intravenously

“Not if they pay you overtime for it,” he pointed out, shrugging his shoulders. It wasn’t like Maverick had anything else to do but work. He was busy at times, but others? He didn’t like being alone. He wasn’t that kind of person; hence his needy nature and his ability to show up early to his appointments. He no longer had the worries he’d originally had coming to Amos; the man managed not to look at him like he was the plague. At least, not that Maverick could tell.

He followed Amos’ gaze to his arms, already feeling slightly sick to his stomach just looking at them. It was a reaction ingrained in him by someone else, and Maverick had yet to rid himself of the habit, “Yeah…” he whispered, clearing his throat before he nodded, “Yes,” he corrected himself, pulling his arm that was released back towards his chest.

He sat down in the chair, holding his arm out and resting it on the side table, “Just nothing weird. Like your name or something,” he joked, closing his eyes. “I met your…ex? I don’t know what she was. But I joked about kissing you after her drunk ass tried to drive and hit my car, and she had the audacity to be offended.”

“Sounds like you’re just in desperate need of a distraction,” he said, wondering if his evaluation would yield a cold shoulder, or a glare. Amos didn’t use probing questions like that on most people, and instead preferred to keep his head down and work when he had a patron in his chair. But his familiar with Maverick fostered a sort of back-and-forth he couldn’t get anywhere else. His connections in Montreal were stiflingly limited, and despite himself, he took advantage of the younger man’s visits to feel normal. Like this was home.

Amos pulled back as well when Maverick did, noticing the recoil. It was hard to reveal scars to someone; he knew the constant itch to hide them. Even though he never faced his own insecurities very often (in fact, he owned them most of the time), there were dark moments when the itch got so bad, he’d tried to claw it out of his skin ... 

Reagan couldn’t anticipate the way Amos would react upon tiptoeing up to his full lips for she hadn’t planned to do so to begin with. It had been a spur of the moment act consumed by a dire need to be close to him. It felt as if her chest had erupted in flames and only he could soothe the ragged and crisp skin. Her fingers curled at the front of his chest, sighing softly against his person the moment his arms encircled her. Lithe body almost folded beneath it’s weight, opening up to the male once it realized where it was; home. In his arms, wherever they were, whatever they went through, she was and forever would be home. Full lips crushed harder against his with a sense of impatience, as if they were in a battle with the clock. Perhaps it was more that she feared the moment she broke the embrace, he would somehow realize her greediness and push her away. 

However, the moment his hands shifted down her body as if a map he’d spent his life studying until he memorized every single inch of her person, she knew that both were fuelled by a dire need for one another. Her legs parted to settle around his waist, having rehearsed this dance of theirs for various years. Her arms encircled his neck, crushing her parted lips into his with furry. Upon pulling away, her teeth had captured his lower lip and tugged on it, before her lips parted ever so slightly. “Amos,” the blonde breathed, hands on either side of the male’s face now, “I want you.” she spoke in a sultry tone. Normally, she wouldn’t have voiced her desires as she knew there would be no hesitation from his part. Dainty fingers slid down the front of his chest and began to undo the top button of his shirt, refraining from tearing it completely open. 

“I want you,” she breathed again, no more but a murmur against his lips. “please.”

“Wait… they said that to you?! That’s kinda weird and verging on disturbing…”

“Well, I sorta broke his nose, so. Probably deserved it.”

“It’s just one drink –– What? You too good to be seen with a lowly officer of the law?“

“More like you shouldn’t be seen with me.”

Reagan’s grasp immediately loosened around Amos’ clothing as she knew by the sudden pause of his body that he would obey her demand. He’d always done so in the past, and it was with that year between them and the growing uncertainty that she reached out to be certain. If only to ensure her spell hadn’t worn off with the distance. Many had mentioned how Amos’ acted around her, as he seemed to be completely bewitched by the blonde who they often compared to a natural disaster. One that could be both majestic and destructive. Though, what others failed to realize was that while she could control the beast within Amos’, he too could tame her. Perhaps not immediately, but not many could make the blonde bend to their will like he could. His mere touch and the whisper of his voice in the crown of her head could turn her to mere mush. 

Her gaze lowered, listening to his words while she inspected his fingers for any source of blood or bone. Neither were present apart from evident bruising upon his calloused hands. The same that had done more damage and gone through worse, that were always nothing but soft for her alone. His words swelled her heart, slowly lifting her gaze to meet his while dainty fingers circled his index fingers. 

