#mayans m.c.

[ficnation]

Chapter 3: The Desire She Stirs

Series: “She”

Word count: 2,0k+

Pairing: Angel Reyes x Female! Reader

 Warnings: 18+; mayans mc typical warnings, a tiny sprinkle of smut if you squint hard enough

A/n: Everything needs to fall apart before it can grow stronger. Angel starts to feel things he’s not comfortable with.

If you enjoyed reading this please reblog and let me know your thoughts!

Main Masterlist

Mayans MC Masterlist

PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

Angel Reyes used to think he knew you like the back of his hand. He always thought you were a good friend that didn’t hide stuff from him—that didn’t lie or pretend. Boy, was he wrong.

He first starts to doubt it when you come back home long past midnight with your hair messy and your clothes ruffled, the red lipstick smudged over your mouth and cheek. You aggressively throw your boots into the corner, then press your forehead against the cold wall with a loud, strained groan.

Angel hears how heavy your breaths are and sees the way you flinch when the wooden floor underneath his feet creaks. He calls your name as he walks over, concerned.

“You doin’ alright there?” His voice carries the worry he feels. The question is a soft whisper as it enters your ears.

You take a deep breath, your whole body trembling as you try to force the pent-up rage and tension out of your muscles. When you turn around to face him, you can only shrug pathetically, biting on your lower lip so you don’t burst into tears in front of him.

He reaches your person with knitted brows, taking your face between his large, warm hands. “What happened, querida?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it right now,” you refuse, trying to avoid his gaze, but it’s not that easy—his face is barely inches from yours. You can even feel his minty breath brushing over your cheeks. “Tomorrow?”

Angel thinks for a moment but doesn’t push; he knows it wouldn’t be fair if he did. He might be living with you; he might even be sleeping in the same bed from time to time when your nightmares make you cry out at night—but he still has no right to get all up in your business.

“Do you want me to run you a bath?” he offers, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. You respond with a nod, arms circling his waist as you give him an appreciative squeeze.

He lets you go reluctantly before walking away toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. You let out a deep sigh as you press your fingers to your temples, almost as if to calm down your racing mind. You give yourself a moment, then shrug off your leather jacket and hang it over the back of the couch before you follow in Angel’s steps.

As you walk into the bathroom, the inviting and soothing smell of vanilla soap and bath salts fills your senses. The air is humid and the lighting low, creating a relaxing and peaceful environment. The sound of the running bathwater floods the air with its calming sound.

The room is uncluttered for once, and you realize Angel must’ve picked up all of Maverick’s bath toys in the few minutes you spared him. The image of him scrambling around the room as he tries to quickly pick up every single one of the colorful trucks, boats, and squeaking ducks brings a smile to your face.

You approach the steaming bath, its warmth inviting. You manage to shed your blouse and wiggle out of your tight jeans before Angel returns with a bottle of white wine and two whiskey glasses—you never got around to buying the stemmed ones.

The man stares at your half-naked figure as you straighten up and step out of the pile of clothing gracefully. His eyes follow your every move, every curve of your body, every mark that decorates your skin. He feels entranced as he tries to will his gaze away, but he simply can’t, a blush creeping up his cheeks.

What’s even worse, you don’t seem to notice his presence as you unclasp your bra and slide down the matching lace panties. You step into the warm embrace of the bath, the comfort welcoming after a long, tiring day. You settle in with a deep sigh of relief.

Angel can feel the heat enveloping his body, lulling him into slipping into the bath with you. Then suddenly, you notice him in your peripheral vision, and you jump in surprise—the water moving with you. He feels like a fucking pervert.

“Fuck, sorry,” he mumbles out, turning around quickly as if it was going to save him from being caught in the act.

He can’t see you shaking your head, but he definitely hears the snort that follows it. The bottle of wine almost slips from his hand onto the blue tiles below; he grips it a little bit tighter by its neck.

“No worries,” you respond shortly as you fold your arms on the side of the tub, resting your chin in the nook of your elbow. “Are you joining me, or you’re just gonna stand there like a donkey?”

Your words fall on deaf ears as Angel stares into the distance with wide eyes. He’s sure his dirty mind is just playing with him. There was no way those words came out of your pretty lips. He spins to face you, and you meet his gaze, eyes shimmering with playfulness. Are you teasing him? Or are you just amused by his reaction to the question? He has no fucking idea which one it is, and it scares him.

You sigh deeply and decide to spare him the overthinking, “C’mon, hop in.”

“Me?” the man asks, pointing one of his fingers at his chest. He looks around the room as if someone else could’ve hidden in there, but he doesn’t see anyone. It’s only you and him. 

You roll your eyes in disbelief, leaning back and slipping further into the sudsy water. “Well, do you see anyone else here?”

Angel reluctantly sets down the glasses and the bottle of wine on the carpet beside the bathtub. He steps back and searches your face for an explanation. Maybe you’ve been drunk out of your mind since you came home, and he didn’t even notice. The smudged mascara on the apples of your cheeks reminds him that you had a bad night—a shitty night. He’s afraid you’re playing his game and looking for comfort in the wrong places.

“Querida, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Not in a sexual way, you ass,” you explain when your mind catches up to his suspicions. “I just want you to enjoy it with me. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

After the words leave your lips, you don’t have to wait much longer. Angel understands that feeling—the despairing need for the closeness of another human being. He grabs the hem of his t-shirt and inches it up slowly, giving you time to chicken out and retract the offer, but you don’t.

Your eyes gaze at the revealed skin and the happy trail of dark curls. You feel your cheeks getting warmer, so you look away—the white tiled walls are suddenly the most interesting thing in your world.

Angel slides his shirt over his head and lets it fall to the floor as he pushes the sweatpants down his legs. He stands there in all his naked glory and watches as you toy with your fingers awkwardly. He feels like he will chicken out if he stands there for a minute longer, so he slips into the bath and sits on the opposite side of you. The bathtub is big enough for you two to fit without feeling overly cramped.

You meet his eyes with a shy smile. “Hi, Angel.”

He shakes his head, amused, as he playfully splashes the suds at your face. You giggle quietly—a genuine sound—and he already knows he’s made your night a tiny bit better. He’s surprised this is all it took to calm you down—his company, wine, and a bubble bath.

You lean over the edge of the tub and pour the wine into the whiskey glasses, handing him one as you slump down with a relaxed hum, your leg grazing his underwater. It stirs something inside him, and he can’t help but shiver at the contact of your skin against his. He gulps down a generous mouthful of the alcoholic liquid, begging his body not to betray him.

Almost as if reading his mind, your eyes meet his, and you observe him intently, tapping your nails on the glass between your hands. “You seem nervous,” you state the obvious.

