Neron "Creeper" Vargas (Mayans MC) x fem!reader
You arrive at the scrapyard covered in blood. Every Mayan is ready for war..until you quietly admit none of it is yours. Creeper still insists on checking every inch of you for injuries.
The scrapyard went silent.
Not quieter. Not subdued.
Silent.
The familiar soundtrack of grinders whining against rusted steel, laughter echoing across stacks of stripped engines, Rat barking at Bottles over some completely pointless argument, Angel revving a bike just because he liked the sound of it—all of it stopped the exact second you stepped through the front gate.
You looked like you'd crawled out of a massacre.
Your jeans were soaked dark from the knees down. Your hands were crimson. There were streaks of drying blood across your throat, your cheek, your hairline, splattered across the front of your old hoodie until it was impossible to tell what color the fabric had originally been, and even your boots left faint bloody prints against the cracked concrete as you walked.
Every single Mayan froze.
Bishop looked up from the table he'd been leaning against.
Hank slowly lowered the wrench he'd been holding.
Gilly muttered a quiet, "...Jesus."
Even Coco, who usually had a joke ready before common sense, simply stared.
Then chairs scraped.
Metal clanged.
Someone reached for a shotgun.
Someone else grabbed an axe.
The atmosphere transformed in less than three seconds from a lazy afternoon into the opening moments of a war.
"Who?" Bishop asked, already moving toward you.
His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
The question hung in the air like a death sentence.
Who did this?
Who needed killing?
Before you could answer, Creeper appeared.
He'd been around the back with EZ, sorting parts from a wrecked truck, and the second he'd heard the silence—the unnatural, impossible silence—he'd come around the corner.
Then he saw you.
Everything inside him stopped.
His heart.
His lungs.
His thoughts.
All he could see was blood.
So much blood.
On your face. Your hands. Your clothes. Your neck.
You were standing upright, somehow, but his brain immediately supplied a dozen catastrophic explanations anyway.
Gunshot. Knife wound. Internal bleeding. Head trauma.
He was moving before he realized he'd started.
The distance between you disappeared in seconds.
"Baby."
His voice cracked.
Actually cracked.
He reached you so quickly he nearly collided with you, both hands immediately grabbing your shoulders with just enough pressure to steady you without hurting you, his eyes frantically scanning every visible inch of your body.
"What happened?"
You blinked.
"...Hi?"
"Nena."
He wasn't smiling.
Wasn't teasing.
He looked terrified.
"What happened?"
Behind him, Bishop's voice rang out.
"Get the bikes."
Immediately.
No hesitation.
Mayans scattered in every direction.
Keys appeared.
Engines started.
Weapons were pulled from storage.
Hank disappeared into the clubhouse and returned carrying two rifles.
Angel was already stuffing magazines into his kutte pockets.
Coco slammed a pistol onto the table before checking another.
EZ yelled, "WHO ARE WE KILLING?"
"No idea yet!"
"GOOD ENOUGH."
You frowned.
"...Guys?"
No one heard you.
Or maybe they did.
They just didn't care until someone had names.
Creeper was still staring at you like you might collapse at any second.
"I need you to talk to me."
"I am talking."
"Not enough."
"I—"
"What hurts?"
"...Nothing?"
He frowned harder.
"What do you mean, nothing?"
"I mean..."
You looked down at yourself.
"...nothing hurts?"
He looked like he physically didn't believe you.
His hands moved automatically. One slid carefully to the side of your neck. The other checked your shoulder. Then your arms.
His fingers searched gently, methodically, pressing lightly through the soaked fabric while watching your face for even the smallest flinch.
Years around violence had taught him something important.
People lied.
Especially when they were hurt. Especially people trying not to worry everyone else.
So he ignored your words entirely.
Instead, he trusted what he could see.
Or, more accurately...
What he couldn't.
Because despite the blood...
You weren't reacting. No sharp inhale. No wince. No instinctive pull away.
Nothing.
Still...
He wasn't convinced.
"Take the hoodie off."
You blinked.
"...Here?"
"Now."
There wasn't even a hint of embarrassment in his voice.
Just urgency.
Pure, overwhelming concern.
You quietly peeled the hoodie over your head.
More blood.
Across your shirt. Across your arms. Across everything.
A collective hiss came from the gathered Mayans.
"Holy—"
"What the hell—"
"Creeper..."
But Creeper had already started checking again.
His hands slid over your shoulders.
Your upper arms.
He carefully turned each wrist over, inspecting your palms before lifting your elbows to search underneath.
Nothing.
No cuts. No punctures. No bruises.
His confusion only grew.
He crouched.
Checked your knees. Your ankles. Your boots.
"You twist anything?"
"No."
"You hit your head?"
"No."
"You dizzy?"
"No."
"Nauseous?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"...Yes?"
He looked up at you.
Really looked.
Your eyes were clear.
Breathing normal.
Standing steadily. Not pale. Not shaking. Not showing any signs of shock.
Behind him, Bishop spoke again.
"Talk."
You rubbed the back of your neck.
"So..."
Everyone waited.
"...it's not mine."
Silence.
"...What?"
"The blood."
You gestured vaguely at yourself.
