#Benny Magalon fic

[bobafetts-princess]

Good Luck Charms

Months 7-12

Summary: After things have become a touch less frosty between you and Detective Magalon, you find that you actually like the man quite a bit. Maybe more than you bargained for.

Pairings: Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 7.5K

Warnings: cursing, canon-typical sexism, mentions of substance issues (pain meds), someone gets shot.

A/N: This is slow burnnnnnnnnnnn

Months 1-6 can be found here!

MONTH 7

Month 7 is when things change.

It’s a raid. You’ve all been on one before but never together and the guys have never seen you this dressed down. They’ve only ever seen you in work clothes; pencil skirts and jackets, power suits, wrap dresses, slacks and silk blouses. You never have a hair out of place, it’s always styled with the perfect work makeup.

But today your hair is braided, you’ve got on jeans and a pink button down and brown boots, with a bulletproof vest over the top. Not an ounce of makeup. It’s a different side of you and the guys don’t know what to make of it.

“Fed? Is that you?”

“What’ve you done with the chick that comes to the office every day?”

“Well damn I didn’t know you owned a pair of jeans!”

You roll your eyes at all of them, flipping them the bird which makes them cackle. Detective Magalon doesn’t say anything, but it doesn’t bother you.

Really. It doesn’t.

But the raid goes sideways, only a little. One of the ATF guys doesn’t clear a room completely and you get shot.

Well, not really shot. More like grazed. It rips a hole in arm of your shirt and slices you deep enough that you think you’ll need stitches, but you’re alive and that’s the important part. You’re just lucky it was your non-dominant arm so you can still pull the trigger.

Detective Magalon takes the guy down and checks on you, but you wave him off. It’s not the first time you’ve been shot and in your line of work? It won’t be the last either.

“I’m fine. Finish the raid. Suspect is in the center,” you yell over the sound of gunfire. Big Nick finds him and tackles him down, wrestling with the gun and managing to get it away from him. You’re next in, jumping on the suspects back and getting cuffs on him before he has a chance to get away.

You’re running on pure adrenaline and haul the suspect up, it’s the head of cocaine sect of the organization. Catching him alive was the number 1 priority of this mission and you and Detective Magalon (with the help of his team) have succeeded. You shove him out, handing him off to Mike to be booked and turn, looking to the team. They’re exchanging high fives and cheers and Detective Magalon smiles at you. Henderson comes to high five you and you raise your arm to give him one back. You’re smiling and relieved until a shot of pain goes through your arm and you have to drop it.

Benny knows you got shot. He was there when you jerked, grabbed the spot and yelled at him to keep going. He knows you got shot even though you cuffed the suspect and marched him out. He really knows you got shot though when you move to give Henderson a high five and gasp in pain. Medical doesn’t arrive quick enough (in his opinion, at least) but they end up patching you up. They’ve gotta strip you out of that pretty pink button up, leaving you in a white undershirt and jeans as they give you stitches in the back of an ambulance. Benny notices a tattoo along your collarbone that he hadn’t seen before and he wants to get a closer look.

“You good?” He asks, stepping over after being checked himself. You glance up at him and Benny is surprised to see a light dancing in your eyes, the after-effects of an adrenaline rush no doubt. The guys are behind him, checking in on you at the same time he is. He catches some words and a date, something he definitely can’t see when you wear your buttoned up power suits and those fucking pencil skirts.

“I’m good, Detective,” your eyes are flicking between them all and you turn your body, wincing slightly as the needle punctures skin and he reads what the ink says. ‘How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard’. Benny wonders if it’s about an ex but shakes the thought away before it can take root. Why would you get a tattoo about an ex anyways? Stupid thought. But then you’re speaking again, drawing Benny’s attention. “It’s not the first time I’ve been shot. At least this one didn’t require surgery.” You quip and Benny’s eyebrows raise at the insinuation. He knows the group chat is gonna blow up about this little insight into your life in a while and Benny already wants to put his phone on mute.

************

MONTH 8

With month 8 comes…..coffee? You’ve found this little hole in the wall place by your government issued apartment that serves fantastic coffee. They open at 5:30 in the morning, so when you get there at 5:45, the coffee is hot and fresh. They know you by first name at this point and know what time you come by in the morning. It’s easier than making drip coffee and it tastes better too.

Well one morning your alarm doesn’t go off. Or you shut it off. Or you sleep through it. You’re not really sure what happens. But you do know when you open your eyes and check the clock and see 7:30, you’re flying out of bed. You dress and clean up in record time and are out the door by 8:15, to your coffee shop by 8:20 and ordered before 8:25.

It’s 8:45 before you get a coffee in hand.

“I’m so sorry honey!” Shouts the owner, a stunning woman in her late 60’s. “One of my girls has the flu and one of our coffee machines broke!”

“It’s okay Mrs. Akron,” you assure her but god you are so late. You’re never late. Ever.

“Here darling,” she says, out of breath and frazzled. “Take a large black coffee, on me!” She thrusts your caramel macchiato at you as well as the large black. You start to protest but she won’t let you. “I insist! You’re running late and probably overslept, so you might need an afternoon boost. Take it,” she says, closing your hand around the cup. You nod at her, stopping to stuff a $50 in the tip jar before you make it to work. You roll in at 9:00, three hours late. The entire office whips their heads up and watches you walk in but you refuse to let it bother you.

“You good?” Detective Magalon asks and doesn’t press when you nod.

“Do you drink black coffee?” You ask before you lose the nerve. He’s bought you so much food, the least you can do is give him your extra coffee. “My coffee shop gave me an extra and….” You trail off, setting the coffee on his desk and taking a seat without an answer.

“Thanks.”

You simply nod but a couple times a week you bring him a large black coffee.

*************

MONTHS 9&10

Months nine and ten brings a trial and it’s a long trial. The examination and cross examination and evidence and witnesses take nearly 6 weeks. You and Detective Magalon spend nearly every waking hour together, working with the district attorney to make sure all goes the way it should.

You’re both emotionally, mentally, and physically drained and by the time the jury is sent off to make their own decision, you feel like you can nap for hours.

In fact, you do.

The couch in the district attorney’s office is so dammed comfortable and you’re sitting next to Detective Magalon, whose body is just radiating heat. You’d both just finished testifying, his took 3 hours and yours took 4. You’re silent next to each other, too drained from all the information you had to recall and all the talking.

The next thing you know, you wake up. Your head is resting against Detective Magalon’s shoulder and you might (you’ll deny if anyone asks) have drooled on his shoulder. You push off him and get some distance between your bodies.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry. This case has taken it out of me. How long did I sleep?”

“Three hours.” He says, clicking his phone shut and looking at you.

“Oh my fucking god, you’re kidding? I’m so sorry,” you tell him but he waves you off.

“It’s been a long trial. I don’t blame you for being tired,” he says, standing. You hear his knees crack when he does and see a wince of pain cross his face as he makes his way to the restroom.

Oh my god, he let you sleep even though he had to piss? There’s no way you’re unpacking that right now.

Benny never tells you that he fell asleep too.

When the verdict comes back a few weeks later and the suspect is found guilty as sin, you celebrate. It’s only one person, only one head of the hydra you’re dealing with, but it’s something.

The guys get a couple packs of beer and one Friday after work, you drink together.

“Fed! You have to hang with us for a little while. You just had your first successful trial with us,” Connors insists and you agree to stay.

“One beer!” You tell them and they laugh and wave you off. It’s the first time you’ve ever drank with them and you’re so damn careful not to overdo it. They shoot the shit, swapping stories and peppering you with questions you refuse to answer.

“Still no boyfriend?”

“Is it hard working around such attractive dudes all the time?”

“Ever smoked weed? Does smoking disqualify you from being a fed?”

“You seem like the type to own a cat”

“Got a hot sister?”

Benny notices the last one makes you wince and he wonders why. Then he tells himself that it’s none of his business. But then he thinks of your tattoo and he can’t help but try to put the pieces together.

“Even if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”

“I wouldn’t know, all y’all are ugly.”

“No it doesn’t disqualify you.”

“That’s a weird statement.”

You swallow hard before you answer the last one.

“Doesn’t matter if I do, none of you are meeting her.”

Benny can see you’re uncomfortable and he doesn’t want the guys to latch on. So he takes the reins of the conversation, asking Big Nick about his latest divorce. Of course he launches into a huge speech about how it’s not his fault that he likes pussy so much and blah blah blah.

Benny shoots you a glance and notices you looking at him. You give him a small nod and raise your bottle in thanks.

At least, Benny thinks it’s in thanks.

********

MONTH 11

Month 11 earns you a nickname.

It’s another raid. Another head of the hydra that you’re looking for. You wear basically the same outfit, only this time the button down is army green instead of soft pink.

“You ready?” Magalon asks you, standing next to you and you wonder if he’s thinking of the last raid where you got shot. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black shirt with a grey LASD beanie over his hair. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and you see the strong salt-and-pepper there. It makes you twitch, low in your belly and wonder if he has-Jesus. A raid. You’re wearing a goddamned bulletproof vest and are getting ready to charge into a building where you might potentially get shot. Tamp that shit down.

“Yeah. I don’t think anyone is ever fully ready but I’m as ready as I can be,” you tell him, twisting your neck to look up at him.

“Try not to get shot this time,” he chuckles, looking at you. You nod, smiling as well and promising to do your best.

You get shot.

You actually get fucking shot.

It happens in a flash, one second the LAPD is declaring the room and by extension the building clear. The next second, you’re on the ground absolutely gasping for air.

“What the fuck?” Connors yells, pointing his gun that direction as Magalon covers your body with his own.

“You’re like a fucking magnet for bullets,” Magalon grumbles at you, grabbing you by the shoulder straps and moving to haul you out.

“Stop,” you gasp. “I’m fine, got the wind knocked out of me,” you tell him, pushing him off. The last thing you need is him getting shot in the back because he’s worried about you. “Get the suspect,” you tell him, pushing him off and finding cover behind a couple barrels off to your left. There’s a few more shots and a small shout of pain, hopefully from someone that isn’t on your side, before everything stops.

The barrels are moved out of the way and your gun flies up before you see who it is. Magalon. You never thought you’d be so happy to see him. “He’s cuffed. Connors shot him in the shoulder too but he’ll be fine. Unfortunately. Come on, you need a hospital,”

“No. No hospital. I’m fine,” you insist.

“Bullshit. Can you walk or do I need to carry you?”

“I’m fine. Seriously.”

“I guess I’m carrying you,” he says, handing his gun to Big Nick and moving to take off his own bulletproof vest.

“Damnit, I can walk,” you say, moving to stand.

“Good. Walk yourself to the ambulance so we can go to the hospital,” his jaw is set and you know that you’re going to end up at the hospital whether you like it or not.

“Fucking stubborn ass,” you snipe at him as you pass your own gun off to Connors.

“I’m going to get you a four leaf clover for luck, maybe then you’ll stop getting shot,” he shoots back and you can hear the frustration laced in his tone. As well as something else? Fear? Surely not.

“Ha!” Big Nick laughs and everyone turns to look at him. “That’s the perfect nickname for our fed. Clover,” and you groan because you know it’s going to stick. There’s no way it’s not going to stick. You don’t even get a chance to think about them calling you ‘our’ fed until you’re in the waiting room of the hospital.

—————————

“It’s two broken ribs and a nasty bruise,” says the ER doctor, sticking your x-rays up. “Desk duty for the next two months,” she tells you and you groan. Magalon hasn’t left your side yet, the others have, reports to write and debriefs to be held. “I’m going to give you some pain meds, I think the adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet and that’s the reason you aren’t feeling much pain.” You have been feeling pain but downplaying it in the hopes of fooling the doctor. Unfortunately for you, x-rays can’t fool a doctor. “I’m also going to insist that you take the next four days off, bed rest.”

She stares you down and you have no choice but to nod and agree. She turns to Magalon and says “as her partner, I fully expect you to keep her from over-exerting. And absolutely no sex until those ribs are healed,” she wags her finger at the two of you and you both splutter at the same time.

“We’re no-“

“It’s not like-“

The poor woman is confused and you can see why because Magalon introduced himself as your partner when they brought you back to the waiting room.

“I’m FBI,” you explain.

“I’m LA County Sheriffs Department. We’re partners on a case,” Magalon finishes the explanation.

“Ah, well. Regardless,” she points her fingers at you, “you’re on bed rest for four days.” She turns to Magalon, “I don’t know if you can make that happen but I expect you should try.” He nods and she moves to leave the room. “And I know you’re not being truthful about how much pain you’re in,” she points at you again and your face heats. Her finger swings to Magalon, “make sure she takes a pain medication. Take it with food. It’ll probably put you to sleep,” she warns before she heads out.

She must decide that either you aren’t going to take one or Magalon isn’t going to be able to convince you to take one because a nurse makes you take one before you’re allowed to leave.

“She’ll need another one in four hours,” she warns before she takes off. And of course, it takes almost 45 minutes to get out. Between filling the script and getting discharged, by the time you make it to the parking lot you’re a zombie. It’s been a long day and you’re sore, exhausted, and grouchy.

“I had the guys bring your car,” he tells you and you nod. “What’s your address? I need it to get you home,” he says. His voice is soft, like one you would use around a skittish dog as he helps you into the passenger seat but your tongue is thick and heavy and you can’t form words.

By the time Benny makes it back to the drivers seat, you’re asleep. Passed out against the center console and Benny can’t help but smile. You look so soft and peaceful and not at all like a woman who just got shot.

Benny decides to take you to his place since he doesn’t know how to get to yours. He bridal carries you up the stairs to his apartment and manages to get you inside without waking you. Benny settles you down in his bed, unsure of whether to leave your clothes the way they are or try to change you into something comfortable and decides to go with the latter.

He removes your shirt, hoping you’ve got a tank underneath it like last time and is relieved to find one. He slips one of his t shirts over your head, pulling it down across your body before reaching under to pull down the tank. He refuses to look at the tattoo, knowing it’ll kick his brain into overdrive if he does. When he removes the undershirt, Benny must brush against your bruise because you groan in pain but he manages to get it off without waking you. Remembering an old trick from a previous lifetime, he unsnaps your bra and pulls it out the arm holes of the shirt, tossing it with the tank. Jeans are last and he makes sure to keep the shirt pulled all the way down as he blindly unbuttons and strips you. Finally, he tucks you under the covers and grabs a pillow to take to the couch. He sets an alarm and passes the fuck out.

The thing that wakes you is the aching pain in your ribs. You groan, doing your best to sit up but god, they hurt so bad. Glancing around the room you expect to see your collection of plants and pink sheets, but are surprised by bare walls and black sheets.

“Where the fuck-“ you start but then Magalon appears in the doorway. It’s that moment that you realize you’ve been changed into clothes that aren’t yours and you narrow your eyes at him.

“I didn’t see anything. I closed my eyes,” he tells you, crossing the room. “I had to take you to my place because you fell asleep before you could give me your address,” he explains. He’s got a protein bar in one hand and a cup in the other and he hands the cup to you first. “It’s time for your next pain med,” he drops the little pill in your hand, “I know your ribs hurt,” he gives you a pointed look. Grimacing you take the pill and chase it with the water.

“Thank you,” you say when he hands you the protein bar. Scarfing it down, you glance up at him as he nods. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. God, you probably had to carry me inside, didn’t you?” Magalon chuckles and nods.

“I need to tell you that I’m not leaving your side until you can go back to work,” and you open your mouth to protest. “Nope. No arguments. I’m more than happy to take you back to your own place if that would make you more comfortable, but you are stuck with me,” he says and you can tell he isn’t going to argue with you about it and you don’t have the energy to try either.

“Fine. How did you get me changed without ‘seeing anything’?” You smile as he explains, careful not to laugh because you know that it’s going to hurt. “I need to shower. Do you think I’ve got enough time before this kicks in?”

“Not sure, but I think it might be safer to wait until you’ve rested a little more,” you can’t help but agree because as he leaves the bedroom again you feel the deep weight of exhaustion overtake you again and before you know it, you’re out.

—————————

The next time you wake, Benny is already there and waiting for you.

“No, I want to try to shower first,” shaking your head at him and trying to sit up. Goddamn, your ribs hurt. He gives you a hand and leads you to the bathroom.

“I’m sure I don’t have the right…anything. But feel free to use anything in my shower,” he says. “But leave the door unlocked just in case you need me. Do you want me to try to make you something to eat?” Your stomach gives an aggressive grumble at that exact moment and he laughs. “Fried egg sandwich? Coffee?” Nodding at both he takes off to his kitchen. Heading into the bathroom, you flip on the lights and take a look at yourself in the mirror. You look like absolute shit. Red eyes, dark circles, your hair is a mess and a half. You haven’t washed your face recently and you know that the shower is going to dry your skin out. Of course Magalon doesn’t have any body lotion either.

Stripping off the tshirt, one of Magalon’s no doubt, you inspect the large bruise on your right side. It takes up almost your entire ribcage, stretching from under your breasts to almost touching your hipbone and it’s a nasty deep purple. It’ll only worsen over the next couple days too, turning brown to green to yellow. When you turn on the shower, you realize you don’t have a clean towel.

“Magalon?” You call out and hear his answering response. “I don’t have a towel, can you bring me one?” There’s silence, then he calls back that he’ll do it in just a second. Locating a brush, you step into the shower and groan at the hot water on your skin. Magalon has a nice shower, a cool grey tile with glass doors. And he has several body washes to choose from. And an actual shampoo and conditioner, not a 4-in-1 combo. You wash your hair with one hand because it hurts to raise the other and skip washing your feet cause you can’t bend over to reach them, but damn do you feel better.

The towel and a pair of sweats is right outside the bathroom door when you get out. You try to rip a brush through your hair, but the exertion makes your ribs hurt too much. So instead, you dress and head to the kitchen. Magalon is in there, plating a sandwich and setting it next to a cup of coffee. Your damn ribs are absolutely aching but right now? You’re more hungry than you are anything else.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know. But you’re my partner and I’ve got your back.” Swoon. No-wait. No swoon. Swooning is bad.

“Can I ask you for a small favor?” He nods and you hold out the brush. “It hurts too much to try and brush it.” He takes the brush and looks at it a little funny before he moves to stand behind you. He’s so gentle with it, afraid to put any tension on your head and hurt you. He gets through it as you sip on the coffee, (black, gross) and it doesn’t take him much time and you feel so much better when he’s done.

“Do you want to take your pill now or after you eat?” You opt for now and he hands it to you with a cup of water. “Still tired? Did showering hurt? Do you need to nap?”

“A little but not like I was. No, I feel a lot better being clean. I guess we’ll have to see.”

“Do you want to head back to yours or stay here for now?”

“I’d like to go back to my place, but maybe food first,” Magalon nods and you suppose you should be calling him Benny now. “Clover is gonna stick, isn’t it?” He looses a chuckle and grabs his phone, pulling up a text thread.

Big Nick: How’s Clover?

Benny: Fine. She’s resting. Pain pills took her out.

A couple hours later.

Z: Clover still out?

Benny: Ya. Long day for her. She’s at mine.

Big Nick: Damn Borracho, how did you get that to happen?

Z: OooOOooooHHhhhhh

Connors: Apparently only drugged women go home with you.

Henderson: Y’all are obnoxious

Benny: Fell asleep before I could get her address.

A couple hours later.

Connors: Clover good? Still out?

Benny: Ya. And ya.

Henderson: You know Borracho, my favorite thing about you is how conversational you are.

You snort a laugh and immediately regret it, grabbing at your ribs.

“Are they always like that?”

“As long as I’ve known them. They’ve taken to you though, more than any other person we’ve worked with. Man or woman.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“They’re used to other departments being straight-laced and talking shit about us. You haven’t done that. You call the guys out when they need it and let shit slide that doesn’t. They respect that,” he says, shrugging.

“Is that what happened with the other female agents that worked with you guys?” And he nods.

“By now you know how they are and if they think they’ve found something that’ll bother you, they dig in. And they don’t know when to quit.”

Nodding you ask, “is that how you got the nickname Borracho?” It’s a far cry from how you made fun of his nickname all those months ago. He sighs heavily and you know it’s a story that irritates him a little.

“One time, back when it was Big Nick, Henderson and me, we had a work event. It was fancy and an open bar, so I naturally got shit-faced. Nick and his first wife had to help me out and make sure I didn’t vomit all over myself. Nick started calling me Borracho and I never got rid of it, especially once they realized I hate it.” Your sandwich is gone by now and you move to go put the plate in the sink but Benny stops you. He takes the plate and puts it in the dishwasher before coming to sit next to you again.

“That’s a horrible way to get a nickname,” you smile at him and he smiles back.

“Tell me about it.” A pause. “Getting shot is a much cooler way to get a nickname,” and you shoot him a small glare. “Do you want to try and nap again or are you alright?” Between the shower and the conversation, you’re exhausted again so you opt for another nap. “While you sleep I’m gonna run to the office and grab some files so I can get some work done while I’m out,” he tells you and you nod, drifting back down the hallway to his room. Pulling back the sheets and sliding in, you don’t even hear the front door shut before you’re asleep again.

—————————

You’ve forgotten how much you hate being on bed rest. It’s been years since you last were but good god it is awful. At least there’s company. Once Benny got back from the office with a box in the SUV and some get-wells from the boys, you’d finally felt rested. You got Benny to take you back to your own apartment and he chuckles when he walks in.

“This is the girliest place I’ve ever been in.”

“Leave my decoration choices alone,” but he’s not wrong. Everything is soft and feminine, a grey couch with pink and grey pillows. A baby pink sheets and comforter set and plants everywhere. “Thanks. Seriously. I appreciate you staying with me to make sure I’m okay.”

“No coffee machine?” He asks in lieu of a response.

“I only get coffee from that one place,” you remind him. “It’s easier and it tastes better than drip coffee from a pot.” He laughs and says whatever before he sets the files on your counter.

“Two more days, then you can go back to work,” he reminds you and you stick your tongue out at him when his back is turned. Your ribs still ache but you can at least take a pain pill and not pass out within 20 minutes, so that’s an improvement. “Do you want to sift through these files with me?” He asks and you groan. You don’t, you’re too foggy. “Okay okay, we don’t have to,” he chuckles and turns to you. “What do you feel like doing?”

Truth be told, you want to watch a show. Your favorite romantic show just released a new season last week and you want to get caught up. But it’s steamy and not a show to be watched with a coworker so you say, “is there a game on?” Benny quirks a brow at you and you sigh. You like sports but you just aren’t in the mood for them.

“What do you actually want to watch?” When you give him the name of the show he belly laughs and says “let’s watch it. Cmon. I want to see what it’s like.”

Two hours and several spicy scenes later, Benny is deeply invested in this show. He keeps asking questions and insisting things don’t make sense, but that’s only because he hasn’t seen the first couple seasons. If it didn’t hurt so much to laugh, you would be in absolute tears by now because who knew that Detective Magalon from the LASD would be into regency romances?

“Who is that man?”

“They’re in the garden alone. Don’t they have to get married now?”

“He touched her tit, they definitely have to get married now.

“Who is this entire family?”

Finally you get tired of answering his questions and suggest that you start the whole series over, so he can be caught up. He gives you a side eye, but you ignore it, starting from Season 1 Episode 1 and let it play. The two of you get through the first four episodes before it’s time for another pain med, you’re trying to stretch out the time you need them so you can wean. After you take it you curl into the couch, Benny at one end and you at the other. It doesn’t take long for this one to knock you out and eventually you’re stretched out, your head in Benny’s lap as he finishes the season by himself.

He picks you up as gently as he can, walking you down the hall to settle you into your own bed. He takes the time to examine the pictures hung up in the hallway when he heads back to the couch. He notices a girl in your pictures, one so similar in a way that’s more than just a sibling. You both look about the same age and share the exact same smile, often the both of you holding matching Winnie the Pooh plushies. The pictures of the two of you stop when you reach late teens, Benny guesses somewhere between 17-19. It’s just you now, you and your parents, you and another sibling, a brother. Benny starts taking the pieces and putting them together. A memorial tattoo, a refusal to talk about your family. A decided sensitive spot about your sister, or lack of? Benny doesn’t want to make assumptions, he knows what they say about assuming. But he’s a cop, a long time cop, and he knows how to make an educated guess.

You wake in your own bed, surrounded by your fluffy pink comforter and a deep ache in your ribs. It’s not time for more pain meds, so you decide to ice them down instead. Sneaking past a sleeping Benny and you take the time to study his profile. Strong nose and jaw, salt and pepper in his beard, eyes that have a capability to be soft. He really is an attractive man, if you were being honest with yourself, which you try not to be. He looks so peaceful when he’s sleeping, so much different without the deep furrow between his eyebrows. You try to be as quiet as possible as you make a bag of ice, but it doesn’t take him long to follow you into the kitchen.

“In pain?” He asks, leaning up against the counter. His beefy arms cross his chest and you have to avert your eyes quickly.

“Yeah. The sharp pains are gone but the aching pains won’t budge.” He nods before glancing at the clock.

“It’s early,” you glance at the clock yourself and notice it’s only 6 am. Old habits die hard. “Want to get out of the apartment for a while? We can go grab breakfast?” He offers. “Does that coffee shop you like serve a full breakfast?”

“Actually it does. I’ve never eaten breakfast there before though.”

“Are you willing to try it?”

“Anything to get out for a bit. Just let me finish icing my ribs first. It should take about 30 minutes. Do you need to go home and shower?”

Benny shakes his head, “nah, I took one in the guest room while you were sleeping. Want to watch your show while we wait?” Obviously the answer is yes and you can’t stop watching mid-episode so it’s after 7 by the time you leave the house. Benny orders literally only a cup of coffee and you side eye him a you order blueberry pancakes, bacon, and hashbrowns with a French vanilla cappuccino.

“Aren’t you gonna eat?” He shakes his head at you.

“Nah, not much of a breakfast eater,” he says, taking a deep drink.

“Breakfast is the best meal of the day,” and it sends the two of you into an argument about which meal actually is the best meal. (Benny says they’re all the same, which leads you to believe he doesn’t eat much outside of work.)

This silly argument lasts nearly the entire time you wait for food and when it does arrive, you dig in. You’re so hungry that you almost don’t notice that Benny steals a piece of bacon off your plate. “Hey! Get your own food!” You cry, moving to stab him with your fork, but he manages to dodge. He laughs, a full belly laugh, and the sound is delicious. “You should’ve ordered something,” you warn, covering your food with your arms. “I don’t share food.”

He laughs again and flags down the waitress, ordering a side of bacon and some toast. You glare at him until it arrives, and the waitress chuckles as she fills his coffee. “I don’t share food with my boyfriend either,” and before you can argue that Benito Magalon is NOT your boyfriend, she’s gone.

————————-

Benny stays with you the next day and a half, until Monday and you’re allowed to return back to work. He offers to drive you but you refuse, telling him you go in much earlier than he does. “I can stay on your couch again. I’ll wake up when you wake up,” he says and you finally relent. So the next morning, at 6:30 you head into the kitchen, only to find Benny showered and holding coffee. “Hey. I grabbed coffee,” he lifts said coffee. “Want me to drive your car?”

It’s so bright in the office, much more bright than the low lights of your home, and it makes you wince.

“Clover!” Comes the cry from your office mates as they see you. You can’t help but smile and then it widens when you see what’s on your desk. A tiny pot with something green in it, which upon further inspection turns out to be…..clover.

“You guys have to be fucking kidding me,” you laugh, gently so not to upset your ribs. There’s a loud ruckus of laughter from them, as if it’s the funniest practical joke they’ve ever pulled. “You know this won’t live, right?” Examining it, you notice that it looks like they literally dug it up from the front lawn and stuck it in a pot. “It needs a lot more light than it’s gonna get sitting on my desk,” you explain before thanking them for doing something so thoughtful.

Big Nick steps out of his office to welcome you back, reaching over to slap a hand on your shoulder. You brace, waiting for the impact to jar your ribs but a sharp ‘don’t’ from Benny stops the hand before it connects. “Those ribs are still broke, Nick,” he says, barely lifting his eyes from his files to acknowledge Nick. Nick grunts, turns, tells you how good it is for you to be back, then disappears.

Lifting your eyes, you notice the same stunned expression on everyone else’s face and exchange of glances with one another. And glances with you.

That Monday is one of the longest of your career. you barely get anything done and all you want to do is go home and rest, but you can’t. It’s nearly midday when your patience snaps because Henderson looks at you funny when you grunt in pain.

“Got something to say, Henderson?” You snap and he gives you a wide, nervous glance before his eyes snap to Benny. “No. Don’t look at him, look at me. Do you have something to say?” Benny, you see him out of the corner of your eye, checks his watch and then pulls his phone out.

You’re so annoyed because you know they’re texting their little group chat. And you know they’re texting about you. Especially when four phones go off at the same time, more than once.

Borracho: it’s her first day off pain meds. Cut her some slack.

Nick: been there.

Henderson: same.

Z: does she need anything?

Borracho: food. And a coffee.

Z: what does she like?

Borracho: get her General Tso’s and house fried rice. And a caramel macchiato.

Z nods, getting up from his chair and heading out the door.

“Y’all texting about me?” You snap, eyes sharp as they bore holes in Benny’s head. He gives you this soft, pitying look that absolutely makes you rage and stand up suddenly before you double over in pain. Stupid fucking ribs. Stupid fucking perp that shot you. Stupid fucking pain meds. Wait-pain meds. Oh goddamnit. That’s why you’re so grouchy, you haven’t had any today and you’re sore and shaky.

“Are you alright?” Benny asks, standing. You wave him off, heading to the back of the bullpen where there aren’t any eyes and take a couple deep breaths. After four days of basically living together, you recognize the sound of Benny’s feet as they come up behind you. “Hurtin’?” He asks and you nod your head. “Want to head home?” You shake your head, but you really like the way he uses home like it’s somewhere the both of you are going.

“Nah, I just need a little bit of food and probably some coffee,” and you’re confused when Benny smiles.

“That’s where Z went. He’s grabbing Chinese and a caramel macchiato.” And you know that it was 100% Benny’s idea.

“Thanks Ben,” you smile at him, placing a soft hand on his forearm. There’s a moment there, in the back of the bullpen, between the two of you. You’ve been toeing that line all weekend, really for the last two months and this might be the turning point in your relationship. Benny feels safe. Benny feels like comfort. Someone you can trust. Someone you can count on.

Which is amazing to you because it’s such a far cry from where you started, nearly a year ago. Which makes you think, then makes you apologize.

“I’m sorry for how I acted when I first got here.”

“It’s fine. I think you had the right to be, these guys are a tough nut to crack,” he says, gesturing to the bullpen behind them. “They don’t take very well to others, especially fed. The ones we usually deal with are snarky and uptight. They make fun of us or judge us.” You understand, really you do. It makes sense, how defensive they are and how they treat new people. “Are you sure that you don’t want to head home? I can work from there,” he offers and it makes your chest tight. But his phone dings and it’s Z, letting him know that he’s back and that makes your chest tight again. These men care about you, your physical and mental well-being, and they want to make sure you’re okay. So, you shake your head at Benny and head back to your desk, lobbing an apology to everyone for your behavior, and sit down. Grabbing a file, you start to flip through it, but before you even have a chance to look at it, a bag and a coffee are set in front of you. You glance up and smile at Z, thanking him and apologizing to him in the same breath. He waves you off and sits down, but you can’t quite let it go.

“Z, what’s your cashapp. Or your Venmo? Let me pay for this, you didn’t have to go get it for me,” you tell him but he waves you off again.

“Nahh, Borracho already paid for it. Don’t worry about it,” and when you look at Benny, he refuses to look at you.

*************

Month 12

Month 12, you’re added into the group chat. Your phone buzzes one morning with one text from Big Nick and you notice that there’s a bunch of numbers there that you don’t recognize. Benny’s you do, but no one else. After about a week he stopped sleeping on your couch but he still gets to the office early and the two of you spend your mornings in companionable silence, sharing breakfast.

Big Nick: Anyone up for grabbing donuts this morning?

Big Nick: Also, drop your names so Clover knows who’s who.

Clover: Isn’t being a bunch of donut loving cops a little cliche?

Big Nick: Rude. No donuts for you.

You laugh a little out loud, noticing the ache in your ribs has almost completely disappeared, nearly two months after you got shot. You know Nick well enough now to know that he’s joking and he’s not being the rude, brash, asshole you initially thought that he was.