Angel blinks fast and sends you an awkward smile, shrugging his arms. He doesn’t know why he feels so restless and horny at the mere sight of your naked flesh and proximity. It’s not like he hasn’t seen you without clothes before—he did. You’ve been living together for a while—he’s seen it all, but it never made him feel this way.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, querida,” he lies anyway, trying to slide back, so he can put a little more distance between your bodies. The faucet jabs him in the spine, and the man hisses loudly, back arching.

“Shit, Angel, are you okay?!”

You’re now kneeling in the bath, right between his spread legs, as your hands hover over his arms, ready to check over the injury.

You’re too close. You’re far too close. Angel starts panicking; his heart thumps in his chest as your concerned eyes meet his. He’s trying not to look down at your revealed chest, but it’s hard not to. He can feel the warmth spreading through his body as he imagines how it would feel like to let those temptations win—to hear your sweet moans as he pounds you into the mattress. Fuuuuck.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, pushing your hands away gently. His eyes are looking anywhere but at you.

You look at him, utterly confused, as you slide back a little bit away from him. “Are you—”

“I said turn the fuck around!” he sneers loudly, cutting you off, a deep frown etched on his face.

You quickly do what he says, a shiver running down your spine. You have no idea if his sudden outburst is your fault. What did you do wrong? You’ve kept your distance as much as you could—as much as the calling of his muscled body and his charming smile allowed you to. But somehow, you still fucked it all up. That’s what you were best at. Fucking things up for everyone, including yourself.

The sound of splashing and dripping fills the air as Angel steps out of the tub. The bathwater ripples slightly, its bubbly surface glistening in the light. With his movement, some water spills over the edge and splashes out onto the cold tiles.

You sit still, your knees tucked to your body, chin propped up on them as tears well up in your eyes. The sound of trickling water and dripping onto the floor continues, making each of his steps seem slower—spiking up the tension in the air. You hear the rustling of his clothes as he picks them all up and leaves the room, still drenched and naked. He doesn’t bother saying anything else, but his harsh words still echo in your head.

You burst into sobs—let them wreck through your whole body, shaking with their intensity. You didn’t mean to upset him. You just needed someone else’s touch on you, someone else’s presence beside you, to forget the hands that grasped the fabric of your clothes—the hands that grabbed at your flesh harshly, leaving bruises in their wake. God, you just wanted to forget this night.

When you finally manage to step out of the bathtub, the water is cold—it’s been like that for a while already, but you didn’t even notice, too far gone in your thoughts. You put on the first clean clothes you can get your hands on, then fall back on your bed—the mattress creaking slightly.

That night when you thrash around and scream in your nightmares, you don’t wake up to the feel of Angel’s strong arms pulling you into his warm embrace. You wake up to the empty room and the eerie silence swallowing you in. The feeling of safety is gone.

Taglist: @neverland14353 @darklydeliciousdesires​

[myckicade]

WARNING: Contains reworked spoilers for Season Four.

Prompt: Can you do a Coco imagine and fix it please????

A/N: Ugggh. I still wish that I could properly fix it. I do. I'm so, so sorry that I can't, loves. All I can offer is this, and a massive hug.

As a further warning, I've played with canon (clearly), in order to fit the wider universe that this story follows. Since the events of Meth Mountain never would have taken place, Oakland wasn't a bitch detail for Coco.

P.S. This is over a year old, but I finally finished the bastard!!!!

Title: Catalyst

Pairing: Coco/Reader (F, Wife)

Teaser: You don't really know the realities of being a biker's wife, a fact that is becoming painfully clear. You can prepare for injuries, for accidents and scrapes and broken bones and concussions and-... Fuck, this? No, no, there's been no preparing for this.

There’s a high-pitched chirping coming from the nightstand, and it’s everything in you not to reach across the bed and fling the source of the noise against the wall. Fucking Club. They always need Coco at the strangest of hours, out to do fuck knows what, only fuck knows where. Under normal circumstances, you would let it slide, even at two in the morning. Unfortunately, normal circumstances are on holiday.

“Coco,” you groan, burying your face futher into your pillow. It muffles your words, but you know he’ll understand you, regardless. “Your phone…” You’re practically whining, but it’s… That sound, it’s grating on your nerves, ringing in the space between your eyes in a way that makes you want to cry. Another complaint is about to meet your pillowcase, when the tone abruptly cuts out. Thank fuck.

And, yes, you’ve counted those stars too soon. Almost as quickly as it stopped, the chirping starts again.

“Coco, what the fuck?” you hiss, pushing yourself up on your arms, to look over at the other pillow… Only to find it empty.

Oh. Oh, right. Coco’s still in Oakland. Sadly, this isn’t the first time you’ve gone to reach for him in the night, only to realize… Well. This is going to do nothing to rescue your mood. Because, for all you’ve been complaining to your husband’s temporary ghost, it’s most decidedly your phone that’s interrupted your sleep. Guilt settles in around the edges of your slowly-forming sense of consciousness. Eh. You’ll apologize to him when he gets back. You’ll say you’re sorry for yelling at him when he wasn’t around to hear it. He’ll laugh, and call you adorably crazy, and that will be that.

One more day, you tell yourself. Just one more day, and he’ll be home.

You stretch your arm toward the nightstand, intent to grab hold of the offending hunk of plastic and metal. Just as your fingers touch the surface, the ringing stops again. Huh. You’re beginning to grow concerned, the more alert you become. Coco wouldn’t call you in the middle of the night, not unless it was an emergency. Letty… Letty is safe in her bed, further shortening your list of potential callers. What if it’s from back home? It can’t be good, no matter who it is. Swallowing down a wave of honest terror, you pick up your phone, and-

Ding-ding.

The display lights up, alerting you to an incoming text message. It’s Gilly. Gilly never messages you. Your heart climbs into your throat, thumb shaking as you swipe up, and tap the icon to open your messages. You don’t want to know, and you can’t wait another second to find out what’s happened-

GET HERE NOW.

Your next breath catches in your chest, as you pull yourself upright in your bed. Get where? What the fuck is-

Ding-ding. Another message. It’s an address. You copy the address, and open it into your web browser, only to freeze up again as you realize... It's an address to a hospital.

A hospital? Oh, no, no, you’re going to be sick. The nausea is creeping up, burning in fear-

Ding-ding.

Tears fill your eyes. No, you can’t look. You just can’t. But…

COCO IN SURGERY. CALL ME.

Eyes frantically scanning the screen before you, you locate the appropriate icon, and smash your thumb against it. Every part of you is shaking, warmth slipping from your eyes, a sob fighting harder and harder to break free with every passing ring.

“Come on, come on, Gilly,” you whimper. The shaking has taken over every limb, so violent your bones are beginning to ache.

Ring…

Ring…

Ring…

“(Y/n)?!” It’s Gilly. His voice is such a relief, that sob finally forces its way out in a harsh cough.

“Gilly,” you plead. “What the hell happened?!”