"...It's not mine."
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
"...Explain," Bishop said slowly.
You winced.
"I was driving home from work."
"Uh-huh."
"There was a car accident."
"Uh-huh."
"I stopped."
"...Uh-huh."
"There was a guy trapped inside."
The yard remained completely silent.
"So I climbed in."
"You climbed..."
"...inside."
"...The crushed car."
"...Yeah."
"You."
"...Yeah."
"Without thinking."
"...Pretty much."
"You pulled him out."
"...Eventually."
Coco stared.
"...You're telling me..."
You nodded sheepishly.
"...it's his blood."
"...Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"There was another passenger."
Creeper closed his eyes.
Of course there was.
"There were...two people."
You gave him an apologetic smile.
"They're okay."
"You sure?"
"The ambulance took them."
"You stayed?"
"Until they left."
"So..."
You looked down at yourself again.
"...I forgot I looked like this."
Dead silence.
Then Coco let out one single bark of laughter before immediately clamping both hands over his mouth.
EZ started laughing next.
Then Gilly.
Angel doubled over.
Within seconds half the yard was laughing—not because anyone found the accident funny, but because they'd collectively gone from preparing for a blood-soaked revenge mission to discovering you'd simply been...being yourself.
"You almost started a damn war," Angel wheezed.
"I didn't mean to!"
"You look like a horror movie!"
"I know that now!"
Bishop pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I'm getting too old for this club."
"Same," Hank muttered.
Engines shut back off.
Weapons disappeared.
The immediate threat dissolved into relieved grumbling.
Everyone slowly drifted away.
Everyone...
Except Creeper.
He still hadn't let go of your hand.
He was still studying your face.
Still unconvinced.
"You sure you're okay?"
You smiled softly.
"I'm okay."
"You could've gotten hurt."
"I know."
"You climbed into a wreck."
"I know."
"You scared the hell out of me."
That one came out quieter. Smaller. Almost fragile.
You looked at him. Really looked.
His hands were still trembling. Just slightly.
You hadn't noticed before.
Now you did.
Because while everyone else had been preparing for revenge...
Creeper had simply been terrified.
Terrified that he'd lose you.
You reached up and wrapped your fingers gently around one of his hands.
"Neron."
He looked at you.
"I'm okay."
"I need to make sure."
"You already did."
"I'm checking again."
You laughed quietly.
"You've checked me like six times."
"Not enough."
Before you could protest, he stepped closer again, gently brushing your hair back from your forehead, examining your scalp with surprising care before tilting your chin upward to inspect your neck one more time, his fingertips impossibly gentle against your skin as he searched for cuts hidden beneath drying blood, then moving to your shoulders once again, every touch careful and respectful, driven entirely by worry rather than panic now.
"You missed a spot," Coco called.
Without looking away from you, Creeper answered flatly.
"Shut up."
"You checked her elbow twice."
"I know."
"You looked at the same arm three times."
"I know."
"You've lost your damn—"
"I know."
You couldn't help smiling.
His eyes softened the moment he saw it.
"There it is."
"What?"
"Your smile."
"It went away?"
"When I thought you were hurt."
Something inside your chest tightened painfully.
"You really got that scared?"
He laughed once.
It wasn't humorous.
"I've been shot."
"I know."
"Stabbed."
"I know."
"Beaten."
"I know."
"I've stared down people trying to kill me."
You nodded.
"But seeing you walk through that gate covered in blood..." His voice became rough. "...That was the most frightened I've ever been."
You reached for him without thinking. Your arms slid around his waist.
"I really am okay."
He hugged you back immediately. Tightly. Like letting go wasn't an option anymore.
"I know."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm not."
You laughed against his chest.
"I'll shower."
"Mhm."
"And change."
"Mhm."
"And let you inspect me one last time."
He pulled back just enough to look down at you.
"One last time?"
"You've already checked every inch of me."
"I'm checking again after the shower."
You grinned.
"You're impossible."
"I'm thorough."
"You are paranoid."
"I'm in love with you."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Everything froze.
Again.
Not the yard this time.
Just the two of you.
His eyes widened.
"...Well."
You blinked.
"...Well?"
"I wasn't planning on saying it like that."
A smile tugged at your lips.
"I kind of like that you did."
"You do?"
Instead of answering, you rose onto your toes and kissed him.
Softly.
Carefully.
Despite the blood.
Despite the scrapyard.
Despite the audience that definitely hadn't wandered as far away as they'd pretended.
When you pulled back, Creeper looked completely stunned.
"You kissed me."
"I did."
"So..."
"So," you echoed, smiling.
"I love you too."
For a moment, the hardened Mayan simply stared at you as if the world had narrowed to the space between your faces.
Then, with a laugh so warm it surprised even him, he gathered you back into his arms, heedless of the blood staining his own shirt now, because he'd spent the last ten minutes convinced he was about to lose you, and instead he'd somehow found the courage to tell you the truth—and discovered that the woman who had terrified an entire motorcycle club by arriving drenched in someone else's blood loved him back.
From somewhere across the yard, Coco yelled, "Can somebody hose those two down before they start hugging more crime scene onto each other?"
Neither of you let go.