Zapata: It’s Z. Can’t this morning, gonna do a witness call.

Connors: This is Connors. I’m already at a crime scene, so I can’t. Save me some though!

Henderson: This is Henderson. I’m gonna be late as it is, I don’t have time.

Benny: Borracho can grab some from the usual place.

Clover: Don’t get any jelly filled ones, they’re the worst.

Zapata: Uh oh.

Clover: What?

Connors: NO JELLY FILLED? THAT’S UN-AMERICAN. I’M GOING BACK TO THE OTHER GROUP CHAT.

You laugh out loud again, the idea of Connors taking jelly-filled donuts so seriously honestly tracks for who he is as a person.

Clover: I’m sorry! Get all the jelly filled that you want, but get me long chocolate donut. No jelly, please.

Connors: Borracho, get a dozen jelly-filled just to spite Clover.

Clover: Awe, Connors. You’re hurting my feelings.

Big Nick: It’s too early to be reading this many messages.

Clover: You texted us first.

Benny: Chill or I won’t get donuts.

Henderson: You started the group chat.

Connors: You text first?!

Zapata: Speaking of, what should I name the chat?

Big Nick: Why does the group chat need a name?

Zapata: Our other chat is called The Regulators. We need to name this one too.

Connors: How about the FEDulators? It sounds the same!!

Clover: That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard, Connors.

Clover: How about Clover and the Four Leaf’s?

Zapata: OoOoOoOhHhHhH!!!!! I like that!!!!

Zapata changed the group name to 🍀Clover and the Four Leaf’s 🍀

Big Nick: Y’all are fuckin’ idiots.

You’re already in the office and lift your head at the sound of someone coming into the bullpen. It’s Benny, carrying two dozen donuts. He smiles at you and it makes something go slippery in your chest and Jesus you’re an adult.

“Welcome to the group chat. It’s hell here,” he laughs, holding out an open box for you to grab one. The two of you sit in silence, eating donuts and sharing files.

[mariamariquinha]

Next chapter's snippet - Bossa Nova

****

Gina got the news with a frown, but her hug said that she was proud.

Lennon smiled, placed a small kiss on your forehead – just don’t become a stranger, he said.

Your departure was silent: no parties, no goodbyes and, please, no speeches. Despite all your years at LASD, leaving in an atmosphere of so much falsehood would be worse than dealing with more personal problems mixing with professional ones.

So no one in the lab other than Gina, Lennon and Byrne knew. From what you heard, Cillian would break the news as soon as he found someone else, and two days later he informed you that that other person had already been found. Efficient and fast, just how he liked everything to be.

You considered talking with Nick in the meantime – considered apologizing to Benny, like, properly. But every time you grabbed the phone and dialed their number, every time you thought about texting but saw the flirting stuff Benny used to send you or clipped orders O’Brien sent over, you would chicken out.

You just didn't want drama.

****

New chapter will be out tonight (which can be a certain time or another, depending on your time zone)!!!

No pressure tags:

@cheesybadgers

@thoroughlymodernminutia

@seaweeden

@thesandbeneathmytoes

@eclecticfashionbookszipper

@servenas-inner-fangirl

@mysoulisasunflower

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Procedure Part 3

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

Notes: ...Four parts it's going to be four parts I'M SORRY

Length: 5.2K

Warnings: Angst; fluff; explicit sexual content: vaginal sex; fingering; oral sex; unprotected sex; semi-public sex

Summary: What was the standard operating procedure when you slept with your ex-husband? 

It had taken a lot of practice, but you’d learned over the course of your divorce not to ask questions that you didn’t want to know the answers to. You didn’t ask Borracho if he and Jessa had gone out. When Alyssa asked her within earshot of you during practice, you did your best not to listen, but you couldn’t help but catch on the words, 

“Nice,” and “not sure,” and “next Friday.”

Next Friday? Borracho had been taking Olivia on Friday for months. He hadn’t asked you to take her for the evening yet. Was he going to get a babysitter? What was the point of wasting money like that just to keep you out of it? You didn’t have any plans next Friday, you could take her, no problem. 

Your mind started combing through ways to bring it up, some subtle tactic to hint that it wouldn’t be an imposition. What if something happened and Borracho got called into work? Would he call you after that to ask you to take Olivia for the night? Fork out a fortune on overtime for that poor babysitter? And what if they couldn’t stay latte—? 

“So I was thinking of putting Olivia on first base next weekend—” 

“I’m free on Friday!”

It left you before you could think about it. Borracho didn’t answer for a moment. He blinked at you, his pen hovering over the notes on his clipboard. You cleared your throat, tightening your arms around your chest as you looked around. “I mean, um—First base is good, she likes first base.” 

“...Yeah, I remember. You said.” 

“Yeah. So—Good. Good choice.” 

“Okay. Maybe stay out of Alyssa’s thermos of special juice, huh?” 

You couldn’t bring yourself to tease back, just offering a small smile as you refocused on the field. It took a moment longer than it should’ve for Borracho to walk away, but that was fine enough for you—you were already stewing in your idiocy. The hell had you been thinking, blurting it out that way?

Well, whatever. The door was open now, Borracho knew you would be free on Friday. It was up to him to ask you to look after Olivia now. The ball was firmly in his court, and he knew what to do with it. 

He would ask. He would cave. He just needed a couple of days, that’s all. You knew Ben, and the way he operated. He needed to come around to an idea himself. Of course, it may take a little longer because you’d blurted it out so stupidly. You could just hope his pride wasn’t wounded, or that he went out of his way to move the date. 

No. No, he would ask. You’d hear from him by Wednesday. 

-- 

You couldn’t answer too quickly. Third ring, you decided. You wanted him to squirm a little. 

Well, maybe it was rude, but he deserved it! Leaving it until 5 o’clock on Friday to ask you to look after Olivia—it was short-sighted of him. Or had it been his pride? Maybe telling him that you were free had been a bridge too far. That was Ben, though: ridiculous, stubborn, absolutely maddening—

Shit, it went to voicemail. 

You swiped open the missed call notification, hurriedly calling him back. You raised the phone to your ear, listening to the steady burrrrr…burrrrrrr…Was he leaving a message, or—

“Hey, there you are.”

You rolled your eyes. There you were. The nerve of him. 

“Yeah, sorry,” You leaned back against the couch, propping your head up on your hand. “I was um—I didn’t hear my phone ringing until the last second. What’s up?” 

What’s up, that was good. It didn’t indicate that you knew exactly why he was calling, or that you were annoyed that he’d taken so damn long. 

“You still free tonight?” 

“Uh…” You glanced around. “Sure, why?” 

“You wanna do something?” 

Your mouth opened, a half-scold, half-tease sitting on your tongue, but you froze. Do something? What had happened to his date? Did he cancel? Did Jessa? 

“Um…” You cleared your throat. “Do something like—I mean, what would we, uh—What’s the plan?” 

“No plan, just. Dinner, I guess?” 

“Sure. Are you letting Olivia pick?” You couldn’t just not ask about her anymore. 

“Liv’s at a sleepover at Amanda’s. From her class?”

Amanda, of course. You’d completely forgotten about the sleepover. 

“Dinner sounds good. You wanna come over here or should I go over there?” 

“I was thinking we’d go out someplace.” 

He was thinking? Since when? 

“I can pick you up,” He added. “Seven alright?” 

What was happening? What parallel universe had you fallen into where this man was making (albeit last-minute) dinner plans and offering to pick you up? 

“Sure,” You managed, “I can um—Yeah. Seven sounds good.” 

“Okay. I’ll see you then.” 

“See you.” 

You pulled the phone back from your face, watching the call blink away before it disappeared, leaving your lock screen of Olivia in her little league uniform. 5:02pm. You had time to get ready, and a helluva lot of questions to mull over as you did. 

-- 

It felt so foreign and strange to be out with Borracho and having such a good time. Maybe that was unfair to both of you—you’d been relating to one another as adults, not just as parents for the last couple of months. And for as badly as you’d wanted to ask about Jessa, you didn’t find a chance to bring it up. 

This evening had you noticing a lot of things that seemed to have gone by the wayside over the course of your marriage. There was a lightness to the two of you, a teasing, warm energy that you had missed on the dates you'd been on recently.

-- 

“What’d you get?” 

“Cinnamon.”

“Gimme some.” 

“No!” You laughed, pulling your ice cream cup out of the reach of his questing spoon as you slid down in the passenger seat of his car. “You should’ve gotten your own scoop of cinnamon ice cream.” 

“Chocolate and cinnamon don’t go.” 

“Well that’s bullshit and we both know it.”

“Swear jar.” 

“I’ll take it off your monthly.” 

“Generous of you.” 

The two of you ate your ice cream in silence for a few moments, nothing filling the car but the scrape of your plastic spoons against the little paper cups. 

“...Ben?” 

“I’m not sharing, either.” 

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. 

“Never mind.” 

“Was that it?” 

“No.” 

“So?” 

“I said, never mind.” 

You felt Borracho turn his head to look at you, and realized that the scrrrrrrrape of the spoon against the cup had stopped on his side of the car. 

“What’s up?” 

“No, nothing…This is nice, that’s all.” It felt dangerous to say, like acknowledging the thing might break it. But—

“Yeah,” He agreed quietly. “It is.” 

“Can I, um.” 

“Yeah?” 

“You didn’t have anything else going on tonight?” 

You heard Borracho shift in his seat, swirl his spoon around in his ice cream. 

“No.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. “Really?”

“I didn’t.” 

“You weren’t supposed to see Jessa?” 

“No.” 

You turned your head finally, taking Borracho in closely. You knew him well—you knew the way his face pinched up and closed off when he was lying to you. But his expression was smooth and honest as he turned to meet your eye. You considered for a moment before you nodded, looking back down at your ice cream. 

“You like her?” You prodded.

“Talking about this doesn’t bother you?” 

“No. Why should it?” 

“Then why aren’t you looking at me?” 

“Because I like this shirt and I don’t wanna get any ice cream on it.” It was a lame excuse, but you stuck to your guns, pointedly stabbing at a melting lump of cinnamon swirl and raising it to your mouth. Some of it dribbled off of the spoon, and before you could clean it off, Borracho’s thumb swiped across your lower lip. You eyed the smear of it and watched as Borracho drew it back to himself, sucking it off of his thumb. Heat rushed your face, and you turned to look through the windshield, swallowing thickly. 

“Not bad.” 

“See?” You finally managed. “Told you cinnamon and chocolate go.” 

“What about you?” 

“Hm?”

“No date planned tonight? You takin’ a break from the apps again?” Yes. 

“No,” You sniffed. “Just…Didn’t have one tonight.” 

“Meet anyone you like lately?”

Just you.  “A couple,” You fibbed. 

“You’re dating couples now?” 

“No, I mean I went on a couple of—Oh—” You spluttered, whacking Ben’s shoulder as he cracked up. “I’m gonna drip some of my ice cream on this seat and then we’ll see who’s laughing.” 

-- 

“Thanks for dinner.” 

“Sure.” 

“And the ice cream.” 

“Yeah.” Borracho leaned back against the car, hands tucking into his pockets. You shifted from foot to foot. You could just go inside—you should just go inside, but you had hardly been able to pull yourself away from Borracho since he first picked you up. You’d realized when he’d opened your car door for you that it felt like it had at the beginning, when you’d first been together. 

“I’ll get Olivia from Amanda’s in the morning and drop her off,” Borracho offered. 

“Yeah, no, that sounds good. You could get breakfast, if you want, I mean. Take your time. I don’t have much going on tomorrow. Wide open, so, no, uh—No drop-off time or anything to worry about.” 

“Cool.” 

What was it about finding yourselves on your doorstep that had cut the evening’s ease dead? Go inside. Go inside so he can drive away, so he can go home, so he can go to bed and be ready to pick Olivia up in the morning— “Do you want to come in for a drink?” 

It was a quiet, heart-stopping moment of quiet between you before Borracho swiped his tongue across his lip, glancing around. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” 

Oh. Shit. 

“No, sure,” You shook your head, taking a couple steps back. Fuck, that was embarrassing. You could keep it together until you were alone. 

“I didn’t mean—” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Hang on, c’mere.” Borracho reached out, gently grasping your hand and drawing you in again. You moved slowly, dragging your feet a little as you focused on his chest. “I don’t mean it like that.” 

“I didn’t think you meant it like anything.” 

“Look at me.” 

“You should go—” 

Borracho lifted his other hand cupping your cheek and tipping your face toward his. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes sweeping across his face as his thumb swept gently against your skin. 

“I want to come in.” 

“Then come in. Why are you making it so complicated?” You hissed.

“This doesn’t feel complicated to you?” 

“We went to dinner, Ben.” 

“I know.” 

“Which was your idea, by the way, I don’t know if you remember that?” 

“I remember.” 

“So—So come in or don’t, do whatever you want, you always do whatever the fuck you want—” You hardly got it all out before you felt the warmth and weight of his lips pressing against yours. You went still with surprise, eyes wide-open and watching as he melted into you. His hand smoothed down to your neck as you chased the kiss. You leaned into him, letting your eyes close as your hands curled in the fabric of his shirt. 

Why did he bother to argue with you about coming in if he was going to stand outside and do this? 

Ben’s tongue teased the seam of your lips and you parted them with a hungry moan, pressing your body against his as he curled his arm around your waist. You drew back just enough to get a good look at him, to see the way he drew his lower lip between his teeth, to hear him draw in a deep breath. 

Was he panicking? Was he as surprised as you were that he’d done what he’d done? Was he waiting for you to tell him to fuck off? Or was he envisioning a large, flashing, neon sign over your head that said, BAD IDEA! 

You pressed as close as you could, leaning up and brushing your lips against his jaw. 

“Come inside, Ben,” You breathed. “Please come inside.” 

--

Toward the end of your relationship, when the love had gone and touch had become perfunctory, you’d been certain that whatever your sex life had once been was canned. Sometimes, for its speed and mechanical nature, you’d almost wondered how you’d ever managed to make Olivia. 

And you didn't expect it to be like that again from the way he’d kissed you outside—not quite as mechanical or routine. 

You hardly separated from one another as you’d fumbled to lock the door before letting him steer you down the hall. Ben’s hands were everywhere—guiding you by hips; cushioning your head to keep it from thudding against the wall as the two of you came to a brief halt in the hall, his lips drifting from your lips just long enough to trail along your neck; teasing beneath the hem of your shirt before dipping to swipe beneath the band of your jeans. 

Your knees hit the edge of the storage bin at the base of your bed and you wobbled, letting go of him to reach back and steady yourself against the mattress. You scooched back, face going warm as you watched Borracho reach down, tugging his shirt up and over his head. You didn’t bother to hide your open appraisal of his muscled body. 

Ben had always been in good shape when you were together, and you’d caught the odd flash of it a time or two at little league practice—when he stretched further or jumped to catch a pitch or throw that had gone higher than planned or expected; when he lifted the hem of his shirt to swipe at a bead of sweat slipping down the side of his face. But those little glimpses were all accidental, and fleeting, and this…This was something that you were going to file away for your lonely evenings. 

Your eyes swept up to his face as he kicked his shoes off and crawled onto the bed, his hands bracing on either side of your head. 

“Your turn.” 

You tipped your head to the side, brows raising. 

“I’m not going to get up and flex, Ben.” 

“That was not flexing.”  “Pretty sure your pecs were winking at me.”  “Maybe we should slow down. I think you’re seeing things.” 

“So far,” You slid your hand down, palming his hardening cock through his pants, and grinning as he groaned, head tipping forward, “I don’t think I’ve seen enough.” 

Borracho tipped his chin to catch your lips in a heated kiss, slipping his hand up under your shirt and easing it higher. You squirmed, pushing yourself up just enough to help him tug it off. You didn’t see where he threw it, already preoccupied with twisting to reach for the light, but—

“Leave it on.” Ben crushed up against your back, catching hold of your hand and intertwining your fingers. “I wanna see you.”

You shivered as his kisses trailed across your shoulders, his free hand making short work of your bra. You shrugged the straps down, letting it fall to the bed and arching back against Borracho. His lips and fingers trailed lower, and you shivered as his hand dipped into your pants. Damnit, why hadn’t you worn cuter underwear? He couldn’t see them yet, but he could surely feel the granny panties that you’d put on earlier. 

The first swipe of his rough fingertips against your clit made you bite your lip to halt an embarrassing, desperate moan. 

“C’mon,” Ben groaned against your skin. “You can do better than that.”

“Maybe I’m not the one that needs to do better.” 

The goad was out of your mouth before you could stop it, and the next thing you knew, you were shoved onto your back, staring at the ceiling. You watched, stunned, as Borracho unbuttoned your pants, tugging them (and your granny panties) down over your ankles. You had been joking, but it had seemed to light a fire in him that you hadn’t seen in a long time. He spread your legs with his broad shoulders, smoothing his hands up your inner thighs. You didn’t even have a chance to feel embarrassment before Ben is lapping broadly across your pussy. 

You let your head fall back against the pillows as his fingertips curled into the meat of your thighs. He moaned against your skin, sucking slick kisses against your pussy. You slid your hands into his hair, toes curling in your sheets as he firmly flicked his tongue across your clit. You gave his hair a tug, whimpering as you felt him growl against you. 

“Forgot how good you taste,” He murmured. 

“Forgot how good you are at this,” You laughed shakily. 

Ben hummed, sliding his fingers up to tease at your aching opening. He tutted softly as you tipped your hips down into his touch. 

“When’s the last time someone took care’a you, huh?” He asked, easing two fingers into your pulsing cunt. You don’t answer—you can’t. You just push your hips hungrily down into him. 

“Must’a been a while,” He went on, “Look at you—Fucking dripping for me.” 

“Ben.” 

“I know,” He cooed, curling and spearing his fingers. And he must know, because his movements are so precious, so sure–as if the two of you were together just days ago, not years. “That’s it…Fuck, I missed—” 

He groaned, giving your clit a swift suck. You pulled in a shocked breath, shuddering and shaking as you came suddenly. Your feet shoved at the sheets as your hips tipped up into his hand. Goddamn, you couldn’t remember the last time you came so fucking fast for anyone, Ben included. He drew his hand back, and you watched dazedly as he raised his fingers to his lips, sucking the taste of you from them. 

“Condom?” He asked. 

“In the drawer,” You nodded toward the nightstand. Ben knelt over you to fish through the door as you took hold of his belt, undoing the buckle before turning to the fastenings as you heard the drawer open. 

“Quite the stockpile in here..." You heard. “What’s this?” 

You tipped your head to the side, warmth washing over your face and neck as you spotted Ben holding up your vibrator. 

“The competition.”

“Different color than the last one." “Same model, though.” 

“Yeah?”

“Can we get back to matters at hand, please?” You whined, pushing the waistband of his pants down. Ben leaned back, setting the condom down on the bed beside you before climbing off of the bed to remove them completely. You scooched over on the bed, steadying one hand on his hip and taking hold of his cock with the other. You stroked him a few times before leaning in, lapping at the pearl of precum beading at the tip.

Ben moaned softly, and you watched as his eyes slipped shut, his tongue sweeping across his lips. You turned your head, lapping across your palm and taking him in hand before you scooch forward, pressing a kiss to his hip. The kiss is chased by a nip, then a suck, then a lick before you lean away, eyeing the bright red mark left behind. 

“Lay back,” Borracho ordered, giving your shoulder a gentle push. You scooched back, smiling as he caught your chin in his hand, tipping your head up for a sweeping kiss. You watched as he picked the condom up from where he’d left it and ripping the packet open with his teeth. Your stomach flipped as he rolled it down over his length—god where did that come from? 

You could still stop. You could still tell Ben that you had changed your mind—had you changed your mind? Were these butterflies nerves or anticipation? 

But as Ben teased the head of his cock against your pussy, you knew it was anticipation. You slid your hands up his arms, fingers curling around the swell of his bicep, nails digging in as he eased into you. Your shared moans filled the room as he curled over you, his forehead resting against yours as your eyelashes fluttered shut. Neither of you hurried the other along, you just waited, and felt—the weight and warmth of him on you, in you, lips and breath brushing one another’s as you each adjusted, and remembered. 

And when he did move, if he had a problem with the marks that you laid on his shoulder and chest, he didn’t say a thing about it.

And when he did move, if you heard his bitten off swears, his murmurs of, “Missed this,” you didn’t say a thing about it. 

--  

The regret should’ve been instant. The moment you woke up wrapped in that man’s arms, feeling the rough brush of his cheek as he peppered your shoulders with kisses, that should’ve been it. There should’ve been a sinking sensation in your stomach, two eye blinks before you were hit with absolute clarity that the two of you had done something supremely stupid. 

Instead, you rolled over in Ben’s arms and caught his lips with yours. He hummed against them, sliding a hand down to palm your ass and pull you closer. 

“Time is it?” You mumbled. 

“Who cares?” 

“You have to pick up Liv.” 

“We got time.” 

“How much time?”

“Just relax.” 

“I’m relaxed, I’m just making sure you’re not late to pick her up.” 

Borracho groaned, rolling onto his back and lifting his hands to scrub at his eyes. 

“Why did I think that last night would’ve mellowed you out a bit?”

“In the whole time you’ve known me, when have I ever been mellow?”

“Not often.” Borracho tipped his head to the side to look at you, a tender smile curling his lips.

And—oh, god, did the regret hit you like a freight train then. The man had no right to look at you like that, and hadn’t had it for a long time.

You managed a tight smile before you hurriedly pushed yourself up.

What were you supposed to do? Cuddle up? Jump all the way out of bed and shoo him out? Make him coffee and offer him toast (to be eaten hastily in the front hall, because there was no way he’d eat something so crumbly in his car)? 

What was the standard operating procedure when you slept with your ex-husband? 

“Hey.” You could hear his frown. “Where’re you goin’?” 

“Gonna make some coffee.” You leaned over, grabbing your sleep shirt from where it was hanging over the edge of the hamper and dropping your bedsheets just enough to pull it on. “Want some?”

-- 

Your hands moved on autopilot as you measured out the coffee grinds and filled the water reservoir. You could hear Borracho in your bathroom, the hush of the shower just on the edge of your focus. Your mind filled with sinful images—Ben’s hands scrubbing soap across his pecs, over the hickies that were no doubt blooming on his skin. Oh, god. Where had you left them? His chest? His hip? His thigh? 

You scrubbed your hands over your rapidly heading neck, puffing a stressy breath out through your nose. God, not now. Get the man out the door before you start combing through the night’s events. 

Toast, you could make toast. Once the coffee was made, that would occupy your hands. You wouldn’t be able to reach out and—

The creaking of the floor behind you pulled you from your disarrayed thoughts.  

“You hungry?”You asked. “I mean, I know you’re heading out—” That was good, reinforce that, lead him out kindly, “And you’re probably going to get breakfast with Liv.” 

“Coffee’s fine.” 

“Okay.” 

“Mugs in the usual place?” 

“Yeah, but I’ll—” 

“I got ‘em.” 

You set your eyes on the coffee maker, eyeing the steadily filling pot as Borracho’s arms came into view, reaching for the cabinet. Your gaze swept up over the expanse of skin, traveling up over the tight slip of his bicep and landing on the bright red mark marring his left shoulder. Oh. Shit. And why the hell had he slung his shirt over his shoulder instead of putting it on? 

Borracho set two mugs down, glancing at the mark before reaching for the coffee pot. 

“Thanks for avoiding my neck.”

“Sure,” You nodded dazedly. “Old habits.” 

Borracho grunted, nudging a mug toward you as he took up his own. The two of you sipped quietly for a few moments, nearly hip to hip as the coffee maker ceased its burbling. 

“You wanna join us for breakfast? I can grab Liv and we can come pick you up,” He offered. “Give you time to get ready.” 

You should cut it dead there, you knew that. 

But Olivia always seemed to have such a good time when the three of you were together.

Still, after the night you’d had, could you really sit through breakfast without spending the entire meal in your head? And what about after breakfast? What if you were looping into going to the park with them again—? 

You cleared your throat, glancing down the hall. 

“I should probably get back to the bathroom remodel.” 

Borracho nodded a little, peering into his mug. 

“Anything I can help with?” 

“Oh—No. I’m just gonna paint today, I think.”

“I can help tape. I know you hate getting the corners.” 

“No, really, it’s fine. I don’t wanna cut into your time with Liv.” 

Borracho tossed back the rest of his coffee before gritting out, “Alright.” You watched him set his mug in the sink and yank the shirt off of his shoulder, tugging it on over his head. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that his tone had something to do with your answer—and you did know better, but it was so easy to dismiss it as the fact that he’d just chugged some insanely hot coffee. 

Maybe he was trying to get out of there as quickly as possible—maybe he had only invited you to breakfast to be polite—

Borracho turned, brushing past you and making for the door. You should’ve been relieved, but the sight of his rapidly retreating back made your stomach twist. Jesus Christ, what the hell did you two do? 

Things had been in such a good place, clicking along so well—he was going on dates, you were going on dates, why had you gone so fucking insane—

“Hey.” 

You snapped to attention at the sound of Ben’s voice. He was lingered by the still closed door, one hand on the knob, the other clutching his jacket from there he’d scooped it off of the floor. 

“Yeah?” You asked. 

His mouth moved wordlessly for a few seconds before he closed it, jaw tensing. 

“I’ll—Later.” 

Two disjointed words, and then Borracho was out of sight, your door clicking shut behind him. 

--  

Breakup sex. That’s what you decided, standing in the paint aisle of Home Depot as you tried to decide between the swatches of Eggshell and Harvest Wheat for the bathroom. 

By the time you and Borracho had reached the decision to divorce, physical affection had gone right out the window. There hadn’t been a last hug, a last kiss, a last fuck—at least, not one that you had known was the last, when it had happened. So last night’s temporary insanity was actually much-delayed, absolutely normal, totally-within-the-bounds-of-every-other-fucked-up-relationship breakup sex. 

And most importantly, it wasn’t going to happen again. 

One-and-done.

The two of you had moved on before, you’d do it again. You would go back to casual conversation and regular, Olivia-only related phone calls now that you’d both…scratched that itch. 

Harvest Wheat. 

Harvest Wheat, and a new light fixture, and absolutely no more fucking your ex-husband. 

-- 

“Shut up,” He groaned, breathing hot against the skin of your throat, “Fuck, you want everyone to know what we’re doing in here?” 

“You shut up!” You hissed, fingers winding through his hair as his thrusts became more harsh. 

Oh, this was bad. This was not what baby changing stations in public restrooms were meant for. 

Going out for pizza after the game with a few of the other parents and Olivia’s teammates had seemed so innocent on the face of it. The kids had won a game, and had more than earned a couple of slices and an ice cream. 

But it had been Ben’s fault for following you into the bathroom. And maybe it had been your fault a little, too, for telling him, when he pulled his jacket off and briefly bared his shoulder when his opened button down slipped, that his shoulder looked like it had healed up nicely. But it had been even more of Ben’s fault when he’d asked if you wanted to change that. 

Either way, the fact that you’d gotten up to use the restroom and opened the door to find him waiting there had been a surprise, and for him to guide you back inside with a kiss had caught you even more off-guard. 

You could’ve told him fuck off, to stop, and he would’ve. But where your hands had come up to push him away, you’d grasped his shirt and hauled him closer as his hands fumbled to undo the latch on the baby changing table. 

You curled your arms around his shoulders now, praying that the slight rattling of the table wasn’t loud enough that it would reach the patrons in the restaurant. You turned your head, blindly searching for Ben’s lips and whining as his tongue dipped into your mouth. You used your hold on his hair to guide his head as you liked. His hands braced on the wall behind you, pace becoming more and more harsh. 

“Hurry up,” You breathed, “Someone’ll come looking—Oh!” You gasped as Borracho lowered a hand between you, swirling your clit with his fingers. The speed and angle were just on the right side of rough, and Borracho’s pace began to falter as you came. You tipped your head back as you felt Borracho’s hips twitch, and he spilled into you. 

You drew in a deep breath as the two of you settled. Borracho’s hands smoothed to your waist, easing you off of the changing station before he took a step back. You tugged up your pants as he fixed his, and when he caught your eye, you shared a smile.

“Should get back out there before someone comes looking,” You nodded toward the door. 

“Yeah.” 

You made it two steps closer to the door before you heard, “Forgetting something?” 

You turned back, and had to bite back a smile as Borracho lightly tugged his sleeve aside, baring his shoulder to you. You stepped closer, leaning in and sinking your teeth lightly into his skin. You hummed, pulling back and lapping across the dented skin. 

“Did you like biting this much when we were married?” He teased. 

“I dunno. Were you this biteable when we were married?” 

Borracho smiled, ducking in for a quick kiss. “Go back to the table. ‘M gonna sneak out back for a smoke.” 

“Don’t take too long.” 

“Go,” He repeated, giving your ass a light slap as you turned away from him. 

--  

You weren’t sure what was worse—returning to the table and getting a suspicious look from Alyssa, or the realization that you’d need to pick up Plan B on the way home. 

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ;

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; 

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[youvebeenlivingfictionalreplies]

Procedure Part One

Pairing: Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x Ex-Wife!Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ (there will be explicit content in the second part)

Warnings: Cursing; angst; fluff; jealousy; second-chance romance; eventual explicit content

Notes: This is gonna be two parts! Weeeeee lessgo

Length: 4.5K

Summary: When you’d served Borracho papers, he hadn’t been surprised. Hell—he’d almost looked relieved. He hadn’t fought you on it, or asked if you could work it out; he hadn’t offered to go to counseling, or promised you that he just needed one more chance, and that he’d change. The man had already had two divorces in his rearview when he’d met you. This was just…Procedure for him. 

You were trying not to stare or roll your eyes too much, but goddamn, how fucking obvious could the woman be?

“You’re doing it again.” 

You shot Alyssa a glance, eyes narrowing in annoyance. She just flashed you a bright smile, batting her eyelashes. 

“Oh, please,” You grumbled, nudging her shoulder as she laughed. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Uh, yeah, you are. You’re staring at Jessa’s head like you can make it pop.”

Maybe you were staring more than you usually did—but it wasn’t often that Jessa went out of her way to flirt with your husband. 

Well. Ex-husband. 

And it didn’t help that Borracho seemed to be lapping up every bicep-squeezing, giggling, hair-tossing moment of it. It felt stupid and despicably petty to feel jealous, but to watch her flirt so brazenly in the middle of little league baseball practice? Did she have no shame?

“Relax,” Alyssa waved off your protests before you could say anything else, “We’ve all done it. Remember when that Donaldson chick was flirting with Henderson at soccer practice last year?” 

You grunted, scrubbing your hand across your brow. That had been a fucking fiasco. Flirting with Henderson when Alyssa was nearby was just about the dumbest thing anyone could do, and that was something that the uninitiated learned the hard way. 

“See, even that woman wasn’t as annoying as—No, hear me out,” You raised a hand to quiet Alyssa’s protest, “She didn’t know that he was your ex-husband, right? Jessa knows. I wouldn’t even care,” You fibbed, “If it wasn’t, like, out in front of everybody. Slip into his DMs like a fucking grown up.” 

“...It is kinda like watching your little sister pick through the clothes you don’t want anymore, but didn't say she could have,” Alyssa conceded—and her casual scathing tone made you burn, but you forced yourself to choke out, “Exactly,” Before chasing the bitter taste in your mouth with a hasty swig of soda.

You saw Borracho beginning to glance back toward you and you hurriedly redirected your attention to the field, watching your six-year-old daughter kick at a dandelion in the outfield. You fished into your pocket for your phone as it buzzed, frowning at the sight of a text from Borracho: 

Made ya look

“...Heads up,” Alyssa muttered. 

“She better fucking not—”

“We got incoming—”

“She better fucking not—”

“Hey ladies!” Jessa’s bright tone broke over the two of you, and it took everything in you not to pitch your phone into the ground. 

“Hi Jessa,” Alyssa shifted, subtly elbowing you. You kept your focus on your phone. What the hell did that mean? He hadn’t seen you looking at him, there was no way—

“Hey!” Jessa repeated, as bright and friendly as before, and you forced yourself to look up, a placid smile on your lips. You couldn’t even blame Borracho—she was exactly his type. Hell, half of the other little league parents confused you and Jessa for one another on a regular basis. 

“Hi.” 

“How’s it going over here? I thought I’d come and say hi, you two always look so,” She bunched her shoulders up, “Cozy.” 