“I fucking hate you,” she breathed out with no hint of hate in her words. As much as she wanted to be angry with him, she could not force such emotion to come forth after what she’d witnessed, what was spoken, and how deserving Timmy was. Instead, the blonde dropped one of his hands to instead place it upon his muscular torso, fingers curling around the front of his shirt. If only to ensure that he would remain still as she knew that she could not push him forward, though he would if she beckoned him. Slowly, Rea lifted herself up on her tip toes and pressed a kiss against his lips. Her intentions had been innocent, a simple thank-you of sorts, though the moment they touched, electricity coursed through her body, enticing her forward.

I fucking hate you. The words should have made him feel cold and angry, but instead, that doused a dying fire in gasoline. His chest seemed to open up as the flame that was his heart woke up. She didn’t mean that. He could hear the catch in her voice, the defeated tone, the breath on which the words were delivered. Amos knew well they had a vice hold on another that was all but broken when she left; he hadn’t expected the ragged edges to seal together so wholly when he saw her again. They weren’t meant to be apart, and even if Reagan didn’t say it out loud, he could tell as her porcelain fingers curled in the fabric of her shirt and she lifted her little frame up to kiss him that the spell hadn’t been broken. If a witch she was, then the spell she cast followed the rule of three, because she was victim to its curse, its blessing, just the same as he was.

When her petal like lips touched his own, he felt an ablution. As if he had been doused in cleansing water — his spine reacted, his blood reacted. His own lips parted, catching hers, making sure to silence the chaste intention of the kiss with his tongue. Feral, beaten hands came first to her little waist, dwarfing it, then bravely slid down along the curve of her ass, further to the tops of her thighs which were deviously muscled like a doe’s. As if he had practiced the motion over and over, as if this were an old memory finding its footing again in old ruts in the earth, his hands lifted her, the motion parting her thighs around his abdomen. He wanted her, all of her, and he told her so in an animal growl. 

Reagan stood between the two of them in hopes they she could somehow be a brick wall that would separate them until one decided to step down. Thankfully, Amos’ body language seemed to respond to the golden haired woman as she pleaded with his to reason with her. She knew his temper, the power of his punch, and what kind of damage could come to her bar if he unleashed it. It was a wild concept for her, to think that she was on the opposite end, begging him to stop as opposed to being the one that encouraged such chaos whenever she felt disrespected by someone. The various times she’d tell someone to leave because she was taken, only to be called a whore, and without fault, Amos would show up to knock them to the floor. Pleasant memories that had turned sour all too quickly. A flash of hurt slid across soft features at his blunt comment. Telling the male that she was not his anymore. While she knew it was true, it still pained her to hear. 

Nevertheless, no words could be spoken, especially not when Timmy was quick to get up and continue his tirade of insults. “Shut the fuck up, Timmy.” The blonde muttered, her attention turned towards him now. There was only so much one could take and she was certain that if Amos didn’t lean across from her to punch him, she would do it in due time.

The shove was harsh and unexpected. While she liked to think that she was strong and stable, she was no force for a men twice her size who was drunk. Reagan fell back but managed to catch her footing in time to heard the brutal crunch of bone meeting bone. Timmy’s body seemed to slump over the chair only to meet it’s final impact on the floor, completely knocked out. Anger boiled inside of Reagan, due to the chaos that could quickly unleash if the other patron’s decided to test their luck against the large male. “Everyone get the fuck out! NOW!” The golden haired women barked out, finger pointed to the door. “Get out. All of you!” Within moments, the bar had emptied, someone having picked up the knocked out bastard and carried him out – hopefully to the nearest hospital. Her hand, however, reached out to grab the back of Amos’ shirt. “You stay the fuck here. What the hell were you thinking? He deserved it but you couldn’t just let it go?” She hissed, her hands absentmindedly grasping his to check over his knuckles and ensure nothing was broken or fractured. 

As soon as the man was where he belonged, a rubbish heap on the floor, Amos turned to Reagan. The shove Timmy had given her wasn’t quite enough to knock her over or bruise her, but it was Amos’ first priority after neutralizing the threat — making sure she was unharmed. It was incredible how undeniable and  overwhelming that motivation was. Before, when there was so much distance between them, it had curdled and become more of an idle sickness. He constantly needed to know if she was all right, but the question went unanswered for a year. His hand had come to her shoulder to steady her, but the gesture was met with a strong yell for everyone to leave. The crowd responded obediantly. Like they’d received a reprimand from a mother wolf in a den, they all tucked their tails and scattered. Amos watched with fascination, hanging back to see the true power of her authority.

