Johnny "Coco" Cruz (Mayans MC) x fem!reader - he's 34, you're 24
You're healing a large tattoo and someone slaps it as a joke. Coco almost commits a felony.
The fresh tattoo stretches from just below your shoulder blade to the curve of your hip, an intricate piece you'd spent nearly twelve hours getting over the course of three sessions, and by the time it finally reaches the awkward healing stage where every movement pulls at your skin and every loose thread on your shirt seems determined to become permanently attached to the peeling ink, the entire clubhouse has somehow been made aware that they are absolutely, under no circumstances, to touch your back.
It isn't even Coco who gives the warning first.
It's Angel.
"Don't poke it. Don't hug her too hard. Don't be a dumbass."
Then EZ repeats it.
"It's healing. Leave it alone."
Even Bishop, who normally couldn't care less about anybody's skincare routine, looks up from his beer and mutters, "Seriously. Infection ain't worth the joke."
Coco doesn't say much.
He just watches anyone who gets within arm's reach of you with narrowed eyes.
Because he's seen you trying very, very hard not to complain.
He'd watched you grit your teeth through the tattoo itself, smiling through hours of needles because you'd wanted this piece for years, and now he'd watched you pretend it didn't hurt when your shirt rubbed against it, when you leaned back against chairs before immediately flinching upright again, when you quietly excused yourself to wash and moisturize it twice a day.
You weren't dramatic.
Which meant when you admitted something hurt...
It really hurt.
So everybody knows.
Don't touch the tattoo.
Simple.
Apparently not simple enough.
The club has another charter visiting that afternoon, the courtyard full of conversations and motorcycles and music drifting from battered speakers while people wander around with beers in their hands, and you're standing beside Coco talking to Letty about horror movies when one of the visiting prospects strolls past behind you.
He hears somebody mention the tattoo.
Grins.
"Still sore?"
You laugh.
"A little."
Without another thought—
SMACK.
His palm lands square across your healing tattoo.
Loud enough for half the yard to hear.
Pain detonates across your back.
Your entire body jerks forward with a sharp gasp that you can't stop, every nerve screaming so violently your knees nearly buckle as your hand flies instinctively to your shoulder.
For one heartbeat...
Everything goes silent.
Then Coco moves.
Nobody actually sees him decide.
One second he's beside you.
The next he's got the prospect by the front of his cut so hard the fabric strains under his fist.
"What the—"
The kid doesn't even finish.
Coco slams him backwards into the side of a truck hard enough to make the entire vehicle rock.
"You stupid motherfucker!"
The prospect's eyes go wide.
"It was a joke—"
"A JOKE?"
Another shove.
His boots barely touch the ground.
"She said it was healing!"
"I didn't mean—"
"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT WHAT YOU MEANT!"
The yard explodes into motion.
"COCO!"
"Jesus Christ!"
"Grab him!"
Angel reaches him first.
EZ's right behind him.
Between the two of them they manage to get hold of Coco's shoulders, but it barely slows him down because he's still trying to lunge forward while the prospect stumbles backward looking like he's suddenly remembered every bad decision he's ever made.
"You hit her!"
"It was just—"
"You slapped an open fucking wound!"
"I didn't know—"
"Bullshit!"
His voice cracks across the courtyard like a gunshot.
"I heard three different people tell you to leave it alone!"
The prospect opens his mouth.
Closes it again.
Because...
Yeah.
He had.
He'd laughed.
Thought everyone was exaggerating.
Thought it'd be funny.
Now Coco Cruz looks fully prepared to rearrange his entire skeletal structure.
"Easy," Bishop orders, stepping between them.
"Coco."
No response.
"Coco."
Nothing.
"Cruz."
Finally.
Finally.
Coco tears his eyes away from the prospect long enough to look at Bishop.
"Look at her."
Not him.
Her.
Coco turns.
You're standing exactly where he'd left you, one arm wrapped awkwardly around yourself because even breathing hurts now, tears sitting in your eyes that you clearly don't want to fall.
The instant he sees your face...
His anger changes.
It doesn't disappear.
It becomes something quieter.
Something somehow even more dangerous.
He walks straight past everyone and crouches in front of you.
"Baby."
His voice is so gentle it barely sounds like the same man who'd been screaming seconds ago.
"Look at me."
You do.
"It hurts."
"I know."
"So much."
"I know."
He brushes a strand of hair away from your face with the backs of his fingers, careful not to touch anywhere near your back.
"I'm sorry."
You blink.
"You didn't do it."
"I should've stopped him."
"You couldn't."
"I should've."
You give him the tiniest smile anyway.
"It's okay."
"No."
He shakes his head once.
"It's really not."
Behind him, the prospect tries one last time.
"I said I was sorry—"
Coco rises slowly.
Very.
Very slowly.
The movement alone makes half the yard tense.
He points one finger at the prospect.
"If you ever touch her again..."
Silence.
"...they'll spend weeks trying to identify your dental records."
Nobody laughs.
Mostly because everyone believes him.
Bishop sighs heavily.
"Get him outta here."
The visiting charter's president doesn't even argue.
The prospect is marched straight to his bike, still pale, still rubbing his collar where Coco had nearly choked him unconscious.
Only after they're gone does the tension begin to drain from the yard.
Coco doesn't.
He turns back to you immediately.
"Come on."
"Where?"
"Bathroom."
"What?"
"I'm checking your tattoo."
He gently leads you inside, grabbing clean paper towels, antibacterial soap, moisturiser, and disposable gloves from the first-aid cabinet like he'd been secretly studying tattoo aftercare manuals (because let's be real, there's no way he took care of his own ink when he got it).
You can't help smiling.
"You researched this."
He refuses to meet your eyes.
"...maybe."
"Coco."
"So what?"
He finally looks up.
"I knew you'd pretend you were fine."
You stare at him.
"So I figured somebody had to know what to do."
Your chest aches in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with your back.
He washes his hands.
Pulls on gloves.
Examines the tattoo with painstaking care, barely letting his fingertips hover over your skin.
"It doesn't look damaged," he murmurs after a long moment, relief flooding his face. "Little red where he hit it."
"I'll survive."
"I know."
Another pause.
"I still wanna kill him."
You laugh softly.
"I noticed."
"I was one shove away from catching a murder charge."
"I noticed that too."
He finally smiles.
Small.
Crooked.
Embarrassed.
"I got...scared."
That surprises you.
"You did?"
"I heard you gasp."