“We’re like a pile of kittens,” Alyssa cooed before nodding to first base. “Looks like Ryder is having a good practice today.”

“Yeah! Yeah, he’s been practicing with his dad on his weekends, it’s been really good for him.”

You and Alyssa nodded in unison, giving sympathetic hums in harmony. It was no secret that Jessa was newly divorced, and it was well known that you, Alyssa, and your sometime companion, Allie Conners, were all in the divorced boat—but you had never felt drawn to bring Jessa into your corner. The three of you were gossipy in a way that bordered on bitchy, shared mimosas in a thermos during games, and bonded by a very particular understanding of one another’s marriages, and why they ended. 

Jessa seemed so…Nice. But maybe if she got her way, she’d understand where exactly you and Borracho and the others had gone wrong. 

Or maybe they won’t go wrong. 

The unexpectedly possibility stung so much that you found yourself looking at the field again, hand curling tightly around your phone. Made you look. What the fuck did that even mean? 

“Well!” Jessa’s squeak of an exclamation nearly made you wince, “I’m going to go grab a water. Do either of you want any?” 

“No thanks—”

“I’m good.” 

Her smile remained in place, but you felt a little rotten for the small, dejected nod she gave you before walking away. You and Alyssa watched her go, and Alssya ‘hmph’d after a moment. 

“Should we…?” She trailed off, catching sight of your flat expression. “Never mind.” 

“Second she hops off of Ben’s dick, sure.” You glanced toward where Borracho was rolling up the sleeves of his henley to hit a few balls to the outfield. Your eyes swept over his arms, down to his muscled forearms as he took hold of the bat. 

“...You’re doing it again.”

“Shut up, Lyss.” 

Alyssa snorted, swiping your soda and taking a swig.

– 

You trailed Borracho and Olivia to the car, listening to her tell her father about the spider that she saw crawling on the dandelion while she was in the outfield—that’s why she missed the ball he’d hit her way, obviously. 

“Alright, well maybe next time we pay a little more attention to the ball, princess,” Borracho teased, ruffling her hair. “At least during the game this weekend, okay?” 

“Okay,” She sighed, stopping beside the car and yanking at the door that you haven’t unlocked yet. 

“Hang on, bug,” You chuckled, “Say goodbye to your dad.”

Olivia leaned heavily against Borracho, giggling as he reached down, tickling her sides. 

“I’ll see you at the game this weekend,” He murmured, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her head before Olivia pulled away, climbing into the backseat and tugging the door shut behind herself. 

“Good practice,” You commented. 

“Sure.” Borracho nodded, gaze sweeping over your face. “Looked like you and Alyssa did a few laps.” 

Before you could ask what he meant, he added, “You two run your mouths like nobody’s business—”

You sucked your teeth, grumbling, “You play too much,” As he laughed. 

“I’m glad you got to talk,” He added. “She tell you about Zapata’s girl?”

“Mhm,” You nodded. “Can’t say I’m surprised, but—” 

“I know. He gets uptight, pops off.”

“I have no idea what that’s like,” You smiled. It was Borracho’s turn to roll his eyes, leaning against the car.

“Alright.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“You gonna talk to her?” 

“I mean,” You shrugged, “Alyssa probably will. She’s better about that stuff—And she was closer to her than I was, so.”

“Mm.” Borracho was quiet for a moment before he tipped his chin up a touch. “You like my text?” 

Poker face, damnit. Don’t let on.

“What text?”

His brows rose in disbelief. 

“I texted you.”

“When?”

“During practice.”

“Oh? I didn’t see it.” Leave it there. Go home— “But I’m surprised you had time to text with how busy you and Jessa were.” 

Borracho’s shit-eating grin made your stomach twist. You never had been all that good at poker. 

“That so?” 

“You two seemed pretty occupied.” 

“We were just talking.” 

“About what?” 

“Baseball.”

“Mm, really.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good, that’s topical.” 

“This is cute.” “Excuse me?” 

“Nah, I like it. Can’t remember the last time you were jealous.” 

You wheezed an affronted laugh, raising your hand to clutch your invisible pearls. 

“Oh, that is so—That is not what’s happening right now.” 

“No?” 

“No—Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Language—” 

“She can’t hear me—” 

“Swear jar, mom!” Olivia crowed, muffled through the door. 

“Car isn’t soundproofed,” Borracho added, taking a couple of steps back. “I’ll see you on Saturday.” 

-- 

Relax, we’ve all done it.

Alyssa’s reassurance played through your mind all night. The thing that bothered you the most was that you really hadn’t felt that way since your marriage to Borracho had started falling apart. You’d known that his coworkers sometimes encouraged him to be around women then you typically didn’t want him to be around. When the two of you were on the verge of splitting up, you’d told yourself that you would almost welcome one of them taking him off of your hands. 

At the time, it had seemed better than the other prospect—Borracho coming home late from being out with the guys, smelling like cheap floral body spray, with flecks of glitter on his clothes or in his hair and lap. He had felt like such a far cry from the man that you had loved and married; that had once answered your questions with a smile and not an eye roll; that used to pick you up after a long shift at work with a kiss and a snack because he knew you would be hungry. 

He’d changed over the course of your relationship, but you had, too. You’d grown tired of asking him to do things around the house. Your concern around his job and the cases that he was involved in felt so much more acute, and became so much worse once you’d gotten pregnant with Olivia. 

Nitpicking had snowballed into fights; fights festered and devolved into Borracho staying out late, then not coming home at all. On those nights, you’d lose sleep, torn between annoyance at his stubbornness, and the fear that you’d wake up to a knock on the door, or a call from Nick with his regrets, apologizing that something had gone terribly wrong. Olivia had been the only reason that the two of you had stayed together as long as you had. By the end, you were certain that there was still love there, but between work and feeling like you were already raising Olivia on your own, you just couldn’t find it. You were tired of fighting, and you knew that you didn’t want Olivia growing up in a home that never felt safe or settled. 

When you’d served Borracho papers, he hadn’t been surprised. Hell—he’d almost looked relieved. He hadn’t fought you on it, or asked if you could work it out; he hadn’t offered to go to counseling, or promised you that he just needed one more chance, and that he’d change. The man had already had two divorces in his rearview when he’d met you. This was just…Procedure for him. 

The first few months had been hell. The worrying didn’t stop, but the fighting had gone from a full boil to a simmer again. You let some of your irritations go in favor of focusing on building a more solid foundation for you and Olivia, and creating a regular routine for her and Borracho.

For as hectic and painful as your four years of marriage had been, the only thing that you and Borracho could always agree on was Olivia. You had never stopped him from being able to see her when he moved out; his child support was always paid on time and in-full, and he never griped about helping out when things unexpectedly came up. He was more involved than most divorced dads that you knew.

You had joint custody, but Borracho’s schedule could be so hectic that she lived primarily with you. She saw him at least twice a week for little league, and stayed with him at least once a week. He went out of his way to call her and say goodnight and that he loved her, even if it wasn’t right before bed. 

Alyssa had been waiting for you with open arms, happy to commiserate with you as her marriage to Henderson had also unraveled. For a while, bringing Olivia to little league was the only time that you saw Borracho outside of pickups and drop-offs. Now, the two of you tended to chat a little before getting into your cars and heading your separate ways. You almost never argued, and if you did, it was with lowered voices, without Olivia in the room. It had been two years since your divorce, and while things hadn’t fully healed with Borracho, they were in a far better place than they had been. The two of you were friendly, for the most part. And sure, there have been moments when you’ve missed him, but…

But the bubbling of jealousy in your belly this evening had felt so foreign to you. It wasn’t just the way that Jessa had flirted, it was how much Borracho seemed to enjoy it.

Had he smiled at you like that when you’d been together? You were trying so hard to remember. He must have, right? At least once, maybe twice. Maybe at the very beginning, when you’d started dating—before he’d warned you that his job could be a lot, and that he’d been married twice before, and wasn’t sure if he wanted to get married again. You sometimes wondered if you would’ve gotten married at all if you hadn’t gotten pregnant. 

On your good nights, you were certain that you would’ve, that you and Borracho had been so deeply in love when he proposed that you didn’t doubt it. 

On your bad nights, you told yourself that you’d done it so that Olivia would grow up in a home with two parents, and that you’d failed at that. 

Tonight, you stared at your ceiling, trying to think of anything but the way Jessa had run her hand over the slope and bulge of his bicep, and the way that Borracho had grinned and leaned into her. 

He wasn’t yours anymore. He could do whatever the hell he wanted. 

So long as he didn’t do whatever the hell he wanted anywhere near you. 

--  

“Mom?” 

“Yeah, bug?” You tipped your head back a bit as Olivia piped up from the backseat. 

“What were you and dad fighting about after practice?” 

You frowned, stopping the car at a red light and twisting to get a better look at her. 

“You thought we were fighting?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Why do you say that, hon?” 

Olivia lowered her eyes to her lap, toying with the plush baseball bat that Borracho had gotten her for Christmas (she had loved it immediately and declared it her good luck charm; she wouldn’t go to a game without it). 

“You used a bad word.” 

You pursed your lips. “Yes, I did, and I’m sorry. Your dad and I weren’t fighting, we were…Kidding around.” 

“You can use that word when you’re kidding?” 

“Adults can. You can’t. And shouldn’t. Especially on the field, or at school. Mama will be better about her language, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“And your dad and I are okay. Okay?” 

“...Okay.” 

She sounded less convinced this time, but you didn’t want to litigate it right now—and the light was turning green, anyway. 

--

You kept your pace even as Olivia darted ahead of you, screaming hello to her friends and joining them on the field. Alyssa turned to look at you where she was already camped out on the bleachers, grinning and patting the spot beside herself. You smiled, sitting down and setting your bag down between your legs. 

“Oof girl, the look on your face,” Alyssa laughed. “You look like you need some of my special orange juice.” 

“Mm, I shouldn’t. Ben’s got Liv for the night, but I’m gonna have to drive my car back later.” 

“One of the guys can drop you back and you can get it tomorrow.” 

You glanced between her and the thermos before you took it, smiling as Alyssa teased, “Atta girl. I got a whole ‘nother one, so go wild.” 

“I don’t know about wild.” 

“I do…What’s got that look on your face, anyway?” 

You toyed with your answer as you took a sip of the mimosa from the thermos. 

“Liv thought Ben and I were fighting after practice.” 

“Were you?” 

“No! No, we were just…I cursed. Guess she remembers that from when we were together, when she was small.” You looked at the lid of the thermos. “I don’t know, sometimes I forget how much she heard, how much she saw before we—you know.” 

“I hear you. Devon freaks out if Gus and me even look at each other wrong.” 

You were quiet for a moment before you couldn’t hold the smile back. 

“What?” Alyssa frowned. 

“I keep forgetting Henderson’s first name is Gus,” You giggled, unable to help it. “How do you moan that—” Your giggle broke into a cackle as Alyssa shoved your shoulder, groaning, “You’re the worst!” 

You sighed as the two of you settled, glancing around just in time to see Jessa looking across the bleachers for somewhere to sit. That bubbling in your stomach came up again, and you hurriedly swigged your mimosa in the hopes of dampening it. Before you could second guess yourself, you raised a hand and flagged her down, patting the seat beside yourself. Her face brightened immediately, waving back and beginning to head toward you. 

“...You sure you wanna do that?” Alyssa muttered. 

“I was a bitch to her the other day,” You shrugged. “She’s nice.” 

“You think Borracho feels the same way?” 

“Don’t give a fuck about what he feels.” You didn’t meet Alyssa’s eye as you said so—hell, you could barely get the lie out to yourself. You didn’t want to know how unconvincing it sounded to anyone else. 

“Morning, ladies!” Jessa grinned as she settled onto the seat beside you. “Great day for a ballgame.” 

“Sure is,” Alyssa chirped over your emphatic hum and nod. 

“Made it just in time,” Jessa added. “That parking lot is so intense. I had to cut someone off just to get a space.” 

“Yikes. Hope they were on the other team.” 

“Honestly, I didn’t get a good look. They just flipped me off and sped away.” 

“Hey y’all,” You heard, and turned to see Allie Conners approaching you on the bleachers. “Sorry Jack and me are late, some dickhead in a fucking Mazda took my parking space—” She went still at the sight of Jessa, eyes narrowing critically. You leaned into Jessa a little, murmuring, 

“What kind of car do you drive?”

“I’m not sure I should say.” 

--  

You knew that you were staring again. Luckily for you, Alyssa was too distracted to notice. 

Jessa had declined your invite to get pizza with the group, but considering the parking lot incident, it was probably for the best. You honestly weren’t sure she could handle being thrown into the deep end of this group’s hangouts. Unless he was too busy working, the group of you always convened at Henderson’s place—he was the only one with a backyard, and the kids always had a little excess energy to burn off. Olivia, Devon, and Jack were still zipping around the backyard, running on the adrenaline of winning the game; the other parents were talking, and you were just…Not paying attention to any of them. Jessa wasn’t hovering, or squeezing his bicep, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop looking at Borracho. 

You hadn’t been subtle, either. You knew that you hadn’t because he’d caught you looking a couple of times. Every look was paired with a furrowed brow, a small, questioning smile before you’d waved him off and turned away. You forced yourself to look away as you felt him turning to look at you again, and you pushed yourself up, picking up your empty beer and heading for the kitchen.

You waved off Alyssa’s questioning glance, smiling and mouthing ‘Empty’ before heading inside. You set it on the counter, taking a fresh one out of the fridge—but rather than head back to the backyard, you walked to the front door, stepping out and sitting on the front steps. You sighed softly, cracking the beer open and taking a sip. 

God, what the hell was wrong with you? When did you let yourself get so lonely? You spent so much time worrying about Olivia, about Borracho (whether you liked to admit it or not), about your job—

“You good?” 

You looked back at the sound of his voice, stomach swooping as he settled down beside you. 

“Scared the crap out of me,” You grumbled. 

“Sorry.” 

“Are you?” 

Borracho shrugged a little. You watched as he fished into his pocket, drawing out a pack of cigarettes. 

“...I thought you were quitting,” You accused. 

“Olivia tell you that?” 

“Mhm. You tell that to Olivia?” 

“Told her I’d try. I didn’t say it was going well.” He held the pack out to you, brows raising. You hesitated before shaking your head, raising your beer and taking a sip. Borracho grunted, lighting up. You glanced over, watching his cheeks sink as he took a drag from the cigarette. 

“You doin’ okay?” He asked. 

“Sure. You?” 

“Mhm.” 

You nodded a little, looking down at the beer bottle and trailing your finger over a drop of condensation. 

“...So you really okay?” 

“Ben—” 

“What’s going on with you?” 

“Nothing is going on!” 

"You’ve been distracted all day.”

“How could you know that? Were you watching me all day?”

“Yeah, I was.” You hardly had time to let that surprise sink in before he added: “You were watching me, too.” 

You hesitated before you shook your head a little bit. 

“I’ve just been thinking.” 

“About what?” 

“Stuff, I don’t know.” 

“...Alright. I’ll wait.” 

“What?” 

“You’ll tell me when you wanna tell me.” 

“I don’t have anything to tell!” 

“No, sure you don't.” “For fffffff—” You found yourself self-consciously glancing toward the door before you finished, “Frickssake.” 

“Kids can’t hear you out here, you can curse.” 

“Yeah, I know, just…Told Olivia I’d be better about it.” 

“She should hope you aren’t. That swear jar’s gonna get her through college.” “...She thought we were fighting the other night.” 

“By the car?” 

“Mhm.” 

“She worried about that?” 

“I think so.” 

“We’re good now though.” 

His insistence made you warm, and you nodded again.

“Yeah, we are.” You held your beer out for Borracho to sip and waited until he’d raised it to his lips to ask, “So when are you asking Jessa out?” Your questioning turned to cackling as Borracho spluttered. He rolled his eyes, setting the beer down between the two of you. 

“I’m teasing,” You added, gently nudging his shoulder with yours. “But if you wanna, you know. You should go for it.” 

“You think so?” 

“Sure. She’s nice, ‘Livvy gets along with her son…You have my blessing—Not that you need it, obviously.” 

“Uh-huh. Is this a trick?” 

“What?” 

“You give me your blessing to date someone and then you turn around and tell me you’re getting married or something?” 

“No! God no, I’m not even dating.” 

“Mm…When’s the last time you went on a date?” 

“I dunno, it’s been a while. What about you?” 

“Couple months.” 

“How’d you meet her?” You glanced over when Borracho took a few moments to answer and found his face twisted with indecision. “...Ben.” 

“Work.”

“Oh?” You laughed. “Was this one a widow, dispatch, a gangbanger’s baby mama, a hooker from one of those parties—” 

“Alright—” 

“No, hang on, I’ve got one more—A witness? Was it a witness?” You leaned in a little, brows waggling, and grinned when Borracho huffed, annoyed. “Oh, so it was a witness. Anything good? Gnarly crime scene? Drive-by? Missing neighbor? Weird smell coming from her basement?” 

“You know, I think I liked it better when you didn’t like hearing about this shit.” 

“Swear jar.” 

“Dumbass.” 

“Now that’s two dollars, pal.” 

“I’ll throw it onto the monthly.” 

“You do that.” 

“What if I don’t?” 

“You just wait.” 

“Oh-ho—” 

“You just wait and see.” 

“You gonna take me back to court over two dollars?” 

“Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” 

“I’m good for it.” 

“Uh-huh...So why didn’t you keep seeing the uh—the witness?” 

“Just wasn’t feeling it.” 

“Why not?” You leaned against him again, whining, “C’mooooon, you can tell me.” 

“Why haven’t you been goin’ out, huh? You tell me.” 

“I’m busy, that’s all.” 

“Oh, and I’m not?” 

“That’s not what I mean, Ben.” 

“...I can take Liv a couple more nights.” 

You smiled a little, trying to ignore the slight bitterness that bubbled in your belly at the offer. God, it was nearly as bad as seeing Jessa flirt with him. He was trying to be nice—so why did it feel so rotten to hear it? Did he want you off of his hands so badly? 

“I appreciate that, but don’t feel the need to for—That reason. I mean you can take her more often if you have time. I know she loves staying at yours. She’d like it.” 

“We can figure something out.”

“Yeah.” 

“...You try the apps?” 

“For about five minutes. I had to delete them before I completely lost my faith in humanity.” 

Borracho chuckled softly, tapping the ashes from the end of his cigarette. 

“Figures.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You can’t meet people like that.” 

“Anyone can, that’s the point.” 

“No, I mean you can’t meet people like that.” 

“I could if I wanted to.” 

“How long did you say you were on the apps again?” 

“Alright.” 

“I’m just saying, you know, I know you. You’re gonna feel better about someone you meet the old-fashioned way.” 

You grunted, annoyed, as you took another sip of your beer. 

“Am I wrong?” Borracho prodded. 

“No.” You waited for another tease, but when Borracho didn’t say anything, you turned to find him watching you closely. You shifted in your spot uncomfortably, brow furrowing. “What?” 

“I should set you up.” 

“What?” You scoffed. 

“I should.” 

“That is the most hair-brained, idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“I think it’s the best idea I’ve had all day.” 

“Really? ‘Cause I think that goes to putting your daughter in the outfield so she can kick dandelions again.” 

“Oh, so when she kicks dandelions, she’s my daughter?” 

“You know she gets so bored out there.” 

“She’s six, she gets bored anywhere I put her.” 

“Not true. She likes first base.” 

“I’m setting you up.”

“You are not setting me up unless you want me setting you up.” You turned to see Borracho’s brow furrowing. “...I’m getting the feeling you hate that idea.” 

“Yeah, no, I’m good. I’ve met your friends.” 

“Uh-huh, and I’ve met yours and they’re no prize.” 

“...How about I take Liv a couple of Fridays this month, give you time to go out. It doesn’t have to be on a date,” He added before you could argue, “Just, you know. A little extra you time.” 

“Okay. If the schedule works, maybe we keep it up.” 

“That sounds good.” 

“Good.” You reached out, plucking the cigarette from his fingers and taking a quick drag before passing it back. 

“We should head back in,” You sighed out the smoke. “Alyssa’s going to think we’re fighting out here.”

“Alyssa can think whatever the fuck she wants,” Borracho grumbled as you stood, dusting your hands. 

“Cigarette out, let’s go,” You urged, laughing as Borracho grunted as he stood. “Did you really just do the old man grunt?” 

“Bold words from a woman whose knees cracked when she got up.”

“Shut up, there's no way you heard that.”

“Popped like an AK.”

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; 

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[thoroughlymodernminutia]

This Christmas - Prequel

Pairing: Benny "Borracho" Magalon x F!Reader

Word count: 8,219

Summary: This is a prequel of sorts to this from last year. It’s basically the how Benny and the reader met, etc

Warnings: Mostly Hallmark-style fluffy stuff, lots of pining, but brief mention of loss, guilt, some foul language. If I missed anything else let me know and I'll add it in. 

A/N: I don’t know folks, I started writing this and was really chugging along and had a whole plan for how I wanted this to be. Then I got sick with everyone’s favorite illness from 2020 and lost a lot steam. I found, I think, a happy compromise with myself because I wanted to post this before Christmas (self imposed deadlines am I right?) and realized I can always I don’t know, post more parts of it later?? I am my own worst critic so if you read this and it isn’t your jam, please don’t say anything lol I’ve probably already thought it, so it would be redundant! Also, clearly, I do not know the proper use of a semicolon, or an em dash and I don't have an editor, so we'll all just have to deal. Anyways, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, all that jazz

-----------

It’s a little after six in the morning and they still haven’t rolled in. Usually, the five of them would have been here for an hour already; a few hungover, one still drunk, and the fifth one acting like an adult babysitter for the other four. It’s weird how this happens–people come into your little donut shop and after a while, instead of you becoming part of their routine, they become part of yours. Eventually they start to feel like stand-ins for the friends you hardly ever get to see. You’re busy with your business and they’re busy with their jobs and families.

It could feel lonely, but you have people like Noreen, who comes in every Friday to buy three dozen assorted donuts for her team. Noreen is kind and not the type of person you envision working at a private equity firm. When you were thinking about expanding into the small space next door, she looked at your plan and helped you figure out where you were being too aggressive and in some cases too shortsighted. She didn’t ask for anything in return, but you made sure her next three dozen donuts were on the house. 

There’s Will, a retired teacher, who comes in every Sunday. He used to come in with his partner, Charles, and they would sit at the table you have set up near the front window. They traded off different sections of the newspaper while drinking their coffee and sharing one old-fashioned donut and one raspberry jelly donut; they never strayed from those. Charles passed away six months ago and it was unexpected. You didn’t expect to see Will for a while, but routine is hard to give up especially when it’s the only thing you have left. Every Sunday morning you set a 'reserved' sign on the table near the window. 

There’s Stuart, who hangs out in the plaza your shop is located in. You’re not sure if he’s unhoused or just likes to spend his day outside, but it felt strange to always see him and not interact with him. One day you invited him to come by for coffee and a donut but he turned you down. You told him the offer was good for any time and that you hoped you’d see him in there soon. He came in a few days later and it made you feel like you were doing some good; and then you felt bad for feeling like that. Stuart’s reserved and not much of a talker so you just let him sit at a table while you go about your work. Some days he’ll start a conversation; it’s rare but it feels like you both trust each other enough to make more than small talk. If you don’t see him in his usual spot outside, you worry. He usually turns up a few days later, but you're concerned that at some point he won’t turn up and what are you supposed to do then?

There’s a handful of people that fall into this category of if they never came back you would notice. It’s because some of them are smart and kind like Noreen. Some because they sit in the same spot, newspaper sections still divided in two, like Will. Some because their silence fills your little shop, like Stuart. And some whose absence you would notice because they don’t fit into these boxes. Sometimes they can be loud or irritating; but they can also be entertaining. And they’re are always five of them, but only one that makes you feel like you’re thirteen and just saw your middle school crush.

They started coming in sometime in February. You only remember because the biggest one said he’s 'not eating a fucking, prissy, heart-shaped donut.' Some men are like that, afraid if they come in contact with something feminine that’s not a woman, that their dick will fall off. He was loud and obnoxious and only one of the other four looked truly embarrassed for the guy and for himself. He apologized for his friend and ordered five large coffees and a dozen glazed donuts. 

“You sure glazed are going to be manly enough for your friend over there?” 

You ticked your head over towards the table where his friends were sitting. He laughed and it was a surprisingly warm laugh for a man with neck tattoos. 

“He won’t even remember being here, let alone what kind of donuts he ate.”

He sounded annoyed but used to the behavior. You remembered having friends like that, in your twenties, but you were well past that age and so were these guys by the look of it. You saw him eyeing an apple fritter so you grabbed it from the case, put it on a plate, and set it on the counter next to the box of donuts. 

“On the house, since it doesn’t look like you’re getting paid for your babysitting duties.”

He smiled, said thank you, and then went to sit with his loud friends. You noticed he was quiet in comparison and thought it would be nice if they were all quiet like that. 

When they were getting ready to leave you saw that the quiet one made sure all the trash was thrown away and all the dishes went into the right bin. At the door as they were leaving he gave you a small wave thanking you again. There was something about his smile that made it feel like flowers were blooming in your stomach. That feeling carried you for a week. You’d think of that moment of him at the door and a fog would enter your brain and the flowers in your stomach would grow larger. 

The feeling would start to subside after a while and you would get caught up in your real life–your business, the rare time with your friends, the occasional bad date. It would slowly drift from the front of your mind to the back. Then they would show up and the cycle would continue. 

The one who had the soft smile and neck tattoo, you learned his name was Benny. And that if you gave him a choice between the apple fritter and anything else, he would choose the apple fritter one hundred percent of the time. The loud drunk, that was Big Nick and he’s only been not drunk five percent of the time they’ve come in. There’s Connors, Zapata, and Henderson–you’ve only heard them referred to by their last names. A thing that you’ve only ever heard men do. They all come in once or twice a month–usually early, usually hungover. It makes you wonder what they do before they end up at your place. You never ask because to know would be to probably ruin your crush on Benny.

Benny always pays and there’s a part of you that hopes he’s doing it just for the chance to talk to you. When he leaves he always gives you a wave goodbye and a thanks again. The flowers in your stomach have bloomed and blossomed to an embarrassing degree by the end of May. And that’s when they stopped coming in. 

—-

Benny shakes his head no at Connor’s who’s trying to hand him a beer, “Not feeling it tonight.”

Benny isn’t feeling it any night, but he keeps that to himself. The drinking, the cocaine, the women, none of it interests him and it hasn’t for a while. Since February if he’s being honest with himself. 

They had ended up at your donut shop, Glazy for You under random circumstances. The usual place they would go to sober up after one of these parties had been closed down by the health department. He should have known it was bound to happen, the place was dim and oddly seedy for a diner. Benny was the designated driver that night, since he hadn’t been feeling well he didn’t drink and spent most of the night ushering random women out of a grim motel room. When he saw Glazy for You as he was driving by, it looked like the complete opposite of his evening; it was bright, there were Valentine’s decorations on the window. It looked comforting and warm, two things he felt like he was missing in his life.

Nick of course was an asshole and Benny felt like he spent a lot of time silently apologizing to you. His apologies must have entered you mind telepathically because you gave him an apple fritter–the best apple fritter he’s ever had in his whole fucking life. There must have been some kind of magic in because that moment lodged itself somewhere in his heart and reappears when he’s feeling low. Like now–sitting in this motel room, on this couch that probably hasn’t been cleaned in two decades, watching his friends lose their fucking minds over shit they should have outgrown. 

Benny hasn’t seen you in months, ninety-seven days to be exact, not that he’s counting. They’ve been working on one case after the next and it’s left time for little else. No post drug test parties, no early mornings sitting in a donut shop waiting for everyone to sober up, no you. It’s been sleep and work for three months straight. Last time he saw you, it seemed like you were happy to see him. Maybe he imagined that feeling; misunderstood the warmth in your smile. Maybe that’s the smile that you’ve practiced in order to be able to perform it for everyone. Maybe everyone feels what he feels when they see you.

Benny sinks further into the couch and looks up at the ceiling. It’s a drop ceiling which brings back memories of a case he had worked on. While securing a crime scene, they were in the living room of a run down apartment. It had this same type of ceiling and a body fell right through it onto the floor. He thinks that maybe this is how it ended up being called a drop ceiling, because shit just drops right out. That thought, that memory makes him realize that he doesn’t want to be in this room anymore. He gets up, grabs his jacket off the back of the couch, and leaves. He hears Connors call after him as he’s closing the door but he doesn’t care. He only has one place that he wants to be right now.

—-

You’re putting a tray of bear claws in the display case when you hear the door open. It’s still early, the sun is barely up, pink and purple hues are still in the sky. You get a lot of municipal workers that come in at this time, barely past opening. So it’s a little bit of a surprise when you get a glimpse through the display case of Benny walking in, alone.

There’s a second while you’re crouched down, adjusting the tray that you let yourself be excited; allow yourself to give into the childish feeling of getting a glimpse of your crush. Your knees are wobbly as you stand up–unsure if it’s because you’re getting old or because he’s looking right at you.

“Oh hey, how’ve you been?” You wipe your palms on the front of the apron you’re wearing. “It’s been a while.”

You try to sound neutral, neither excited to see him or disappointed that it's been so long. He smiles and that familiar sensation of flowers blooming returns. 

“We’ve been working on a lot of cases and it’s been hard to find time for anything else.” 

You lean forward and rest your arms on top of the bakery case. 

“Cases? You guys are lawyers?” As the words leave your mouth you realize how truly stupid it sounds. You’ve never in your life seen any lawyers that look like these guys. 

Benny chuckles and rubs the back of his neck, something he does when feels embarrassed or self conscious.

“No, definitely not lawyers. Detectives. We work for the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department.”

You fail at suppressing a laugh, “I’m sorry. All of you are detectives? Even your friend Nick?”

Benny knows your laugh isn’t mean spirited and if he were you, he’d probably laugh too, knowing what he knows about the people he works with. He moves closer to display case and leans in. 

“Even Nick. You seem surprised.”

“It’s just. I.” You pause, trying to choose your words with care, because you like Benny and you don’t want to insult him, “I mean, it’s hard to imagine being a victim of a crime or something and like Nick is the person taking your statement, trying to help you. That is my nightmare.”

You hope you don’t sound like an asshole, but the idea of Nick serving and protecting seems like a stretch. If you offend Benny, he doesn’t show it, he just laughs.

“The way that you’ve seen him, I can understand the sentiment. He’s not like that a hundred percent of the time. I promise.” 

You give Benny a joking look, “Okay, but what percentage are we talking here?”

You’re both laughing when the rest of the guys walk in. The rowdiness is a shock to your system after not dealing with it for a while. You look at Benny and he’s no longer leaning in towards you and maybe you’re projecting, but you think he looks a little disappointed too.

Benny’s disappointed, but he tries his best to hide it. The guys may be drunk, but they are cops and they are perceptive. Benny already knows he has a reputation among them as being soft. It used to bother him, but it hasn’t for a while. He knows he would rather be soft than be the type of man that can’t feel anything other than bitterness and rage. 

“Borracho, you fucking asshole, you left us.”

Nick, is of course loud and slurring his words. Benny hopes you can’t understand Spanish–he doesn’t want to be known as a ‘drunk’ to you.

Benny turns from you to look at the guys. Connors is propping Nick up; Henderson and Zapata are stumbling towards a table. 

“I was hungry.”

Benny hopes it’s enough to shut Nick up. He knows it’s not because he sees Nick loosen himself from Connors and stumble towards him. He claps a large, drunk hand on Benny’s shoulder and the force almost knocks him backwards. 

“Fuck, Borracho. You’re no fun anymore.”

Nick is a mess and that’s not really that surprising to you. What is surprising is how uncomfortable Benny looks. He has the look of a man who would give anything to disappear. You can’t really blame him, these guys, Nick especially, are exhausting to be around and you only deal with them for a few hours a month.

“Can I get you guys something or are you just going to loiter?”

Benny looks towards you and you give him a sympathetic smile. He shakes Nick off of him and is about to order when Nick lurchers towards the counter that you’re standing behind. You step back as he unsuccessfully tries to paw at you.

“I know what you can get me, sweetheart.”

Benny groans and runs a hand over his face, “Jesus Christ, Nick. Shut the fuck up.”

You step closer to the counter and lean forward, putting a hand on Nick’s shoulder.

“What did I tell you about calling me ‘sweetheart’?”