It was incredible how someone so small and fair could be such a force. He felt her hand curl in the fabric of his shirt when he’d started to move away from the bar, following the drift of the crowd. Amos didn’t really have any intention of leaving, but at the same time, he was conditioned to respond to her wishes. She seemed to know that, too, when she grabbed him and told him to stay. And like his boots sprung roots and coiled around the bowing hardboard, he did as his ex-fiance bid.

He gave her his hands the way a wounded beast might offer his paws to a greater threat, watching as she fussed over the condition of the skin. They were scuffed to hell, but nothing from tonight’s brush. The bone in that man’s face couldn’t have done much damage, because Amos’ marrow was ichor and his bones were steel. If only he’d been born in another time when men swung great swords and axes and conquered, he might have been something more than he was today. “He called me a moke,” he muttered, pulling his hands away after a few seconds. “And he fuckin’ pushed you, Rea. It doesn’t matter if I’m your husband or not, no one gets to do that to you in my presence and get away with it. He’s lucky I didn’t rip his god damn arms off. If I see him again, I just might.” 

“No, actually people watch the game on superbowl sunday, they dont just pretend to do so!” It was rare to find someone, especially a man, who seemed one hundred percent unimpressed by superbowl sunday “I guess that means I should not ask you who you are rooting for tonight?” 

“Huh,” he answered, fishing around in the basket of peanuts. “Nah, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass.” Amos actually thought football looked like fun, and he figured he’d be damn good at it considering he was built like a brick wall. But he decided a long time ago not to like out of pure spite. Too many times as a teenager, his teachers and parents tried to push the sport onto him, thinking the game would bring him discipline and a sense of camaraderie — bullshit like that. They might have been right, but he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. 

Her gaze followed him, much like every other gaze within this room. While they were more curious than entranced, Reagan’s thoughts and words completely came to a dead-stop at his mere presence. It was almost impressive the way her body could both relax and tense up on it’s own without any guidance from her brain, as if her body had a reaction of it’s own to the male who walked in like he owned the place. He looked good, though that was much more a fact than an observation. Amos always looked good to her. She heard the patron’s voice through the haze that formed, only being forced back to her previous conversation when the regular tapped her shoulder and demanded her response. “Oh, yeah. That’d be nice.” The conversation had long since been forgotten, any and all thought process forgotten the moment her gaze met his. The organ within her breast began to pound against it’s ivory cage, demanding to rejoin it’s rightful home and stood less than five feet away from her. Though, just when a small smile crept upon her face and she was about to move forward to ask how on earth he’d found her bar out of the thousand of others, Amos’ attention seemed to be focused elsewhere. 

His large steps almost made it seem like he’d floated across the bar. The heavy steps rumbled and people whined while their drinks were spilled due to the collision with the large male, though no one dared make any true threats. Not once their eyes settled on the force to be reckoned with. Her eyes widened, stomach dropped and she was soon moving around the bar. 

While she knew her regular would not want to start anything, the alcohol was a different story. “Who the fuck are you?” Timmy spoke up, scoffing at the sight of the guy. “Hey, babe. You know who this kid is?” 

Reagan never responded, but instead moved between the two and began to press against Amos’ chest. “Don’t do this here.” The blonde pleaded, her azure gaze wide. “Please, babe.” 

The last word slipped past her lips as she looked at him and then Timmy. “How about you settle the fuck down, too. There’s enough of me to go around.” Her smile was strained, emotions forced and her look moved back to Amos while she tapped the patrons’ shoulder, not regarding him at all. “You’re still my favorite.” She told the other, though she ensured the look she sent Amos’ was apologetic. These were her customers, she had to please them.

Amos leaned his head back, pulling in a deep and leveling breath through flared nostrils. Reagan’s touch, her aquamarine gaze — they were a potent elixir for the giant, seeming to grab him up by the scruff of his neck and forcing a paralyzing calm on him. The itch to punch the slovenly asshole in his fat mouth remained, but he managed. Until the fucker called him kid. Broad and weathered hands capable of stripping a tree of its bark in one fell swoop coiled into tight, threatening fists. Beneath the scruff of his beard, his tanned skin flushed with real anger. The punch he was getting ready to swing would send the lecherous fuck through the next wall, but the pleading whisper Reagan offered him, the way her plush lips curved around her words, the familiar use of babe ..his shoulders slumped if only slightly, and much of the anger was smothered by the aching pang of nostalgia. 

Eyes like dark wood left the sniveling face of the man at the bar, and came to settle on Reagan’s, watching as she worked her delicate magic. A master manipulator. A siren with yellow hair and cloudless sky for eyes. It put Amos in his place, but suddenly, he didn’t like his place. A ragged swallow went down his throat, and it didn’t suppress the rejection he felt. He realized he couldn’t even answer the idiot’s question. Who the fuck are you? A fool.