*

The path before you opens up slowly, accompanied by a too-loud woosh of sound, and a burst of chilled air. You hate that you have to stop, even for the two or three seconds it takes for the glass doors to part far enough that you and Letty can get through them. Side by side, that's been the way since you'd had to wake her up, not an hour prior. Hands clasped together, a lifeline for one another. With a deep breath, you step through a second set of doors, and into the hospital's emergency department.

Six gunshot wounds. Fractured right tibia. Some kind of skull fracture. Gilly hadn't been terribly clear after that. Trying to get hold of a medical professional was a fuck of a struggle the entire way up, a wash of dropped calls, hold music, and after-hours answering services. Still, thanks to what Gilly was able to tell you, you aren't walking into it completely blind. Neither is Leticia, but, feeling the girl's hand tremble in yours, and hearing her half-stifled sniffles, you can't help but wonder which would really be worse.

The check-in desk is only a few steps away, but they seem to drag on for far longer than that. There's someone ahead of you, because, yes, of course, there is. Letty doesn't say a word of it, not right away, doesn't tell anyone to hurry their ass, or get the fuck out of the way, which says enough about how fearful the both of you are, concerning this discussion. The woman behind the desk could say anything, could be forced to direct you anywhere that would shatter the hope that Gilly left you with.

He's alive, though. Those were Gilly's exact words, and that's what you keep telling yourself. That's what got you into your clothes, and your coat, out the door and to the gas station. That's what kept you on the road, and not in a ditch, too blinded by tears and shaken with nausea to keep it between the lines. You're holding onto it now, grasping it with every last shred of your sanity. Coco's alive. He's alive, and he's a fighter, and if you find out who the fuck is responsible for this, you'll-

"Fuck this," Letty grumbles under her breath, taking a single step forward. Her mouth is open, surely ready to spout some obscenity that you can't find it in you to fault her for, when someone shouts from the left.

"(Y/n)!"

You jerk your head up, legs weakening at the sight of Gilly and Bishop hurrying over from the waiting area. They're still here, you tell yourself, as Gilly pulls you and Letty into a tight hold. That has to be a good sign, right? No one is off seeking... Shit, you don't know. Revenge or balance, whatever response the M.C. would typically have in this sort of a situation.

It strikes you suddenly. You don't know what the fallout from this is going to be. You don't really know the realities of being a biker's wife, a fact that is becoming painfully clear. Bits and pieces of conversation overheard during parties, and Coco failing at whispering over the phone, and that's it. He's never let you know, and you've always been fine with that, but now... Now, you'd give your left arm to understand, at the same time that you just don't fucking care. It wouldn't change a fucking thing, either way. You can prepare for injuries, for accidents and scrapes and broken bones and concussions and-... Fuck, this? No, no, there's been no preparing for this.

"What the fuck happened?!" Letty shouts, the second she's able to pull back from Gilly's arm. She looks between both men standing before you, expectant. You can't help but do the same.

Bishop sighs. "We don't know very much-"

"Bullshit," Letty spits. Reaching out, you place your hand on her forearm. She doesn't shrug you off, but it doesn't stop her argument. "You fuckers always know shit."

"Well, in this case," Bishop replies, tone firm, but not entirely unkind, "we weren't given much to go on." He glances your way, expression somber. "We know he's still in surgery. Bullets in his back, and his right leg. Fucked up the bone."

"G-Gilly," you begin, nodding, "Gilly said it was the tibia?"

Bishop nods, and Gilly hangs his head. "Right."

"The skull fracture?" Letty demands, when Bishop doesn't continue. You glance up, and find your daughter blinking back tears. Admirably, you might add.

Gilly shrugs, miserably. "Cracked his head when he fell, maybe. He was near his bike. Mighta' landed on it." Letty reaches out to grab your hand in hers. Good timing. It's all you can do not to bury your face away from the rest of the world. "The doctors've been waitin' on you. Won't give us the full story without family present."

Yeah, that makes sense. You look between the two men apologetically. Poor bastards. They've surely been trying to get every scrap of information they can, and here you two are, grilling them for details they've been prevented from learning.

Shaking your head, you sigh, a fragile, shaky sound. "Where is he?" you ask, glancing down the hallway from which they had emerged. You want to know what waiting room to pace, what nurse's station to post up at. Taking a deep breath, you focus as best you can. This is terrifying, but not all-together unfamiliar territory. "Where were you guys waiting?"

Bishop places a hand at your back, guiding you down the hallway. Gilly swings an arm around Letty's shoulders, leaning in to murmur something you don't bother trying to hear. Now that the fear of the unknown is simmering a little lower, the numbness is beginning to creep in.

Alive.

Surgery.

Shattered.

Christ, Coco, you pray, silently, as you lower yourself into an open waiting room chair. You had better be okay.

*

There are more tubes and wires attached to your husband than should be possible for one human being. Your cousin hadn't looked this bad after his car accident in '09, you can't help but remember, as your eyes wander across what little of Coco's skin is visible. A bit of forearm, between medical attachments. Shoulders, neck, and chin. Forehead. There are bruises across his face, and it looks as though the doctors have reset his nose. You've seen Coco through scrapes before, from bar fights to dumping his bike while intoxicated. Even then, even with bleeding legs and a bruised tailbone, he hadn't been this beaten up.

It's everything in you not to burst into tears, all over again.

Heaven help you, that you should cry anymore. Your throat is already so dry you're going hoarse. For better or worse, there's no one around to hear your voice, anyhow. Letty wandered off to the cafeteria a while ago, intent to get you something to drink, and a snack. You didn't have the heart to fight her on it. She's every bit as anxious as you are, and she needs something to do, something she can control to keep herself from falling apart. If she can seize the opportunity to keep one of her parents going, and healthy, you won't stand in the way.

A loud tone chimes in from the machine behind you, followed by a series of pulsating beeps. Time for vitals. When the results are displayed, you can't help but glance up. No change. In this instance, it's as good as gold. He's living off of so many aids - breathing tube, I.V. solution, anesthetics - any little change could be explained by just about any detail.

You sigh, low and slow. Fuck. You knew this could happen. You've told yourself as much at least half a dozen times tonight, alone. That doesn't change the reality. And didn't it just figure? It feels like you've been married for five minutes, and everything is going to shit. It had seemed so... Ugh, so fucking perfect, much as you hate to be that doe-eyed, but that's what it's been. Fucking. Perfect.

It's just your luck, Santo Padre doesn't allow for perfect.

Looking back to the bed, to Coco's closed eyes, and his exhausted form... Well, you smirk, just a tad. "Didn't need to go getting shot, just to get a good rest, y'know," you murmur, before blowing out a breath. Levity isn't going to make you feel any better, much as you'd like to try. The nurse said to talk to him, which makes perfect sense, but... You don't have much to go on, besides nervous joking, and desperate pleas.