Nick tilts his head to the side and mutters, “That the next time I do it, you’ll put my head in the deep fryer.”

You pat his shoulder, “Good, you remember.”

You hear Zapata, Henderson, and Connors–who’s joined them at their table laughing and chanting do it, do it.

You gently push Nick away from the counter, “Go sit down unless you’re willing to see if I’m serious.” You look over at Benny, who no longer looks like he wants to disappear. “Benny, five coffees and a dozen glazed, right?”

Benny nods his head, “Yeah, that’s good.”

Nick turns around and starts walking towards where Connors, Zapata, and Henderson are sitting. He jerks his thumb back towards you, “She’s no fun either.”

Benny feels awkward standing here, watching you gingerly place twelve glazed donuts in a box and then pour five large coffees. It’s calming though, watching you do routine things, like you’re slowly rooting out the anxiety of being around drunk idiots. You put the coffees in a tray and place it down on the counter next to the donuts. 

Benny pulls out his wallet to pay, “Uh, sorry,” he pauses, he’s sorry about a lot suddenly, “sorry about Nick. He was acting like an asshole.”

You shrug and hand Benny his change, “Don’t worry about it.”

Benny is sitting with the guys and can’t help feeling like he’s messed something up. You didn’t give him an apple fritter like you normally do. He wonders if you’re mad that he didn’t do something more when Nick was acting like an asshole. Maybe he’s overthinking it–he can’t expect you to give him a free donut every time you see him. It’s possible he’s misread the situation entirely, that you’re just friendly and nothing more. He watches you behind the counter adjusting things, bagging up donuts for customers that have come in. When Benny checks his watch for the time, he misses seeing you slip an apple fritter in a bag and write 'Benny' in a tidy script. 

You watch the guys start filtering out of your place; Nick and Connors are first and from the store window you can see them getting into separate cabs. Benny is still throwing trash away as Henderson and Zapata leave. They share a cab and you imagine that maybe they rallied enough to start drinking again at 7:30am. You see Benny heading towards the door and it looks like he’s leaving without giving his usual wave goodbye. Your stomach sinks a little–maybe he’s mad at you for not joking around more with Nick or the other guys. Or it could just be that he’s tired and wants to go home and you’re creating feelings that aren’t there. 

You grab the bag with the apple fritter from below the counter and hold it up, “Hey, you forgot something.”

Benny looks at the bag with his name on it–it’s the nicest handwriting he’s ever seen. He walks over to the counter and takes the bag from your hand, your fingers overlapping for a fraction of a second. 

“So this means you’re not mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you? Wait, you think because of Nick?” You look at him strangely as he nods his head yes, “He’s the idiot, I’m not going to hold that against you.”

Benny smiles, “That’s good to know.” He starts walking away, but stops when he gets to the door, holding up the bag with the donut, “Thanks again. I’ll see you later.”

“Take care, Benny.”

—-

“You like that girl at the donut place?”

It sounds less like Connors is asking you a question and more like stating a fact. Benny’s a little caught off guard and pretends to start looking for something on his desk.

“What?” 

Benny tries to sound confused, like he’s never even heard the word donut before.

“At the donut place. The girl who runs it, are you into her or something? You always act fucking weird when we’re in there.”

Benny thinks back to all the times they’ve been at Glazy for You, trying to remember his behavior. Did he look at you for too long? Say ‘goodbye’ in a way that sounded like he didn’t want to leave. Benny opens the bottom drawer of his desk and pretends to look for something. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Benny knows he doesn’t sound convincing and Connors must hear it too because he keeps going.

“Really?” Connors sounds incredulous. “You’re always lingering at the counter. She’s always giving you free donuts. Any of this ringing a bell for you?”

Benny can feel Connors staring at him. He closes the desk drawer and goes back to looking at the file on his desk.

“Maybe she likes giving away free donuts. I really couldn’t tell you.”

Connors crumbles a piece of paper into a ball and lobs it at Benny’s head, hitting him just behind the ear. 

“Whatever you say asshole.”

—-

The summer goes by quickly–it’s one of your busier seasons. School is out, the weather is nice–there are day camps, company off-sites, and sleepovers. All the types of occasions where the people in charge don’t want to make breakfast but need to provide it. Benny and the guys come in a few times throughout the summer. It feels a little different from before. Benny doesn’t linger at the counter as much anymore and sometimes one of the other guys pays. It’s stupid little things that you shouldn’t notice, but you do, because they used to be part of your routine. It’s embarrassing thinking you let this crush on Benny become such a big part of your life that you’d notice he didn’t pay last time or the time before that. It’s that embarrassment that makes you start building a wall around that garden in your stomach so the flowers can’t reach your heart.

It’s the end of October when you’re opening up one morning and it registers for you that you haven’t seen Stuart since some time around June or July. His absence gnaws at you. You feel like a bad person for not noticing sooner; that feeling that you failed someone even though they weren’t your responsibility. You don’t know what to do or if there’s anything you actually can do. So when you see Benny a few weeks later it feels like a little bit of a last resort when you ask for his help.

—-

You were hoping that Benny would be the person paying this time when they all came in, so you could mention Stuart without having to pull him aside. But he doesn’t and it makes you a little anxious trying to figure out the best way to talk to him about something serious. So it’s a relief when it looks like he’s going to be the last one to leave. He’s behind Connors and when Connors makes it out the door, you stop Benny who’s close behind.

“Benny, hey. Do you have a second?”

You come out from behind the counter, nervously smoothing the apron tied around your waist in short downward strokes. Benny stops and lets the door go from his hand. You look upset and he hopes it’s not because he’s been acting standoffish lately. Ever since Connors asked about you, he’s been trying his best to act normal–whatever that means–around you. 

“Did Connors’s card get declined again?”

You let out a small laugh, “No. Um, I was actually wondering if you could help me with something.”

Benny steps a little closer to you. You have some powdered sugar on your cheek and he has to stop himself from brushing it off. 

“Yeah, of course. What’s going on?”

“This is probably going to sound weird, or stupid. Maybe both. But there’s this  guy who h—”

Benny cuts you off; his voice is a little rougher, “If someone is bothering you, I’ll take care of it.”

You laugh awkwardly, “Oh no, it’s nothing like that. It’s this guy, Stuart. He usually hangs out around here and I have him come in sometimes for coffee or donuts and I haven’t seen him in…since maybe July, I think? I’m just a little worried.” You pause and try to read Benny’s face to see what he’s thinking, “Sorry, this probably sounds stupid to you. I don’t even know what I’m asking.”

Benny scratches his jaw piecing together what he thinks you’re getting at, “Do you know his last name?”

You notice that Benny’s voice has gone back to the soft tone that you’re used to. He’s looking at you with compassion and not like you’re stupid or some kind of burden. Benny is the kind of person that you would want helping you in a crisis and it makes you wish there were more people like him in his line of work.

“I don’t, but I printed a photo from the security camera I have.” You walk over to the counter and lean over, grabbing the photo from under the register. “I don’t even know if you can do anything with that. I watch a lot of crime shows. Don’t judge me.”

Benny laughs and shakes his head as you hand him the photo.

“I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Yeah of course. It’s…I don’t know. I’d feel like a bad person if something were to happen to him and I could have helped.”

Benny feels bad because he knows how these things generally end up. Usually there are no happy endings.

“You can’t put that on yourself.”

You nod your head, “I know, but still, you know?”

Benny understands the feeling and also understands it’s easier to tell someone something isn’t their fault than to know it yourself. 

As Benny leaves you start to feel a bit lighter. Like someone has taken some of your worry, some of your concern and is carrying it for you; so you aren’t so weighed down.

—-

“What was that about?”

Benny is surprised to see Connors waiting for him in the parking lot. 

“Nothing. Well, I guess there’s some guy, homeless, I don’t know. He usually hangs out around here. She hasn’t seen him for a while. She’s worried.”

Connors flicks a cigarette on to the pavement, “Figures she’s one of those bleeding heart types. What did you tell her?”

Benny pats his jacket and then his pants pockets feeling around for a pack of cigarettes, forgetting briefly that he’s trying to quit. Connors pulls his pack from his pocket and tosses them to Benny.

Benny pulls a cigarette out, “I told her I’d look into it.”

Connors laughs and hands Benny a lighter, “Chump.” He waits a beat for Benny to light his cigarette, “But, if you want. We can start looking into it now.”

Benny’s grateful it’s Connors out here and not one of the other guys. Benny and Connors go back further than just Major Crimes and he’s someone Benny would trust with his life.

—-

Benny’s worried that he’s going to have to deliver you bad news. Best case scenario seems like Stuart is in jail. Not great, but it would mean that he’s alive. Worst case scenario is that he can’t find Stuart and that usually doesn’t mean anything good. Benny is suddenly hoping for some kind of miracle for a person he doesn’t even know. 

The photo you gave him does turn out to be useful. Connors is able to find him in the system through facial recognition. Stuart Morton has a record; a few arrests for driving while under the influence and some time in a county jail. Benny is able to get a last known address but it’s over a year old. It’s a sober living house that’s not actually that far from Glazy for You. He doesn’t have much hope that going there will bring him any closer to finding Stuart. 

It takes a couple of weeks, but Benny is finally able to meet with David, the director of the sober living facility. He finds it’s better to meet with people in person. Talking with people over the phone, he’s learned, makes it easier for them to not give you the information you need. David of course is a little guarded at first with Benny; not wanting to share anything that could get Stuart in trouble, which Benny can’t really fault him for. Benny explains the situation, that the owner of a donut shop near here is worried because they haven’t seen him in a while. When Benny mentions your name to David, he lights up.

“Her glazed old fashioneds are the best ones in this entire state.” He pauses and to Benny it looks like he’s getting lost in the memory of a donut, a feeling he knows well. 

“I didn’t realize you two knew each other.” 

David turns away from Benny to look through a drawer in a filing cabinet, “Just this year we got to talking and she’s been generous enough to donate breakfast here every month. And recently she’s been working with us on a job training program at her bakery.” 

Benny thinks back to Connors calling you a ‘bleeding heart’ and is glad he came here by himself. 

“She didn’t mention anything about knowing Stuart lived here.”

David pulls a folder from the cabinet and thumbs through it, “Stuart is the type to not overshare, so that doesn’t surprise me.” He pauses to write something down on a piece of paper and hands it to Benny, “Here. This is his sister Noreen’s information. When he left, he was going to be staying with her for a while. Might still be there.”

Benny barely makes it to his car before calling the number that David gave him. 

—-

“Wait, so you’re saying that Noreen, the Noreen that comes in here, is Stuart’s sister?”

It’s late in the day, near the time that you close up. You and Benny are sitting across from each other at the table near the window. It’s hard to believe what he’s telling you, that Stuart used to be a resident at the sober living facility, the one where David works; that Noreen is Stuart’s sister and somehow all these dots never got connected for you.

“She didn’t realize that you two were,” Benny pauses looking for the right word, “friends. She feels terrible that you didn’t know he had moved out of the state and were worried. She said he’s doing well.”

You’re quiet for a moment, trying to take in everything Benny has been telling  you. It’s a lot to process, considering you had been preparing yourself to hear bad news. You can feel your eyes fuzzy with a few tears and feel a little embarrassed to be getting so emotional over the good news.

“It’s such a relief to know that he’s doing okay.” You feel a tear slide down your cheek and quickly brush it away hoping that Benny didn’t see it.

Benny can tell you’re trying to keep yourself from crying and he wants to tell you that it’s okay, that there wouldn’t be any judgment from him. He has the overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around you, but he knows it would be wildly inappropriate. He feels awkward sitting here, looking around, trying to figure out what he should say.

“I like the Christmas decorations you have up.” It’s lame and he knows it, but it seems better than freaking you out with a hug. You smile at him and that feels reassuring.

“You do?” You look over at Benny, nodding his head, “I know it makes me basic, but I love Christmas. The lights, the decorations, the movies, the music. Expect to see a lot of green and red frosted donuts until December 31st.” 

Benny laughs, “I’m looking forward to it.” He looks at his watch and starts to get up, “I should probably leave, so you can close up.”

You get up and follow Benny to the door, you put your hand on Benny’s forearm to stop him for a second and he feels a little spark through this jacket.

“Thank you, again, for everything.”

“I’m glad I could help. And that everything turned out okay.”

You’re not sure what it is that compels you to hug him, but you do. Maybe it’s the gentleness of his voice, or how he’s looking at you in a way he hasn’t before. It feels intimate and dreamy and it’s hard for you to recall the last time anyone has looked at you like that. It happens so fast that Benny barely has time to register what happened.

It hits him as he’s walking to his car–the delayed feeling of your arms around him. It strikes Benny that maybe there’s a chance you like him, that maybe you’re both kind of stupid and clumsy, and afraid to ask the other one out. There’s the realization that one of you will have to make the first move or it will go on like this forever. That he will see you every few months at your job, that he’ll get a free donut occasionally. It’s not enough for Benny and he knows that he can’t be stupid about this much longer.

—-

It’s the last piss test party of the year–the week before Christmas. The concept is idiotic–sure it made sense at one point when Benny wasn’t wading into the deep end of forty. Going to a cheap hotel to get drunk and high, have sex with women that Nick found God knows where. It was never appealing to Benny but he used to understand the idea of celebrating after your mandatory drug test. Now he usually just sits, drinks a beer or two, and tries to avoid contact with everyone. There’s something especially depressing about it during this time of year.

Benny’s spent the last few days mulling over the best way to ask you out. He regrets not asking you when he was giving you the news about Stuart. Although there’s a part of him that thinks maybe you would have felt obligated to say yes given the circumstances. He thinks about asking you tonight, if they end up there, but he doesn’t want to do it in front of the guys because you might feel obligated then too, maybe even feeling sorry for him and not wanting to embarrass him in front of everyone by saying no. If you say yes, he wants it to be because you actually mean it, he doesn’t want there to be any room for doubt.

His decision is made for him, because when they get to Glazy for You, you aren’t there. Benny can’t remember if there’s ever been a time when you haven’t been there, behind the counter, greeting him warmly. It’s a little bit of a shock to his system to see a middle-aged man in a goofy Christmas sweater in your place. Benny’s good at thinking up doomsday scenarios and imagines one in which you’re trying to avoid him, so you no longer work this early in the morning. But then he thinks of when you hugged him and that even though it was quick, it was like your touch had gone directly to his heart. He doesn’t stay much longer, opting to go home, lay in his bed, and try to figure out what he’s going to do.

—- 

You used to hate working during the holidays. Maybe it’s because you were working for other people and not yourself. Maybe it was because the work you were doing felt unimportant and people expected you to care even when everything else around you was winding down. Five years ago the thought of working on Christmas Eve would have made you want to walk into traffic. Now it feels different, like maybe you’re contributing to the holiday experience versus missing out on it entirely. You’ve always loved Christmas, but Christmas Eve is your favorite day of the year. It just feels more special somehow. There’s anticipation and excitement in the air. It’s possible it’s a product of all the Christmas movies you’ve watched over the years where there’s the idea that anything seems possible on this day. There’s something about the idea of your life changing for the better, surrounded by twinkle lights and ornaments that you find very appealing.

The morning is kind of slow–you spend most of it watching holiday episodes of tv shows on your phone. Around 11am you start cleaning up–taking trays out of cases, boxing up the donuts that are left to drop off at the comic book shop next door. You’re looking forward to going home and laying on the couch the rest of the day, queuing up your standard Christmas Eve movies. You’re ready to watch Scrooged and feel abnormally homesick, but then put on Christmas Vacation and remember why it’s never a good idea to spend Christmas with your entire family.

You’re in the back when you hear the bell on the door jingle, letting you know someone is out front. You consider just staying where you are, pretending no one is here so you can wrap up your day. You don’t want to have to tell anyone that you can’t help them with their donut emergency–getting yelled at on Christmas Eve is not something you’ve prepared yourself for today. So it’s a pleasant surprise when you make your way back out to the front and you see Benny.

“Hey, this is a—hi.” You’re not sure why you’re suddenly unable to put together a decent sentence.

Benny rubs the back of his neck with his hand, “Is this a bad time?”

“No. No, well. I mean, unless you were looking for a few dozen donuts. Then it definitely is.”

Benny smiles, “Actually,  I, um, was,” he pauses and tries to collect himself, he can suddenly feel his heart beating in his ears, “I wanted to ask you out. On a date.” The feeling has spread to his skull.

When he says it, it’s almost like the words traveled through your brain and you can’t comprehend what’s actually happening. Benny, the guy you’ve been harboring your fragile middle school crush on, is here asking you out. It makes little, if any sense to you.

“Are you just trying to get more free donuts?”

Benny shakes his head no, “I promise I’m not.”

You’re quiet as you consider what he’s asked–trying to reprocess the information in your mind so that it makes sense. When all the words are finally in place and you repeat them in your mind, you feel some of those flowers that you’d walled up in your stomach starting to push through the cracks.

“Yeah, okay.” You grab a business card from the counter, write your number on the back, and hand it to Benny.

Benny’s not sure he’s ever heard anything better than yeah, okay in his life, it’s like a bolt of lightning right to his core. He puts the card with your number in the chest pocket of his jacket, the safest place he can think of.

“Great. Amazing.” Benny laughs nervously. “I need to get back to work. I’ll text you.” 

“Okay. Well, have a good Christmas, Benny.” 

“You too.” 

Benny gives his standard small wave as he leaves and you lock the door after him. When he’s out of sight you let out a squeal and excitedly dance in place. Your phone vibrating in your back pocket interrupts you mid-happy dance. 

Hey, it’s Benny. Are you free for dinner on the 27th at 7?

Benny watches dots appear and then disappear on his phone. It feels a little bit like torture as he sits in his truck waiting for you to respond.

 Dinner on the 27th at 7 sounds great

Benny releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, Let me think of a place and I’ll text you the address

Sounds good. And you meant Dec 27th right?

Benny laughs to himself, Yes dec 27. I’m not going to wait until jan to take you to dinner

Just making sure 🙂

You read his last text at least ten more times before finally going back into the kitchen like you had intended. Each time you read it, there’s a sensation in your stomach like bricks dissolving and flowers blooming again.

—-

Benny texts you on the morning of the 26th with a restaurant name and an address. You already have the sense that he’s different, the type of person who has follow-through. You try to temper your excitement about dinner with him, not wanting to do that thing you sometimes do where you make something out to be more than it is. You keep telling yourself that it’s just dinner, nothing more. But as you pull up to the restaurant a few minutes late and see Benny standing outside, looking nervous in dark denim and a green flannel, you let yourself think that maybe it could be a little more than just dinner. 

“Sorry I’m a little late, I hope you weren’t waiting long?”

Benny smiles when he sees you standing in front of him, “I just got here a few minutes ago.” 

It’s a lie; the last one he’ll tell tonight; but he doesn’t want you to know that he was so amped up about this evening that he got to the restaurant thirty minutes early. On the way in, when you pass in front of him, your perfume delicately floats by him. It’s earthy, but slightly sweet, with cinnamon and vanilla blending neatly in–he’s sure it’s the most beautiful thing that he’s ever smelled. 

It’s a French restaurant, one that you’ve never been to before, but it’s cozy and still in the Christmas spirit. There are multicolored lights strung up and silver tinsel hanging from the ceiling. 

“Have you been here before?” Looking at Benny from across the table and you can see flecks of silver in his facial hair catching the light of the candle on the table. 

“My sister and her husband had their tenth anniversary party here last year. Most of my restaurant choices come from wherever she has an anniversary party.” 

You laugh, “Nice. Do you just have the one sister?”

Benny has just the one sister, you learn, among other things. You find talking to Benny is easy, he doesn’t give one word answers to questions like some men you’ve gone out with. Where trying to get to know them is like trying to get to know a slab of pavement. He’s funnier than you thought, something that you didn’t expect, but is a nice surprise.

“Did you always want to be a detective?”

Benny butters a piece of bread, “To be honest, the only thing I wanted to be growing up was a magician. I guess I saw one too many David Copperfield specials as a kid.”

You start laughing, “Do you know any magic tricks?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know. What about you?”

“I don’t know any, no.” You shrug jokingly as Benny laughs. “But, yeah, I guess I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to be doing. I’m lucky that things have worked out how they have.” 

Benny’s curious now, “You didn’t always work in a bakery?”

“Nope. I actually used to work in tech. It’s kind of a long story.”

“Well, I’m not in any hurry to end the evening.”

There’s something about Benny that puts you at ease, that makes you comfortable enough to want to open up to him. Something that you would never normally consider doing on a first date. You don’t feel the need to downplay that you made a lot of money when a company you worked for in New York was bought out. He doesn’t flinch when you tell him that the reason you moved to California was because of your now ex-husband. He tells you about his own divorce and for the first time in a long time you don’t feel so unlike yourself on a first date. It doesn’t feel scary telling him that you felt insignificant in your own life because of your work and your marriage. That every conversation with your husband made you feel like a burden.There’s a moment when you start to apologize, out of habit, but he stops you. He smiles when you say that the divorce was the best thing to happen to you because it–and you hate to say it like this–gave you your power back. 

“I always wanted to own my own business and I love donuts, so when the divorce happened, I just said fuck it, and went for it. Just threw myself into it.”

“I’m glad you did, I don’t know where else I’d get an apple fritter that good. And for free.” 

“Yeah, about that.” You smile playfully, “I’m going to have to start charging you before you put me out of business.” 

Benny makes a show of looking at his watch, pretending to want to leave, “I guess we should probably call it an evening then?”

He likes the way you laugh, how it’s kind of loud and fills the room. It makes him feel good, to hear you laugh, to see you smile; like he’s responsible for some bit of happiness you’re experiencing.

“See, I knew this was a scam.”

As the waiter clears the table and they wait for the check, Benny asks you what your favorite donut is. 

You don’t even have to think about it, “Definitely a maple bar.”

Benny watches as your eyes light up, telling him how you first had one when you spent the summer between fifth and sixth grade visiting your aunt in Seattle. He listens to you describe how your mom was, in the nicest terms you can find, an extreme dieter, who tried her best to pass all of her food issues down to you, and never let donuts in the house. But your aunt didn’t care and the first thing she did once she would pick you up from the airport was take you to her favorite bakery. It was the highlight of every summer after that until you graduated high school. It was the first donut you learned how to make because on the east coast they’re hard to find. You laugh when you say the best part of moving to the west coast is that every donut place has maple bars, but you’d like to think that yours are the best. Benny can’t help but think it’s cute.

Benny doesn’t want the night to end; he knows that you took a cab to the restaurant so he offers to drive you home. You try not to sound too eager in accepting his offer, but fail.

“Yeah, I’d love that.”

You ask him if he wants you to put your address into google maps for directions, but he doesn’t need them. Benny spends so much time driving all over the city that he knows every street, every highway, every interstate. The map exists in his head; he can get anywhere without really having to think about it. Benny drives you through some unfamiliar, but beautiful neighborhoods. The homes are still decorated and lit up, it’s like driving through the set of a Christmas movie–the only thing missing is snow.

You ask him more about his job, the guys he works with. You like hearing the stories that Benny has about them. You can tell by the way he talks about him, that he’s closest with Connors. You finally learn everyone’s first names and how Benny got his nickname–which you had previously googled out of curiosity. You ask if it bothers him to be called a drunk.

“Knowing the shit they all get into, not really.”

He says that it doesn’t matter what they call him because he knows that in any situation they’ll have his back and he’ll have theirs. That’s what he cares about.

When he pulls up to your house; a small, one-story home, string lights along the frame and around the windows; it looks exactly like he’d imagined. You both sit quietly for a few minutes unsure what to do next. 

Eventually you unbuckle your seatbelt, “I had a really good time tonight, Benny.”

“Me too. Come on, I’ll walk you to your door.” he looks over at you, “protect and serve, you know.” Benny knows it’s a dumb joke, but you laugh anyway.

When you get to the top of your steps, you find it hard to say goodbye. His face is illuminated by the Christmas lights and you can tell he doesn’t want to say goodbye either. You start to say something, you’re not even sure what, but no words come out because Benny’s mouth is on yours, his hands gently cradling your face. His lips are soft and you can feel the warmth of his tongue asking for permission. You drop your keys onto the porch and pull him closer to you by his belt loops.

It feels like hours have passed when Benny finally pulls away, “Sorry. I’ve been wanting to do that for months.”

You rest your hands on his chest, “Next time,” you gently tug on his shirt collar, “don’t wait so long.”

Benny smiles as he watches you crouch down to pick up the keys you dropped. When you stand back up, he reaches towards your face, his fingers grazing behind your ear, “Hold on, you have something in your—” Benny sweeps his fingers against your hair and when he brings his hand in front of you, he’s holding a small, folded piece of paper. 

You take it from him, unfolding it. When you see the words ‘what are you doing for new years?’ written down you start grinning, “So you do still know some magic tricks.”

Benny places his hand on your neck, his thumb stroking your cheek, “A few.”

[the-hinky-panda]

Hinky’s Masterlist

Minors DNI: The content on this blog is intended for adults (18+). By following or engaging with this content, you are agreeing that you are 18 or older. Do not interact if you are not 18 or over.

Ask: I love analyzing character, plot, storytelling methods, so if you ever want to talk about those things, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me! I also love hearing other people’s ideas so please, share those as well!

A03: Here is the link to my AO3 account. I have a lot of stories with OCs there if you like reading those. I’ve just started getting into writing the Reader stories.

Tag List: Sign up for your favorite characters here! 

Fic Fests:

October 2022 Fic Fest

**All stories are Fem!Reader and are explicit 

Dustland Fairytale - Complete

Mariposa - Complete

Pura Vida (An Alternate Ending to Mariposa) - Complete

Los Regalos - Ongoing series

La Chaparrita - Ongoing Series

After We Fall - Ongoing Series

By Land, Sea, and Air - Ongoing Series

How To… - Ongoing Series

The IT Series - Ongoing Series

The Penny Series - Ongoing Series

The Tremont Tempest - Ongoing Series

The Dog - Ongoing Series

The Lens - Ongoing Series

Sacrifice - Complete

Oneshots for Sacrifice:

Otherworldly

Ghastly

La Finca - Ongoing Series

Eldritch - Complete

The Florist - Complete

The Community Universe (in collaboration with @bullet-prooflove​)

The Medic Series (Coco Cruz x OFC! Morgan Fox)

The Preacher’s Wife Series (Hank Loza x OFC! Maggie Fox)

The Gin Blossom Series (Gilly Lopez x Reader)

Stand Alones: 

Vanishing Act (Kevin Jimenez x Fem!Reader)

Dog Days are Over (Chibs Telford x Fem!Reader)

Strings (Les Packer x Fem!Reader)

The Drowning Kind (Sean Renard x Fem!Reader)

The Seasons Series: 

The Fall Series (Porthos x OFC Reader)

The Winter Series (Aramis x OFC Reader)

The Spring Series (Athos x OFC Reader)

The Summer Series (Treville x OFC Reader)

Boss Mare Series (Jamie Dutton x OFC reader)

The Hare (Richard “Ritchie” Jerimovich x OFC reader)

Out of the Woods (Mitch Keller x OFC!Reader)

June Bug (Goodie Carangi x OFC!Reader)

Forged (Bill Bevilaqua x OFC!Reader)

War of the Roses (Bill Bevilaqua xOFC!Reader)

Vice (Armand Truisi x OFC!Reader)

[chemicalalice]

Oh.

My.

God.

YES! THIS! I LOVE IT!!

First off there is a serious lack of Murphy Connors fic out there so THANK YOU!

Second @tropes-and-tales always writes THE BEST Benny stuff.

If you do one thing for yourself today, READ THIS! 100/10, will read again in five minutes

Sharing is Caring

(Murph Connors x F!Reader; Benny Magalon x F!Reader)

CW:  Mild angst. Smut (Cuckholding as a kink; open relationships; mention of threesome; mention of foot fetish; brief oral, m! receiving; less brief oral, f! receiving; PiV, protected). 18+ only.

Word Count: 8434

AN:  This was originally requested for Kinktober 2023 (oops) by an anonymous person!

Of all the guys, Murph Connors has always been the least forthcoming about his romantic life.  Big Nick, Henderson, Z…they all lay their love lives out for the scrutiny of the others.  Their divorces, their conquests, their ball-and-chain back home giving them grief, their sweet new thing just a phone call away.  The baby mamas and the ones that got away.

Murph is something of a mystery with most of his personal life anyway.  Stakeouts and hotel parties alike, he’s always more likely to sit and smoke and listen thoughtfully than he is to open up about his time away from Major Crimes.

Which is all to say:  Benny is never clear on when Murph started dating you.  The big hulking asshole just brought you around one evening—a low-key night at a dive bar. 

It was jarring, the first time the guys met you.  You knew a lot about them, and they knew nothing about you.  By the end of the night… they still don’t know much about you.  Which may be why you and Murph became a couple:  you had a slickness to how you answer their questions, a cool way of turning their queries back around on them. 

You ended up leaving them that first night early.  You leaned over and brushed a kiss over Murph’s stubbled face, and you waved at the guys and said it’s been a pleasure, and then you were gone.

“Nice girl,” Big Nick offered, a touch sardonic.  “Playing your cards close to the vest, huh?”

Benny lifted his glass of beer towards Murph and added, more nicely, “good for you, Connors.  She seems great.”

Murph chuckled and shook his head a bit.  “You have no idea, man.”

-----

If you’re like a case file, Benny only builds you up little by little.  One tiny gleaned fact at a time.

When Murph puts in for some PTO because he’s taking you back east for a long weekend.  “She’s had a rough fucking month with work,” he says, and that’s how Benny learns that you work in the family courts system in some capacity.

When Murph comes in on a Monday stiff and limping.  “She took me fucking paddle boarding.  You ever do that shit?  Fuck, every part of me hurts.”

When you show up unannounced one morning, in a sharp wool suit and heels that click on the floor.  You smile at Murph and hand him his lunch.  “You forgot this,” you tell him, and you strain on your toes to kiss him lightly. 

And that same moment, Big Nick comes out of his office and asks Connors if his mommy brought him his bologna sandwich.  You are quick to flip him off and retort that you just came from his mom’s place, Momma Big Nick sends her regards and says he should call more often, which makes the guys laugh.

When Murph hooks up with one of the hired girls at a hotel party.  Benny is no angel, but he goes out on the balcony to smoke a cigarette, and he feels a sting of something.  Disappointment in Murph?  Pity for you? 

When, days later, Benny brings it up to Murph.  “Kinda shitty, man,” he says, even though none of them are saints by any stretch, and both Z and Big Nick are serial cheaters.  Benny supposes he thought better of Murph and his whole strong-and-silent routine, mistook his reticence for a version of virtue.

When, a beat later, Murph looks at him in surprise and says, “it’s all aboveboard, bubba.  We’re in an open thing.”

When Benny can’t come up with a reply fast enough, Murph takes in his expression and adds, “oh, yeah, didn’t you know?  She’s way chill with a lot more than you’d think.” 

-----

When Murph brings you around for Z’s birthday party.  You and Benny end up in the kitchen together, restocking a cooler of beer together.  Benny clears his throat, and you glance at him.  Your lips are curved in a bemused smile, and before he can even voice his question, you preempt him and say, “you’ve got questions, huh?”

Benny nods.

“It’s only complicated when you think of it through the framework of antiquated social mores.”

What can he say to that?  When has Benny ever really sat and considered the framework of antiquated social mores?

You touch his forearm softly.  “What I mean is, Murph and I are never going to get married and have kids and a house in the suburbs.  Murph isn’t built for that and neither am I.  So why not do our own thing, recognizing that it will end eventually?  Why not have a little fun?”

“Not about that wife and mom life, then?” he asks with a smile, though he’s still out of his depths.  Every woman he’s known has wanted those things—or at least he thought they did.  He’s been married twice himself, one small son from the second one.  His mother, his sisters, his cousins, every woman he’s dated… they all seemed to be marching towards the same template, right?

“Marriage is just a legal contract that almost never benefits the woman.  And children?”  You laugh with a tinge of bitterness.  “In this world?  Maybe I love my children so much that I’ve decided to never foist them into this existence.”

“Grim.”

You cock your head at him.  Appraise him.  “Did Murph ever tell you what I do for a living?”

“You work in family courts, right?”

“I’m a minor’s attorney for the Juvenile Court.”

“Oh.  Shit.”  Benny’s work sometimes touches on juvenile cases, abuse of children.  Neglect.  But only sometimes, and he can’t imagine dealing with it exclusively.