His jaw tightens.
"I've heard people get hurt before."
He swallows.
"I never wanna hear you make that sound again."
Something inside you melts.
Without thinking, you reach for his hand.
He freezes the instant your fingers lace together.
"You almost committed a felony."
"Worth considering."
"Coco."
"What?"
"You terrified everyone."
"I was terrified."
Your smile fades into something softer.
"You care that much?"
He laughs once.
Humorless.
"I buy tickets to horror movies I hate."
"I know."
"I memorize tattoo aftercare."
"I know."
"I watch everybody who gets too close to you."
"I noticed."
"I lose my damn mind because some idiot smacks your back."
He exhales.
"I think I've been trying real hard not to admit something."
You squeeze his hand.
"What?"
His dark eyes find yours.
"I love you."
No hesitation.
No joke.
Just simple, terrifying honesty.
"I think I've loved you for a while."
Your heart feels like it's forgotten how to beat.
"You picked an interesting moment to tell me."
"I know."
"You almost killed somebody first."
"He had it coming."
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
"You are unbelievable."
"So I've been told."
You step closer, careful of your back.
"I love you too."
He blinks.
"...yeah?"
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
Instead of answering, you lean up and kiss him.
Softly.
Carefully.
When you pull away, Coco just stares at you for a second before breaking into the biggest grin you've ever seen on his face, the kind that transforms every sharp edge into something warm, something hopeful.
Outside, Angel glances through the clubhouse window just in time to see the kiss.
He elbows EZ.
"Told you."
EZ smirks.
"Took a near-assault charge to get there."
"Nah."
Angel watches Coco wrap one protective arm around you, already guiding you away from anyone who might accidentally bump your healing tattoo.
"It just took the right idiot."
And from that day on, no one in Santo Padre—not prospects, not patched members, not visiting charters—ever made the mistake of touching your healing tattoos again.
Mostly because the story of the poor bastard who'd almost been buried for doing it became club legend.
And because everyone knew that if you belonged to Coco, your skin, your comfort, and your smile were things he would protect with every ounce of the fierce, unwavering love he'd finally admitted out loud.
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Contains descriptions and injury, threat, violence and domestic abuse. Brief mentions of smoking and alcohol.
The night was quiet at the clubhouse — low music from the jukebox, the occasional crack of pool balls from the back.
Jax leaned in his chair, beer in hand, while Chibs idly rolled a smoke.
The door swung open, and the noise stilled like someone had turned down the volume.
She stepped inside, hood up, clothes clinging damp from the mist outside. The light caught her face just enough to show the fading shadow of a bruise along her cheekbone and a fresh cut on her lip. Her arms wrapped tight around herself — not from the cold.
Chibs was on his feet, brow furrowing. “Evenin’, lass. You lost?”
Her eyes flicked to him, then to Jax. “No. I just…” She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I just needed somewhere… safe. For a bit.”
Jax set his beer down, studying her with the same caution he’d use on a stranger at the table. “You in some kind of trouble?”
Her shoulders rose slightly, defensive. “No.”
The word was too quick, too clipped.
Chibs’s gaze lingered on the bruise. “You hurt?”
She shook her head, looking anywhere but their eyes. “It’s nothing. I just need to sit for a minute. I’ll go after that.”
They exchanged a glance. Neither of them knew her, but the tension rolling off her was as familiar as the smell of gun oil — someone carrying a fresh wound, whether she’d admit it or not.
Jax gestured toward the bar. “Alright. Sit. Get warm. You want a drink?”
She opened her mouth, but the door behind them groaned open again.
Bootsteps — heavy, unhurried — crossed the threshold. The room seemed to narrow.
Happy stepped in, kutte over a white t-shirt, the black leather creasing as he moved. He barely glanced at the table until his eyes landed on her.
The air changed.
The cigarette between his fingers hit the floor without a sound.
He crossed the room in three strides, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her head back to see him. His voice was low, rough, but carrying something in it that Jax and Chibs had never heard from him before.
“Mouse?”
Her eyes softened instantly, lips parting and her voice barely a whisper, as if anything louder would make him disappear. “Happy…”
Happy’s jaw clenched. He reached out, slow, his calloused fingers pushing down her hood, her damp brown hair falling loosely, his fingers curling under her chin — gentle in a way that seemed almost foreign on him. He tilted her face toward the light, his gaze tracing every bruise, every mark.
“Who did this?” he asked.
She swallowed, voice trembling. “My boyfriend. He’s… Mayans. Said if I ran—” She cut herself off, eyes dropping. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You came to the right place,” Happy said. And there was nothing soft in the words — only a promise.
Happy’s fingers lingered under her chin, thumb brushing lightly against the unbroken skin as if he could erase the damage with his touch alone. His eyes didn’t leave hers, not even for a second.
Behind them, Jax leaned toward Chibs, his voice pitched low. “You ever seen her before?”
Chibs shook his head once. “Nope. But he definitely has.”
It was obvious in every line of Happy’s body — the stillness, the intensity, the way the rest of the room ceased to exist. They’d seen him violent. They’d seen him cold. But this… this was different.
She let out a shaky breath, as if the tension holding her upright was starting to give way now that he was here. Happy’s hand shifted from her chin to the side of her neck, the weight of it grounding her as his thumb gently brushed the skin.
“When?” she asked quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“Tonight,” he said. “I’ll deal with him tonight.”
Something flickered in her expression — relief tangled with fear.
Jax caught Chibs’ eye again, giving the smallest shake of his head. Whatever was going on here, it wasn’t for them to press. Not right now.
Happy finally looked away from her, just long enough to speak to them without raising his voice.
“She’s with me.”
The three words, final as a gavel.
Neither of them argued.
Chibs stepped back, palms up in a subtle gesture of surrender. “Aye, then. She’s yours.”
Jax just nodded, reaching for his beer again, though his gaze stayed locked on the pair for a beat longer. He’d seen enough to know one thing — if anyone tried to touch her again, Happy wouldn’t just hurt them. He’d make them disappear.
Happy turned back to her, his voice dipping into that quiet space meant only for her ears. “You’re safe now, Mouse. I got you.”
Before she could answer, his arm slid around her shoulders and pulled her in. It wasn’t careful at first — it was instinct, like his body moved before his brain had time to weigh it. But once she was there, his hold changed, tightening just enough to tell her she didn’t need to stand on her own anymore.