"Maybe I ought to take a page from Leticia's book, and break something," you continue, now talking to yourself, just as much as to your husband. "You'd be so pleased." You reach out, and slowly slide your fingers into Coco's palm. He's a little chilly, unsurprising between the loss of blood, and the air conditioning blasting down from the ceiling. You grip his fingers as tightly as you dare, and lean in. "Come on, mi rey," you whisper, barely loud enough to reach Coco's ears, even if he was awake. "I have faith in you. You keep fighting. No matter who, or what comes after you, baby, you fight." Your voice catches, as you slide your free hand into your purse. "We need you to be okay, Johnny." It might sound selfish to anyone else's ears, but you know Coco would want to hear it, to hear that he is needed, and loved, and wanted. All the things he knows, but sometimes forgets.

The things you will work even harder to keep him from forgetting.

"We all need you to. Me, and Letty..." Bringing your hand up, you prop a small slip of paper on Coco's chest, tilting it in front of his face. Your jaw trembles, and your voice cracks as tears flood your eyes. "And your son, baby." You pause to get yourself together, which doesn't amount to much. There's more guilt behind this conversation than you wish you felt, the feeling drawing a sob from your throat. "I was gonna' tell you when you got back. I swear, I was." He's waited for this for so long. You both have. "So, you've gotta' fight it, okay? Take whatever time you need, but-..." Taking a deep breath, you steady yourself. "You need to get better," you instruct, in as commanding a voice as you can manage. "I'm not raising this baby without you, you hear me?"

There's no response. You don't expect one. This isn't a sappy romance movie, or the daily soaps. Coco will wake up when he's good and ready. And you'll be here, holding his hand, and chatting about what he's sleeping through all the while. You lean down and press your lips to his fingers, thumb brushing along the back of his hand. "I love you, baby," you murmur, pressing another kiss to his skin before you sit back up. Lean back. Try to relax.

Vitals sound again.

Someone wheels a cart by, just outside the room.

You sniffle. Just once.

"Y'know, I thought I'd be bailing our Princess out of jail, by now," you admit, thoughtfully. "She really kept it together. You'd be proud as hell of her."

*

Letty stands in front of a cafeteria display case, filled with questionable-looking salads and tempting baked treats in plastic clamshell containers. Each one makes her stomach turn. She's not here for her, though, is she? She's here for you. She's here to make sure her mother, after six straight hours of waiting in a lousy fucking hospital chair, isn't going to drop on her, too, from something as stupid as low blood sugar. If that was to happen? Jesus Christ, she doesn't know what the fuck she'd do. End up in the psych ward, more than likely. Or break someone's worthless neck. Yeah, that sounds more like it.

She's just about to reach for a slice of what she thinks is chocolate cake, when a hand comes to rest on her arm. It startles the living shit out of her, but when she looks up, ready to gouge out a motherfucker's eye with one of the plastic-wrapped sporks within her reach, Letty finds Gilly staring down at her.

Fuck. Yeah, that tracks. She's been in here for a good little while.

"Find anything for your Mom?" he asks quietly, removing his hand from her person to tuck it back in the pocket of his kutte. Letty turns back toward the display case, staring into the middle space for a moment.

"You're gonna' get the motherfucker responsible, right?" Behind her, Gilly sighs. She's expecting a comment about her language, or about how this isn't the time to be worried about something like vengeance. A truly ugly response is on the tip of her tongue, when Gilly surprises her.

"Yeah," he promises, voice quiet, but sure. "Yeah, kid, we're gonna' get 'em."

Masterlist | Request | Tag List

[chaneajoyyy]

Let me into the mess with episode 4👁️👁️

[redpool]

WHY AM I JUST NOW FINDING OUT ABOUT HAPPY'S DEATH?!?!?! OH MY GOD.

[veryslowreader]

On War by Carl von Clausewitz

Mayans M.C.: "Lord Help My Poor Soul"

[ezekeil-reyes]

I've staked my claim on the new guy in the white t-shirt

[gameofthunder66]

Mayans MC (2018-2023) tv series

-(finished) watchin' Series (5 Seasons)- 7/20/2023- 3 [1/2] stars- on Hulu (FX)

Wasn't happy with the way they ended things on this show.

[holdyuhmuda]

Is like EZ ain’t learn from the slap Bishop give he to shut his damn mouth? Talking about “Emily”

[ficnation]

Lying in Blood - EZ Reyes x Reader

Summary: When your husband dies you're left to mourn the life you were supposed to have. But when guilt consumes the killer, a chance at redemption opens as he steps forward to raise the child as his own.

Word count: 2,6k+

Pairing: Ezekiel ‘EZ’ Reyes x Female! Reader; Past!Neron ‘Creeper’ Vargas x Reader

Warnings: SPOILERS for Mayans MC season 5, mayans mc typical warnings, pregnancy, pure angst

A/n: EZ might be a little OOC but who cares. Enjoy the heartbreak and please reblog if you liked it!

Main Masterlist

Mayans MC Masterlist

The moment you walk into the clubhouse, the smell of smoke and leather assaults your senses. The atmosphere is smoky, the air heavy with the cigarette fog swallowing the entire room. In the background, the clicking of pool balls and the murmur of conversations can be heard, the smell and environment already making you feel a little dizzy as the door opens and shuts behind you.

You force yourself to move forward as the members of the MC raise their glasses and nod in welcome to your arrival. You greet them with a warm smile like always, then look around the room in search of your beloved’s face. You can almost see him talking with his friends in the crowd, an unopened beer bottle in his tattooed hand.

But he’s not there. It’s just your imagination playing tricks on you.

Bishop must’ve noticed the way your eyes wander around the room in search of a ghost. He stands up from his sitting place, grabs your arm, and pulls you toward one of the couches. You slump down against it, sighing heavily.

“Querida,” he starts, sitting down beside you, his arm outstretched, beckoning you closer.

You shake your head to will the dark thoughts away, then relax against his side, your cheek finding rest on his shoulder.

“Bishop,” you greet him back with a smile.

“You’ve popped,” the man notices with a chuckle, looking down at the roundness of your protruding stomach.

“Oh, definitely. I woke up one day, looked in the mirror, and thought she doubled in there,” you mumble with a huff, but there’s a lightness to your voice.

Bishop admires your strength—how you can still see the world in colors even when your life is falling apart. It baffles him. He wishes he had that kind of strength himself.

He smiles at you, pulling you just a little bit closer. “She?” he repeats, raising his brow.

You smile brightly at him, caressing the bump with gentle, loving strokes. “Yeah, it’s a little girl.”

But your smile falters ever so lightly when you think about the fact that Neron still doesn’t know that the doctors were wrong and you were going to have a little daughter instead of a son. He won’t even be there when you give birth. He’ll still be behind bars, far away from your baby girl.

Bishop notices the change in your expression and grasps your hand in his, squeezing delicately. “He’s proud of you, you know that. We’re all proud of you.”