“Oh shit is right.”  You don’t say more.  You finish dumping the ice into the cooler, then say in a brighter tone, “you’re up, Borracho.  Carry the cooler out, will you?  I’d hate for all that work at the gym to go to waste.”

If Benny perhaps preens at the unintended compliment, and if he perhaps flexes more than necessary as he carries the cooler, no one mentions it. 

-----

The other guys must have a passing interest in you too, and Murph feeds them breadcrumbs of information over months and months.

The fact that yes, you’re pretty chill about things, but also pretty adventuresome.

The fact that you have a nice little bungalow in Little Armenia, and in a fact that both shocks Benny and kinda, sorta turns him on, you have a hidden sex room in that nice little bungalow.

“What the fuck is a sex room?” Henderson asks, and Murph actually blushes at the question.  His face turns florid, but he answers with a cryptic, “look it up yourself, man.”

Which Benny does later that night on incognito mode. 

Other things that come out, over time and usually by accident with Murph is just a touch too loose with the booze sometimes at their parties.  He spills the salacious stuff and the sweet stuff, both.

You have a secret OnlyFans where you deal exclusively in foot stuff.  You never show your face, and you have a small but dedicated clientele who pay outrageous sums for you to do weird shit with your admittedly very lovely feet.  One guy pays for you to step on elaborate desserts, to get frosting between your toes.  Another guy pays you to flex and contort your feet around various sex toys.  Another pays to watch you paint your toenails in colors he chooses.

“It pays really well,” Murph says as the guys laugh and rib him.  “How the hell do you think she afforded the down payment for that house?”

You are trying to learn Japanese (why asks Big Nick, and Murph shrugs and says why not? Then adds, “she loves Japanese cinema, man, and she doesn’t trust that the subtitles get it right.”)

You set up a threesome for Murph’s birthday last year, you and a woman you had carefully vetted. Afterwards, the three of you had sat in the kitchen and ate leftover apple cake from the Armenian bakery down the street.

You live across the street from a widow who has no family, so you routinely check on her, make double recipes when you cook, and make sure she’s good.

Once, at a hotel party (one that Benny wasn’t at because he had his son that weekend), Murph hooked up with a hired girl and had you on Facetime for the entire exchange.  At your request.  And that it tapped into some unrealized jealous streak, so when Murph dropped by your place afterwards, you fucked him senseless.

“Best sex of my life,” he mumbles around the mouth of his beer bottle.

And how the experience has opened up a new avenue of exploration.  How you’re on the lookout for a willing candidate to fuck so Murph can be jealous.  So Murph can be cuckolded.

Big Nick lifts his hand at that revelation.  “I volunteer.  Shit, man.  Sign me up.”

Murph snorts and shakes his head, and he changes the subject as elegantly as a drunk person can, but his eyes slide over to Benny and linger there a beat too long for it to mean nothing.

-----

“She likes you, you know,” Murph tells him weeks later. 

They’re on a stakeout, and when Benny turns to look at his partner, Murph is just gazing straight ahead out of the windshield.  Benny lifts his eyebrows in surprise.

“She doesn’t know me.”

“She does.  Better than you think, bubba.”

“We had half of a conversation once.”  Benny reaches back through his memory and finds nothing else.  No meaningful glances, even.  No lingering touches.

Murph reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out his pack of smokes.  He shakes one loose and offers the pack to Benny, who waves him off. 

“You interested?” Murph asks as he pulls out a lighter, sparks up.  He takes a deep drag, breathes out plumes of smoke. 

Benny hesitates to answer.  Of course he’s interested.  You’ve been pinging on his internal radar since you turned up on the scene, but how the fuck does he tell Murph that?  You may be chill and Murph may be chill, but it feels precarious, fucking with his partner’s woman.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Murph offers helpfully.  “You don’t have to answer.  Just know that she’s interested in you.”

“It’d be a dicey thing to fuck with your woman, Connors.”

Murph snorts.  “It’s up to you, but maybe you aren’t getting it.  She isn’t my woman.  If she heard you call her that, she’d lay into you.”

“Then who the fuck does she belong to if not you?”

Another snort, and Murph shoots him a scathing look.  “Man, it’s the twentieth century.  She belongs to herself, you fucking caveman.”

Benny chuckles, shakes his head.  “Yeah, okay.  You’re a regular Gloria Steinem.”

“I’m a pretty enlightened kind of guy.”

“But it’s the twenty-first century.”

“Close enough.”

-----

The next time Benny sees you, it’s at Murph’s place.  For once, the stingy bastard is opening up his own wallet and hosting an evening.  There’s a fight on pay-per-view, and Murph lays out a surprisingly robust spread of pizza, wings, and booze.  Big Nick invites a few of his regular girls.

Your contribution to the evening is your presence and the spoils from your visit to a dispensary.  You settle on the couch beside Murph, cross-legged and leaning forward as you roll a joint.  Murph’s big paw rests idly on your back, steadying you, and Benny watches from the corner of his eye.

When you light one up, you take a deep inhale, blow it out slowly.  You pass it to Murph, who declines, who passes it to Z, who takes a hit, who passes it to Benny.

He usually doesn’t bother with pot, but when he glances over and sees you watching him, he lifts it to his lips and takes a hit as well.  It’s smooth, tastes faintly of something citrus, and when he exhales, he can see you smiling at him through the plume of smoke.

-----

The shit you’ve brought is strong, and by the time the party settles in, Benny’s head is swimming.  Everything has a halo to it, bright and golden, and he knows he has a goofy grin on his face but he can’t quite care.

“That must hurt,” you tell him.  Everyone has shifted around, drifted.  Henderson and Z are the only two watching the fight in earnest.  Big Nick is off with one or more of the hired girls, and Murph is stretched out on the couch and drowsing despite the TV noise and music.

Benny is outside on the patio, looking up at the sky and wishing he didn’t live in a place with so much smog.  Then you’re standing over him, smiling, and you gesture at the bit of free step beside him.  He nods, and you join him.

“What hurts?” he asks.

You gesture at his face.  “You’re smiling a lot.  Pretty stoned, huh?”

“Why would it hurt?”

“You’re not exactly a smiley sort of guy.”

He laughs, and you giggle along with him.  “Yeah, Connors said you know me pretty well.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”  He pauses, blinks against his dry eyes.  “What do you know, then?”

“You’re probably too stoned for this conversation.”

“Nope.  I’m good.  Lay it on me.  What’s my favorite color?”

You shake your head.  “No idea.”

“Favorite food?”

Another shake, paired with a smile.  “Also no idea.”

Benny snorts.  “You don’t know me at all.”

You draw your legs up to your chest and hug your knees closer to you.  You bend your head, rest your cheek on your knees, and fix your gaze on him.

“Funny that you think your favorite color and food is what defines you,” you say. 

The pot has left him dry-mouthed and loose-limbed, so he fumbles as he reaches for his half-empty bottle of beer.  You watch him as he takes a sip, then fumbles to set it back down.

“What defines me then, huh?”

“Murph never told you?”

“Told me what?”  Told him that you were interested?  Told him you might want to fuck him in one of your sexual games, and told him that you were free to do that because you belonged to yourself and no one else?  Benny thinks it all, rapid-fire, but he says none of it.

You turn your head away from him and stare straight ahead, where Murph’s built out a sad-looking fire pit of scavenged bricks and concrete blocks.  “There was a case a while ago.  Couple cooking meth in their house.  South Central. You and Murph were on it.”

Benny remembers.  He has to dig past the pot and past the other cases since then, and then he remembers:  the scrawny dude, the scrawnier woman.  A shitty little house, one of those places where people kept adding on lean-to additions without permits, little more than shacks.  They had a surprisingly sophisticated meth lab, and they also dealt in other unsavory activities:  guns, fenced goods, occasional assault. 

The meth makers had a kid.  Benny remembers that. 

Benny wishes he didn’t remember that.

“You and Murph were on the case, but you were the lead.  By the time their kid came through the system to me, you were off the case.  I guess you got moved onto other things, so when I needed testimony, that’s how I met Murph. 

“I didn’t know.”

“So I do know you, kinda.  I thought it had been Murph, so when I read through the case notes, I told him how impressed I was.  How thorough it was.  How…I don’t know.  There was a barely contained rage in the notes about the conditions that kid was found in.  Murph told me right away they weren’t his notes.  ‘That’s my partner, Borracho,’ he said.”

“What does that tell you about me?” Benny asks, curious. 

You turn your head and look at him again.  “It tells me that I work off of police case notes all the fucking time, and half the time, they barely note the kids caught in the cross-fire.  I read a note from an officer that says ‘child seems small for his age,’ and then I see the kid and it’s obvious they’ve been starved their entire life.  I talk to a detective; he says, ‘yeah, kid had some bruises but kids are always getting dinged up.’  Then I see the x-rays from the medical exam and the kid’s broken more bones in five years of living than you or I will break in our combined lifetimes.”

He doesn’t have a reply for that.  He knows the profession he’s in.  He knows the type of people that it attracts.  He knows that even the well-intentioned get jaded, get burnt out or exhausted by the parade of misery each day. 

“You saw that kid.  You didn’t downplay any of it.  You witnessed and documented it, and because you did all that, I was able to terminate his parents’ rights.  He’s been adopted by a cousin.  She’s a nice lady, out in Lubbock.  Kid has a backyard and a family dog and his own room.  I got a card from them last Christmas.”

Benny breathes out a heavy exhale.  He didn’t realize that’s how you and Murph met, and he never realized you’d known about him all along. 

“Well, shit,” he finally says. 

“You’re a good guy,” you tell him.

He shakes his head.  The way you say it, like you’re capitalizing the “G” in “good.”  He likes to think he is good-ish, but he often feels like he skews more on the bad side of things.  Not evil, but more towards the less admirable traits a man shouldn’t have.  He doesn’t see his son enough.  He doesn’t speak up when Big Nick is behaving badly.  He should go home more, help his mom around the house, spend more time with his nieces and nephews.  He drifts towards inaction, and if he’s learned anything in his career as a cop, doing nothing is often as bad as… doing something bad.

The pot loosens his tongue more than he’d like, and he blurts out, “so I took good case notes and that’s why you want to fuck me?”

You inhale sharply, then burst into gales of laughter.  You release your hold on your knees and stretch your legs out in front of you, plant your palms on the step beside you and laugh. 

“Goddamnit, Benny,” you manage to get out between peals of laughter.  “When did you get so blunt?”

He laughs along with you.  “You brought super-pot.  I’m a fucking lightweight.”

“Oh, god.”  You swipe at your eyes, then stand up.  You turn to go back inside, but you pause and look down at where he’s still settled on the patio step.

“For the record, you took good case notes and that’s why I think well of you.”  A beat, and you add, “I only want to fuck you because you’re hot.”

Hearing you admit it from your own mouth and not secondhand and obliquely from Murph makes Benny’s go all fuzzy in the head, a wave of lust so strong that he has to stay out on the patio for a while until he calms.

-----

“Just curious,” Benny asks Murph a few weeks later.  “How would it work?”

They are on another stakeout on the same miserable case, and Murph grunts from the driver’s seat.  “How would what work?”

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“Jesus, c’mon.”  Benny runs a hand over his jaw.  “Don’t make me say it out loud.”

“You can’t be so squeamish if you’re considering it, bubba.”

“Fine.”  He huffs out a breath through his nostrils, then turns to look out his window.  “How would hooking up with her work?”

He can see Murph turn and look at him; his reflection is a ghost in his window.  He can just make out a wide grin.

“How does it work?” he teases.  “Well, when a guy likes a girl a whole lot, he takes off her clothes—”

“Fuck off.  You know what I mean.”

Benny catches Murph’s shrug in the reflection of the window.  “How would it work if I wasn’t in the picture?”

“It’s that easy?”

“Yeah.  I can give you her number.”

Benny pauses, considers how out of his depth he is.  “And you’d be fine with it?”

Murph chuckles and turns to face forward, his eyes fixed on the house across the street they are scoping out.  “Dude, that time I hooked up at the hotel party and she watched on Facetime?  Then I went home to her?  I thought I was gonna die.  She was like a damned wildcat, and it was amazing.  So yeah, I’d be fine with it.  It’s a fun thing to explore.  You have your fun, I’ll see if I get all jealous like she did.  If I do, then I’ll go fuck her brains out too.  If I don’t, then she got to have fun with a guy she’s got a thing for.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.  Like I said, it’s fun to explore.  Fun to play around with.  Win-win-win all the way around.”

“Sharing is caring,” Benny adds.

Murph laughs.  “Exactly, dude.”

-----

Murph gives him your contact information when they clock out, and he puts a heavy hand on Benny’s shoulder.

“Treat her good, though, yeah?  She’s chill and fun but she’s also kind of a softy, so be nice to her.”

Benny nods.  “I will.”  He takes a beat, then adds in a lighter tone, “any tips?”

Murph laughs and drops his hand from Benny’s shoulder.  “You’re on your own there, bubba.”

-----

Benny probably asks Murph at least ten more times if it’s okay.

At the same time, he asks you probably fifty times if it’s okay.

“You seem uncertain,” you tell him over the phone one night as you try to hash out plans.  “You know you don’t have to do anything.  Hell, if you want to just go and grab a beer, I’m down.”

Benny chuckles at that—like he’d be content with just sharing a drink after living with you in the forefront of his thoughts for months. 

“Maybe it’s just difficult because I live in a framework of antiquated social mores.”

“That framework starting to feel like a cage yet?”

“You planning a jailbreak for me?”

“Yup.  Operation Free Magalon.”

He glances around his apartment:  spartan, utilitarian.  The latest in a long string of places.  He’s bounced between apartments and homes, marriage to divorce to marriage to divorce, and now he’s back here alone.  It’d be nice, he thinks, to let loose like this.  To explore something different. 

“When works for you?” he asks, and by the end of the call you have a date and time for him to go over to your place and hang out.

“Still no pressure though, Benny,” you remind him gently.  “We can hang out and see what happens.  If nothing happens, we’ll have had a nice evening of good company.”

-----

It turns out to be a nice evening of good company after all.

Benny goes to your place and brings a bottle of wine, because he has no idea the etiquette of this sort of thing.  He’s never actually seen you drink wine, and you take it from him with thanks, but then set it aside and tell him that dinner is about ready.

Because you cook for him.  Because of course you fucking do.

He relaxes little by little.  You eat, and you make a pitcher of margaritas light on the tequila so neither of you get wasted.  You chat, stilted at first, then more comfortably.  After dinner, you shift to the living room and the conversation continues.  You ask if he wants to spark up, then joke and tell him you have a milder strain, so the two of you share a joint, passing it back and forth, loosening up even more.

It probably helps, knowing that you want him.  Benny has always been secure in himself, but never as blustery confident as Big Nick or even Henderson.  There’s always been a thread of submissiveness in the beginning of his relationships, a subtle feeling-out before making a move.  He’s always wanted to know it was a close-to-sure thing before putting himself out there.

The tequila and pot relaxes him enough that he unclenches his shoulders, his arms.  He unclenches his jaw.  When you move towards him, he’s able to meet you halfway in a smooth motion.  He’s able to get an arm around your waist and maneuver you into his lap right out of the gate.  You settle there, your weight so close to where his cock twitches at the change to the evening.  Then you cup his head in your hands and lean in to kiss him.

It's soft, at first.  It surprises him how softly you kiss him.  He’s way out of his depths, and he supposes he has a lot of preconceived notions.  Part of him thought you’d open your door in some dominatrix getup, all patent leather and metal hardware, and Benny realizes that he doesn’t have much of a handle on any kinks beyond the tamest ones.  Because you answered the door in a simple dress, and now you’re kissing him gently, almost shyly, your hands soft against his face as you settle more of your weight on him.

It progresses in slow movements.  You kiss.  You deepen the kiss.  Your hands touch him in widening arcs:  his face, then his neck, then his shoulders.  His chest, his arms.  Lower, down his belly, and your palm slips under the hem of his shirt to touch him low, right where the waist of his jeans cut into him.

Lower still, as you kiss him, as you sweep your tongue against his, as you taste him and breathe against him and make little moans that make him grow harder.  You feel him there; you rock against him, and he swears he can feel the wet heat of you through your panties and through his own clothing.  Your hand fumbles at his belt, his button, his zipper, and he’s about to reach down to help you but you succeed.  A beat later, he feels your hand on him, grasping him lightly through his boxers. 

He can’t help the moan that tears out of his throat.  He hasn’t been touched since his ex-wife, the second one, left him.

He slides his hands from where they rest on your hips.  He slides them back and grips the fat of your ass, kneads and grasps you.  He pulls you closer to him, and you pull your hand away from where you’re grasping him.  You steady yourself, hands on his shoulders, and now he definitely can feel the wet heat of you:  the head of his cock has slipped the bounds of his boxers, and he bumps against the damp cotton of your panties.

“Benny,” you breathe against his mouth.  “Can we move this somewhere else?”

In a less-than-smooth move, he shuffles forward with you still in his lap, then staggers into a standing position.  He keeps his hands under your ass, hauls you up, and you wrap your legs around him. 

“Tell me where to go, baby.”

-----

Benny’s incognito searches made him think your sex room would be something wild:  padded walls with shelves of dildos, perhaps, or red satin sheets.  A piece of weird leather furniture, maybe, like he saw on one site.  Chains hanging from the ceiling like a meat locker.

Murph oversold it a little.  It’s just a separate bedroom, done up nicer than the average guest room.  There’s dark, soft-looking bedding on the king-sized bed.  The frame is wrought iron, and sure, there’s handcuffs dangling from either side of the headboard.  The lighting is soft and low, and there’s a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed that Benny will one day learn is full of sex toys, neatly organized by type.

He takes it all in in a split second and no longer, because you’re in his arms as he carries you to the bed.  He moves to lay you down, but you keep your legs wrapped around him.  He follows you then, an awkward drop but you tug his full weight onto you and kiss him fiercely.

The pot keeps it from being too frenetic.  The eagerness keeps the pot from making it too lazy.  It’s the perfect balance, an ebb and flow of energy and speed.  You strip him quickly, and when he goes too slow in stripping you, you push him away, kneel above him, and tug your dress over your head. 

Benny lays back on the bank of pillows and watches in awe:  your arms lifted up lifts your breasts, and you’re wearing one of those bras that barely covers anything.  Lacy black cups only cover the rounded fullness at the bottom, and he can see where your nipples peek out.  He takes in the rest of you:  the softness of your belly and the curve of your hips, the equally skimpy panties.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he mumbles.  He reacts automatically, grips himself and gives his cock a few pumps with his hand at the sight of you half-naked and kneeling over him.  Backlit by the soft lighting.  Gazing back at him with half-lidded eyes, lips parted.  The pink tip of your tongue skating over your lower lip as you watch him touch himself.

“You do this before?” you ask.  Your voice has a husky quality, either from the tequila or the pot or the moment, or all three.

“Do what?”

“Touch yourself thinking about me.”

No sense in lying.  He’s done it more than once.  He nods at you.

You rock back on your heels and smile at him.  “I’ve thought about you too.”

The admission makes a fresh pulse of desire rocket through him, makes his cock twitch in his hand.  “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

“How’d it go?” 

“Hmm.”  You move to all fours and crawl towards him, and he releases his hold on himself.  You work your way up from the bottom of him, teasing him.

“I thought about you the night I finally met you.”  You say it right near his erection, your warm breath skating over him, making him shiver. 

“And the night that Murph fucked that blonde girl?  I imagined you here, fucking me at the same time.”  Your tongue darts out and licks against him, teasing, lapping up the precum that’s leaked out of him.  Benny groans, and his hips judder upward, but you’re already moving away.  Pressing a kiss on his belly, right below his navel.  Then above it.  Up his sternum, his chest, his collarbones, and your lower body is hovering over his now.

“How would I have fucked you that night?” Benny manages, but it comes out strained.  You lower your weight on him, and he feels how wet you are, your panties drenched as you slide against his erection.  Back and forth, teasing him.  Torturing him.

“On all fours,” you reply.  You suck a line of wet kisses along the side of his neck, mouthing at his tattoo there.  He feels your teeth, your tongue.  Feels your words sink into him when you add, “your hand on the back of my neck, holding me down against the mattress.”

“Fuck, baby—”

“So deep that I can feel you in my throat.  So deep I can taste you.”  You bite the tendon between his neck and shoulder, and he groans, reaches up.  Slides his hand against the back of your skull and holds you there.  You continue rocking against him, sliding against his cock, and he’s glad for the pot because it always keeping him from coming too soon.

The pot also makes it difficult for him to focus completely.  The word taste lodges in his mind, and his thoughts drift in that direction and settle there.  He holds your hips for a moment, but then he reaches up to gently untangle you from where you’re kissing him, and he sits up underneath you.  You smile at him, your lips swollen, and ask what he wants.

“Wanna taste you.”  He reverses it back on you—he bends his head and kisses your neck, sets his teeth against the soft skin of your throat and makes you whine.  “Can I?”

“Fuck yes.”

“Lie down then.”

You do as you’re told, and Benny detours to your tits, has you arch off the bed enough to undo your bra and toss it aside.  He puts his mouth to you, thinks of it as a preview for you.  He lowers his head and nuzzles against your soft skin.  He drags his tongue over the curves of you, breathes against the wet line of spit, and smiles when you whine again.  He blows against one nipple, then the other, then wraps his lip against one.  Rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger, pinches lightly until you hiss.  Switches to the other:  his mouth on one, his hand pinching the other, and you making the sweetest goddamned noises he’s ever heard.

He makes his way lower.  He nuzzles here too, feels the delicious damp of your panties.  Takes a deep, blatant inhale of you, and it sets you squirming underneath him.  Eager.

Benny hooks his hands under the waistband and draws them down your legs, and you lift your hips to help.  Completely bare now, he rocks back on his heels to look his fill, and his earlier assessment was correct.

“Perfect,” he mutters, and the praise makes you squirm, makes you fix him with a heavy gaze.

Makes you part your legs as he stares down at you, drawing his eyes to where you’re already a mess just from fooling around with him.  You’re so fucking wet, your arousal slick on your inner thighs, and Benny is too stoned to finesse it:  he just dives in, clumsy and impatient, his facial hair rasping over your sensitive folds.

“God, Ben,” you moan.  He feels your hands on his head, and you tug against his hair.  Pull him firmer against your hot flesh.  He doesn’t need any convincing.

Eating pussy is generally one of his favorite moves in the bedroom.  Men who get squeamish about it mystify Benny; to him, there’s nothing hotter than literally tasting a partner.  To putting one’s mouth to a person.  When he was much younger, he could get off just by eating a partner out, and it never bothered him when he did.

It helps when his partner is so damned into it too.  Benny’s been with partners who didn’t like it, too traumatized by previous boyfriends who gave them shit about it.  You?  You’re all in.  You steer his head bossily, and he’s happily led.  You moan and swear in equal message; you groan out his name and praise and gentle instructions on what to do more of.

He works the flat of his tongue over your seam, and he reaches with a hand to part your folds to reveal the slick inner core of you.  He laps at your hole, then draws his tongue upward to swirl around your clit.

“So good, Benny,” you sigh.  “Oh, just like that.  Please.  Don’t…fuck, don’t stop.”

He sets that rhythm, over and over.  He adds a thick finger, slips it into your clenching heat, and he groans at the feel of you, of being inside you.  It makes your hips press upwards, makes you breathe out his name, so he adds a second finger, lazily slides them in and out of you as he laps up and down your slit.  He wraps his lips around the firm bud of your clit and suckles.  You lift your hips again, chasing the sensation, and he chuckles.

“Good?” he growls against your core, and you whine out yes, so good, so fucking good.

“Better than Murph?”

His words don’t give you pause—you go with it.  “Yes,” you whisper.  You sound wrecked, halfway fucked-out, and he hasn’t even gotten his cock in you yet.  “Y-you’re better.”

“Fuck yeah I am.”  He pushes his two fingers deep inside you and feels the answering clench of your cunt.  He crooks them, rubs his fingertips against you from the inside, tests different spots.  Finds it a moment later when a fresh pulse of cum coats his fingers, enough to slick into his palm.

“Murph ever find this?” he asks as he presses against your g-spot. 

“N-never.”

“But I did.”

Another press of your hips, seeking more, needing more.  “You did.  Feels so good, Ben.”

“Gonna come like this?”  He peers up at you from between your thighs and takes in your wrecked expression.

“I’m close,” you warn him. 

“Then let me have it,” he replies.  “Wanna taste you coming in my mouth.”

It only takes another moment, and you do what he says here too:  you tighten your grip on his hair, almost to the point of pain.  You moan his name, and then you come.  Your thighs clamp shut around his head, and there’s a moment where he’s deprived of enough oxygen that he sees sparks in his peripherals.  He grins at the thought of passing out between your legs.  Your orgasm sends a fresh pulse of arousal, and he laps it up as you tremble above him.

Benny makes his way back up to you, and your hands tug him down.  You kiss him deeply, and you must taste yourself on his tongue because you moan against his mouth.

You break the kiss and smile up at him as he catches his breath.  Your hands stroke his shoulders, and your fingertips scratch against his head.  It’s been so long since he’s been touched, he practically purrs under your attention.

“Still good?” you ask.

“You know it.”

“There’s condoms in the nightstand if you want more.”

Yes, Benny wants more.

-----

He gets you on all fours, just as you said you imagined.  He rolls a condom onto himself, gives himself a few experimental pumps with his fist as you shuffle backwards towards him.

“Now, like you said.”  Benny lays a palm along the back of your neck and pushes you down gently until your head is turned and your cheek is pressed against the mattress.  “Like that.”

He can hear how turned on you are when you echo, you’re voice heavy with desire, “just like that.”

“Good?”

“Perfect.”  You wriggle your ass at him, tempting him, and it doesn’t take much.  He grips his cock with his other hand, swipes the tip through your slick.  He teases it a bit, teasing the broad head of his cock along your plump lips, pushes the barest bit into you but then pulls out.  Does it until you whine, and there’s a threatening tone underneath the simpering.  Like there’s only so far he can tease you.

He enters you as slowly as he can.  He wants to feel every inch of you, and he stares down at where he splits you open, where he disappears into your body.  He can feel you try to push back and rush it; the only thing stopping you is his hand on the back of your neck holding you firm.

“Benny…”  It’s a drawn out whine.  A pleading tone. 

“Patience, baby.”  Benny grits his teeth and slides the last inch home, his cock buried to the root, his hips flush against you.  “There we are.”

He feels how tight you are against him, the little twitches against him as you mold to the shape of his cock.  If the analogy is a cliché, so be it:  it’s a perfect fit, a key made for a lock.  He releases his hold on your neck and skates his fingertips down the bumps of your spine.  You shiver against the sensation, and he smacks your ass lightly a beat later. 

“Benny, c’mon.”  Another whine.  “Please.”

“Please what?”  He smacks you again, not hard, and then he sinks his fingertips into the swell of your hips.  Holds you tight against him but only to stop you from moving.

“Please fuck me.”

“Yeah?”  He draws out an inch, thrusts back into you.  “Like that?”

It makes you groan, the sound coming from deep inside you, deep in your belly.  “Just like that.  Just like that, please.”

He does it again:  pulls out a fraction, slides back in, hard and firm.  “Feel good?”

“Fuck yes.”

Again.  Hard enough to jar you forward a bit, and his hands on your hips pull you back.  “You ever been fucked like this?”

“N-no.”

Again, and he pulls out halfway and pauses.  Looks down at where his cock glistens with your arousal, where your cunt twitches and spasms against him.  Struggling to push him out or pull him in, he can’t say for sure.  He pushes forward and pulls you back in one motion, and it knocks the wind out of you, pushes out a guttural moan.

“Murph never fuck you like this?”  He repeats it, a hard thrust that makes you keen this time, then he holds it, buried as far inside you as he can go.  He pulses forward, feels where the base of him grinds against your clit, where his heavy balls press against you.

“Never.  Never!”  Your voice is higher, reedy.  Breathless.  “God, Ben—”

“He’s gonna fuck you after I leave, isn’t he?”  There’s a filament of jealous burning in him.  He doesn’t understand this cuckolding kink from the other side of things.  If you were his, he’d fucking make you his.  He wouldn’t fool around at hotel parties like Murph did; he’d be right here with you, keeping you stuffed full of him, satiated. 

He also doesn’t understand the possession side of things, why it’s such a bad thing.  Of course you belong to yourself.  When he says you’re mine, Benny means a hundred nuanced things.  He means that he’s also yours, that you belong to each other not in an ownership way but in a way he can’t quite express without sounding like some antiquated asshole.  That you’re his to keep safe, to love, to take care of, just as he’d be yours to keep safe and love and care for.

Of course, you aren’t his anyway, and he’s not yours.  This is a borrowed moment, so he deals you a handful of deep, slow thrusts, his cock hitting the end of you and making you whimper each time.

“He’s coming over after this, right?”  Benny asks it again.  He wants you to say it.

“Yes.”

“He gonna fuck you this good?”

You shake your head against the bedding.  “Nuh-uh.”

Benny pulls you tight against him, and he grinds himself into you, pushes every fraction of himself into your clenching heat.  You’re so fucking wet that it goes a brush easier, but he can’t know that he’s deeper than any man’s ever been, that he’s nudging against the mouth of your womb, and that you’re thinking no, Murph’s never fucked me this good because he’s never been so deep inside me, and it’s just like I imagined that time—I can feel Benny in my chest, in my throat.

Benny knows none of what you’re thinking.  Instead, he reaches down and grasps you under your arms.  He hauls you off your hands and up to where he is.  He wraps his arms around your torso, holds you—your back to his chest—and he whispers in your ear, “good.  No one will ever fuck you as good as this.”

You turn your head.  He can see the fucked-out look on your face, the dazed expression, the teary eyes.  Your lips parted as you pant, breathless, then agree with him.  Echo his words, tell him, “no one will ever fuck me as good as you, Ben.”

It ends too quickly after that.  Even with the pot delaying his pleasure, Benny can’t put it off forever.  He feels you as your second orgasm approaches, the way you tighten up against where he’s bouncing you against his cock.  Then, a beat later, you come, and the walls of your cunt ripple against him like you’re trying to pull him into you.  Like you’re trying to consume him, and Benny thinks he wouldn’t mind being consumed by you.

His own orgasm is quick to follow yours.  He feels the telltale heaviness in his gut, the taut tightening of his balls.  In the split second before it breaks around him, he wishes he hadn’t worn a condom.  He wishes he could come inside you, fill you up with himself, leave you a mess for when Murph visits you later. 

He wishes the other man could see you looking blissed-out and satisfied, then could look down and see Benny’s cum trickling out of you.

The mental image—you filled with his spend, the mess of it as it drips from your body—is what pushes him over the edge.  The tension in him snaps, and he pushes in as deeply as he can as he come harmlessly in the latex.

-----

If Murph is due at any point afterwards, Benny can’t tell what the timeline is.  You don’t rush him out.  You don’t harry him along so your real boyfriend can come and take his turn.

In fact, it’s a lazy post-coital scene.  He helps you clean up.  He spends a long moment in your bathroom, sobering up and gazing at his own reflection.  This was a bad idea, he thinks now that his orgasm is behind him. 

There’s too much jealousy but not with the people he’d assume.  He’s the one that burns with jealousy. It's a cuckolding kink that has somehow boomeranged around to hit him, not Murph.

But back in the bedroom, you’re stretched out and sated, a lazy smile on your lips.  You pat the empty space beside you, and Benny takes it.  He puts an arm out and you curl up against his side, then he wraps his arm around you.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Mmm-hmm.  You?”

“Oh yeah.”  You turn your head and kiss him above his collarbone.  “You’re great, you know.”

Benny hums at that but says nothing.  You must read something in it, because you ask, “is this going to be a problem?”

What’s the point in lying?  There’s a hot ball of jealousy sitting like lead in his gut, and it’s not what it was supposed to be.  He was supposed to have a fun little interlude, then go home.  So why’s he the one feeling like he’s being cuckholded?

“I don’t want it to be a problem,” he answers honestly. 

You hear the unspoken “but” in his reply, and you urge him to explain.

“Maybe I wasn’t the best guy for this sort of game.”

“Why not?”

How should he put it? He's got two divorces under his belt. It should be obvious. 

“Because I fall pretty easily, I guess,” he replies.