Instead of standing there like some jackass, another one of Reagan’s many devoted hangers-on, he took a few measured steps back and lifted his hands in surrender. “She’s all yours,” he said, bitterly. “But call me kid again, and I’ll fuckin’ level ya.” The hate in his voice sizzled like a dying pyre and it was just enough to get the buffoon to shove away from the bar and stand. Teetering just slightly, and drunk enough to not compute just how great Amos loomed over him. Stinking of whiskey, he leaned up on the balls of his feet, doing his best to push Reagan out from between them with an uncoordinated motion. Timmy then sputtered: “You heard her, you god damn moke. I’m her favorite.” The man barely had time to gloat over his insult before a fucking train knocked him back into a pathetic heap against the bar.

— @kekca

Reagan’s mind had been completely preoccupied by Amos since the first night she’d seen him. The gala had been a jumble of different pictures, but no true solid memories given her drunken state before the accident. The end, however, inside that hotel room, had felt like a complete dream. So much so that she couldn’t remember what was real and what had been made up by her own mind, therefore, she tried her best not to think of him. But of course, in doing so, she only thought more of her ex and how it had felt to be in his arms once more. He’d always been her home and while they hadn’t seen each other in an entire year, she wasn’t sure if she felt relieved or frightened about how safe she felt with him again. Nevertheless, work had proven to be a good way to keep her mind occupied by other things. The patron before her, a regular she knew well, smiled and flirted with her as he did every night. Reagan knew the game and how to get men to pay her much more than they normally would. Therefore, her attention was on him as she bent forward enough that he could get a good view of her chest. “You know, I’m all yours baby.” She told him on a laugh, but as if god himself had a personal vendetta against her, the door of the bar creaked open the welcome a blast from the past.

 Amos.

 “Fuck,” the blonde breathed out.

His boots hit the wood floor and the front door clattered closed behind him. Dark eyes stole over the room, missing the cynosure of his universe perched behind the counter. Amos wasn’t short-sighed most of the time, just bewildered to be in Reagan’s fucking bar. It was like marching cocksure and stupid into the belly of the beast that haunted him; he would likely pay for it. He ambled through the masses toward a lonesome bar stool his shoulders somewhat stooped, hands in his pockets. Amos was used to the looks he got, even in bars like this one. He was built like a fucking train, and every man in the room stretched their shoulders outward, and tilted their chins up in challenge at the mere sight of him. When he was younger, he’d been self-conscious of his height, and his build. It seemed to be the only thing people noticed about him, and they’d spout stupid shit like: “Well, damn, look at you.” “Ain’t you a big’ne.” “What are you, like, 6′4″?” It was difficult not to knock things over, to thunk his head on low thresh holds. But eventually, he found inner peace with his body, and embraced it. After that, thankfully, people left him the fuck alone. Despite years of practicing his hard-won confidence, it was currently teetering at the edge of a cliff — dependent on whether or not his eyes swept over his ex-fiance’s face in the din.

And then he saw her — momentarily blinded by the light catching the pale gold of her hair, her ivory skin. A soft smile struck his lips. She looked healthier than she had on New Years Day when he’d left that hotel. Maybe she was getting on a little better. Maybe he could smooth things over. Maybe this wasn’t such a fucking lost cause after all.

Maverick’s smile was almost automatic, and he looked down at his shirt, tugging on it so it would straighten out and it look like he actually tried to make things work today. His hair was a mess, and normally he wouldn’t leave the house without doing something with it, but today was different. He had no intention on doing anything but getting his tattoos fixed and then going home and drinking. “No, I’m actually off tonight. Usually we’re fuckin’ busy but…I’ve worked every day the past two weeks so I convinced the boss to give me a break.”

He leaned onto the counter, grabbing his sleeve and pulling it up to reveal the somewhat color faded tattoo, “I just…I need some more coloring done. A touch up. Maybe add a few more for this. And the other one,” he pulled up his opposite sleeve, “maybe a little darker and uh – more trees. Along the other marks.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” he muttered. Though, truthfully, if he could keep himself busy with working every day, he would have. There was just no need for it, particularly at the heart of winter when no one wanted an itchy, healing tattoo under their Sherpa-lined coat.

Track marks. They were a familiar problem. He’d covered his own forearms in layers of black, too, but his scars were minimal compared to Maverick’s. The sight of them always caused him to pause, like the vile addiction was a moving parasite inside of him, rearing its head at the suggestion. He played it off by reaching out, and helping Maverick push his sleeve further up. Sitting in a room with someone for hours formed a bond, but this particular friendship ran deeper thanks to the mirrored elements in their past. They didn’t judge each other. It was honest without getting too fucking real.

