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.