Her forehead found his chest, the leather of his kutte cool against her skin, the solid warmth beneath it steady and unyielding. She didn’t care that half the room could see them; for the first time in weeks, her pulse slowed.
Happy’s chin came to rest lightly against the top of her head. His hand, still splayed over her shoulder, shifted in small, grounding circles.
“You’re safe,” he murmured again, like he needed her to believe it. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Jax and Chibs didn’t speak — just exchanged a glance that said we’re staying out of this.
In Happy’s arms, the fight drained out of her in a slow, quiet surrender, and she let herself breathe.
Happy didn’t let go until he felt the tremor in her shoulders start to settle. When he finally eased back, it was only far enough to guide her toward the hallway with a hand firm at her back.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of here.”
The room stayed quiet as they slipped past. No one followed.
He led her into the small back room off the garage — cluttered desk, battered couch, the faint smell of oil and leather in the air. Once the door clicked shut behind them, he shrugged out of his kutte without a word. The creak of worn leather filled the silence.
“Here.” He draped it over her shoulders, the weight of it settling heavy but warm. The scent of smoke, motor oil, and that faint spice that was just him wrapped around her instantly.
She gripped the edges like she could pull the comfort deeper into her skin. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah,” he cut in, his tone leaving no space for argument. “I did.”
Happy crouched in front of her where she sat on the couch, his eyes scanning the damage up close. He tilted her chin again, the pads of his fingers rough but steady. “Tell me where else you’re hurt.”
She hesitated, her gaze darting away. “Just my face.”
“Don’t lie to me, Mouse.” His voice softened, but the edge beneath it was real.
Her eyes closed briefly. “Bruises. My ribs. He…” She shook her head, not finishing.
Happy’s jaw tightened until it ached. He exhaled slowly, forcing his voice to stay even. “You’re stayin’ here tonight. No arguments. I’ll deal with him.”
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “You can’t—”
“I can.” His gaze locked on hers, unblinking. “You know I can.”
Something in her eased — not because she thought he’d be gentle, but because she knew he wouldn’t. Not with the man who did this.
Happy straightened but stayed close, one hand on the back of the couch, the other brushing over the kutte on her shoulders like he was making sure it stayed put. “You hungry?”
She almost laughed, a small, broken sound. “I can’t remember the last time someone cared enough to ask me that.”
“Get used to it,” he said simply. In that same gravel filmed finality that only Happy Lowman possessed.
“So you set his fucking house on fire? What the fuck is wrong with you, Mookie?!”
Everyone knows Mookie has a tendency to overreact. Her brother more than anyone else, seeing as he was the one to spoil her. When Mookie’s temper gets her into hot water with the Chinese, her brother, desperate to ensure her safety, makes a deal with SAMCRO.
Mookie is left to make the best out of her new living situation, and what’s a better distraction than a hot biker with big brown eyes?
-ˋˏ ༻❁✿❀༺ ˎˊ-
Follow Mookie through her time in Charming, while she adapts to not only the town life, but the club life.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age.
𝗘𝗭 𝗥𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
You walk into the scrapyard with someone who knows the club, just tagging along, not expecting much.
EZ spots you before you even realize where you're going. He stops mid-conversation, his voice dying in his throat.
There's a quiet, weighty pause as he watches you. Something about you punches the air out of his lungs—your eyes, your energy. It’s not just attraction—it’s recognition.
He's too controlled to show it outright, but his brows lift ever so slightly, and his jaw tightens.
He approaches with a calm smile, but his heart's hammering in his chest. You catch him scanning your face like he's trying to memorize it.
He stumbles slightly over his introduction. EZ Reyes doesn't stumble—ever. That alone tells him you're trouble, the kind that gets under your skin.
“You just passing through, or should I be hoping you’ll be around for a while?” he asks, smooth but laced with genuine curiosity.
Later, he keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking. You catch him once. He looks away with a soft smirk, caught red-handed.
That night, he goes home and sketches you. He doesn't even understand why.
𝗔𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗹 𝗥𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
Angel’s first reaction? Whistle-low under his breath, muttering, “Damn…” before he even realizes it slipped out.
You don’t even make eye contact with him right away, but that doesn’t stop him from soaking you in.
He’s all charm and cocky swagger at first—approaches you like he’s already got you figured out.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he grins, flashing those dimples.
But when you talk? That voice, that fire in your eyes? He freezes for half a beat. His smirk fades slightly—his attraction deepens into something sharper, more unsettling.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, turning away briefly like he needs a second to recalibrate.
Angel's drawn to chaos, but you? You make him want something more stable without even trying.
Later that night, he scrolls through his phone, wondering if asking for your number the same day is too much—then says screw it and does it anyway.
𝗝𝗼𝗵𝗻𝗻𝘆 “𝗖𝗼𝗰𝗼” 𝗖𝗿𝘂𝘇 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
Coco’s sitting on the curb, smoking, one leg pulled up when you walk by.
His eyes follow you instantly, lips parting slightly. His cigarette nearly burns to the filter while he watches you.
“Damn… Who’s that?” he asks nobody in particular, blinking like he just woke up.
He tries to play it cool, real casual. Calls out something half-flirty, half-stupid like, “You got any idea what kinda trouble you’re causin’ out here, girl?”
When you throw a witty remark back at him without missing a beat, he chokes on a laugh.
That’s when it hits him. He’s not just attracted—he’s hooked.
The feeling creeps up his spine, makes him shift uncomfortably. It’s been a long time since someone made him feel this awake.
“Shit, you dangerous,” he mutters, grinning, scratching at his neck like he’s trying to shake it off.
Spends the rest of the day telling himself he doesn’t need this—then actively finds reasons to walk by you again.
𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗰𝘂𝘀 Á𝗹𝘃𝗮𝗿𝗲𝘇 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
Marcus isn’t a man who gets shaken easily. He’s calculated, measured, composed.
But when you walk into the room, it’s like something short-circuits in him.
He doesn't react outwardly—he doesn’t let himself. Not in front of the boys. But internally? There’s an unsettling heat in his chest he hasn’t felt in years.
He watches you with hawk-like eyes, assessing everything—your poise, your smile, how you carry yourself.
“Who is she?” he asks Bishop in a low voice, trying to sound offhand. He fails.
He’s direct when he finally speaks to you. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Marcus Álvarez,” he says with a slow nod, voice deep and unreadable.
But you feel the tension in the air when you shake his hand. His fingers linger just a second too long. His eyes hold yours like they’re searching for something.