You can only nod in response, blinking away the tears that started forming in your eyes. You weren’t as strong as they all wanted you to be. You were just about to become a mom—a single mom because your husband won’t be there for most of the baby’s early years. You’ll be lucky if he gets out when she’s a teenager.

“Yeah, just wish his child was more important than the club,” you whisper under your breath, quickly regretting your words. But Bishop looks at you with understanding, no ounce of anger on his face. “Well, I actually came here looking for EZ. Is he around?”

“He’s not around. But he should be back soon. Do you wanna wait for him?” he asks, kissing the side of your forehead. “I can get you some water and keep you company.”

You stay with him, conversing to kill time as you wait for the club’s president to turn up. The older man keeps you occupied, talking a little bit about everything—how long until the baby comes, if you need help setting up the nursery, is your money situation looking okay—Bishop asks about everything in hopes the MC can make your life a little bit easier.

An hour or two passes before Ezekiel walks into the clubhouse. He looks around the room and doesn’t expect to see you there. Your presence startles him.

His eyes stare intently as you talk with Bishop, one of your hands mindlessly caressing your protruding stomach, waiting for the baby to kick. The other man hovers his hand close, ready for you to guide it so he can feel the little kick.

EZ feels the guilt—it comes up his throat and makes him nauseous. You’ve been friends for so long, and you don’t even know just how bad of a friend he was.

He ordered the murder of your husband. He took away the father of your baby—the man you loved with your whole being. He took his life and didn’t even give a second thought to how it would affect you—how much it would ruin your life.

The baby in your stomach starts kicking, so you take Bishop’s hand and press it against it. Ezekiel still stares, but he’s too far gone in his thoughts to register what’s happening.

“She’s kicking.” Your smile is bright, and it gives him a tiny bit of hope that Neron’s death won’t make you miserable for the rest of your life.

He forces his legs to move forward, swallowing the want to throw up all over the wooden floor. With a forced nervous smile, he reaches the couch.

“Is she?” the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

You sit up straighter, surprised by his sudden appearance. The smile you give him is innocent—unknowing.

“Hi, EZ.”

He returns it, but it’s weak and awkward, and he’s sure you can feel just how out of place he felt in his own clubhouse.

“Hi.”

Bishop senses the sudden shift in the air. He gets up and presses a kiss to your cheek, his beard ticklish on your skin. He regards the younger man with suspicious eyes. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says finally as he leaves you with the club’s president, heading towards the exit of the building.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” you notice, patting the couch where Bishop once sat to beckon Ezekiel to take his place.

The man scratches the back of his head awkwardly. “Yeah… I was busy with the—” he’s lost in his own words as he gestures vaguely to the clubhouse, “the thing.”

You raise your eyebrow at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Oh, definitely,” you joke, “the thing always requires attention.”

He laughs at your words, but it has a forced quality to it. The joke isn’t that funny. You know it, and he knows it too, but you wave it off, thinking he didn’t want to make the conversation more uncomfortable than it already was by giving you the details.

“Yeah.” He sighs deeply. “We’ve got it under control, though,” he continues, and you respond with a nod, your eyes not quite meeting his.

“Have you heard anything from Neron?”

So that’s what you came here to ask—EZ thinks. It was logical. You barely needed the MC’s help, preferring to get stuff done on your own, mainly because you didn’t want to add to their problems. You always held your head high.

“He’s been quiet for a while now,” Ezekiel tenses in his seat as the words leave your mouth.

He can almost feel the crickets playing a symphony in his head. He doesn’t know what to say or do, so he opts for a simple lie—he is getting better at them with every passing day. “No, I haven’t heard anything.”

“Damn it.” Your sigh clenches his heart painfully. “Those cops are probably harassing him again.”

“Probably,” he agrees with you, scratching his chin for a second as he glances at your face. “You’ve heard nothing at all?”

“Nothing. He doesn’t call anymore.” The tone of your voice changes, and he can feel the heartbreak—the agony that those words render.

EZ takes a deep breath and forces a smile. “He’ll call. I’m sure he will.” A fucking liar; that’s what he is.

“I hope so. We’re so close to the birth date. I wanted him to know that.”

He doesn’t know how to reply, so he gives your hand a gentle squeeze. He was always good at lying, but why was it so hard to lie to you?

He tries to smile more warmly—look more warmly at you, but all you can see in his eyes is pity. It drives you insane.

“EZ, is there something you’re not telling me?” your voice screams suspicion. He starts to get nervous.

“No, of course not.” He looks at you hard, hoping you’ll believe his lie. It takes a moment for you to process what you see and hear before the suspicious glint falters and falls.

“Oh, okay.” you sigh in sadness. You have a feeling he knows something, but you’re not willing to push it. “He was supposed to choose the name.”

Another gentle squeeze of your hand. “He will come through. Don’t worry.”

You believe him. “You’re right. I’m probably just overthinking.”

EZ nods his head in agreement. “You’re just stressing yourself out; it’s not worth it.” There’s a pause as he kisses your temple, then speaks again, changing the topic slightly, “How have you been doing? Everything going alright with the pregnancy?”

“Yeah, we’re doing good. The nausea went away.” His still didn’t. “Now I’m just running to the bathroom every three minutes. Girl makes me wanna piss so bad.” You let out a chuckle—such a beautiful and peaceful sound. EZ feels like he could record it and play it over and over again before he falls asleep.

“That’s good… and exhausting.” He’s starting to feel more at ease again. You seem to be distracted and not noticing how oddly nervous he’s been acting, or even if you did see, you let him have the upper hand.

“It is exhausting. But we’re gonna get through it. For Neron.”

He nods in agreement. “For Neron.”

Such a beautiful betrayal.

The next time you see EZ, a few days have passed. The whole MC knows about Neron’s death, but not you—not yet. He lets you live in a state of not knowing just for a few more minutes before he knocks on your door and gives you the information that will ruin your life. Oh, wait, he did that—he ruined it by choosing to protect himself, get rid of the snitch. Snitches end up in ditches—they were right.

He raises his fist, presses the buzzer, and he can almost hear the heavy pats of your feet as you rush toward the door. You open it and greet him with a smile. You’ve looked through the Judas beforehand—smart girl.

“EZ?” That carefree smile falters as you notice the seriousness decorating his face. Your hand grips the doorknob tighter, knuckles turning pale.

EZ sighs and hangs his head. “You need to sit down.”

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, but EZ doesn’t respond.

He turns you around, closing the door before gently pushing you towards the living room and the couch in the middle. You listen to him and sit down, waiting for him to speak. Your leg bounces up and down in worry. The dark thoughts swirling in your head make you want to crawl out of your skin.

EZ cuts straight to the point. He knows you’d only get furious if he tried to tread around the issue.

“Neron’s dead,” he says simply—as if to just get the words out of his mouth. They leave a foul taste on his tongue. He’s not even looking at you because he knows already how badly he fucked up. He can hear your heart breaking into a million pieces as your brain struggles to register that information.