You twist in his hold and settle your chin on his chest so you can gaze up at him.  “This wasn’t a game, you know.”

Benny snorts.  “No?”

“Murph and I have an open thing.”

“And you wanted a guy to fuck you so he could play around with being jealous about it.”

You shake your head faintly.  “You’re missing the point, Benny.  I wanted to be with you.  The cuckholding was secondary.  It’s not the other way around.  I wasn’t looking for a guy for the sake of cuckholding Murph.  I was looking to be with you first and foremost.”

It gives him the barest bit of comfort, but you still sense his confusion.  You sigh and push away from him, and you leave the room for a moment.  When you return, you have your phone in your hand, and you’re typing as you walk back to the bed.

“There,” you say.  You set the phone down on the nightstand, then crawl back in to lie down beside him.

“There what?”

“There…I texted Murph.  Told him not to come over.”

“But—”

“He sent back a thumbs up.”  You strain to brush a kiss onto his frowning mouth.  “It’s all good, Benny.”

He furrows his brow because he can’t quite believe you, and he tells you so, which makes you sigh again but smile.

“It’s an open thing.  It’s not serious.  He messes around with other women, I mess around with other men, and sometimes our outside stuff overlaps, but usually it doesn’t.”

“You sure?”

You nod, and you kiss him again.  Softly.  Lingering.  “I promise,” you assure him when you break away.

“I’m sorry to mess it up.”  Benny had been prepared to slink home and lick his wounds, but it turned into a massive non-issue.  He feels a sting of guilt all the same.

“Oh, you didn’t.”  You snuggle closer to him, the softness of your breasts pressing against his arm.  “But now that there’s no time limit on your exit, we could go again.”

Benny’s cock twitches at the thought.  “Yeah?”

“Mmm-hmm.”  You kiss him again, then run the tip of your tongue over his collarbone.  “But maybe this time, you don’t mention Murph at all while we’re fucking.”

“Deal.”  Benny reaches his hand and cups your breast, tests the weight of it in his palm.  Runs the pad of his thumb over your hardening peak. 

The second time that night, it goes slower.  It’s softer:  gentle movements against each other, and without the specter of Murph in the room—glowering from the corner, the cuckold—it’s an entirely different experience.  It’s quieter but deeper, more intimate, and when he comes a second time, Benny doesn’t think of the other man at all.

He falls asleep, though he doesn’t mean to.  He means to go home either way that night, but he falls asleep with you in his arms, with your arms around him, and the thought that he falls asleep to is this:  maybe he’s old-fashioned and maybe he falls too easily, but you could be his, and he could be yours, and it might be amazing if he could convince you to consider it.

[chemicalalice]

Hello! I hope you’re having a good day! May I please request Benny Magalon coming home to his wife and kids after a long day of work, tucking the kids into bed and cuddling with his wife.. (your work is amazing btw) 🙂

Title: Homecoming

Summary: Benny at home after a bad day. A small, extremely fluffy, pretty angsty, slice-of-life, with soft!Benny

Pairing: Benny Magalon x female!Reader

Warnings: Pretty tame but mentions of child violence/death in regards to his job. Please be mindful of yourself and do not read if this content bothers you.

Word count: 1237

When Benny finally pulled his car in his driveway after a day from hell that included two dead kids, he found himself just sitting there. The engine ticking as it slowly cooled off in the night air was the only noise in the car besides his soft uneven breathing. He felt drained and couldn't even find the energy to push open the car door, let alone pull himself up and out and all the way to his front door.

Most days with this job were bad. But they were the kind of bad that years of seeing the worst of the worst had made him slightly immune too. Bad was relative now. It had to be. Otherwise there was no way someone could stay sane or survive in his line of work. He had seen it before. Burnout. Careers that crashed and and went up in flames, ruining families and lives with it. He didn't want that for himself. He didn't want to end up like Nick.

He looked up at his house. A light clicked on in the front window, joining the other lights already glowing in the second story and the kitchen. A small shadow raced by the window and the curtains moved slightly, followed shortly later by an even smaller shadow.

Benny smiled and though it was exhausted, it was genuine. This is what kept him strong, sane. This is what he worked so hard to come home to each night. What made life worth living.

He could picture what was going on inside perfectly. You would be standing over the stove, working on dinner while yelling for your son to slow down so his sister doesn't fall and hurt herself trying to keep up. You wouldn't really expect a reply besides more shrieks and giggles as the kids continued whatever game they were playing.

Benny's chest suddenly burned and he sucked in a breath, everything narrowing down to those glows of light and his intense desire to be in there with you, with his family. He shoved open the car door and practically ran to the front door, not caring if any of his neighbors saw and thought he was crazy. He wanted to be in that light with you, not alone in the dark outside, haunted by the experiences of the day.

The kids practically attacked him as he threw open the door, their shouts of "Daddy" filling him with warmth as they threw their little bodies at his legs. You emerged from the kitchen shortly after, and it was as in the breathe he had felt like he was holding since the car was punched from his body at the sight of you and how, in that moment, he didn't think he had ever seen anything more beautiful. You would have laughed if he had said it out loud. Your shirt had a splash of red sauce across it and you were wearing the sweat pants that had paint stains on them, your hair was messy and your makeup was slightly smeared from a long day, but you had the smile that was just for him. He wanted to kiss you then, properly, but with this kids hanging off him he settled for your quiet "I'm glad you're home" and a soft press of your lips to his cheek before you disappeared back into the kitchen.

-----------------------------------

Benny always insisted on being the one to get the kids ready for bed when he was home. His job caused him to keep odd hours so he wasn't always home for his family's nighttime ritual. He didn't want to wake up one day and realize his kids were all grown up and he missed out on being a part of it.

He idly listened to you wash the dishes from dinner, the faint strains of the music you were listening to drifting up, as the kids splashed in the bath and flooded the floor. He would have to clean it up before you got upstairs and yelled at him. He didn't care though. Seeing his kids happy was all that mattered to him.

He let them play until he heard the music shut off and then he was hustling them out of the bath and into their pajamas. His son was currently obsessed with Where the Wild Things Are so the three of them crowded into his son's bed and he dutifully pulled out the book. His daughter was sleep by the second read through, and his son was having trouble keeping his eyes open by the third.

He moved slowly as he lifted his daughter up and brought her to her own bed, making sure she was tucked in before return to his son placing a kiss on his head before shutting off the light.

You were waiting for him out in the hallway, already changed into your pajamas with hair damp from the shower you had taken. And as the events of the days bubbled up inside of him, the images of the two kids whose lives were ended so cruelly, so early, today he found he couldn't tear himself away from the spot in his kids' doorway, eyes fixated on every slow breath they took.

"Baby?" Your touch on his arm was soft, your voice even softer, worried. His eyes were wet as he turned to look at you. You pulled him to you without another word, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull his face down to nestle in the crook of yours. He never told you the details of his worst cases, and you understood. Saying it aloud was a form of reliving it. You were always there for him if he needed to talk, but some days, like now, he just needed comfort. Nearness. A reminder that he was safe. His family was safe. He was home.

You led him by the hand to the bedroom. He began stripping out of his clothes, not even having the energy for his own shower, and you we sitting on the bed, propped up against the pile of pillows you insisted the bed needed by the time he finished. He crawled up next to you and wrapped his arms around your middle, his head resting on your chest. Your arms wrapped around him as well, and it moments like these they felt like is own personal shield against the world as he shook silently.

The guys from work would rib on him if they saw him like this, had given him shit in the past when he passed on the drugs and the women at their little unsanctioned "office" parties, said what a "good boy" he was. But it didn't bother him. He had everything he wanted right here. And he knew, deep down, that they envied his life; his family; his stability; you. You were beautiful, you were the mother of his children, and you were his. You were there for him in the good times, and you stood by him in his low times, because lord know he wasn't perfect.

You were humming something, he realized. He was too sleepy to really pick up on the tune. Your fingers were running gently through his hair, slowly lulling him to sleep. Thank you, he thought. I love you. I wouldn't survive without you. He wasn't sure if he managed to say it out loud before he finally slipped away.

-------------------------------------

Tag List:

@buckybarneshairpullingkink

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Anon with the Borracho x Killer Klowns ask, tumblr ate your ask, so I hope you find this. I decided to add some of the other LASD boys for flavor, I hope that's okay!

Send In The Klowns

Pairing: Benny "Borracho" Magalon x Reader

Warnings/notes: clowns are creepy; strongly implied death; implied sexy times; violence; language

Rating: R maybe

Word count: 961

The Major Crimes office is practically deserted. Nick has closed himself away in his office, the door shut tight and the blinds closed. 

“Probably fucking sleeping,” Henderson scoffs to himself, flipping a file closed on his desk. It’s been a long day that’s turning into a long night. Murph and Zapata are out getting dinner, and Borracho, well, who knows where the hell he fucked off to. 

You know. A text that said “Meet me” had pulled you away from your desk and into a supply closet. It will be a long night for you too, but at least you’ll have a good memory to get you through. 

The door to Major Crimes opens. Henderson doesn’t hear it until it closes, the blinds rattling against the glass. When he looks up he doesn’t see one of the other men. He doesn’t see anything, just the rattling blinds. Henderson leans back in his chair, taking a deep breath, thinking he must be going crazy. He looks over at Nick’s office, still shuttered off from the world. When he looks back, there’s a clown standing by Murph’s desk. Henderson jumps, pushing his chair away from him as he gets to his feet. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he demands. “How’d you get in here?” He wants to rest his hand on his gun, but it’s sitting in its holster on his desk. Henderson feels a little silly, being afraid of this four-foot guy caked in make-up, wearing a goofy outfit, but he never did like clowns. That’s when he settles a bit. 

“Somebody hired you huh?” Henderson asks. “Was it Murph? Fuckin’ had to be.” He shakes his head, knowing this is just the kind of shit Murphy would pull, and his breathing calms. The clown doesn’t say anything, just stares at him with big jaundiced eyes. 

“So what, did he pay you to leer at me all night?” he asks. The clown shuffles over to Henderson, who tries not to flinch noticeably, and pulls a brightly colored jelly bean can from the folds of his gold suit. He tries and fails to get the lid off and taps the can against the edge of the desk, playing up the fact that he can’t get it open. Finally, he holds it out to Henderson. 

“Oh, I get it. I open it and stuff flies out at me, okay,” he says, taking the can from the nodding, smiling clown. Henderson does get the can open, and things do fly out at him. Real things, living things, wriggling things. 

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” you say, stepping out into the hallway as Borracho closes the door to the closet behind him. 

“Ok, then how should we meet?” he asks, curling an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in for a kiss. You’re distracted though, squinting at something that looks like a cotton candy balloon sitting by the elevator. It wasn’t there earlier.

“What is that?” you ask. You watch as Borracho goes over to it. He tugs at the sticky floss, pulling it away to reveal a bloodied face frozen in a mask of horror and death. Borracho flinches away from it, realizing it’s Murph. 

“Not now,” Nick groans. He has his face buried in his hands and he’s ignoring the tapping at the door. But what he can’t ignore is the door opening. 

“What the fuck did I just say?” he demands. A clown in a purple and blue suit with a red ruffled collar and green tufts of hair waddles into the room. 

“Guess I have Bob to thank for this one,” Nick sighs. “Go on, get it over with, and then get the fuck out.” He doesn’t bother to hide the bored look on his face as he watches the clown go through his gags. The fake sneeze into a line of handkerchiefs that never ends and soon becomes strewn all over Nick’s desk, the small black pistol that when fired pops out a flag that says “Bang!”. The clown pulls out another gun, this time something that looks like a small laser out of a corny sci-fi film. 

“And what’s that gonna do?” Nick asks. The clown smiles and pulls the trigger.

“This has to be some kind of joke,” you say, knowing Borracho’s team too well. 

“Yeah, sure,” Borracho says, but he’s looking around and the hallway’s too quiet and it’s a weird fucking joke even for them. The door to Major Crimes opens and a tall clown in a purple and blue suit steps out. He’s dragging another cotton candy cocoon behind him. He looks at the two of you and waves. 

“This is ridiculous,” you say, looking at Borracho and then back at the clown. “You guys have serious work to be doing but instead you’re parading around in fucking clown costumes playing weird jokes.” You start walking toward the clown, thinking it’s probably Zapata or even Murph. Whoever it is, you plan to rip the silly mask right off their head. And you try. You really try, and that’s when you get scared. 

“Benny?” you ask, looking over your shoulder, and his eyes are wide, staring off to your right. You look and a clown in a painfully pink suit steps through the stairwell door. A third, shorter clown comes out of the Major Crimes office and you’re surrounded. The first clown hands the cotton candy sack off to the one in pink and you turn to run back to Borracho, but the clown grabs you and throws you over his shoulder. Borracho is running down the hall after you and there’s a honking sound as he punches a clown in the face.

“Benny!” you shout. You thrash against the clown as it carries you out into the stairwell, and down, down, down.   

[mariamariquinha]

Bossa Nova (Benny 'Borracho' Magalon x f!reader) - Eleven

Ten

Summary: You've made a decision.

Word count: 7.544.

Warnings: Cursing, talks about police work corruption, irresponsible use of alcohol, people being idiots and work-related situations. If I forgot something, sorry :/

Author’s Note: I remember that I said that there would be some fake dating stuff and there will, but not right now. I'm working on chapter 12 already, so it was a small change of plans but not a change of path.

I'll try to update on AO3 as soon as I can! Sorry for any mispelling mistakes as well; always safe to remind that English isn't my first language.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Join my taglist! Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like! As always, I would love to know what you’re all thinking! ❤

****

The Los Angeles Sheriff's Department has just completed an operation that arrested a ring of robberies in luxury properties last Saturday. Police-grade weapons, special clothing and technological equipment that facilitate the breach of property security systems were seized.

You closed the fridge and stared at the 7-Eleven television curiously, a bottle of sparkling water in hand. 

One of the gang's most notorious victims is technology entrepreneur Theo Park, who was in the house at the time of the incident and was attacked by the robbers.

“To bad things that come to good. If I hadn't been there, maybe they would have gotten away with it and not left enough evidence to get caught. I’m very grateful for LASD's dedication to solving this case.”

Theodore had once said that he appeared on an experimental college TV show and, after that day, he decided he would lose some weight so he wouldn't look so bloated on screen. He seemed to have learned his lesson; despite reporters shoving microphones in his face, he looked flawless.

“It's amazing how the rich get justice so fast, right?” 

You blinked a few times and turned to the cashier, who was also watching the TV. You neither agreed nor disagreed; you approached the counter, placed the bottle on top and fished out a pack of licorice candies, which you also slid towards him.

“You work there, don't you? At LASD?”

Because he would know, right? Of all the other thousand times you went there and bought the same thing, without fail, and the other times you were looking for some alcohol after work. You would open your wallet and every time your badge would come into view. It wasn't really a badge, you wanted to argue as you held out the credit card to him and looked up, but you didn't know if it would make any difference to say that.

“Mm-hm,” You answered and he nodded. 

“Huh. I don't doubt that your boss didn't carry this Park guy on his lap.”

Again, you didn't respond. Outside, in the parking space very close to your car, there was a pickup truck with a nice Confederate Flag sticker and the owner had entered the store a little before you, so you didn't want to take any chances. The cashier swiped your card and handed you a bag with the things you bought. You thanked him, wished him a good day and he told you the same.

You sat on the curb for about twenty minutes on the block before your building. You took out a piece of licorice candy and chewed it leisurely, observing the movement of the early hours of the morning and mentally calculating that you should soon get in, take a shower and remind yourself that you would be late for work, that there was something else you should do before going there. Yes, the work, the same one that would be buzzing with excitement at the conclusion of a case with so much repercussion, and that would remind you enough of things that you were willing not to remember. 

Well, you should expect that; should learn to let it go. 

Still, you thought about what you could do strategically: you would get in late, people would be already minding their own business, so you could get in easily. 

It wasn't like Theodore was going to give up on the climb to become a popular person in the city alongside the most popular people in the world.

****

You had your eyes closed, face to the ceiling, hitting the back of your head on the elevator wall. Before you could hear the doors close, you heard voices getting closer to the point where they were inside the space with you; when you opened your eyes and lowered your head, you saw Nick, Benny, and Connors walking in.

They paid attention to you for half a second and looked away; Benny had a look that lasted longer, one that made you run your hand over the back of your head and stare at the ground.

“Hearing?” 

The question made you snap your eyes up again, spotting O’Brien eyeing you curiously. 

“... No,” You shook your head, forcing a small smile. “Got something to deal with this morning.”

“Mm,” He hummed. “Something important, eh?”

You didn’t know why you did it, but you swiped your eyes to Benny for a split second and spotted him pinching the bridge of his nose with a discreet sigh. When you turned back to Nick, nodded a little – a deep breath to not say the first thing that passed through your mind. 

“It was.”

But there was a weird, sticky atmosphere. Connor’s hair was wet, they all smelled like shower – probably had a long night out, arriving that late at the station. You could tell, from the way Murph would be looking at anything but you, that there was an attempt to access you, a curiosity to know how you would react to the recent news, or to be in the elevator with them when everything was pretty much fresh in everyone’s minds. 

The doors opened, like a breath of air along that tension. It was your floor. You shared a small nod with them, walked to the corridor… then stopped, turning to them and held the doors from closing. 

“I-” You cleared your throat. “Congratulations on the case. You guys-” You looked at Benny again, saw him frowning at you, which made you frown back. “You did a great job.”

“Thanks,” Connors said when the silence stretched and no one, not even Nick, said a thing. It was weird to verbalize, weird to touch. Whatever confused expressions were splayed on their faces, it certainly was splayed on your face as well. 

You nodded a little, feeling rubbish and robotic at the same time, and then you let your arm go, standing like an idiot in front of the closing elevator doors and giving all of them one last look. 

****

Of course Big Nick or Connors would notice, but no one felt like verbalizing it. Untouched territory, like a silent agreement, that it wasn’t their business to poke through your drama with your ex. Maybe that was why Benny felt so weird with time, so invasive towards you even if he knew he was right – you were still someone who happened to be in Park’s life, there was no denying it. 

They were on about three hours of sleep – hungover. They managed to hold off on the scoop until the morning, at least until the paperwork was signed; Benny remembered that they handed in the papers and Z had already found the girls to celebrate. Well, celebrate was a strong word. Benny went and enjoyed it, but little; he was home around 3, took a while to fall asleep and had a late morning. Nick needed a ride because he slept in the hotel room, so the two went back and found Connors in the parking lot. 

It was strange. Benny spent days talking and listening to his ex's testimony, checking information about him, going deeper and pretending he didn't know anything when Z mentioned that the guy had graduated from Caltech, as if Benny didn't research for that already. And Theodore, fuck, he was an ass, but an ass still trying to be nice. He was polite, but his phrases and his words were a touch harsh, bordering impatience. He would look at him, then at Connors or Henderson or Nick, do an once over, put a tight smile on his face – like trying to fit in way-too-small shoes because it was pretty. 

Benny saw that your face wasn't happy, and even if it was, there wasn't a sense of genuine relief in you. It wasn't like you didn't want the case to be solved, but it seemed like you were already fed up and wanted to take a band-aid off at once. Congratulate on the case, smile, leave. Don't give them a chance to ask anything, disguise it.

When the case was closed and they happily went to Theodore’s penthouse to give him the news, he said he would give them something, like a bonus for the Department or other things they might have wanted – you know, to compensate. Benny told him that they couldn’t accept because it would be categorized as a bribe, but then Theodore looked at him like he grew a pair of extra ears on his head like an alien, as if that even made sense.

After a while, he wondered if Theodore was confused because he thought with common sense about LASD or if it was because you, who was already married when you became official there, told him things about the Department's relations.

Still, when they arrived that morning, Theodore had delivered a breakfast basket to them – one that was already somewhat cold, but intact.

If it were up to Benny alone, it would continue like this until the end of the day, and the next day after that.

****

He called. 

It was a new number, one you didn’t recognize, but you were already expecting calls from unknown places. You picked up, excused yourself from the chat you were having with Lennon about some material he delivered, went to the corridor – you said it was important, family matter. 

For a few seconds after your ‘hello?’, no one said a thing. It was so quiet that you wondered if it was one of those marketing bots or something, so much so that you had already taken the phone out of your ear to put an end to the call. Before you could do it, though, a voice cracked up on the other end, and you stopped dead in your tracks, a big frown on your face as you recognized who it was. 

“... Hello?”

And you still had the phone away from your ear, staring at the screen in confusion, and when he insisted one more time you just blinked a few times, looked around and took a few steps deeper into a less crowded area. 

“Yes?” You asked, voice low and discreet, the phone slightly pressed against your ear as if someone could hear him, as if it was shameful to speak with him in the first place. 

“Oh, hi,” He said. “I… Erm… Am I interrupting something?”

“... I’m working…?” 

“No, yeah. Yeah, yeah, totally, I could’ve imagined, I… Sorry.”

You felt a tone of impatience, at the same time that you felt irritated with yourself for wanting to ask how he was, how he felt. You could see that calling you was impulsive, Theodore only got nervous like that in situations without any planning or with too much planning.

Fuck, yeah, you were mad with yourself – you shouldn’t get attached to whatever you used to know about him. 

“Can I help you with something?” You asked instead, pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut for a second. 

He got quiet on the other end, sighing and ruffling through what seemed to be like papers or whatever. You looked around again, just to be sure, and felt that pinch of irritation growing. 

“Theo-”

“I thought you had changed your number, so I didn't think you would answer,” He excused with a small voice, one that silenced you. “Now I don't know exactly what I wanted to talk about.”

“Maybe you better think about it quickly, I have to get back to work.”

Another sigh. 

“... You went to the hospital that day. Aile-I was told you went there,” The mention of the occasion made you throw your head back in frustration and suppress a groan. “And that you got hurt.”

It was your turn to stay quiet, unsure of what to say. Your hand was good, better; it wasn't that serious of a burn and, in general, you would have a few months of recovery for the mark to disappear. Still, you unconsciously flexed your fingers, remembered Aileen's face when the coffee spilled on you.

“... So what?” 

“So what? Hell, you could’ve sent me the bill or whatever.”

“I could?”

“Well, yes.”

“So you called to offer me money for my injured hand?”

He was growing frustrated – you expected him to. You could sense him gritting his teeth, clenching his jaw. 

“... You went there, maybe you wanted to know how I am.”

“And how are you?”

“Good.”

“Okay.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you good?”

“I’m fine.” 

“Your hand is okay?”

“You don’t need to pay me for my hand.”

“I don’t want to, I just want to know if your hand is okay. Technically, it’s on me that it got burned.”

“Oh, so that’s the secret for a good relationship? Taking responsibility for your partner’s faults?” 

“That’s not-” He paused, huffed. There was a noise you could hear, like a chair cracking, and then the sound of steps on a wooden floor. “I’m not with her anymore. Although I’m probably taking that responsibility, it wasn’t me who threw coffee at you.”

You blinked dumbly at that, staring at the floor without a single reaction to process what he just said to you. It should be simple: he’s not with her, you could’ve supposed it would happen, that has nothing to do with you. But Theodore told you that, let it hang in the air, waited to see what you would do. 

“... All in all, I just want to know if you need anything… That’s on me. The least I can do is pay for the hospital bill that I know was expensive as fuck. They call themselves Samaritans but they fucking rob people.” 

You needed to suppress a laugh or a giggle or any indication that what he said was slightly funny. For what felt like an eternity, you just kept looking at the floor, then at your own feet, squirming to prevent any insistent feeling to bubble inside of you with the prospect of him realizing that Aileen wasn’t the best for him, or just him being let down. 

Not that you expected him to be humbled by it, but still – you could dream. 

“... I don’t need anything. Thanks for asking, though,” You offered, voice more calm and genuine. 

“Okay,” He took a deep breath. “Listen, I know you’re out of this almost death experience transformation or some shit, but it was nice of you to come by. Despite everything, you still checked on me and… Well, I won’t forget that.”

You considered him for a while. 

“Maybe you should.”

“Should what?”

“Forget that.”

“Why?” 

And that was that tone, that… subtle implication. You knew what he was doing – what he was fucking implying. He used to do that when he flirted with you, when you two were doing some dirty talk in bed, when he was trying to get inside your pants. It wasn’t that good in high school, but the experience he probably gathered in college made him bold, confident; that shit worked. 

So when he asked ‘why?’ with that low, teasing underlining, you wanted to punch him in the face. 

“Because you should. Because I’m your ex. Because it brought me problems. Because it will make you put words in my mouth and meanings to my actions that are absurd.”

“Absurd like you still caring about me?”

“Yeah, exactly like that.” 

Theodore went quiet, probably nodding to himself. 

“I need to go now,” You pressed. “And don’t surprise me pulling up some shit like you still having my number and calling.” 

“It isn’t some shit. I’m just thankful,” That almost sounded too false, but it just made you feel like it was really forceful. “In debt, too. I know it sounds crazy but whatever you need anything, I-”

“I’ll hang up.”

You did. Right away, at the snap of a finger – out. If he still needed to say something or add or keep up with that bullshit, you really didn’t want to know. You hung up on him, left him mouth agape or whatever, then stared at your black phone screen with that same ugly frown you had when you noticed it was him. 

Your head was starting to hurt, you could feel the sting deep inside. After almost two years – two years – and the bastard called right when his little girlfriend dumped him. You deserved this, didn't you? Surely that time you stole parking cones or vomited on the college lawn wasn't going to go unpunished.

Because you were always so nice to everyone, always following the rules. Motherfucker. Cocksucker. Bitch. Cunt. Jerk. Asshole. 

“You good?” Lennon had a puzzled expression on his face, watching you fuming and huffing while entering the lab again. 

You threw your phone on your desk, sighed tiredly at him. Good news, Theodore is alive. Bad news, Theodore is alive. 

“Yeah, just some stuff. Don’t worry about it.”

But maybe Lennon should – he should worry, should give you some clarification, should fuck you again. Thing was: he couldn’t do any of it. He was an amazing friend, one with his own worries and responsibilities, and he wasn’t your mentor to give you advice. And yeah, maybe you hinted something to him, and then he turned you down by saying he was seeing someone – that guy from the 15B, remember? – and he liked them, so you could get your shit together and let him be, feeling bad for not remembering whoever this person was. 

So you got angry and worried alone – you got pissed alone. You went to the bathroom, saw yourself in the mirror, and felt like punching yourself in the face. And for what? For answering an unknown call? For listening to Theodore? For feeling that bad after Isla’s case? For, fuck, asking how Theodore was? For wanting to… 

Fuck, wanting what? 

You looked at your head again. A large scar was forming there, one that was uncomfortable. It wasn't that bad, nor that destructive, but looking at it was a reminder of how you shouldn't be so nice to the wrong people. What did that bring you, anyway? Turn the other cheek and listen to your ex tease you about it?

You clenched your fist and placed it against the marble of the sink for a while, eyes closed. 

It wasn’t him; no, it fucking wasn’t. It shouldn’t be. 

It was on you. You, you, you. Fucking you. 

****

“... And, you know, he’s kind of a bitch so-”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Which is why I wondered if there was the slightest chance of you knowing anything about it.”

“Mm-hm.”

“So… do you?”

“... Mm.”

The laptop screen began to lower against your will, so that before you could take your hand off the mousepad, the edge reached your fingertips and it hurt. You hissed, but before you could complain, your brother shoved the thing away to the other side of your kitchen table. 

“Hey!”

“Did you hear what the fuck I said?” 

The pain dissipated at the same time as you looked at his face with a frown -- he was irritated. If you were honest, and there was no reason to be any other way, you would say that in fact no, you didn't hear what he said. You hadn't been listening to what people were saying since Theodore's call, because suddenly you were in a hurry and needed to get away, anxious to put your mind together around the fact that he was still having this effect on you. 

“... No, I didn’t,” You sighed in defeat, relaxing your face to a defeated expression and leaning back in your chair, eyes lowering to the table. “What was it?”

“Theodore is on a new project with-”

“Be briefer. Maybe if you didn't go around so much, I-”

“He spoke to you.”

You went from defeated to tense. Honestly, and that was as far as you could go with that wake-up call, you wouldn't have thought that Theodore would make a big deal out of that phone call: it was one of the reasons you felt bad about reacting so intensely to it, in fact, because he didn’t give you the same importance as you did and that was pathetic.

Your face gave away the answer your brother needed, but he didn't hold on to his anger for long; with another sigh just like yours, he sat down in front of you and ran a hand through his hair worriedly.

“Just don’t tell me you’re reconsidering.” 

“... Reconsidering?” You asked, and it took you a beat to get what he meant. When you did, you raised your eyebrows. “Do I sell myself for so little?”

“You do. You answered the phone.”

Fair.

“I didn’t know it was him. I was expecting another call from-”

“From Linda Ricci.”

Okay, now this conversation was starting to get weird because you were sure you would hear if he mentioned that name first. You hadn't told people that you were considering, at least in a healthy way, the possibility of leaving LASD. God, you were still coming to terms with the idea of ​​doing this. But suddenly your brother knew the name of the person you spoke to, what you were thinking about doing, and that left you a little scared. He didn't give in, however.

“He told me,” He added. “Which is crazy, because I’m sure you didn’t tell him that if you didn’t tell me or anyone else about it.”

It sounded like an accusation, which could be also something fair because as far as he was your brother, you honestly didn’t put up with the intimate details of your relationship with Theodore. He cheated, you two split – that was all he needed to know, alongside with legal terms of your prenuptial contract. It was the kind of thing that made someone resentful, but his brother never blinked more than twice at his personal life, so perhaps the possibility of Theodore being the messenger of such intimate news of his life after so long was frustrating; between a cheating ex-husband and a negligent brother, who would be the first to know the good news about your life?

“... Can you not tell dad? Or mom?” You tried with an easy demeanor, even if your tone was clipped. He was ready to open his mouth to deny, though, so you rushed to add. “I didn’t even tell my boss yet!”

“And when are you planning to do that? When we all get worried sick about your well being in that fucking job?” 

You took a deep breath, leaned back in the chair. The email was open – the answer was there. You saw it. 

You glanced at the closed laptop, then at him.

“Soon.”

****

“Is it because of what happened?”

Byrne was definitely not a very sensitive guy, much less an emotional one, but the question seemed to have a natural compassion background like seeing a puppy at an adoption fair. You had asked for the first few minutes of his shift to talk about the subject, at zero hour when no one would arrive for a while, and you sat in front of him with a serious expression.

The question didn't make you change that, actually; you raised your eyebrows and sighed, but it was more like a spontaneous reaction to a subject you didn't want to talk about than an explicit denial.

“Depends on what we're talking about,” You threw the ball at him, who narrowed his eyes at you. 

“... About the DEA case,” He said after a while, leaning back on his chair. “The recent events wouldn’t give you time to recalculate like that. Tell me if I’m wrong, but it sounds like a well-thought decision, one you wouldn’t make out of spite.”

“That’s a good observation.”

“Not as good as the one you’ll tell me.”

Then you smiled – a bitter, large grin. You measured his reactions with caution, licking your lips and reconsidering what to say. After a beat, you arched an eyebrow and averted your gaze to your hands, both of it splayed out over your thighs. 

“... I'm not a very virtuous person, Doctor, and I like to believe I'm not a moralist. Despite this, I have never given anyone reason to doubt my integrity as a professional,” You raised your eyes at him. “Maybe, at some point, but nothing that time wouldn't prove otherwise.” 

“You talk about your alliance with Major Crimes.”

Alliance. You needed to prevent a snort at that. 

“My partnership, yes,” The correction made him retrieve a little. “And, look, I understand how things work. I'm not an idiot and much less indifferent to them, but I think there comes a time when they stop being just things and start putting you on the main stage.” 

For a moment, as soon as you closed your mouth, you remembered Emma, ​​just as you remembered Walsh and his pitiful speech to the cameras. That made you frown.

“You, doctor, are here because the Department's credibility went to waste after what happened. People have always questioned LASD's methodology, but what happened was much greater than common sense about what we do.” 

“Are you talking about Emma?”

“I’m talking about being put in the hot seat for sabotaging the case.”

He shut down again, this time considering your stern tone with more caution. You already left her with a cracked friendship, you wouldn’t want it to be worse than it was. 

“... You didn’t, I assume.” 

“No, I didn’t.”

“But you know I could work it out. I'm not Emma, ​​but it's no secret that Major Crimes doesn't have much room for imposition with me here.” 