Later, he’s alone in his office, pouring himself a drink, wondering what the hell this pull is—and if he’s too old to chase it.
𝗢𝗯𝗶𝘀𝗽𝗼 “𝗕𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗽” 𝗟𝗼𝘀𝗮 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
Bishop’s usually all business—he doesn’t waste time on distractions.
But you? You’re a disruption from the first second.
His eyes narrow slightly as he watches you from across the lot. At first, it’s curiosity. Then… something else.
He crosses his arms over his chest, lips pursed like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real.
He doesn’t approach right away. He wants to know who you are, what you're about. Sends someone else to make introductions and watches your reactions carefully.
Eventually walks up, nods, says, “Bishop. You got a name to go with that smile?”
He’s trying to keep things light, but his voice is low, rough. There's a note of seriousness he can't shake.
You laugh, and it punches through his chest like a shotgun blast. He doesn’t smile often, but you make him.
That night, he’s in the clubhouse, nursing a drink, staring at the wall, trying to talk himself out of the idea that you might be exactly what he didn’t know he needed.
𝗠𝗮𝗻𝗻𝘆 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
Manny’s instantly warm when he sees you. His smile hits fast and wide—eyes lighting up like a kid at Christmas.
“Whoa… Hey there, querida,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag as he walks over.
You can feel his energy before he even reaches you—bold, flirty, but not overbearing. It’s like gravity.
He’s not shy about the way he looks at you. It’s appreciative, reverent even. Like he’s not just seeing your beauty—he’s feeling it.
He tells a joke to make you laugh and beams when you do. That sound? He’s addicted already.
Later, he offers you a drink at the bar, pulling out a stool for you before you even get the chance to say yes.
“I don’t know what brought you here, but I’m real glad it did,” he says, tapping his glass to yours.
He leans in a little closer than necessary when you talk, hanging on your words like they’re gospel.
And after you leave? He’s already planning how to see you again without making it obvious he’s smitten.
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Johnny "Coco" Cruz (Mayans MC) x fem!reader - he's 34, you're 24
You ask him to teach you Spanish. Half the lessons accidentally turn into flirting.
please understand that i do not know any spanish at all i am hopeless and i used google translate for this so it's probably wrong
It starts because you are tired of smiling blankly every time someone around the clubhouse slips into Spanish.
At first you try to piece things together yourself.
You figure out hermano means brother after hearing it approximately five hundred times. Gracias is easy. Perdón takes a little longer because every time Coco uses it he's saying it sarcastically after deliberately annoying Angel. But eventually you realize there are dozens of little words and phrases constantly bouncing between the members, their families, the older women in the neighborhood, and kids running through Santo Padre that you simply don't understand.
One afternoon you finally corner Coco while he's lazily cleaning his bike outside the clubhouse.
He looks up as your shadow falls across him.
"What?"
"I have a question."
"You always got questions."
"I want you to teach me Spanish."
He blinks.
"...What?"
"I keep hearing everyone talk and I hate not understanding. I don't need to be fluent. Just enough that I know what's going on."
For a second he just stares.
Then something impossibly soft settles across his face.
"You serious?"
You nod.
"I wanna learn."
He shrugs like it isn't a big deal.
"Yeah, princesa. I can do that."
The first lesson actually goes surprisingly well.
He teaches you greetings.
Hola.
Buenos días.
Buenas noches.
You repeat every word carefully until your pronunciation almost matches his.
"No, no." He laughs quietly. "Roll the R more."
"I am rolling it."
"You are committing crimes against the language."
"I'm trying!"
"I know."
He smiles.
"Again."
You try again.
He nods approvingly.
"There it is."
You grin so brightly he can't help smiling back.
By lesson three he's started teaching you random vocabulary.
Agua. Water.
Sí. Yes.
Mesa. Table.
Perfect.
Perro. Dog.
"Easy."
Gato. Cat.
"You're getting cocky."
"I am getting good."
"You know six words."
"I know seven."
He snorts.
"Show-off."
EZ walks through halfway through one lesson.
"...What are you two doing?"
Without looking away from you, Coco answers, "Teaching."
EZ looks at the notebook. Looks at you carefully writing phonetic spellings beside each word. Looks at Coco patiently correcting your pronunciation.
"...Huh."
He walks away.
That seems normal enough.
It stops being normal approximately a week later.
Because Coco makes one catastrophic mistake.
He teaches you Bonita.
"What does that mean?"
"Pretty."
"Oh."
"And hermosa."
"That's...?"
"Beautiful."
"Is there a difference?"
He hesitates, before saying, "A little."
"How?"
"Bonita is... pretty."
"And hermosa," He scratches the back of his neck. "...Beautiful."
He sighs dramatically.
"Hermosa is... stronger."
You nod thoughtfully and write it down.
Neither of you notice Angel standing in the doorway listening.
Angel quietly turns around, leaves like he's fleeing a crime scene and immediately goes looking for EZ.
"They're doomed."
EZ doesn't even look up from whatever he's fixing.
"What now?"
"Coco just spent ten minutes explaining the emotional differences between bonita and hermosa."
EZ sighs.
"...How bad?"
"He looked like he wanted to write poetry."
"...Jesus Christ."
The lessons continue.
Perfectly innocently. Mostly.
Until one afternoon.
"What does ojos mean?"
"Eyes."
"Okay."
"Sonrisa."
"Smile."
"Cabello."
"Hair."
You write everything down carefully.
Then, apparently you decide violence is the correct course of questioning.
"What about ojos bonitos?"
He freezes.
"...Where'd you hear that?"
"One of the older ladies said it about a baby."
"Oh... It means pretty eyes."
"Okay. What about ojos hermosos?"
"...Beautiful eyes."
You scribble it down, before looking back up at him.
"So if someone had nice eyes I'd say—"
He answers automatically.
"'Tienes ojos bonitos.'"
You repeat it carefully.
"Tienes.....ojos.....bonitos."
He smiles.
"Perfect."
You beam.
"So." You look directly at him. "Tienes ojos bonitos."
Everything stops.
Because you were practicing. That was all. Pure practice.
Unfortunately, Coco's brain absolutely does not interpret it that way.
His ears go pink.
"...Gracias."
"You do."
"...Yeah?"
"Mhm."
"I—"
He completely forgets what lesson you were doing.
Angel walks in.
Sees Coco blushing. Sees you smiling. Sees the notebook.
Immediately backs out.
"Nope."
The next lesson somehow gets worse.