When it finally hits you, you gasp trembly.

“No. No, he’s not,” you try to deny his words, shaking your head furiously. Tears are already building up in your eyes, and they’re falling down in waterfalls down your cheeks before EZ can reach to wipe them away.

“I’m so fucking sorry. It’s my fault.” He sits beside you and takes your hand, raising it to his lips. He leaves a kiss on every single tip of your fingers. “I killed him. It’s all my fucking fault.”

The sobs wreck through your body like a tsunami, and you drown beneath their intensity as you cradle your bump. You don’t even hear him. You refuse to hear him.

EZ wraps his arms around your shoulders and pulls you into his embrace, his hand cradling the back of your head as he pushes it to rest on his chest. He can’t look at you so broken—so destroyed.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

His other palm rubs your back up and down in a motion that is supposed to be soothing, but it doesn’t do shit to make it hurt less. You let him comfort you, giving into his embrace as you weep and clutch the back of his kutte in tight fists.

EZ sits that way with you for a while, rubbing your back and keeping you close. He doesn’t speak, only offers his presence and affection as comfort. He knows if he opens his mouth again, he’ll admit to what he’s done—this time for real.

“How am I supposed to go on?” You sob into his chest, your whole body trembling.

EZ just holds you tighter, his lips pressed to the crown of your head. “One day at a time.”

“I’m supposed to raise our daughter on my own? That’s so fucking cruel. Why did the world take him away from me?” your words are almost muffled as you get them out through the tears and sobs.

He looks down at you, his face etched with guilt. He’s glad your head is pressed to his chest and you can’t see it. You’d put the puzzle pieces together faster than he could mutter a single word.

He rubs his thumb back and forth between your shoulder blades. “I don’t know. But you’re strong. I know you’re strong enough to get through this.”

He puts on a facade before placing a hand under your chin and lifting it so you can look him in the eye. “I know you are.”

“No, Ezekiel, I’m not. I can’t do this,” you argue, shaking your head furiously. “I want him back,” you cry out, and it breaks his heart even more. It was his fault. He did this to you.

“I know. I know.” EZ says this over and over again, rubbing circles on your back.

He stays the night, cradling you in his arms as you sob and scream. And then he stays another night and another day keeping you company and helping with daily tasks. You don’t even realize that weeks have passed, and he’s still there when you wake up and when you go to sleep.

He’s there holding your hand when your little girl is born and when she says her first word. He never left, taking on the role of being a dad figure for your child. It felt wrong, but you never stopped him, either.

You didn’t stop him when one night his lips found peace pressed against yours and when he rolled on top of you, giving you pleasure you haven’t felt for a long while. You didn’t stop him when he moved in and became a constant presence in your baby’s life. Before you even knew it, she was calling him ‘papa.’ It made your heart clench painfully.

EZ took the opportunity and treated it as his only chance at redemption. He wanted to give you the life you wanted to have with the man he took away from you.

Sometimes the guilt was too much, and he had to leave for a few days to get it back under control. But he always came back.

He was good at lying, after all—lying with his hands covered in blood. Such a beautiful betrayal.

[myckicade]

Back Home - Chapter One

Summary: You and Che had been so happy. Everything had almost seemed perfect. You hadn't counted on the bastard up and leaving you. Che's return is even less expected. You've carried on, rebuilt your life, and are enjoying where you're at. It's going to be a fight to see whether Che can fit back into the space he used to occupy, if that space still exists, at all.

A/N: C’mon, now, y’all… You know I couldn't pass this up, series end, or not. I wanted to get two others up first, but, as usual, this one just would not leave me alone! Contains spoilers up until... Well. This is the end of the road, so spoilers for the whole series!

P.S. SPOILERS: I’ve had to fuck about with the timeline a bit, as I have no idea whether Taza’s absence lasted five minutes, or ten years. This show is wonky, that way. 

Teaser: It’s been a long time since you’ve found yourself speechless, but here you stand, speechless, and lost, and half-scared of something that doesn’t even exist. 

* 

This can’t be real, you tell yourself, the words shaping and forming and dying in your head before they can reach your lips. Your numb, trembling lips. All of you feels like it’s trembling. The cool breeze blowing in from the open door has little to do with the shiver working its way over your skin, much as you’d like to give it the credit right now. You know your face looks like you’ve seen a ghost. It has to. Still, you can’t find it in yourself to scream, or speak, or even sputter out a single sound. It’s been a long time since you’ve found yourself speechless, but here you stand, speechless, and lost, and half-scared of something that doesn’t even exist. 

Yet, it does. It exists in the shape of six-odd feet of handsome, half-slouching, complete asshole of a man standing on your front steps. The two of you have been staring at one another for entirely too long, since the moment he showed his face, and spoke your name. It was – and still is – pathetic, how easily the sound of his voice made you weak in the knees. 

Oh, this asshole. 

“How’d you get this address?” comes flying out of your mouth so suddenly, it takes you a moment to realize that you’re actually the one who said it. You watch as Che, seemingly just as startled as you, shifts on his feet. 

“I went by your old apartment,” he admits, finally breaking eye contact to glance down at his boots. “New tenant seemed to know you? She told me where you’d moved to.” 

“Fucking Diane,” you sigh, glancing over Che’s head to take in a quick glimpse of the stars. You have a fabulous view of the night sky from here, much better than you ever could have hoped for at your apartment. He’s never seen this, you consider. Not from here. Not like he was supposed to. Che moves, barely a step to the side, bringing your attention back to him. “It’s been a year, Che.” Your tone is firm, probably a little harder than is strictly necessary, but you’ve practiced this. Sure, you may never have expected to see this rotten motherfucker ever again, but you’ve prepared yourself for the scant possibility that you’d one day get the chance to toss him back out on his ass. 

The nerve. The fucking balls this bastard has, right now. 

Che blows out a breath. “I know,” he agrees, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket. His eyes are on you once more, a hesitance in them that shines against the light of the porch. You wait a beat, then two, and by five it’s clear he isn’t going to continue. 

“That’s it?” you scoff. “You know?” 

“I can leave, if you’d like?” It’s a genuine offer, you can tell. It’s not a threat. There’s no intentional manipulation in the letters. But then, there wouldn’t be. Che’s never been that type of man, certainly not to you. He’s honest, and decent, and devoted, and you need to stop before you remember every reason why you love him. 

Before you lose sight of every reason to choke him with your bare hands and start caving into every desire you still have to wrap your arms around him, and never let him go. 

Fuck. Angel is right. You’ve gotta’ get out of that book club. 

Focusing back in on the matter at-hand (so to speak), you have two options before you. This is a man you haven’t heard from in more than a year. So much has changed. You’ve changed. He surely has, as well. It’s probably a bad, bad idea to do anything other than turn him away. 