Which was quite funny to think about, but you did as he did and just took it as it was – a single comment. You nodded, averted your gaze again. 

“Not only that, but I appreciate your consideration. Rest assured that, despite everything, they should have the right to speculate. Maybe it was my innocence that I thought I didn't have the tendency to go over anyone to gain an advantage, especially people I've worked with for so long.” 

Not that that would actually solve it, but you also didn't want to repeat Emma's attitude and put yourself as someone who was harming someone else's work, even if Nick and company had a lot of capacity to do that on their own. You thought about it. You thought about Benny. He could also harm you with what happened at the hospital, he could make conversations with Byrne less cordial and make Nick push you away even more, to the point of making the murmurs even worse than they already were. 

So you said something else to put him at ease. 

“It's not Major Crimes that's going to get me out of LASD. Everything that happened and happens makes me sure that I got out of LASD myself.” 

****

Gina got the news with a frown, but her hug said that she was proud. 

Lennon smiled, placed a small kiss on your forehead – just don’t become a stranger, he said. 

Your departure was silent: no parties, no goodbyes and, please, no speeches. Despite all your years at LASD, leaving in an atmosphere of so much falsehood would be worse than dealing with more personal problems mixing with professional ones.

So no one in the lab other than Gina, Lennon and Byrne knew. From what you heard, Cillian would break the news as soon as he found someone else, and two days later he informed you that that other person had already been found. Efficient and fast, just how he liked everything to be.

You considered talking with Nick in the meantime – considered apologizing to Benny, like, properly. But every time you grabbed the phone and dialed their number, every time you thought about texting but saw the flirting stuff Benny used to send you or clipped orders O’Brien sent over, you would chicken out. 

You just didn't want drama.

****

Byrne was fucking dramatic, the kind who was probably a theater kid in school before deciding to be a scientist. He had been probing the work of Major Crimes since he had set foot in the LASD, so each and every interaction came with a passive tone that bordered on rudeness, but always hovering with unharmonized friendliness.

It wasn't like Emma – with Emma there was a flow, a rhythm. She and Nick had known each other for a long time, it was just different. Byrne was ruthless, regimented, too close to an OCD diagnosis, and two feet on the spectrum of control obsession. He didn't like them and had made that clear from the beginning; for him, the defeat of Major Crimes was a personal gain, which could be reasonable, since no one there made much of a point of being pleasant.

That day, however, Cillian was radiant, smiling. He asked for permission to enter the office and had both hands in his pants pockets, almost bouncing in tune with what seemed to have been a great weekend.

It should have been – for him, of course. He practically hummed the news, or sort of purred like a cat.

“I received very ecstatic news that our lab partner is leaving us,” He said, looking at Nick and only Nick, wanting to have every single drop of reaction or bother or anything. “She received a particularly undeniable opportunity at Ricci & Co.” 

Benny was sure you didn't use the term 'irrefutable'. He just knew that you weren't that definitive about things, or that at least you wouldn't talk to Cillian that way. In any case, it seemed certain that it was a good thing financially and professionally speaking: they already had the opportunity to scratch Ricci & Co. when they worked on an old case. Family business, the kind that wasn't limited to university newspapers like Theodore Park and with big, New York glass doors.

It was an immediate rational thought, one he only processed with more consideration when he saw Henderson exchanging a confused look with him.

“Since when?” Connors asked with a clipped tone. 

“Hiring processes at Ricci last, I don't know, thirty days?”

“You know that's not what he asked,” Nick pressed, which made Cillian hide a smile behind a satisfied sigh. 

“She gave us two weeks' notice and made sure to finish as many ongoing cases as possible. Today is her last day.” 

Benny remembered what happened at the hospital, made mental notes of any sign you might have given as if the whole situation wasn't already a big enough warning. He remembered your tired, defeated expression, your slumped shoulders; you looked sick, apathetic. Then he went over Isla's case, the conversation in your kitchen, your look of fragility at his rejection.

Your defeated stance with Walsh humiliating you in front of everyone, your lost look when he made you sit in a room to solve the problem. Maybe he didn't know that these little things were pushing you out of LASD, that every frustration or disappointment or tiredness was draining you enough to make your decision.

“I see that everyone is very upset, which was expected, so I made a point of letting them know and avoiding gossip or side conversations. I believe there is a lot to think about, especially because this is a personal gain for her but an almost irreparable loss for the Department.” 

“You know, Byrne, this is a good chance to stop beating around the bush and be direct with what you want to say.” 

“Well, Detective O'Brien, I think everyone here is smart enough to know what I'm talking about. Please be aware that as much as I would have made a point of cutting even our toilet paper budget to match the offer she received, I should have warned you that I am not willing to sacrifice the sanity of my employees for what appears to be a whim of yours.”

Everyone was quiet, expectant – Nick was being called out by a guy who knew shit and, as far as they all knew what kind of thing O’Brien would say, his silence made a wave of shock wash through all of them. 

“She was kind enough to say that it wasn't because of you, but I've been watching her movements for some time. No day off to photograph a crime scene that wasn't in her jurisdiction, small bribes with dinners, requests for preferences in evaluating evidence… This isn't exactly professional. A good reason for someone with decency to reconsider, though.”

“You know this agreement always had two sides.”

“Yeah, but only one of them was self-aware of it and clearly the wrong one made the right decision. Should I tell you which side you are on or are we on the same page here?”

It was an exaggeration – at least it seemed like one – but deep down Benny knew it wasn't. In fact, it wasn't like a feeling, just an obvious awareness, the kind that everyone knew about but didn't talk about openly. Big Nick was no longer in the sheriff's good graces. Major Crimes received a portion of annual investment that didn't come that year, and since the last meeting with superiors, Nick wasn't very satisfied with the way things were going. It was off. Odd. 

If it was the case of what they did that influenced you to leave, it might sound very absurd but it wasn't impossible, even if Magalon firmly believed that you wouldn't give in for so little. 

Byrne wanted the excuse to give Nick a hard time – unfortunately he wasn’t totally wrong about it too. 

When he left without a word, using the silence as a way of having the last bit of speech, there was a swagger on his steps, like a weight leaving his shoulders. He knew for sure that was how you saw them all, how you accessed them: full of themselves, always without a worry in the world because they could handle it. 

Nick threw a stapler on the panel near his desk, muttered a small ‘fuck’. Tony could even be the one to be at least pleased about it, but no one felt like sharing their opinions on the subject. 

There wasn’t a worry about you leaving – it was about how it wasn’t something O’Brien couldn’t control. 

****

The idea was a drama-free exit and you knew that Gina and Lennon would be able to comply with your wishes with as much effort as they could. When Cillian let everyone know at the weekly meeting, you got a few hugs and handshakes, but everyone there knew you well enough to be cordial up until that point. You were even relieved. Apprehensive, but relieved. Everyone said so many good things about Ricci & Co., Ballard even showed up at your lab during the day and told you that 'this technology thing was cool', that it 'suited you'.

He was nice. Warmed your heart with the gesture. 

Lennon arrived there towards the end of the day and handed you an envelope. As no one had time to buy you a gift as they were busy because they just didn't know you were leaving, some people from the lab raised a donation and gave you around 450 bucks.

“You didn't have to do that.”

“It wasn’t my idea. Rob from IT always had a small crush on you.” 

That made you smile and almost made you cry. 

And maybe your last day at LASD would turn out perfectly fine if it were like that, if you only said goodbye to people with silly, happy memories, so that you could miss it a little while you were tied up in the good parts of working there. 

Looking back, you should have been more insistent about saying no. Not because it sounded like a bad idea from the beginning, no, but mainly because you knew how nights like that could end and you should be just a little less carefree just in case. Lennon invited you for some drinks – Gina too. Took you, what? An hour? And then what was supposed to be only a small gathering with only the three of you turned into a ‘remember when we got our asses busted for going to that bar?’ and before you could decline, the three of you were smashed in the backseat of an Uber to meet some Gina’s friends at that same bar. 

It was like the old days, the trio fresh out of college, excited from the perspective of being in LASD, all excitement and fervor to be your best versions. Theodore wasn’t with you when that happened – he went to get you from the bar, yes, but if he was there in the first place, you wouldn’t be that drunk or have that much fun. 

And you had enough fun. You weren't very drunk, but you had that buzz, that feeling of excitement and anxiety; for a while, you managed to forget your apprehension about saying goodbye to LASD, about taking a direction in a place where you didn't know anyone. For a while, only. With dancing, beers, a shot or two like the cops used to do. With music too, voice high and hands moving in the air. 

You would certainly need to deal with your relationship with alcohol after that. That was something for tomorrow, however, or the day after tomorrow, or next week or next month. Fuck Theodore. Fuck him and his fake concern and his phone call and his fucking money. You didn't need any of that. Look at you: a young spirit, hot, single, with friends, having fun. He didn't have that. He would spend his life licking the balls of rich people to invest just a little of their time in him, humiliating himself for crumbs to grow in life… And you wouldn't. Nooooo, not you. You would be great. She would be a fucking analytical security manager for mansions up and down the Coast, earn your money and be respected. That's what you were going to do. And no thanks to that mediocre piece of shit. No thanks to Walsh or your work for even more pathetic and idiotic detective messes.

You were almost a wreck, but okay: your reflection in the mirror was more inviting than you thought it would be. Gina was already vomiting, one of her friends holding her hair as those tequila shots took effect. You watched the scene in your reflection for a while, then heard your friend turn to you and say that it was late, that it was better to leave. You nodded. You turned to the sink, turned the tap on, watched the water drowning your palms in. 

She got Gina on one side and you on the other. This was your chance to leave too. Yes, you've already had your relaxation, you've had fun, and you could go and rest. But then you glanced in the wrong direction at the wrong time and spotted Benny a few tables away with Connors and Henderson. 

You looked around – Lennon was distracted, probably didn’t even notice them. You had this… frown on your face, this… sense of inadequacy. Should that be your second chance to say something? Because, well, it didn’t take long to admit the coincidence. 

Benny turned slightly amidst laughter and the two of you held each other's gaze for a while. The laugh turned into a smile that turned into a grin, that turned into a straight line, then a frown. You felt embarrassed, called out, caught out. Suddenly you were too sticky, too uncomfortable, ready to run away. 

Gina slipped through your arm when her friend announced she would take her. You stood still, watching them both stumble out of the bar with a lowered gaze. Flexing your fingers, you forced a big smile on your face when Lennon came jumping up and down, offering you another shot of tequila. 

They would leave, you decided. They would leave and you would be able to relax. You didn’t owe them a thing. 

****

You were sitting in the gutter nursing a can of Coca-Cola that was already hot. Lennon had already left sometime around one, and it was reckless of you to let him go alone with another guy, but before you could worry anymore, he sent you a photo in the mirror of his own house. Damn, you could be closer to Gina's friends, they were really good people.

You should have gone with her, even, and not stood there saying that you were fine, that you would order an Uber and go home alone. Firstly, you were clearly not well. The drink had gone bad, you were drunk and everyone obviously knew it was the stupidest thing in the world.

Still, you sat there, watched the streets fading into blurs of light and dark. Another peak at your phone and the driver was 15 minutes away, taking turns, expecting you to cancel the ride. It wasn’t like you were going to throw up in his car or whatever – you just wanted to go home. 

“Seems warm.”

His voice made you grunt, bowing your head down in defeat. When you looked up, he was standing right beside you, both hands inside his jacket pockets while he eyed your hunched figure. 

“Because it is,” You grumbled, taking another stubborn sip. “Borderlining my sobriety, so… cheers.”

“Yeah, I think we can agree that you have a conflicted relationship with alcohol.” 

“Calling me an alcoholic?” You frowned, to which he just shrugged. He raised his eyes to observe the street surrounding you two, nonchalant as ever, and after a beat of silence you just scoffed to do the same. “Too bad you saw it too late, I guess.”

“What? You think I wouldn't fuck an alcoholic?”

“I’m not-You know what, eat shit, Magalon.”

But he didn't go. Damn, he wasn't. He remained there, moving the sole of his boot on the concrete here and there, sighing as you held your head with both hands. After a few minutes, your cell phone buzzed: the driver canceled. 

“Lemme guess-”

“Why are you still here?”

“I have a tolerance for the number of bodies to find in one night,” He arched an eyebrow, tilting his head to you. “Just imagine if the first thing I see in the early hours of my morning is a reckless drunk girl who took an Uber at 2 am.” 

“Right, okay. Got it.” 

“Yeah, so.”

“But I’m good. I’ll find-”

“Another Uber to go back home?”

You glared at him, then made an effort to get up from your seat and feel the whole world spinning in your head. That almost got you on the floor again – you lost your balance for a second, got up too fast. 

“You know what,” You raised both hands in the air. “I’m done. I’m totally done. Say what you mean or leave me for you to find me dead in the morning.”

Benny shook his head, taking in your state with what seemed like frustration. 

“I don’t remember you being so annoying. Last time you drank a little too much-”

“We kissed. I know the lore, Magalon, I was there. But we are not gonna kiss now, if that’s what you’re intending to.”

“I don’t wanna kiss you right now.”

“Good.”

“But I want to take you home.”

It could be the alcohol. Well, there was a good chance it was alcohol. Anyway, when he said that in such a genuine way, with a more accessible and light tone of voice, as if he was comforting you, you felt your eyes water and an almost uncontrollable urge to cry. He noticed it too, noticed the way you wavered, blinked hard a few times and stayed curiously quiet.

You averted your gaze to the side and sniffed with a dry nose, doing a hard job to keep the tears at bay. 

“Do I look like I need to be saved by you? Like, all the time?” 

He didn’t walk closer, didn’t try to bring any kind of physical comfort – Benny shrugged, kept it cool. When you looked at him again, he wasn’t giving you anything but a straight face. 

“At this point in time, you could say it's just a coincidence that we're in the same place when you screw up. And luckily, of course, I'm not such an asshole that I'd let you go off on your own.” 

And then he said something that made you waver even more. 

“I like you. In a very stupid way, but I admire you as a person and as a professional. The difference between then and now is that you're hitting the goalposts for a longer time because you're too stubborn to understand that it's not always your responsibility.” 

That would make you really cry, but you didn't, opting to swallow dryly while locking your jaw so that your lower lip wouldn't tremble and you wouldn't falter. He was too good at it, it was even annoying. You didn't see Nick or Tony having that same kind of ability to read people, even though it was naturally intrinsic to the anatomy of a good detective.

The cold night breeze hit you, making you shiver and flinch a little. He then took a single step closer, pointing at his own car down the street. 

“Home. Let’s go?”

****

No pressure tags:

@cheesybadgers

@thoroughlymodernminutia

@seaweeden

@thesandbeneathmytoes

@eclecticfashionbookszipper

@servenas-inner-fangirl

@mysoulisasunflower

@dizzybee03

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Procedure Masterlist

Pairing: Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x Ex-Wife!Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ (there will be explicit content in the second part)

Notes: This was supposed to be two parts. It's going to be four

Update: It is now four with an epilogue. So....4.5.

Warnings: Cursing; angst; fluff; jealousy; second-chance romance; eventual explicit content

Summary: When you’d served Borracho papers, he hadn’t been surprised. Hell—he’d almost looked relieved. He hadn’t fought you on it, or asked if you could work it out; he hadn’t offered to go to counseling, or promised you that he just needed one more chance, and that he’d change. The man had already had two divorces in his rear view when he’d met you. This was just…Procedure for him. 

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Epilogue

[the-hinky-panda]

The Hinky Panda’s Masterlist

Alright folks, here is a link to my masterlist. It’s organized by character so find the picture of your man and see if any of the stories suit your fancy! 

Hinky’s Masterlist

[bobafetts-princess]

Timezone reblog 🫶🏻

Good Luck Charms

Months 7-12

Summary: After things have become a touch less frosty between you and Detective Magalon, you find that you actually like the man quite a bit. Maybe more than you bargained for.

Pairings: Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 7.5K

Warnings: cursing, canon-typical sexism, mentions of substance issues (pain meds), someone gets shot.

A/N: This is slow burnnnnnnnnnnn

Months 1-6 can be found here!

MONTH 7

Month 7 is when things change.

It’s a raid. You’ve all been on one before but never together and the guys have never seen you this dressed down. They’ve only ever seen you in work clothes; pencil skirts and jackets, power suits, wrap dresses, slacks and silk blouses. You never have a hair out of place, it’s always styled with the perfect work makeup.

But today your hair is braided, you’ve got on jeans and a pink button down and brown boots, with a bulletproof vest over the top. Not an ounce of makeup. It’s a different side of you and the guys don’t know what to make of it.

“Fed? Is that you?”

“What’ve you done with the chick that comes to the office every day?”

“Well damn I didn’t know you owned a pair of jeans!”

You roll your eyes at all of them, flipping them the bird which makes them cackle. Detective Magalon doesn’t say anything, but it doesn’t bother you.

Really. It doesn’t.

But the raid goes sideways, only a little. One of the ATF guys doesn’t clear a room completely and you get shot.

Well, not really shot. More like grazed. It rips a hole in arm of your shirt and slices you deep enough that you think you’ll need stitches, but you’re alive and that’s the important part. You’re just lucky it was your non-dominant arm so you can still pull the trigger.

Detective Magalon takes the guy down and checks on you, but you wave him off. It’s not the first time you’ve been shot and in your line of work? It won’t be the last either.

“I’m fine. Finish the raid. Suspect is in the center,” you yell over the sound of gunfire. Big Nick finds him and tackles him down, wrestling with the gun and managing to get it away from him. You’re next in, jumping on the suspects back and getting cuffs on him before he has a chance to get away.

You’re running on pure adrenaline and haul the suspect up, it’s the head of cocaine sect of the organization. Catching him alive was the number 1 priority of this mission and you and Detective Magalon (with the help of his team) have succeeded. You shove him out, handing him off to Mike to be booked and turn, looking to the team. They’re exchanging high fives and cheers and Detective Magalon smiles at you. Henderson comes to high five you and you raise your arm to give him one back. You’re smiling and relieved until a shot of pain goes through your arm and you have to drop it.

Benny knows you got shot. He was there when you jerked, grabbed the spot and yelled at him to keep going. He knows you got shot even though you cuffed the suspect and marched him out. He really knows you got shot though when you move to give Henderson a high five and gasp in pain. Medical doesn’t arrive quick enough (in his opinion, at least) but they end up patching you up. They’ve gotta strip you out of that pretty pink button up, leaving you in a white undershirt and jeans as they give you stitches in the back of an ambulance. Benny notices a tattoo along your collarbone that he hadn’t seen before and he wants to get a closer look.

“You good?” He asks, stepping over after being checked himself. You glance up at him and Benny is surprised to see a light dancing in your eyes, the after-effects of an adrenaline rush no doubt. The guys are behind him, checking in on you at the same time he is. He catches some words and a date, something he definitely can’t see when you wear your buttoned up power suits and those fucking pencil skirts.

“I’m good, Detective,” your eyes are flicking between them all and you turn your body, wincing slightly as the needle punctures skin and he reads what the ink says. ‘How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard’. Benny wonders if it’s about an ex but shakes the thought away before it can take root. Why would you get a tattoo about an ex anyways? Stupid thought. But then you’re speaking again, drawing Benny’s attention. “It’s not the first time I’ve been shot. At least this one didn’t require surgery.” You quip and Benny’s eyebrows raise at the insinuation. He knows the group chat is gonna blow up about this little insight into your life in a while and Benny already wants to put his phone on mute.

************

MONTH 8

With month 8 comes…..coffee? You’ve found this little hole in the wall place by your government issued apartment that serves fantastic coffee. They open at 5:30 in the morning, so when you get there at 5:45, the coffee is hot and fresh. They know you by first name at this point and know what time you come by in the morning. It’s easier than making drip coffee and it tastes better too.

Well one morning your alarm doesn’t go off. Or you shut it off. Or you sleep through it. You’re not really sure what happens. But you do know when you open your eyes and check the clock and see 7:30, you’re flying out of bed. You dress and clean up in record time and are out the door by 8:15, to your coffee shop by 8:20 and ordered before 8:25.

It’s 8:45 before you get a coffee in hand.

“I’m so sorry honey!” Shouts the owner, a stunning woman in her late 60’s. “One of my girls has the flu and one of our coffee machines broke!”

“It’s okay Mrs. Akron,” you assure her but god you are so late. You’re never late. Ever.

“Here darling,” she says, out of breath and frazzled. “Take a large black coffee, on me!” She thrusts your caramel macchiato at you as well as the large black. You start to protest but she won’t let you. “I insist! You’re running late and probably overslept, so you might need an afternoon boost. Take it,” she says, closing your hand around the cup. You nod at her, stopping to stuff a $50 in the tip jar before you make it to work. You roll in at 9:00, three hours late. The entire office whips their heads up and watches you walk in but you refuse to let it bother you.

“You good?” Detective Magalon asks and doesn’t press when you nod.

“Do you drink black coffee?” You ask before you lose the nerve. He’s bought you so much food, the least you can do is give him your extra coffee. “My coffee shop gave me an extra and….” You trail off, setting the coffee on his desk and taking a seat without an answer.

“Thanks.”

You simply nod but a couple times a week you bring him a large black coffee.

*************

MONTHS 9&10

Months nine and ten brings a trial and it’s a long trial. The examination and cross examination and evidence and witnesses take nearly 6 weeks. You and Detective Magalon spend nearly every waking hour together, working with the district attorney to make sure all goes the way it should.

You’re both emotionally, mentally, and physically drained and by the time the jury is sent off to make their own decision, you feel like you can nap for hours.

In fact, you do.

The couch in the district attorney’s office is so dammed comfortable and you’re sitting next to Detective Magalon, whose body is just radiating heat. You’d both just finished testifying, his took 3 hours and yours took 4. You’re silent next to each other, too drained from all the information you had to recall and all the talking.

The next thing you know, you wake up. Your head is resting against Detective Magalon’s shoulder and you might (you’ll deny if anyone asks) have drooled on his shoulder. You push off him and get some distance between your bodies.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry. This case has taken it out of me. How long did I sleep?”

“Three hours.” He says, clicking his phone shut and looking at you.

“Oh my fucking god, you’re kidding? I’m so sorry,” you tell him but he waves you off.

“It’s been a long trial. I don’t blame you for being tired,” he says, standing. You hear his knees crack when he does and see a wince of pain cross his face as he makes his way to the restroom.

Oh my god, he let you sleep even though he had to piss? There’s no way you’re unpacking that right now.

Benny never tells you that he fell asleep too.

When the verdict comes back a few weeks later and the suspect is found guilty as sin, you celebrate. It’s only one person, only one head of the hydra you’re dealing with, but it’s something.

The guys get a couple packs of beer and one Friday after work, you drink together.

“Fed! You have to hang with us for a little while. You just had your first successful trial with us,” Connors insists and you agree to stay.

“One beer!” You tell them and they laugh and wave you off. It’s the first time you’ve ever drank with them and you’re so damn careful not to overdo it. They shoot the shit, swapping stories and peppering you with questions you refuse to answer.

“Still no boyfriend?”

“Is it hard working around such attractive dudes all the time?”

“Ever smoked weed? Does smoking disqualify you from being a fed?”

“You seem like the type to own a cat”

“Got a hot sister?”

Benny notices the last one makes you wince and he wonders why. Then he tells himself that it’s none of his business. But then he thinks of your tattoo and he can’t help but try to put the pieces together.

“Even if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”

“I wouldn’t know, all y’all are ugly.”

“No it doesn’t disqualify you.”

“That’s a weird statement.”

You swallow hard before you answer the last one.

“Doesn’t matter if I do, none of you are meeting her.”

Benny can see you’re uncomfortable and he doesn’t want the guys to latch on. So he takes the reins of the conversation, asking Big Nick about his latest divorce. Of course he launches into a huge speech about how it’s not his fault that he likes pussy so much and blah blah blah.

Benny shoots you a glance and notices you looking at him. You give him a small nod and raise your bottle in thanks.

At least, Benny thinks it’s in thanks.

********

MONTH 11

Month 11 earns you a nickname.

It’s another raid. Another head of the hydra that you’re looking for. You wear basically the same outfit, only this time the button down is army green instead of soft pink.

“You ready?” Magalon asks you, standing next to you and you wonder if he’s thinking of the last raid where you got shot. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black shirt with a grey LASD beanie over his hair. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and you see the strong salt-and-pepper there. It makes you twitch, low in your belly and wonder if he has-Jesus. A raid. You’re wearing a goddamned bulletproof vest and are getting ready to charge into a building where you might potentially get shot. Tamp that shit down.

“Yeah. I don’t think anyone is ever fully ready but I’m as ready as I can be,” you tell him, twisting your neck to look up at him.

“Try not to get shot this time,” he chuckles, looking at you. You nod, smiling as well and promising to do your best.

You get shot.

You actually get fucking shot.

It happens in a flash, one second the LAPD is declaring the room and by extension the building clear. The next second, you’re on the ground absolutely gasping for air.

“What the fuck?” Connors yells, pointing his gun that direction as Magalon covers your body with his own.

“You’re like a fucking magnet for bullets,” Magalon grumbles at you, grabbing you by the shoulder straps and moving to haul you out.

“Stop,” you gasp. “I’m fine, got the wind knocked out of me,” you tell him, pushing him off. The last thing you need is him getting shot in the back because he’s worried about you. “Get the suspect,” you tell him, pushing him off and finding cover behind a couple barrels off to your left. There’s a few more shots and a small shout of pain, hopefully from someone that isn’t on your side, before everything stops.

The barrels are moved out of the way and your gun flies up before you see who it is. Magalon. You never thought you’d be so happy to see him. “He’s cuffed. Connors shot him in the shoulder too but he’ll be fine. Unfortunately. Come on, you need a hospital,”

“No. No hospital. I’m fine,” you insist.

“Bullshit. Can you walk or do I need to carry you?”

“I’m fine. Seriously.”

“I guess I’m carrying you,” he says, handing his gun to Big Nick and moving to take off his own bulletproof vest.

“Damnit, I can walk,” you say, moving to stand.

“Good. Walk yourself to the ambulance so we can go to the hospital,” his jaw is set and you know that you’re going to end up at the hospital whether you like it or not.

“Fucking stubborn ass,” you snipe at him as you pass your own gun off to Connors.

“I’m going to get you a four leaf clover for luck, maybe then you’ll stop getting shot,” he shoots back and you can hear the frustration laced in his tone. As well as something else? Fear? Surely not.

“Ha!” Big Nick laughs and everyone turns to look at him. “That’s the perfect nickname for our fed. Clover,” and you groan because you know it’s going to stick. There’s no way it’s not going to stick. You don’t even get a chance to think about them calling you ‘our’ fed until you’re in the waiting room of the hospital.

—————————

“It’s two broken ribs and a nasty bruise,” says the ER doctor, sticking your x-rays up. “Desk duty for the next two months,” she tells you and you groan. Magalon hasn’t left your side yet, the others have, reports to write and debriefs to be held. “I’m going to give you some pain meds, I think the adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet and that’s the reason you aren’t feeling much pain.” You have been feeling pain but downplaying it in the hopes of fooling the doctor. Unfortunately for you, x-rays can’t fool a doctor. “I’m also going to insist that you take the next four days off, bed rest.”

She stares you down and you have no choice but to nod and agree. She turns to Magalon and says “as her partner, I fully expect you to keep her from over-exerting. And absolutely no sex until those ribs are healed,” she wags her finger at the two of you and you both splutter at the same time.

“We’re no-“

“It’s not like-“

The poor woman is confused and you can see why because Magalon introduced himself as your partner when they brought you back to the waiting room.

“I’m FBI,” you explain.

“I’m LA County Sheriffs Department. We’re partners on a case,” Magalon finishes the explanation.

“Ah, well. Regardless,” she points her fingers at you, “you’re on bed rest for four days.” She turns to Magalon, “I don’t know if you can make that happen but I expect you should try.” He nods and she moves to leave the room. “And I know you’re not being truthful about how much pain you’re in,” she points at you again and your face heats. Her finger swings to Magalon, “make sure she takes a pain medication. Take it with food. It’ll probably put you to sleep,” she warns before she heads out.

She must decide that either you aren’t going to take one or Magalon isn’t going to be able to convince you to take one because a nurse makes you take one before you’re allowed to leave.

“She’ll need another one in four hours,” she warns before she takes off. And of course, it takes almost 45 minutes to get out. Between filling the script and getting discharged, by the time you make it to the parking lot you’re a zombie. It’s been a long day and you’re sore, exhausted, and grouchy.

“I had the guys bring your car,” he tells you and you nod. “What’s your address? I need it to get you home,” he says. His voice is soft, like one you would use around a skittish dog as he helps you into the passenger seat but your tongue is thick and heavy and you can’t form words.

By the time Benny makes it back to the drivers seat, you’re asleep. Passed out against the center console and Benny can’t help but smile. You look so soft and peaceful and not at all like a woman who just got shot.

Benny decides to take you to his place since he doesn’t know how to get to yours. He bridal carries you up the stairs to his apartment and manages to get you inside without waking you. Benny settles you down in his bed, unsure of whether to leave your clothes the way they are or try to change you into something comfortable and decides to go with the latter.

He removes your shirt, hoping you’ve got a tank underneath it like last time and is relieved to find one. He slips one of his t shirts over your head, pulling it down across your body before reaching under to pull down the tank. He refuses to look at the tattoo, knowing it’ll kick his brain into overdrive if he does. When he removes the undershirt, Benny must brush against your bruise because you groan in pain but he manages to get it off without waking you. Remembering an old trick from a previous lifetime, he unsnaps your bra and pulls it out the arm holes of the shirt, tossing it with the tank. Jeans are last and he makes sure to keep the shirt pulled all the way down as he blindly unbuttons and strips you. Finally, he tucks you under the covers and grabs a pillow to take to the couch. He sets an alarm and passes the fuck out.

The thing that wakes you is the aching pain in your ribs. You groan, doing your best to sit up but god, they hurt so bad. Glancing around the room you expect to see your collection of plants and pink sheets, but are surprised by bare walls and black sheets.

“Where the fuck-“ you start but then Magalon appears in the doorway. It’s that moment that you realize you’ve been changed into clothes that aren’t yours and you narrow your eyes at him.

“I didn’t see anything. I closed my eyes,” he tells you, crossing the room. “I had to take you to my place because you fell asleep before you could give me your address,” he explains. He’s got a protein bar in one hand and a cup in the other and he hands the cup to you first. “It’s time for your next pain med,” he drops the little pill in your hand, “I know your ribs hurt,” he gives you a pointed look. Grimacing you take the pill and chase it with the water.

“Thank you,” you say when he hands you the protein bar. Scarfing it down, you glance up at him as he nods. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. God, you probably had to carry me inside, didn’t you?” Magalon chuckles and nods.

“I need to tell you that I’m not leaving your side until you can go back to work,” and you open your mouth to protest. “Nope. No arguments. I’m more than happy to take you back to your own place if that would make you more comfortable, but you are stuck with me,” he says and you can tell he isn’t going to argue with you about it and you don’t have the energy to try either.

“Fine. How did you get me changed without ‘seeing anything’?” You smile as he explains, careful not to laugh because you know that it’s going to hurt. “I need to shower. Do you think I’ve got enough time before this kicks in?”

“Not sure, but I think it might be safer to wait until you’ve rested a little more,” you can’t help but agree because as he leaves the bedroom again you feel the deep weight of exhaustion overtake you again and before you know it, you’re out.

—————————

The next time you wake, Benny is already there and waiting for you.

“No, I want to try to shower first,” shaking your head at him and trying to sit up. Goddamn, your ribs hurt. He gives you a hand and leads you to the bathroom.

“I’m sure I don’t have the right…anything. But feel free to use anything in my shower,” he says. “But leave the door unlocked just in case you need me. Do you want me to try to make you something to eat?” Your stomach gives an aggressive grumble at that exact moment and he laughs. “Fried egg sandwich? Coffee?” Nodding at both he takes off to his kitchen. Heading into the bathroom, you flip on the lights and take a look at yourself in the mirror. You look like absolute shit. Red eyes, dark circles, your hair is a mess and a half. You haven’t washed your face recently and you know that the shower is going to dry your skin out. Of course Magalon doesn’t have any body lotion either.