"What does guapo mean?"
"Handsome."
"And for women?"
"Guapa."
"So..." You look at him thoughtfully. "You're guapo."
"..."
"..."
"...You can't just—"
"What?"
"You just called me handsome."
"You literally told me that's what it means."
"I know what it means."
"I'm practicing."
"I know."
"Am I saying it right?"
"...Perfectly."
"So what's wrong?"
He pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Nothing."
Everything.
Everything is wrong.
By now the entire clubhouse has become emotionally invested.
They don't even hide it anymore.
Every lesson has spectators.
Angel pretends to grab coffee. Bishop walks through four times. Gilly suddenly needs something from every room Coco is in. Hank outright sits nearby pretending to scroll through his phone. Even Creeper seems to hover slightly.
Nobody says anything.
They're just... Watching.
Waiting.
Then comes the day Coco decides to teach compliments.
Which is objectively the dumbest decision he's ever made. Ever.
"Me gustas."
"What's that?"
"I like you."
"Oh." You write it down. "What about te quiero?"
He hesitates.
"It means... I care about you."
"And te amo?"
His entire body stiffens.
"...That's... I love you."
You nod.
"Okay." Then violence. "What would someone say if they thought somebody was really cute?"
He sighs.
"...Eres muy linda."
You repeat it carefully.
"Eres.....muy...linda."
"Perfect."
You smile.
Then immediately point at him.
"Eres muy lindo."
Silence.
Complete silence.
Across the clubhouse someone drops a wrench.
Nobody moves.
Coco just...
Stares.
Because you're looking at him with complete sincerity.
Not flirting.
Not teasing.
Just practicing.
"...Gracias."
"You blush a lot."
"I do not."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You're doing it now."
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
EZ watches Coco completely forget how language works.
Again.
Then watches you innocently wait for the next vocabulary word.
Then watches Coco stare at you like you're the answer to every prayer he's ever accidentally made.
EZ closes his eyes. Rubs his hands over his face and turns to Angel.
"I'm gonna die."
Angel nods solemnly.
"Yeah."
"Not from bullets."
"Nope."
"Old age."
"Definitely."
"I'm gonna be ninety-seven."
"Mhm."
"And these dumbasses still won't be dating."
Angel sighs.
"They're gonna accidentally get married before they realize they're flirting."
Across the room you smile brightly at Coco.
"So what's Spanish for boyfriend?"
Coco chokes on absolutely nothing.
The entire clubhouse goes dead silent.
EZ slowly lowers his head onto the table with a dull thunk.
"I was wrong," he mutters into the wood. "I am not making it to old age."
The silence lasts for exactly three seconds.
Three very, very long seconds.
Coco is coughing into his fist because the question caught him so spectacularly off guard that his own saliva apparently decided to assassinate him. Angel has both hands over his face. Hank has simply stopped pretending to look at his phone altogether. Gilly is openly grinning now. Creeper actually lowers the water bottle that was in his hand. Bishop, from across the room, slowly removes the cigar from between his teeth like he cannot quite believe the universe has gifted him entertainment this good.
EZ doesn't even lift his head from the table.
"I heard the question," he murmurs into the wood. "I just don't have the emotional strength to witness the answer."
You blink around at everyone.
"...Did I ask something weird?"
"No," Bishop says immediately.
"Yes," Angel says at exactly the same time.
Bishop points at Angel.
"Shut up."
Angel raises both hands innocently.
"I'm trying to save them."
"There is no saving them."
"There absolutely is."
"There absolutely isn't."
Meanwhile, Coco has finally stopped coughing enough to answer you.
"...Novio."
You write it down.
"Novio. And girlfriend?"
"Novia."
You smile.
"That's easy."
"It is."
"So if someone asked..." You tap your pen thoughtfully against your notebook. "'Is that your boyfriend?'"
Coco is already regretting every decision that has led him to this moment.
"...'¿Es tu novio?'"
You repeat it slowly.
"¿Es... tu... novio?"
"Perfect."
"And the answer would be...'Sí, es mi novio'?"
His eyebrows lift.
"...Yeah."
"I said it right?"
"You did."
"Good."
You smile at him like you've just solved a particularly satisfying crossword puzzle.
Behind you, Angel quietly whispers to Hank, "He's fighting for his fucking life."
Hank whispers back, "She's not even doing it on purpose."
"I know."
"It's honestly impressive."
"It'd almost be cruel if it wasn't so adorable."
Coco hears every word.
Pretends he doesn't.
The lessons continue twice a week after that.
Sometimes at the clubhouse. Sometimes at your apartment. Sometimes sitting on the tailgate of his truck while the California sun sinks lower and paints everything gold.
Those are his favorite lessons.
They're quieter.
No audience.
No Angel making gagging noises every time you accidentally compliment him. No EZ muttering prayers for patience.
Just you. One notebook. And two cups of coffee.
You improve frighteningly quickly.
"You've been practicing."
"A little."
"A little?"
"I labeled everything in my apartment."
He laughs.
"You what?"
"My fridge says refrigerador."
"...Uh-huh."
"My bathroom mirror says espejo."
He grins.
"My couch has a sticky note."
"You are such a nerd."
"I am an educated nerd."
"You've got sticky notes on your furniture."
"They're color-coded."
He actually laughs hard enough that he has to lean forward, rubbing his face.
"You color-coded your Spanish vocabulary?"
"It helps."
"I cannot believe you."
"You absolutely can."
"...Yeah."
He can.
He absolutely can.
And somehow that knowledge makes something warm settle in his chest.
The trouble starts when he decides you're ready for conversational practice.
"No English."
"What?"
"No English."
"Coco."
"You'll learn faster."
"I know, like... thirty words."
"You know way more than thirty."
"I panic under pressure."
"You'll be fine."
"I won't."
"You will."
"I'll cry."
"You won't."
"I might."
He smiles.
You narrow your eyes.
"...You're enjoying this."
"A little."
He points at himself.
"¿Cómo me llamo?"
You blink.
"...What?"
He shakes his head.
"No English."
"Coco."
He waits.
You think.
"Oh."
"...¿Cómo... te llamas?"
His smile widens immediately, "There you go."
You point dramatically.
"Te llamas Johnny."
He nods approvingly.
"Muy bien."
Your face lights up.
"I got one!"
"You got one."
He has never seen someone so excited over basic sentence structure.
It's ridiculously endearing.
About twenty minutes later—
"...Tengo hambre."