On the other hand… Well… You’ve missed him so damned much, and the idea of watching him drive away for good – again – already has your eyes welling up with tears. Fuck, you really can’t do it, can you? How fucking pathetic. You need, need, need to stick to your guns. Tell him he’s lost his chance. Tell him things are different now. Anything, anything to make sure you don’t weaken in the face of this choice. 

But… Aside from this, this one big, huge thing, he’s never done a damned thing to upset you. To hurt you. The two of you have always played it straight in your relationship, all the cards on the table, full-tilt, no stops, feel free to pass GO! and keep on driving. You’ve thought about this more than once (twice, ten times and better), wondered exactly what in the world could have been so bad, so terrible, that Che had felt the need to run, instead of facing it head-on with you. Stepping out on you has crossed your mind. A late-in-life crisis of some kind. And the ugly possibility that you’ve never really known the man you’ve been in love with. For all you know, Che wants to tell you about the secret family he’s been keeping in Modesto. Wife and kids. Husband and kids. Do you really want to know? 

Glancing up, you find Che shifting around again, two seconds from backing off the steps, and down the driveway to his bike. Whether on impulse, or by some crazy ass design, you make your decision. “Sit down,” you instruct, pointing to a patio table and two chairs set up at the corner of the porch. “I’ll be right back.” He nods, clearly surprised, all over again. You nod once, yourself, before disappearing into the kitchen. 

What are you doing? 

Reaching into the refrigerator, you retrieve two cold beers. You have the feeling you’re going to need one. 

What the fuck are you doing, (y/n)? 

You turn back from the door and pause. Would liquor be more suitable for this conversation? Might send the signal that this meeting is far more friendly than it has right to be. Giving Che false hope is something you would rather avoid, and a night of drinking liquor has never not led you two to the bedroom. 

Decisions, decisions. 

You shouldn’t be doing this, at all. No good can possibly come from it. Who’s to say the man outside is even looking for signs of hope? Two minutes ago, he was ready to ride off into the night, no questions asked. Can’t be he’s really too eager to apologize, right? He had that chance, and all you got was, I know. The fuck are you supposed to do with that? 

Groaning, you shift both beers to the bend of your left arm and retrieve a bottle of Jose Cuervo from the cupboard with your right hand. It takes some maneuvering, but you finally make your way back out to the porch, balancing the beers, the liquor, and two shot glasses in your arms. Che immediately jumps up from his seat to help you, relieving you of the bottle and glasses, and you find yourself thanking him, as always. 

“Thanks, babe.” 

“Welcome, doll.” 

Neither of you seem to know what to say for a hot second, staring at one another from across the table like two deer caught in cross traffic. You can feel your face growing warm, thankful for the dim glow of the Christmas lights you’ve left strung on the porch since early last November. They’re clear, warm and cool shades of white, with the ability to twinkle, and flash, and induce seizures on the right settings. Angel keeps telling you to take them down. (”It’s July, for fuck’s sake!”). Che has yet to comment on them, but you know he has already formed an opinion, which likely mirrors Angel’s, but with kinder, more considerate wording. 

Clearing your throat, you take the seat closest to the door, where Che has chosen to box himself into a corner. He can hop the railing if he needs to make a clean getaway, but strategically speaking, it’s not the smartest move he’s ever made. Still, you pass him a beer, before setting up the shot glasses. Che reaches for the tequila and pours you each a shot. Smooth. Simple. Familiar. Something clenches in your chest. 

“So,” Che begins, lifting up his glass. He looks your way, expectantly, until you do the same. He gives you an awkward half-smile, before you both down your shots. Fuck. It’s good stuff, but that first one tends to hit you where you live. “How have you been?” 

Really? That’s his starter? 

And, wow, it seems like you aren’t going to like any of his attempts tonight, huh? 

Cracking open the can in front of you, you shrug. “Busy, I guess?” Another shrug quickly follows the first. “Had a lot on my plate, for a while. Opening the new store. Buying the house.” 

Che thumbs at the lip of his can, not yet opening it. “I heard about that. Finally went ahead with it, huh?” 

“I did,” you reply, around a sip of Labatt. “Brick and mortar, this time. No more working out of the apartment or driving around town making deliveries.” You look over and find a warm smile waiting for you. 

“I’m proud of you,” Che murmurs, all sincerity and happiness. It’s your stomach’s turn to get all fluttery. “That’s awesome.” 

Darting your attention elsewhere, you quickly down another mouthful of beer. It’s too familiar. You’ve said far too much. “How about you?” you ask, upon swallowing. You’re not looking his way. You can’t. This is already going all wrong. “Been up to anything fun?” Silence reigns for a moment. It’s unsettling, but you manage to bring yourself to look up again. Che is staring at you, all traces of his smile gone. In its place, an expression you cannot name. It’s almost sad, but not quite. A touch guilty, but not completely. You don’t like it, this look he’s sending your way, panic seizing you enough to blurt out, “I see you’ve cut your hair, again.” 

“Don’t do that,” Che replies, almost immediately. His tone catches you by surprise, so low and serious you feel another shiver building at the base of your spine. 

“Don’t do what?” 

Che blinks, just once. “Don’t try to act like everything’s okay,” he continues. “We both know it isn’t.” That shiver climbs a little higher. True and fair though that is, it’s the only way you’re going to get through this. Cool indifference, at its finest. “While I appreciate not being greeted with a toaster upside the head, I don’t appreciate the passive attitude.” 

Damn. Talk about caught. 

“Got rid of the toaster,” you mumble after a moment, brushing imaginary debris from your pant leg. “I’m up to an air fryer now.” A laugh breaks free from Che’s mouth, and you fight the smile creeping across your lips in response. You’ve missed that sound so damned much. 

You’ve missed him so damned much. The way he talks, low and smooth like the finest honey. The way he looks at you, heart in his eyes, like you mean the world to him, ten times over. You never expected to lay eyes on him again, let alone to have the chance to spill out everything you’ve spent endless hours grumbling about to yourself. Practicing in your head. The ugly words you’ve wanted to throw at him, and the calm manner in which you’ve wanted to deliver them. Now is that chance, and... 

And the words won’t jump off your tongue. 

“You’re allowed to be pissed,” Che continues, unknowingly encouraging you toward letting him have it with both barrels. “Hell, I’d be shocked if you weren’t.” 

You sigh, deep and heavy. “I didn’t know what to be, for a while,” you admit, fiddling with the various rings on your fingers. Your right thumb brushes over the circle of silver on your left index finger. A medium sized band, with citrine stones embedded in the surface, and engraved, Love, Che. Even after everything, you haven’t found it in yourself to take it off. Tuck it away somewhere. Toss is out. You should have. You’d still have every right to do it, too. You just... 

Can’t. 

The silence must be getting to him, because Che is suddenly asking, “How are the kids?” Oh, boy. Now, here is where you’d really enjoy giving the man what for. Your poor babies. You could keep your calm for what you have been through, yourself, but your babies? You’ve been silent too long, again, it seems, from Che’s worried call of “(Y/n)? Are they okay?” 