Stripping off the tshirt, one of Magalon’s no doubt, you inspect the large bruise on your right side. It takes up almost your entire ribcage, stretching from under your breasts to almost touching your hipbone and it’s a nasty deep purple. It’ll only worsen over the next couple days too, turning brown to green to yellow. When you turn on the shower, you realize you don’t have a clean towel.

“Magalon?” You call out and hear his answering response. “I don’t have a towel, can you bring me one?” There’s silence, then he calls back that he’ll do it in just a second. Locating a brush, you step into the shower and groan at the hot water on your skin. Magalon has a nice shower, a cool grey tile with glass doors. And he has several body washes to choose from. And an actual shampoo and conditioner, not a 4-in-1 combo. You wash your hair with one hand because it hurts to raise the other and skip washing your feet cause you can’t bend over to reach them, but damn do you feel better.

The towel and a pair of sweats is right outside the bathroom door when you get out. You try to rip a brush through your hair, but the exertion makes your ribs hurt too much. So instead, you dress and head to the kitchen. Magalon is in there, plating a sandwich and setting it next to a cup of coffee. Your damn ribs are absolutely aching but right now? You’re more hungry than you are anything else.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know. But you’re my partner and I’ve got your back.” Swoon. No-wait. No swoon. Swooning is bad.

“Can I ask you for a small favor?” He nods and you hold out the brush. “It hurts too much to try and brush it.” He takes the brush and looks at it a little funny before he moves to stand behind you. He’s so gentle with it, afraid to put any tension on your head and hurt you. He gets through it as you sip on the coffee, (black, gross) and it doesn’t take him much time and you feel so much better when he’s done.

“Do you want to take your pill now or after you eat?” You opt for now and he hands it to you with a cup of water. “Still tired? Did showering hurt? Do you need to nap?”

“A little but not like I was. No, I feel a lot better being clean. I guess we’ll have to see.”

“Do you want to head back to yours or stay here for now?”

“I’d like to go back to my place, but maybe food first,” Magalon nods and you suppose you should be calling him Benny now. “Clover is gonna stick, isn’t it?” He looses a chuckle and grabs his phone, pulling up a text thread.

Big Nick: How’s Clover?

Benny: Fine. She’s resting. Pain pills took her out.

A couple hours later.

Z: Clover still out?

Benny: Ya. Long day for her. She’s at mine.

Big Nick: Damn Borracho, how did you get that to happen?

Z: OooOOooooHHhhhhh

Connors: Apparently only drugged women go home with you.

Henderson: Y’all are obnoxious

Benny: Fell asleep before I could get her address.

A couple hours later.

Connors: Clover good? Still out?

Benny: Ya. And ya.

Henderson: You know Borracho, my favorite thing about you is how conversational you are.

You snort a laugh and immediately regret it, grabbing at your ribs.

“Are they always like that?”

“As long as I’ve known them. They’ve taken to you though, more than any other person we’ve worked with. Man or woman.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“They’re used to other departments being straight-laced and talking shit about us. You haven’t done that. You call the guys out when they need it and let shit slide that doesn’t. They respect that,” he says, shrugging.

“Is that what happened with the other female agents that worked with you guys?” And he nods.

“By now you know how they are and if they think they’ve found something that’ll bother you, they dig in. And they don’t know when to quit.”

Nodding you ask, “is that how you got the nickname Borracho?” It’s a far cry from how you made fun of his nickname all those months ago. He sighs heavily and you know it’s a story that irritates him a little.

“One time, back when it was Big Nick, Henderson and me, we had a work event. It was fancy and an open bar, so I naturally got shit-faced. Nick and his first wife had to help me out and make sure I didn’t vomit all over myself. Nick started calling me Borracho and I never got rid of it, especially once they realized I hate it.” Your sandwich is gone by now and you move to go put the plate in the sink but Benny stops you. He takes the plate and puts it in the dishwasher before coming to sit next to you again.

“That’s a horrible way to get a nickname,” you smile at him and he smiles back.

“Tell me about it.” A pause. “Getting shot is a much cooler way to get a nickname,” and you shoot him a small glare. “Do you want to try and nap again or are you alright?” Between the shower and the conversation, you’re exhausted again so you opt for another nap. “While you sleep I’m gonna run to the office and grab some files so I can get some work done while I’m out,” he tells you and you nod, drifting back down the hallway to his room. Pulling back the sheets and sliding in, you don’t even hear the front door shut before you’re asleep again.

—————————

You’ve forgotten how much you hate being on bed rest. It’s been years since you last were but good god it is awful. At least there’s company. Once Benny got back from the office with a box in the SUV and some get-wells from the boys, you’d finally felt rested. You got Benny to take you back to your own apartment and he chuckles when he walks in.

“This is the girliest place I’ve ever been in.”

“Leave my decoration choices alone,” but he’s not wrong. Everything is soft and feminine, a grey couch with pink and grey pillows. A baby pink sheets and comforter set and plants everywhere. “Thanks. Seriously. I appreciate you staying with me to make sure I’m okay.”

“No coffee machine?” He asks in lieu of a response.

“I only get coffee from that one place,” you remind him. “It’s easier and it tastes better than drip coffee from a pot.” He laughs and says whatever before he sets the files on your counter.

“Two more days, then you can go back to work,” he reminds you and you stick your tongue out at him when his back is turned. Your ribs still ache but you can at least take a pain pill and not pass out within 20 minutes, so that’s an improvement. “Do you want to sift through these files with me?” He asks and you groan. You don’t, you’re too foggy. “Okay okay, we don’t have to,” he chuckles and turns to you. “What do you feel like doing?”

Truth be told, you want to watch a show. Your favorite romantic show just released a new season last week and you want to get caught up. But it’s steamy and not a show to be watched with a coworker so you say, “is there a game on?” Benny quirks a brow at you and you sigh. You like sports but you just aren’t in the mood for them.

“What do you actually want to watch?” When you give him the name of the show he belly laughs and says “let’s watch it. Cmon. I want to see what it’s like.”

Two hours and several spicy scenes later, Benny is deeply invested in this show. He keeps asking questions and insisting things don’t make sense, but that’s only because he hasn’t seen the first couple seasons. If it didn’t hurt so much to laugh, you would be in absolute tears by now because who knew that Detective Magalon from the LASD would be into regency romances?

“Who is that man?”

“They’re in the garden alone. Don’t they have to get married now?”

“He touched her tit, they definitely have to get married now.

“Who is this entire family?”

Finally you get tired of answering his questions and suggest that you start the whole series over, so he can be caught up. He gives you a side eye, but you ignore it, starting from Season 1 Episode 1 and let it play. The two of you get through the first four episodes before it’s time for another pain med, you’re trying to stretch out the time you need them so you can wean. After you take it you curl into the couch, Benny at one end and you at the other. It doesn’t take long for this one to knock you out and eventually you’re stretched out, your head in Benny’s lap as he finishes the season by himself.

He picks you up as gently as he can, walking you down the hall to settle you into your own bed. He takes the time to examine the pictures hung up in the hallway when he heads back to the couch. He notices a girl in your pictures, one so similar in a way that’s more than just a sibling. You both look about the same age and share the exact same smile, often the both of you holding matching Winnie the Pooh plushies. The pictures of the two of you stop when you reach late teens, Benny guesses somewhere between 17-19. It’s just you now, you and your parents, you and another sibling, a brother. Benny starts taking the pieces and putting them together. A memorial tattoo, a refusal to talk about your family. A decided sensitive spot about your sister, or lack of? Benny doesn’t want to make assumptions, he knows what they say about assuming. But he’s a cop, a long time cop, and he knows how to make an educated guess.

You wake in your own bed, surrounded by your fluffy pink comforter and a deep ache in your ribs. It’s not time for more pain meds, so you decide to ice them down instead. Sneaking past a sleeping Benny and you take the time to study his profile. Strong nose and jaw, salt and pepper in his beard, eyes that have a capability to be soft. He really is an attractive man, if you were being honest with yourself, which you try not to be. He looks so peaceful when he’s sleeping, so much different without the deep furrow between his eyebrows. You try to be as quiet as possible as you make a bag of ice, but it doesn’t take him long to follow you into the kitchen.

“In pain?” He asks, leaning up against the counter. His beefy arms cross his chest and you have to avert your eyes quickly.

“Yeah. The sharp pains are gone but the aching pains won’t budge.” He nods before glancing at the clock.

“It’s early,” you glance at the clock yourself and notice it’s only 6 am. Old habits die hard. “Want to get out of the apartment for a while? We can go grab breakfast?” He offers. “Does that coffee shop you like serve a full breakfast?”

“Actually it does. I’ve never eaten breakfast there before though.”

“Are you willing to try it?”

“Anything to get out for a bit. Just let me finish icing my ribs first. It should take about 30 minutes. Do you need to go home and shower?”

Benny shakes his head, “nah, I took one in the guest room while you were sleeping. Want to watch your show while we wait?” Obviously the answer is yes and you can’t stop watching mid-episode so it’s after 7 by the time you leave the house. Benny orders literally only a cup of coffee and you side eye him a you order blueberry pancakes, bacon, and hashbrowns with a French vanilla cappuccino.

“Aren’t you gonna eat?” He shakes his head at you.

“Nah, not much of a breakfast eater,” he says, taking a deep drink.

“Breakfast is the best meal of the day,” and it sends the two of you into an argument about which meal actually is the best meal. (Benny says they’re all the same, which leads you to believe he doesn’t eat much outside of work.)

This silly argument lasts nearly the entire time you wait for food and when it does arrive, you dig in. You’re so hungry that you almost don’t notice that Benny steals a piece of bacon off your plate. “Hey! Get your own food!” You cry, moving to stab him with your fork, but he manages to dodge. He laughs, a full belly laugh, and the sound is delicious. “You should’ve ordered something,” you warn, covering your food with your arms. “I don’t share food.”

He laughs again and flags down the waitress, ordering a side of bacon and some toast. You glare at him until it arrives, and the waitress chuckles as she fills his coffee. “I don’t share food with my boyfriend either,” and before you can argue that Benito Magalon is NOT your boyfriend, she’s gone.

————————-

Benny stays with you the next day and a half, until Monday and you’re allowed to return back to work. He offers to drive you but you refuse, telling him you go in much earlier than he does. “I can stay on your couch again. I’ll wake up when you wake up,” he says and you finally relent. So the next morning, at 6:30 you head into the kitchen, only to find Benny showered and holding coffee. “Hey. I grabbed coffee,” he lifts said coffee. “Want me to drive your car?”

It’s so bright in the office, much more bright than the low lights of your home, and it makes you wince.

“Clover!” Comes the cry from your office mates as they see you. You can’t help but smile and then it widens when you see what’s on your desk. A tiny pot with something green in it, which upon further inspection turns out to be…..clover.

“You guys have to be fucking kidding me,” you laugh, gently so not to upset your ribs. There’s a loud ruckus of laughter from them, as if it’s the funniest practical joke they’ve ever pulled. “You know this won’t live, right?” Examining it, you notice that it looks like they literally dug it up from the front lawn and stuck it in a pot. “It needs a lot more light than it’s gonna get sitting on my desk,” you explain before thanking them for doing something so thoughtful.

Big Nick steps out of his office to welcome you back, reaching over to slap a hand on your shoulder. You brace, waiting for the impact to jar your ribs but a sharp ‘don’t’ from Benny stops the hand before it connects. “Those ribs are still broke, Nick,” he says, barely lifting his eyes from his files to acknowledge Nick. Nick grunts, turns, tells you how good it is for you to be back, then disappears.

Lifting your eyes, you notice the same stunned expression on everyone else’s face and exchange of glances with one another. And glances with you.

That Monday is one of the longest of your career. you barely get anything done and all you want to do is go home and rest, but you can’t. It’s nearly midday when your patience snaps because Henderson looks at you funny when you grunt in pain.

“Got something to say, Henderson?” You snap and he gives you a wide, nervous glance before his eyes snap to Benny. “No. Don’t look at him, look at me. Do you have something to say?” Benny, you see him out of the corner of your eye, checks his watch and then pulls his phone out.

You’re so annoyed because you know they’re texting their little group chat. And you know they’re texting about you. Especially when four phones go off at the same time, more than once.

Borracho: it’s her first day off pain meds. Cut her some slack.

Nick: been there.

Henderson: same.

Z: does she need anything?

Borracho: food. And a coffee.

Z: what does she like?

Borracho: get her General Tso’s and house fried rice. And a caramel macchiato.

Z nods, getting up from his chair and heading out the door.

“Y’all texting about me?” You snap, eyes sharp as they bore holes in Benny’s head. He gives you this soft, pitying look that absolutely makes you rage and stand up suddenly before you double over in pain. Stupid fucking ribs. Stupid fucking perp that shot you. Stupid fucking pain meds. Wait-pain meds. Oh goddamnit. That’s why you’re so grouchy, you haven’t had any today and you’re sore and shaky.

“Are you alright?” Benny asks, standing. You wave him off, heading to the back of the bullpen where there aren’t any eyes and take a couple deep breaths. After four days of basically living together, you recognize the sound of Benny’s feet as they come up behind you. “Hurtin’?” He asks and you nod your head. “Want to head home?” You shake your head, but you really like the way he uses home like it’s somewhere the both of you are going.

“Nah, I just need a little bit of food and probably some coffee,” and you’re confused when Benny smiles.

“That’s where Z went. He’s grabbing Chinese and a caramel macchiato.” And you know that it was 100% Benny’s idea.

“Thanks Ben,” you smile at him, placing a soft hand on his forearm. There’s a moment there, in the back of the bullpen, between the two of you. You’ve been toeing that line all weekend, really for the last two months and this might be the turning point in your relationship. Benny feels safe. Benny feels like comfort. Someone you can trust. Someone you can count on.

Which is amazing to you because it’s such a far cry from where you started, nearly a year ago. Which makes you think, then makes you apologize.

“I’m sorry for how I acted when I first got here.”

“It’s fine. I think you had the right to be, these guys are a tough nut to crack,” he says, gesturing to the bullpen behind them. “They don’t take very well to others, especially fed. The ones we usually deal with are snarky and uptight. They make fun of us or judge us.” You understand, really you do. It makes sense, how defensive they are and how they treat new people. “Are you sure that you don’t want to head home? I can work from there,” he offers and it makes your chest tight. But his phone dings and it’s Z, letting him know that he’s back and that makes your chest tight again. These men care about you, your physical and mental well-being, and they want to make sure you’re okay. So, you shake your head at Benny and head back to your desk, lobbing an apology to everyone for your behavior, and sit down. Grabbing a file, you start to flip through it, but before you even have a chance to look at it, a bag and a coffee are set in front of you. You glance up and smile at Z, thanking him and apologizing to him in the same breath. He waves you off and sits down, but you can’t quite let it go.

“Z, what’s your cashapp. Or your Venmo? Let me pay for this, you didn’t have to go get it for me,” you tell him but he waves you off again.

“Nahh, Borracho already paid for it. Don’t worry about it,” and when you look at Benny, he refuses to look at you.

*************

Month 12

Month 12, you’re added into the group chat. Your phone buzzes one morning with one text from Big Nick and you notice that there’s a bunch of numbers there that you don’t recognize. Benny’s you do, but no one else. After about a week he stopped sleeping on your couch but he still gets to the office early and the two of you spend your mornings in companionable silence, sharing breakfast.

Big Nick: Anyone up for grabbing donuts this morning?

Big Nick: Also, drop your names so Clover knows who’s who.

Clover: Isn’t being a bunch of donut loving cops a little cliche?

Big Nick: Rude. No donuts for you.

You laugh a little out loud, noticing the ache in your ribs has almost completely disappeared, nearly two months after you got shot. You know Nick well enough now to know that he’s joking and he’s not being the rude, brash, asshole you initially thought that he was.

Zapata: It’s Z. Can’t this morning, gonna do a witness call.

Connors: This is Connors. I’m already at a crime scene, so I can’t. Save me some though!

Henderson: This is Henderson. I’m gonna be late as it is, I don’t have time.

Benny: Borracho can grab some from the usual place.

Clover: Don’t get any jelly filled ones, they’re the worst.

Zapata: Uh oh.

Clover: What?

Connors: NO JELLY FILLED? THAT’S UN-AMERICAN. I’M GOING BACK TO THE OTHER GROUP CHAT.

You laugh out loud again, the idea of Connors taking jelly-filled donuts so seriously honestly tracks for who he is as a person.

Clover: I’m sorry! Get all the jelly filled that you want, but get me long chocolate donut. No jelly, please.

Connors: Borracho, get a dozen jelly-filled just to spite Clover.

Clover: Awe, Connors. You’re hurting my feelings.

Big Nick: It’s too early to be reading this many messages.

Clover: You texted us first.

Benny: Chill or I won’t get donuts.

Henderson: You started the group chat.

Connors: You text first?!

Zapata: Speaking of, what should I name the chat?

Big Nick: Why does the group chat need a name?

Zapata: Our other chat is called The Regulators. We need to name this one too.

Connors: How about the FEDulators? It sounds the same!!

Clover: That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard, Connors.

Clover: How about Clover and the Four Leaf’s?

Zapata: OoOoOoOhHhHhH!!!!! I like that!!!!

Zapata changed the group name to 🍀Clover and the Four Leaf’s 🍀

Big Nick: Y’all are fuckin’ idiots.

You’re already in the office and lift your head at the sound of someone coming into the bullpen. It’s Benny, carrying two dozen donuts. He smiles at you and it makes something go slippery in your chest and Jesus you’re an adult.

“Welcome to the group chat. It’s hell here,” he laughs, holding out an open box for you to grab one. The two of you sit in silence, eating donuts and sharing files.

[chemicalalice]

Down the Rabbit Hole - Kinktober Day 2 - Threesome

Summary: It was an inevitability you should have seen coming.

Pairing: Ray Merrimen x female!Reader x Benny “Borracho” Magalon

Warnings: threesome, unprotected PinV sex, oral sex (m receiving), swearing, minor degradation but used in kink fashion and not to be hurtful. Please be mindful of yourself and do not read if this content bothers you. 18+ only!

Word count: 864

A/N: Thought about this one for ages. Couldn’t figure how to it up. Finally I came up with this. I guess it works? Not beta-read. This takes place very shortly after Ray gets out of prison. Dedicated to @my-rosegold-soul who is the only other person I know who likes this thurple as much as me.

Life, relationships, people; they could all get so complicated. Things that you took for granted as a child with such ease were so much different, so much harder, as an adult. Hell, even good and bad weren’t as black and white anymore; it was all a matter of perspective. People came and went as you drifted through life, most only there for a short time. But some people came and went and then came back, as if in a fixed orbit. And you supposed that is how you found yourself in your current position.

Your current position being bent over the edge of your bed, Ray fucking you into the mattress, while a foot away Benny sat propped up against your headboard slowly stroking his dick.

You were the center of their orbit. You always had been. There wasn’t a single memory from your childhood that didn’t include at least one of them; but the majority of the time it was the three of you. Together. Against the world. For a time, at least. You could tell yourself you had no idea that you would be here, right now, with the both of them, so many years later. Too much time had past. Too many things had happened. Your guys had reached a fork in the road after high school, one that was more like a ‘T’ than a ‘Y’. Two different paths heading in two very different directions.

But Ray had been there when Benny gave your first kiss at 12 years old. And Benny had been there when Ray took your virginity at 16. You had been thick as thieves people had said. Well. If only they had known the foreshadowing of that statement……..

So all and all, maybe it wasn’t that surprising after all.

A low groan from Ray and an answering chuckle from Benny pulled you from your thoughts. “I think Raymond has missed that sweet pussy of yours, querida.” Ray dragged his gaze up from where he was watching himself disappear into you to glare at Benny. You huffed out a laugh, knowing how much Ray hated it when people used his full name. Your mirth was rewarded with a sharp slap to your ass that had you jerking forward and away from from the blow and you could feel yourself grow impossibly slicker in response.

One of Ray’s hands slid up from where it was gripping your hip to rest on the back of your neck, forcing your face down into the bedding. He bent over you and nosed at your shoulder, and the new position pushed his cock even deeper inside you, pulling a whimper from you and causing your toes to curl with the mind-numbing pleasure of it all. “Don’t think I forgot what a dirty little bitch you are, sweetheart; how you like it rough - especially when Magalon is watching.“

You let out a shuttering gasp as your orgasm raced up over you completely by surprise. Ray moaned, pushing off of you to stand upright again and you clenched around him. “Fuck! Yeah baby, just like that.” His pace picked up as his hands settled back around your hips. You knew you were going to have bruises tomorrow. You didn’t mind at all. It felt like longer than a lifetime since you last had Ray’s hands on you.

“You know how this is going to go sweetheart? Huh? I’m going to cum in tight little cunt of yours. And then while I’m still dripping out of you, you are going to get up there and suck Magalon’s dick until he fills you up too.” His voice was little more than a feral growl.

“Yeah Ray, ok.” You voice was high and breathy, bordering on a whine as he continued to pound into you, the feeling almost too much to handle in the aftermath of your climax and you buried you face back into the bedding to hide your sobs.

You could feel the slight stutter in Ray’s hips before he plunged into you a final time and then stilled, his head tilting back and his eyes slipping shut as he made good on his word and his cum shot into you. You whimpered at the the feeling, hands digging into the bedding as you came again while he slowly ground his hips into your ass, pushing as deep as he could inside of you.

Ray’s hands moved from where they were clenching your hips to stroke softly at your sides and back, conveying with touch what he always struggled to put into words before he pulled out gently, stumbling back a few steps, and practically collapsed into the chair across from your bed.

You lay panting for a moment, completely overwhelmed. But it wasn’t long before you regained enough strength to push yourself up slightly and look to where Benny still sat. His hands rested on his thighs now, but his cock was still hard between his legs and his eyes were filled with a hunger for you.

His lips twitched upwards in a smile as he met your gaze. “I hope you aren’t too worn out hermosa, you still have work to do.”

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Black Lace and Wine

Next

Pairing: Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x Reader

Summary: When you accidentally send a nude during a night of heavy drinking.

Rating: R?

Warnings/notes: Alcohol consumption; inebriation; sexual content; swearing; Maurice Compte’s arms; I know nothing about what crime scene technicians really do or what their work schedules are like, that’s not what y’all are here for anyway; listen. i told myself just have it be a oneshot. why are you writing this like it’s going to be more than that? here we fucking are. Benny deserves more fucking content, okay? He deserved more in the movie and he deserves more now. If you’re on the taglist and don’t want to be, or aren’t on the taglist and want to be, let me know.

Word count: 1470

It was a good night. You were out celebrating with your team. The case was closed, the bad guys put away, and you didn’t have to take the witness stand. 

You hadn’t found anyone to go home with which was a bit disappointing, but it wasn’t the end of the world, all you needed to have fun was yourself, anyway. You were feeling yourself that night, giddy and warm from the booze. You put on some sultry music and took off your dress, leaving yourself in a pair of lacy black panties and your knee high boots. You looked yourself up and down in the mirror and smiled at yourself, biting your lip. You felt sexy, you felt good. Maybe it was just the alcohol, the success of the case, but you didn’t care. Life was good, and so were you. You set your phone up and started taking pictures: one straddling a chair, your bare back to the camera, hair pulled over your shoulder, turning your cheek coyly to the camera. The next you had your knees bent up on the chair, arm draped over your chest, eyes cast down demurely. You kept going, all the poses you could think of in every room of your apartment. You drank more, too, cracking open a bottle of red wine. The last one you took was of you lying on your side on the couch, hand playing with the lip of your underwear. You placed your empty wine glass on the kitchen counter and walked back to your bedroom, flipping through the pictures on your phone. Was it the wine talking or were they all amazing? You clumsily unzipped your boots and kicked them off before falling into bed and selected the last photo you took. You tried to edit it, but your phone froze. You should have known better than to keep hitting buttons, you should have just waited. But you kept tapping away at your unresponsive phone, and when it finally did respond, you watched as the screen flashed through all of the selections you had unconsciously made. One of which was to share the picture. You’d never sobered up faster in your life. You sat up in your bed, urging your phone to work faster. Who did you send it to? When you saw the name, you threw your phone away from you and put your head in your hands. You tried to tell yourself that it could have been worse. You could’ve sent it to O’Brien for Christ’s sake, but it didn’t make you feel better. You got up and put a shirt on, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, and tried to settle yourself.

“Okay, bright side: there’s no case right now. You have some paperwork, but you can easily work around their hours, you’ve done it before,” you said to yourself. In fact, you’d always done it. It was actually a suggestion your boss had made when you took the job. She said Nick and his crew got the job done, but they weren’t people you wanted to be around if you wanted to get yours done. She’d said it with such a final tone that you’d taken it more as an order than a suggestion. That separation didn’t exist in the field though, and your work there made you understand her stance on the office work. You didn’t have to report to Nick, but that didn’t stop him from trying to interact with you. You wished it did. Your first day he’d introduced himself, standing too close, smelling of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and cheap cologne. You had made quick work of that conversation, breaking away as soon as you could. That was also the day you met Borracho for the first time. Benny.

“Borracho,” you said, letting the r’s roll over your tongue. “That means ‘drunk’.” 

“Estoy muy borracho,” you muttered to yourself now, hiding your face in your hands. You looked over at your phone where it sat disturbingly silent. Maybe you hadn’t actually sent anything. He would’ve responded if you had, right? You picked up your phone carefully, like it would explode if you jostled it too much, and checked your messages. Yep, there it was. Of all the pictures you took, he got the one with your tits out and your hand almost in your underwear. You let out a feral groan and threw your phone away again, planting your face in a pillow, determined never to show it again. You couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t responded to it--of course you were grateful--wait, were you grateful? Which was worse? A response or silence? You couldn’t decide. 

“Maybe he’s asleep like a normal person because it’s two in the morning,” you mumbled into the pillow. You knew that was bullshit, though. It was a Friday night and they’d just closed a successful case. You gasped and sat up on your elbows, eyes wide. Would he show it to the others? No, you decided. They may not be the nicest group of guys but they were better than that. You got ready for bed, deciding you would just ignore the situation, praying it would somehow sort itself out. 

                                           ------------------------------

Borracho was true to his nickname when his phone went off. He fumbled with it and unlocked it to see your photo, and almost choked on his beer. He coughed and sputtered, alcohol dripping down his chin onto his shirt. Borracho set his glass down and wiped himself clean.

“You okay, Borracho?” Connors asked.

“Take it easy, bro,” Z said. Borracho nodded, waving the two of them off. He glanced around him, making sure no one would see over his shoulder, and looked at the picture again.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes sliding over your form, careful not to miss an inch. “Borracho!” Nick called, startling him. He almost dropped his phone on the floor. “You comin’?” 

“Yeah,” he said, tearing his eyes away from your picture and finding his breath again. 

                                           ------------------------------

A week went by. You had almost forgotten about the picture, but there was a voice in the back of your head that nagged at you. Borracho had never responded to it. On the one hand, you were grateful, but was he unimpressed or something? That was a sexy photo, you were sexy...right? Of course you were. If he wasn’t interested, that said nothing about you. It was a week of you arguing back and forth with yourself over your level of desirability. You would see a reflection of yourself in the bathroom mirror or the elevator door and your lips would be pursed tightly, your eyebrows knitted together in a permanent state of confusion. You would rub the wrinkles out from between your eyebrows and unscrew your jaw, remembering all the times your mother would tell you your face would get stuck that way. 

You always arrived at the Sheriff’s Department long after Nick and his crew were gone and you worked into the early hours of the morning, leaving before they arrived. It wasn’t a perfect schedule and neither was theirs, but for the most part it worked. And every day you were grateful when you weren’t called out to another crime scene, but Christ, paperwork was tedious. Tonight was like any other. You pulled into the parking garage as the sun fell low and made your way into the building, heading for the elevator. The door started to close and you caught your face in the reflection, tightened up once again. You worked at it as a hand stopped the door and it slid back, letting Borracho step inside. You moved perhaps a little too far to the side, backing into the corner, gripping your bag tightly in front of you. Borracho nodded to you and pressed the button for his floor, taking his place to wait. Was it just you or was the ride longer? Was it just you or was there less air? He’d seen you naked. Well, almost naked. And he’d said nothing. Were you breathing too loudly? Were you breathing too fast? Was your heart rate normal? Was it always that warm in there? Were your thoughts always that loud? 

“Shut the fuck up,” you whispered to yourself.

“What?” Borracho asked, turning to you. 

“Nothing,” you said, “just left something in my car.” You cleared your throat. 

“Looks like we’re both forgetting things,” he said. “Had to come back for my jacket.” You noticed now that he was wearing a short sleeve button down over a white t-shirt, and you noticed too how the sleeves hugged his arms. Okay, it was definitely too hot in that elevator. The door finally slid open and Borracho started for the hallway. 

“You look good in lace, by the way,” he said over his shoulder. You hoped he didn’t see you drop your bag.

Taglist: @massivecolorspygiant @vanthrefrigeration @madlyhowling @lettherebrelight​ @funtasi @m1sund3rst0od @girlpornparadise​​ @1zashreena1​​

[mariamariquinha]

I think I've seen this film before - ‘Bossa Nova’ Prequel

Summary: Benny point-of-view.

Word Count: 675.

Warnings: None.

Author’s Note: You know that type of random idea you have out of nowhere? It’s not even funny - probably super cringe. And super short.

----------------------------------

--------------------------------------

Benny noticed everything, it was bad and good at the same time. It gave him advantages at work, in his love life, and definitely as a person in general.

The first thing he noticed was that you stopped wearing your wedding ring. Then, you started to sniff more from time to time, that you weren't always in your laboratory and once he even saw you coming out of the bathroom with a handkerchief dabbing the corner of your eyes.

He had never asked about you other than your name, but that day, during a stakeout with Nick, he found the perfect opportunity.

“She’s different.”

The years of living together gave Nick the benefit of knowing what his partners tended to mean by simple words. Benny was so narrow-minded in his opinions of you or his personal life that O'Brien assumed this wasn't about some girlfriend but one of the few women who might be 'different' in their social circle.

What was most surprising, however, was the way in which the answer was ready.

“Divorce.”

“You think?”

“After Debbie, you can recognize a hurt woman from afar,” The certainty made Benny frown in slight confusion. “Besides, that husband of hers was an asshole. That would happen sooner or later.”

“You knew him?” Nick shrugged at the question, taking his eyes off the target to look at Magalon.

“The other day we were talking and he called her. Theodore something something something or whatever. I certainly wasn't the best of husbands, but they're young. Young people don't get divorced, especially when she’s like… You know what I mean.”

It was a pretty stupid analogy, coming from a place of too much certainty and too little optimism, but Benny took it as a truthful answer. Nick didn't notice things that weren't extremely helpful to him in some way, he knew that, and O’Brien certainly wouldn't have had much information about your condition if he hadn't been speculating - or trying to get inside your pants.

“Thinking of trying your luck?” The question caught Borracho by surprise. He looked at the guy, though, and that typical smirk was there.

“‘Course not, boss. We don’t even talk.”

“Right,” Nick scoffed. “Either way, if you're thinking she'd drop to the level of guys like us after her husband's experience, don't be fooled. The girl is tough as fucking iron.”

That Benny never doubted and so he snickered at the idea of ​​you crushing Big Nick's flirting ego. Nobody brought it up again, but he jumped to the easy conclusions that you weren't doing so well.

When you bumped into each other again, Magalon had the conversation with Nick in his head. You used to go down to the Major Crimes floor to use the vending machine, another thing he'd noticed, whether it was to get you some candy or just leave frustrated that it didn't have what you wanted.

That day, he found out that you liked M&M's - he knew that because as soon as he turned his back carrying the last packet from the machine, Benny heard someone mutter a curse word and when he turned around, there was you.

“You can keep this one,” He gestured with the candy before you could leave. First, you frown, then your expression softened a little. There wasn’t pain or sadness there, but a third thing - tiredness.

“Nah, don’t worry, I can grab one at the store across the street.”

“If I told you I came to get this one for Zapata, would you accept it?”

Of course you would; that was exactly what you did, in fact, grabbing the thing with a mischievous smile. You didn't talk anymore and it wasn't even necessary; he went back to the office, listened to Z's complaint about the lack of chocolate, but thought the way you reacted was enough.

Tough as an iron, Nick said. Benny had seen that film before, in the way he began to follow you with his eyes more often and the lonely smiles he let slip while remembering your cunning answers to his friends, as well as the way you mastered crime scenes.

He knew that what he had told O'Brien was a bluff. Benny was, for sure, interested from then on.

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