He nods.
"What'd I say?"
"I'm hungry."
"Good."
"Tengo sueño."
"You're sleepy."
"Perfect."
"Tengo frío."
"You're cold."
"Excellent." He smiles proudly. "You really are getting good."
The praise makes you sit up a little straighter.
"...Really?"
"Really."
"You'd tell me if I sucked?"
"I've been telling you every time you suck."
"That's true."
"So when I tell you you're doing good..."
"...I'm actually doing good."
"Exactly."
The smile you give him afterward is so bright it nearly blinds him.
Christ.
That smile.
He's beginning to suspect it's actively hazardous to his health.
A week later, you're wandering through the clubhouse looking for him when you overhear Angel talking to Bishop entirely in Spanish.
Normally, you'd tune it out.
Instead...
"...Wait."
Both men look at you.
"You understood that?"
You hesitate.
"...You said somebody's bringing food."
Angel's eyebrows shoot up.
"...The hell?"
"And... somebody's running late?"
Now Bishop is staring too.
"...Kid."
You grin.
"I understood!"
Angel looks toward the garage.
"COCO!"
"What?"
"YOUR STUDENT'S CHEATING!"
"I'm not cheating!"
"You understood us!"
"That's... the point?"
Angel pauses.
"...Fair."
That evening, Coco looks absurdly proud.
"You understood them."
"I understood them."
"You weren't translating word for word."
"I know!"
"You were actually listening."
"I know!" Without thinking, you throw your arms around him. "You've been a really good teacher."
He freezes.
Not because you've never hugged him. You have. Plenty of times. They always kill him a little.
But this one is impulsive. Tight.
Your cheek pressed against his chest. Your arms around his waist.
His own hands hover awkwardly for all of half a second before settling against your back almost instinctively.
"Couldn't have done it without you."
His voice comes out quieter than he intended.
"You did the hard part."
"No." You shake your head against him. "You made it fun."
For a long moment neither of you moves.
Neither of you seems particularly interested in letting go.
From the open garage, Angel slowly leans around the corner.
"Oh."
Gilly appears beside him.
"...Oh."
Then Hank.
"...OH."
EZ is the last one to look.
He takes in the sight of you still tucked against Coco's chest, Coco looking down at you like the rest of the world has disappeared, and the fact that neither of you has noticed anyone watching.
He sighs.
"They're hugging."
Angel nods.
"They're hugging."
"...Progress."
"Barely."
"They're still gonna need another six months."
"Minimum."
EZ folds his arms.
"I swear to God, if the first time they kiss is because she asks him how to say it in Spanish..."
From inside the room, you tip your head back to look at Coco with an inquisitive smile.
"...Actually..."
EZ closes his eyes.
"No."
"How do you say 'kiss' in Spanish?"
Coco opens his mouth. Closes it again. Opens it. Closes it immediately.
Angel quietly bangs his forehead against the wall.
EZ looks toward the ceiling.
"I hate being right."
Coco does not answer immediately.
Not because he doesn't know the word.
Obviously he knows the word.
He's thirty-four years old, born and raised around Spanish, and has somehow managed to survive everything life has thrown at him.
What he does not know is how he's supposed to explain the word kiss to the woman he's hopelessly, catastrophically in love with while she's standing less than a foot away, still smiling up at him with those ridiculously patient eyes, entirely unaware that she's slowly dismantling his ability to think.
"...Coco?"
He blinks.
"Huh?"
"The word?"
"Oh."
Right.
The word.
"...Beso."
You repeat it carefully.
"...Beh-so?"
"Close."
He says it again, slower.
"Be-so."
"Beso."
"There you go."
You write it down.
"And 'to kiss'?"
He stares at you.
Because apparently today the universe has decided he hasn't suffered nearly enough.
"...Besar."
"Besar."
"Yeah."
You scribble it into your notebook.
Then, because you are genuinely trying to understand the language—
"Can you use it in a sentence?"
From outside the room comes the unmistakable sound of somebody whispering, "Oh, he's cooked."
Angel.
Definitely Angel.
Coco pinches the bridge of his nose.
"...You really need an example?"
"It helps me remember."
"...Of course it does."
You wait expectantly.
He tries.
He honestly tries to think of the most boring sentence imaginable.
"El... padre besa a su hija en la frente."
You frown thoughtfully.
"...The father kisses his daughter on the forehead?"
He looks genuinely relieved.
"Exactly."
You write it down.
"See? That wasn't so bad."
"No."
His voice is oddly strained.
"It wasn't."
Outside, Angel mutters, "That was the safest sentence in human history."
EZ snorts.
"He just took the emergency exit."
The next lesson is supposed to be about adjectives.
Supposed to be.
Instead, you discover something.
"Coco?"
"Yeah?"
"There are like..." You flip through your notebook. "...Seven different ways to call someone beautiful."
"You just..." He searches for the words. "...Feel it...They don't all mean the same thing."
He smiles faintly.
"If I called a sunset bonito, it's pretty..."
You nod, encouraging him to continue.
"But if I called it hermoso, it's beautiful..."
"It means more."
"Yeah."
"And precioso?"
"Different."
"How?"
He looks at you for a long second before answering quietly.
"...It's harder to explain than it is to understand."
You nod slowly.
"I think I get it."
"You do?"
"It's about... how much you feel."
His heart does something deeply inconvenient.
"...Yeah. That's exactly it."
A few days later, you're both sitting on the steps outside the clubhouse while the evening cools around you.
Your notebook rests open across your knees. You chew thoughtfully on the end of your pen.
"I have another question."
He smiles.
"You always do."
"What's your favorite Spanish word?"
He doesn't answer straight away.
Because the truthful answer—
Cariño.
Mi vida.
Corazón.
Any of the words he'd spent months swallowing instead of saying to you.
Instead he says—
"...Ojalá."
You tilt your head.
"What's that mean?"
He looks out across the parking lot.
"It doesn't really translate."
"Try, please."
"It... means..." He thinks. "It's like..."
He smiles to himself.
"...I hope."
"That's easy."
"No."
He shakes his head.
"Not exactly."
"Then what?"
"It's..." He searches again. "It's hope. But also wishing. And wanting. And praying. Like..."
He shrugs.
"...Wanting something so badly that all you can do is hope."
You stare at him.
"...That's beautiful."
"It is."
You carefully write it down.
"Ojalá."
Then underneath it—
Hope for something you really, really want.
He watches you write.
