leaned back with a grunt of approval.

"Brother,” Clay muttered, tapping his gavel once. “You ready?”

Happy didn’t blink.

“Yeah.”

That was it.

One syllable, gravel rough, enough weight to anchor the whole damn table.

Clay’s voice echoed around the Chapel.

“Vote’s to finalize transfer of Happy Lowman from Nomad charter to Redwood Original. Full patch, with all rights and responsibilities included.”

The words sat thick in the air.

Happy didn’t look around. He didn’t need to.

One by one, the yay's came.

Opie. Bobby. Chibs. Tig. Juice. Piney. Jax.

Clay’s hand came last, heavy and slow.

The gavel cracked.

“Welcome home, brother.”

Happy nodded once. Tight. Clean.

The room relaxed. Tension bled out into back claps and grins. Tig lit a cigarette with a wink. Chibs poured two shots of Jameson and slid one across to Happy, who took it with no expression but tossed it back without hesitation.

“You gonna miss Tacoma?” Juice asked, half-joking, half-nervous.

Happy looked at him. Long pause.

“No.”

Simple. Flat.

But then he added, with a faint curl to the edge of his mouth—a twitch that wouldn’t pass for a smile on anyone else.

“Got somethin’ better down here.”

The sun hung low, casting honey-gold light across Main Street. The bakery’s front window reflected the fading sky—soft lavender bleeding into rust-orange. The bell above the bakery door jingled behind you as you stepped outside, apron folded neatly in your arms, fingers faintly dusted with flour and powdered sugar.

You were tired, flushed from the heat of ovens and the quiet bustle of the day. Still, you smiled when you saw the familiar bike and the man leaning against it—dark jeans, kutte, head slightly bowed as he rolled a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. Happy Lowman.

He’d parked with that casual menace only someone like him could make look like art—one boot crossed over the other, arms folded, chin tilted as you approached.

You gave him a tentative smile. “Hi.”

His gaze flicked to you, then stayed there.

“Hey, girl.” That gravel-warm voice of his—rough as broken glass but settled like a promise in your chest. His mouth twitched at the corner, a flicker of something rare. Gentle. “Missed you.”

You ducked your head, cheeks coloring. “Yea… missed you too Happy.”

Happy pushed off the bike in one smooth motion. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked at you with that unreadable stare of his. Then, with surprising softness, his hand came up to gently tug your apron from your arms.

“You eat yet?”

You shook your head. “Not really.”

“Alright. Get on.” He nodded toward the bike, then paused. “You look tired.”

You blinked up at him. “You… noticed?”

“‘Course I noticed,” he muttered, like it should be obvious. He handed a helmet to you without another word.

The diner smelled like old grease, warm bread, and coffee that had been sitting on the hotplate too long. Neon signs buzzed softly in the windows, casting the linoleum floor in streaks of red and blue. It was the kind of place that didn’t ask questions and didn’t judge—perfect for a man like Happy, who walked in like he belonged anywhere danger might follow.

He sat across from you in the booth, leather kutte creaking as he leaned back and slung one arm along the top of the seat. His eyes had scanned the place the second you stepped inside, out of habit—but now they were on you.

He ordered for both of you, he’d been watching your habits long enough to know what you liked—comfort food, warm things, nothing too spicy. When the waitress brought your plates, he watched you take the first few bites.

You were trying not to stare. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a couple days, and there was a new nick on his knuckle, but he looked like he always did—serious, intense, safe. Even just watching him eat felt like something private you’d been invited into.

“You always look like you’re thinkin’ too hard,” he murmured.

“I’m not.”

“You are. You got a soft brain thing, girl. People like that get hurt easy.”

You blinked. “What?”

He swallowed. “Soft-brained. That’s what I said.”

You narrowed your eyes slowly, like a cat trying to decide if it had been insulted or petted the wrong way.

“Did you seriously just call me soft-brained?”

“Yeah,” he said with no hesitation, reaching for another fry. “Not an insult. Just facts.”

You leaned forward, incredulous. “Hap”

He barely looked up from his plate. “Girl.”

Your fingers dipped into your fries with mock menace. You picked the longest one, pinched it between two fingers like a dart, and—without warning—threw it across the table.

It hit his cheek and bounced off harmlessly.

There was a long silence.

Then he slowly turned his face back toward you. One eyebrow raised. His hand paused halfway back to his mouth.

You stared, jaw slightly parted.

And then—

He smirked.

A real one. Not just the tight-lipped amused looks you’d seen him give Juice or Chibs. This one curled up at one corner, and his eyes crinkled just slightly.

“I deserved that,” he said finally.

“You did,” you huffed, but your voice was soft again, amused, the tension leaking out of you in a quiet giggle you tried to hide behind your soup spoon.

He picked up one of his fries in return, weighing it thoughtfully like he was considering launching a counterattack. You raised both hands like you were surrendering.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Then don’t throw food at me, softbrain.”

“Happy, you cant call people softbrained, you hear how it sounds !”

"Don't mean what you think, girl." He laughed then—low and quiet but unmistakable.

"Means your too kind."

His shoulders relaxed, his hand resting on the table, thumb rubbing the callused edge of your fry plate. When he leaned forward again, his voice dropped slightly, warmer.

“Y’know, your cute when you mad.”

You blinked. “I am not.”

He just gave you that slow once-over again, grin still faintly there. “You are.”

You were too busy blushing to throw another fry.

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