“I’ll call you later, I gotta go!” Bambi hung up the phone while her eyes were focused on the person in front of her, a small grin on her lips. “Do you see something you like? Or do I have..like lipstick on my teeth? You were kind of gawking!” 

When he realised the woman was speaking to him, he shifted his gaze a fraction to the right and let the fuzzy reception on the bar’s television fade into the background. He didn’t give a shit about the Superbowl, but Sundays were difficult for him — empty, quiet days with nothing to do but think. “Uh, actually, I was pretendin’ to watch the game. Isn’t that what people do on Superbowl Sundays?” He dropped her gaze and finished whatever was in his glass.

“Can’t argue with that.” Daniel agreed with a nod of his head, with a low hearty chuckle. “Thanks, man. How about yourself, how’s the business at the parlor?”

“Steady,” he answered, pulling out a tin of tobacco and rolling a cigarette. “Winter’s a pretty dead season for us, but I’ve got a few regulars that keep milk in my fridge.” He licked the edge of the rolling paper and finished the task at hand. “Every season’s a good one for drinkin’, though, i’n’it?”

@kekca

Maverick opened the door to the tattoo parlor, playing with the frayed edges on the sleeve of his long sleeved shirt. He hadn’t been by in a while, remembering the time he’d gotten each of the tattoos on his forearms when he’d arrived in Montreal. His ex hadn’t been able to stand the sight of his track marks, causing Maverick to find the best solution to the problem. Cover them up with colors and images that would make his darkened scars harder to recognize. They littered the inside of his arms, trailing along his veins. The old scars were there and prominent, but his tattoos had kept them hidden in plain sight. After he’d shown Luca, Maverick had gotten another overwhelming amount of anxiety. 

It’s what drew him back to the tattoo parlor, to get the tattoos touched up so no one but Maverick would know there were there. The guy, Amos, was one of Maverick’s favorite people to talk to, and he idly wandered towards the back where the parlor was, “Amos? I know I’m early but uh…I was around.”

The afternoon hours were dead in a tattoo parlour. In fact, he wasn’t sure why they were even open before 9 PM for anything other than scheduled appointments. But he sat there, dutifully watching the second hand march, and sipping idly from a long neck. Amos obviously was not supposed to be drinking on the clock, especially in the day light hours, but no one was stupid enough to chide him for it. He wasn’t one to throw his weight around for much, but for booze, yeah. He would. When the bell over the door rang, he almost gave an audible groan of protest, but then heard Maverick’s voice. Pushing himself off the break room sofa (another broken rule, leaving the front of the house un-manned), he called back. “You’re tryin’ to tell me your scrawny ass has nothin’ better to do on a Friday afternoon than keep me from drinkin’?” He leaned against the door frame, and squinted in the golden sunlight slanting through the storefront windows. 

He ran a hand down his face as if the transition from solitude to being in someone’s presence was like waking up from a long sleep. “So, what’re we doin’ today?” He gave a scratch to his ribs, then ambled forward and leaned on the counter. A great beast. “Snake bites? Tear drop? Tramp stamp?” 

Annabelle could see his eyes roaming on her body and she would normally wouldn’t even consider his offer, not after that but she couldn’t move. It was like she was stuck there and either her or her body wouldn’t tear itself from his presence. A light blush appeared on her cheeks at his words, followed by a small chuckle ‘’I haven’t been on a motorcycle since that one time I dated that weird biker in college so please try not to kill us’’ was all she replied as she was already arranging her dress, stucking it in the hem of her panties and taking off her heels, holding them tightly to her chest.

“I don’t need a motorcycle to kill ya. I’d rather show you a good time.”Amos looked impressed. He’d half-expected a slap across the face, a huff of indignation, and the clatter of heels as she retreated. Or, you know, just a blatant refusal. He threw his leg over the cycle, and held out his hand — it might have been mistaken as an offer to shake, but he cleared it up quickly. “I’ll put your shoes in the saddlebag. You’re gonna want to hold on.” He tongued the cigarette he’d stuck into his teeth, his lips begging to grin. “What’s your name, anyhow, sticks?”

“Let’s just say, I’m quite talented with my mouth.”

“And knowing the right people has it perks.” Daniel offered, pouring the man another drink. “Closing in on the six year mark pretty soon. So it’s been a while, but this place has always had the reputation of bringing an enjoyable evening to anyone stepping through those doors. I’ve just made sure the reputation stays the same.” 

“So does knowing the wrong people, my brother,” he said with a Machiavellian smirk.