He doesn't tell you that you've accidentally written down exactly what you've become to him.
A week passes.
Then another.
Your confidence grows.
You begin answering simple questions in Spanish without thinking. Ordering coffee. Greeting people. Thanking elderly women around the neighbourhood, who immediately adopt you and insist on correcting your grammar between pinching your cheeks.
One Saturday afternoon, Coco finds you sitting with one of the abuelas outside her house.
The older woman is speaking almost entirely in Spanish.
You're answering.
Slowly. Carefully. But answering.
Coco stops dead.
The abuela notices him first.
"Oh, Johnny!"
She waves him over.
He walks across, still looking at you.
"...You've been practicing without me."
You look almost guilty.
"I wanted to surprise you."
"...You did."
The older woman pats your arm fondly before looking at Coco.
She says something rapidly in Spanish.
Far too quickly for you to catch.
Coco answers just as fast.
You watch them curiously.
"What'd she say?"
Coco suddenly finds the sidewalk fascinating.
"...Nothing."
The old woman immediately smacks his arm.
Hard.
He winces.
"What?"
She points at you.
Then at him.
Then rattles off another sentence with enough emphasis that even you can tell she's scolding him.
"...Johnny."
You narrow your eyes.
"What did she say?"
He sighs.
"...She asked..." His ears are turning red. "...why I haven't asked such a sweet girl out yet."
Your eyebrows climb.
"...Oh."
The abuela makes an exasperated noise and waves both hands dramatically.
She switches to slower Spanish, looking directly at you.
You only catch pieces.
Él...
Muy tonto.
Pero bueno.
You blink.
"I..."
You look helplessly at Coco.
"...I only got 'he's'..."
The old woman laughs so hard she nearly cries.
Coco groans.
"You don't need the rest."
"I absolutely do."
"No."
"Johnny."
He rubs a hand over his face.
"...She said..." He sighs heavily. "...'He's very stupid... but he's a good man.'"
The abuela nods emphatically.
"¡Sí!"
You look from her...
...to Coco...
...and then, completely unable to help yourself...
You laugh.
Not at him.
Just because the absolute certainty on that little old woman's face is infectious.
Coco watches you laugh until he realizes he's smiling too.
The abuela notices.
She notices everything.
With a deeply satisfied expression, she mutters something under her breath before shuffling back inside her house.
Coco catches every word.
"You'll figure it out eventually, mijo."
He watches you tuck your notebook into your bag, still smiling to yourself as you practice the new words under your breath.
"...Muy tonto... pero bueno..."
You glance over at him with a teasing grin.
"So...You've got official confirmation."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Confirmation?"
"From an abuela." You bump your shoulder against his. "You're very stupid."
A beat.
"But..." Your smile softens. "...You're a very good man."
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then Coco quietly replies, almost too softly for anyone else to hear—
"...You understood the important part."
And somewhere inside the clubhouse, watching the two of you through the open doorway, EZ leans against the pool table as Angel joins him.
"They're smiling at each other again," Angel says.
"Mhm."
"They've moved on to being blessed by grandmothers."
"Mhm."
Angel sighs.
"So... six months?"
EZ watches Coco reach over without thinking and brush a loose strand of hair away from your face, his hand lingering for just a heartbeat before dropping again.
You smile at him like it's the most natural thing in the world.
EZ changes his estimate.
"...Three."
"Three months?"
"Weeks."
Angel follows his gaze, sees the look on Coco's face, and quietly nods.
"...Yeah."
"...Three weeks."
EZ is wrong.
It doesn't take three weeks.
It takes four days.
Not because either of you suddenly finds the courage to confess.
Not because someone gives Coco a much-needed shove.
Not because Angel locks the two of you in a room together—which, to be fair, he does briefly consider before Bishop informs him that kidnapping club family is generally frowned upon.
No.
It happens because of a single word.
One that Coco hadn't planned on teaching you for a long time.
It's late.
Most of the clubhouse has quieted down after a long day. The pool table sits abandoned, someone has left an old rock playlist running low through the speakers, and outside the summer air has finally cooled enough to be comfortable.
You're sitting together on the steps with your notebook balanced on your knees.
"Today's lesson?" you ask.
Coco smiles.
"Expressions."
"Oh, fun."
"They're the stuff nobody teaches in textbooks."
"I trust you completely."
"That's your first mistake."
You laugh.
"I'll survive."
"We'll see." He flips through your notebook until he finds a blank page. "Okay."
He writes one word.
Cariño.
You sound it out carefully.
"...Ca-ri-ño."
"Good."
"What's it mean?"
He leans back against the railing.
"It depends."
You groan dramatically.
"No."
He laughs.
"I'm serious. It means..." He scratches his beard thoughtfully. "...Affection."
"Okay."
"But people also use it like..." He pauses. "...Sweetheart."
"Oh."
"...Honey."
"Oh."
"...Darling."
Your pen stills.
"Oh."
He nods.
"It's a term of endearment."
"So..."
You glance up.
"If someone calls you cariño..."
"They care about you."
"Like family?"
"Sometimes."
"Friends?"
"Sometimes."
"...Someone you're dating?"
His voice comes out quieter.
"Yeah...Mostly."
You nod thoughtfully.
"I like that."
"It is a nice word."
You smile as you write it down in careful handwriting.
Cariño.
Someone important.
You don't think much more about it.
Coco, on the other hand, spends the next twenty minutes accidentally saying it three different times before catching himself.
"You hungry, car—" He clears his throat. "...You hungry?"
You don't notice.
A few minutes later—
"You got sunscreen, cari—" Another cough. "You got sunscreen?"
Again, you don't notice.
By the third time, Angel is standing just inside the clubhouse doorway watching this disaster unfold with tears of laughter threatening to spill down his face.
He elbows EZ.
"You hear that?"
"Mhm."
"He almost called her cariño."
"Mhm."
"Three times."
"Mhm."
"You gonna do something?"
EZ takes a sip of his beer.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because nature should be allowed to take its course."
It happens the next afternoon.
Completely by accident.
You'd spent the morning helping Letty organize donations for a neighborhood fundraiser before heading back toward the garage.
Your hands are full.
Boxes stacked almost to your chin.
You can't see where you're walking.
"Coco?" Your voice echoes through the garage. "Little help?"
"I'm coming."
He rounds the corner.
Immediately reaches for the top box.
"You always carry too much."
"I had it."
"You absolutely didn't."
"I absolutely did."