“Flint looked for you, every damned day.” There. Now it’s out in the open. You catch Che’s flinch from the corner of your eye, a smug sense of satisfaction coming over you at the sight. “It was a fight to get him to eat for about a week, he was so upset.” Flint, your old boy, had become Che’s little buddy over your time together. They’d go for rides in the truck together. Have naps on the couch like the two grandpas you’d joked they were. Walk together. Eat together, as far as Che sharing food from his plate. While your dogs are hardly Che’s responsibility, watching Flint suffer through that pain still sits with you like an open wound. Even now, the tears are gathering at your eyes. 

“I never meant to-” 

“Max destroyed some of your clothes,” you interrupt, not wanting to hear his bullshit until you’re done. If your feelings don’t come out now, they never will. “Two pair of pants, some socks, and your brown boots.” You pause, clearing your throat. “Wasn’t a full day after you’d gone. I think she knew.” 

Che grimaces. “Girl always liked to tear my shit apart.” He sighs. “Not that I blame her.” 

“I don’t, either.” You shrug. “I had enough respect for you not to go batshit on the stuff you left behind, and I packed everything away after I caught Max in the act, but the temptation existed.” Reaching out, you pour another shot of tequila for Che, and one for yourself, which you promptly swallow. He doesn’t touch his. “You left just about everything, too, I know you realize.” 

“Kinda’ hard to cram my life in a backpack and saddlebags.” He leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, hands folded together in front of his face. He’s quiet for a moment, before bowing his head. “You know... I don’t wanna’ sit here and make excuses, and I’m not going to. I know what I did, and it was a dick move, and telling you ‘I’m sorry’ just isn’t gonna’ cut it.” 

Finally, you fully look at the man beside you. It’s the first time he’s said those words tonight, even if they were only uttered to make a point. He’s right. No apology is going to cut it, not now. Words are just fucking words, something you’ve had to come to grips with over the last year. Actions are what matter, isn’t that what you two have always agreed on? He took off. Up and left you holding the bag on so much emotional shit, you’re still digging out from the avalanche. 

But... He’s here now. That’s action, too. How much does that count for? 

Shaking your head, a bit, you try to focus back in. Too many questions, too many possibilities, and too much familiarity are invading your mind. There is something far more pressing to begin with, prompting you to turn your body in your chair, so that you can give Che your full attention. “Are you going to tell me what happened?” 

Che looks at you for a moment, relief in his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmurs, before nudging the tequila bottle closer to you. “You’re gonna’ want more of that while I do.” 

Masterlist | Request | Tag List

[ficnation]

hihihihi

He took his eyes off the road for a moment so he could look over at you, “You don’t have to tell people anything about me.”

Maybe I want to

The impulsive hormonal part of your brain was screaming that you would most definitely prefer that. But you tried very hard not to let that part of you win out.

PLEASE IF I WAS HER (I technically am) I'D FOLD THE MOMENT HE STEPPED FOOT INSIDE OKAY

“I wouldn’t be sleeping in your bed with you, don’t worry,” he offered up with a chuckle.

Shame...

“So, do you eat?” you asked.

He looked over at you, one eyebrow raised, “I’m only allowed one meal a week.”

I believe him. I'll believe every single word that leaves this pretty mouth okay

“I see that,” you returned your attention to the cupboard and pulled out two small wrapped candy, “Chocolate?” you offered him a piece.

SHE'S SO UNBOTHERED

I LOVE HER!!!!

Protective Detail (1/?)

Nestor Oceteva x Reader

Shout-out to @masterlistforimagines ​ for encouraging me, and helping me brainstorm to write this fic based on This Post from @my-rosegold-soul ​ 😂👀😍 

Warnings: language, mentions of kidnapping, bruises

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: This is my first time writing for Nestor, so hopefully I do alright with that lol.  This is gonna be a multi-chap fic. So like??? Semi-slow burn in that regard. Stay tuned 👀👀 Also, Happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate. This year I’m thankful for Gino’s braids 😂

Chapter Index

Taglist?? I’ve never written for Nestor so I don’t really have a list lol. But if you wanna get tagged in future chapters of this fic totally comment or message me or something and I’ll make sure it happens.

Keep reading

[chaneajoyyy]

Alright I’m not ready for this series finale but let’s get into it😭😭

[veryslowreader]

Metahuman by Deepak Chopra

Mayans M.C.: "When I Die, I Want Your Hands on my Eyes"

[ezekeil-reyes]

despite everything that has changed, ez and emily still crush my heart

[stefani-topaz]

I just recently rewatched Mayans MC and I can’t get EZ out of my mind.

I’m doing a deep dive on fics & I absolutely love this one.

Counting Stars - EZ Reyes x Reader

Tagging: @annetje @infinity-mars @danzer8705 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @est1887 @the-wandering-lunatic @alwaysachorusgirl @anime-weeb-4-life @vannabanana1995 @multifandomloversworld @camelia35 @queeniesdiary

You’re just a girl who owns a bar on the outskirts of San Padre when EZ meets you. A beautiful girl, who gives him a smile every time he sees her, one that he feels a connection with from the very second you meet.

Everything in EZ’s life is complicated, this thing with the DEA, the MC, Angel and his father, but you are easy. You’re a breath of fresh air, so fierce and free. You don’t answer to anybody but yourself and EZ finds that invigorating. You say what’s on your mind and you mean it. There’s no duplicity, no games, there’s just you.

He hasn’t even kissed you yet, but he knows he’s falling. He lays awake at night in his trailer, and he wonders what you’re doing, if you think about him too.

One night in the desert, he’s drinking beer with Angel when he looks up at the stars and feels an ache in his chest. He wishes that it was you he was sitting with sipping beer, you in his bedroll beside the campfire, making love underneath the night sky.

He wonders what you’d sound like, if you’d taste as sweet as he imagines on his lips, if the glimpse of the tattoo he’s seen between the line of your jeans and vest top extends even lower. He wants to learn your body as intimately as he knows his own, he wants to spend hours exploring you, bringing you climax over and over again until you’re ruined underneath him, until he’s the only man you think of when you close your eyes at night.

Angel tells him to get it out of his system.

Tap it and go.

But EZ knows it would never just be one night, not with you.

He wants all of your nights and all of your days too.

He wants everything you can give him.

Love EZ? Get added to his tag list!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[fathersonholygore]

Mayans M.C. SERIES FINALE: "Slow to Bleed Fair Son"

Mayans M.C. 5×10: “Slow to Bleed Fair Son” Directed by Elgin James Written by Elgin James & Sean Varela * For a recap & review of the penultimate episode, click here. EZ, Sofia, Angel, and a scattered few people are in church for Felipe’s funeral. Some of the Mayans are there to pay their respects. The brothers stand together next to their father’s casket, as Angel holds little Maverick, and EZ…