"You were about to walk into a motorcycle."
"I saw it."
"You were looking at the ceiling."
"...Details."
He laughs, taking half the weight without another word.
Together, you carry everything inside.
When the last box lands on the table, you let out a relieved sigh.
"Thank you."
He smiles automatically.
"Anytime, cariño."
Silence.
Utter, complete silence.
Coco freezes.
His own eyes widen.
Because he hadn't meant to say it out loud.
It had simply...
Slipped.
The word had become so natural in his own head over the past few weeks that it escaped before he could stop it.
You blink.
"...Cariño?"
He closes his eyes for exactly one second.
"...Yeah."
"You..." You smile a little. "...Called me cariño."
"I did."
"You've never done that before."
"I know."
Another silence settles between you.
Not awkward.
Just... full.
You step a little closer.
"So..." You ask softly. "...What did you tell me it meant again?"
He lets out a quiet breath that sounds suspiciously like surrender.
"...Sweetheart."
Your heart skips.
"...Honey."
Another step.
"...Darling."
Now you're close enough that neither of you has to raise your voice.
"You said..." Your eyes never leave his. "...People mostly use it for someone they're dating."
"I did."
"But..." You tilt your head. "...We're not dating."
"No."
"So..." You smile—a small, hopeful thing. "...Why did you call me that?"
For the first time in a very long time, Johnny Cruz doesn't hide behind a joke.
Doesn't deflect.
Doesn't flirt his way sideways around the truth.
He just looks at you.
Really looks at you.
"I've wanted to," he admits quietly. "For a long time."
The world seems to go wonderfully still.
"...How long?"
He huffs a nervous little laugh.
"Long enough that the guys have probably got bets going."
From inside the garage—
"We absolutely do," Angel calls.
Neither of you even glances toward him.
You never look away from each other.
You smile so softly it almost hurts him to look at.
"...I've been wondering something."
"What's that?"
"You always gave me examples."
"I did."
"So..."
You reach into your bag.
Pull out your notebook.
Flip through the pages.
Every lesson.
Every word.
Every careful note.
Until you find one from weeks ago.
You turn the notebook toward him.
There, in your own handwriting, are the words:
Me gustas.
I like you.
You tap the page.
"You taught me this one."
"I did."
"You said using the language helps you remember."
He nods once.
"It does."
You close the notebook.
Take one final step into his space.
Then, in careful, practiced Spanish—the same careful Spanish he'd spent weeks teaching you—you say,
"...Me gustas, Johnny."
Not perfect.
Not flawless.
But sincere.
Every syllable wrapped in affection.
His breath catches.
"You..." He smiles in complete disbelief. "...You've been waiting to use that, haven't you?"
"A little."
"How long?"
"Since the day you taught it to me."
He laughs.
Actually laughs.
The kind that starts somewhere deep in his chest.
Then he reaches up slowly, giving you every chance in the world to move away.
You don't.
His hand cups your cheek.
"So..." You whisper. "What's Spanish for..."
Your smile grows.
"...'Can I kiss you?'"
He chuckles, forehead resting lightly against yours.
"You really want the lesson now?"
"I really do."
He says it slowly, making sure you catch every word.
"¿Puedo besarte?"
You repeat it.
Carefully.
"¿Puedo... besarte?"
"Perfect."
You smile.
Then, with all the confidence he'd spent weeks helping you build, you ask him again.
"¿Puedo besarte?"
His eyes soften so completely that it almost steals the air from your lungs.
"...Sí."
You kiss him.
It's gentle. A little nervous. A little laughing because your noses bump together the first time.
But the second attempt is perfect.
Warm. Patient. Unhurried.
When you finally pull back, you're both smiling too much to pretend this is anything but inevitable.
Behind you, the garage door slides open.
The entire club has apparently been watching.
Angel throws both arms into the air.
"FINALLY!"
Gilly starts clapping.
Hank whistles loud enough to wake the neighborhood.
Bishop digs into his pocket without a word and hands EZ a folded twenty-dollar bill.
EZ takes it with the tired expression of a man who has endured a very long journey.
"I said three weeks."
Bishop shakes his head.
"You should've gone with one."
Angel looks between the two of you, still standing forehead to forehead and smiling like idiots.
"You know," he says loudly, "all this happened because she wanted to know what hermano meant."
You laugh so hard you have to hide your face against Coco's shoulder.
Coco wraps an arm around your waist without thinking, presses a kiss into your hair, and shakes his head.
"Best lesson I ever taught."
You look up at him, eyes shining.
"No."
"What?"
You lace your fingers with his.
"The best lesson was that some words don't translate exactly."
He smiles, remembering.
"Ojalá."
"Hope."
"Hope."
You nod.
"I think I finally understand that one."
He looks at you—at your joined hands, your notebook tucked under your arm, the woman who had come to him wanting to learn a language and had somehow become the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life speaking it with.
Then he grins, warm and utterly smitten.
"So, cariño..."
"Hm?"
"When's the next lesson?"
You stand on your toes to kiss him again.
"I think," you murmur against his lips, "we've officially moved on to conversational practice."
Behind them, EZ pockets the twenty with a satisfied sigh.
Please read and heed warnings. Some content will become 18+ warnings posted on each individual chapter of story, suggestive content marked on individual chapters.
If something in the tags or warnings is not for you, it’s completely okay to scroll away. Protect your peace, curate your experience, and engage only with what feels safe and enjoyable for you.
Local Old Lady @ Our Favorite Bikers—SAMCRO fans welcome. Join the charter.
Soooooo this is a big project but with my plans for next year I cant see the normal mystery bingos coming out easily. That being said cause I know you guys love them so much I have decided to set up a big bingo card for 2027 that you guys can out request in for until July 1st 2026. I will put stories out all 2027 from these requests at my discretion.
See Below for Rules and other info!
Rules are pretty simple
Choose a character below from either SONS or Mayans. Sons- Clay, Chibs, Halfsack,Happy,Jax,Juice,Kozik,Tig,Opie,Ratboy Mayans- Angel, Bishop, Bottles, Creeper, Coco, Manny, Nestor, Gilly, Guero, EZ
Send in a small blurb for your request or say MYSTERY and I will pick something for you!
You can send in as many requests as you want please just send them as separate asks so I can stay organized! You can also mix and match characters!
Please and this is the most important! Include 2027 BINGO in your request so that I know its for this event and not just a normal request!
Questions or concerns? Don't hesitate to reach out!
