#Maurice Compte characters

[bobafetts-princess]

Maurice Compte Characters Masterlist

Good Luck Charms: Months 1-6, Months 7-12

[mariamariquinha]

My personal thanks

Since finishing Versos de Placer, I feel that I have not only closed the page on a story, but rather begun a personal victory. Writing has always been a hobby and a profession for me, and what I always decided for myself was that writing fictional stories would never be more than a chance to disconnect from my routine (which isn't always good) while writing for characters and creating new worlds.

What happened in this story, for me, was transformative. I often joke that I would kill Carrillo if he actually existed, that I would hate him - I would, believe me. The thing is: at this point, it's redundant to say that the work that Maurice Compte did on Narcos was as ambiguous and open to interpretation as the script forced us to believe, and today Carrillo is someone with whom I want to explore. I think it's even subversive, right? Layering so many layers and corrupting the incorruptible so much, taking it out of its comfort zone, exposing it, adjusting it and misadjusting it again.

All of this (my willpower in writing and my courage in leaving my comfort zone to create a story in another language) came with a small support network, but one that becomes large in its merit, which is rare around here lately.

@cheesybadgers, with her constant cheering and long discussions about Carrillo, who has a passionate heart to this character and wrote one of my favorite stories against plagiarism and veiled (or not) homophobia. @thoroughlymodernminutia, who became a great friend and someone who's always supporting me, joyning the road of this story with kind words. @seaweeden always with a heads up, always commenting and always having a funny thing to add. I'm very thankful to all of you! To every comment, reblog and like.

I'm Brazilian, okay? And we are well known as somewhat intense people, but in dark times, sharing some good feelings isn't so bad after all.

[downwiththeficness]

Fic update

My next fic has a title!!

Shadow and Veil is the 70s AU fic of A Need So Great. There are 5 chapters of A Need Unleashed left and I’ll take my usual break before posting Shadow and Veil’s first chapter.

And, just as a teaser, I am borrowing one of Maurice Compte’s other characters to make the plot a little more interesting. ;)

[girlpornparadise]

Ok horny toads, sound off!

Who gets you motor running? You will find I have used a couple of good, but mostly hopeless Maurice Compte characters as the post and lintel supports of this blog. I have recently installed a giant rock that is Todd Stashwick in the center of the courtyard. You will find frescoes of Santiago Cabrera, Lewis Tan, Jon Bernthal, Ethan Peck, Brett Goldstein, Chris Pine, Danny Pino and others adorning the walls. This location is also General Hux adjacent. Please stay a while and sign the guestbook on your way out.

reblog if your inbox is always open for new members of the fandom who may be a little shy or intimidated. doesn’t matter whether or not you’re a “popular blog”; everyone here is equal and if you’re reading this as a new person/someone considering entering the fandom, we will not turn you away!!!! talk to us!! make friends!! i more than understand being shy but trust me this fandom is chill come join us in this hellhole

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

For the "make you choose" thingy:

Maurice Compte character getting killed (Den of Thieves) or Maurice Compte character getting killed (Narcos)?

NONNIE OMFGG i can't i'm cackling this is so MEAN i love it

he really does die a lot huh

Horacio Carrillo from Narcos, though, hands down

_____ Or _____. Make me choose!

[artemiseamoon]

3 am

Mayans: Kj x Wife! f reader (Kevin Jimenez)

Words: 1,337

Warnings: ⚠️ angst, almost dying, marriage issues, a hit

gif credit to gif owners

💫 Arte releases a draft from the void 💫

Under different circumstances, this would be a beautiful setting. You always loved this cabin and the lush green landscape surrounding it. You and KJ made so many memories here.

This cabin on the lake was a paradise whenever KJ had a break or took some time off work. The two of you would come here and unplug from your lives and the world.

Sitting in front of the fire now, you glance at your phone and stare at the last text he sent you.

On my way

That was today at 6:14pm. Now it's 30 after midnight. It doesn't take long to get from Santo Padre to here; something is wrong.

When you arrived, your first red flag was seeing no one else was there. Why would he tell you to meet him here and not show up?

The first hours of waiting were filled with anger and annoyance. A few times, you contemplated going back home. Plans falling through came with the territory, though it was never on purpose.

A case, his boss, a lead; there were so many times you and KJ had to cancel plans suddenly. But the difference between then and now is the lack of communication. Now, there's nothing, no text, no call, no "I'm so sorry baby."

It's worrisome.

…

Even with the fear something was wrong, you remained upset. Things between you and KJ aren’t good. Though you’ve ridden rocky waves before, this one appears to be the worst. Things got so bad you moved out of your shared home four days ago.

You tried to remain compassionate and understanding. But watching the man you love, the man you married, waste away, become rage-filled, and an asshole all because of his job and inner demons got to be too much. You needed a break and some space.

You were worried about this very thing for years. KJ has had hard jobs in the past, but this one is taking a toll on him.

This current job is eating him alive, you could see it with your own eyes, and most nights, when he did come home, you barely recognized him.

This is his 3rd year under his current assignment of taking down the Galindo Cartel. You love his passion and his desire to make a difference and hate the effect this job is having on him.

You understood KJ couldn't talk to you about most things, it's part of his work, but over the last four months, he's shut you out and become so distant you don't even know how to talk to him anymore. You can see him hurting, but can't help.

KJ tried so hard to not be like his old man, but he’s struggling now and picking up a bunch of old bad habits, including drinking. It's one of the many issues driving you two apart.

With all of this going on, you didn't know what to expect when he asked you to come here. Bad news? A divorce? Was he going to beg for you to come back?

Maybe something went terribly wrong at work and now he needs to leave town? Maybe he was taken off the case due to an outburst, or maybe your life was now in danger too?

You don't know how you made it through the last number of hours. It's nearly 3 am now, and any attempts to contact KJ fail.

"That's it, I'm looking for him."

You head to the bedroom and gather your bag. Yes, you're mad at him, yes he's been a pain in the ass. But you love him and if anything has happened to him, you will scorch the earth to find him and get revenge.

Setting the bag in the hall, you sit on the bench and put your shoes back on. Just as you slide your second boot on, you hear a car in the driveway.

You jump to your feet and rush to a window. You don’t recognize the car. A different kind of panic rushes through your body as you retrieve the pistol from your handbag.

KJ set up the cabin in a specific way. If there ever was an intruder you’d have the vantage point and numerous places to hide. You utilize one of those very spots with the gun in your hands, trying your best to keep your aim steady when the door opens.

Then it comes, his voice.

A wave of relief washes over you as you follow the sound of your name and find KJ standing in the living room.

Letting your head fall back, you let out a huge sigh and drop your shoulders. Uttering a curse under your breath, you click safely back on and place the gun on the nearest surface.

"I almost shot you!"

“Sorry I scared you, baby,” he says softly.

He’s exhausted, it's written all over his face, and he also looks disheveled. With each step closer you take to him, you notice something else. Something harder to read in his brown eyes.

By the time you reach him, KJ pulls you into his arms, holding you close in a tight hug. A moment passes like this, the two of you holding on to each other. Both needed it more than the other knew.

With your head against his chest, KJ starts to speak but stops, seemingly struggling with his words. You rest your palms against his back and look up at him, finding his eyes already on you.

“Are you okay? I was worried….” you study him, “are you injured?”

“I’m okay,” he tries to assure you, you know it's a lie.

KJ softly kisses your forehead and takes you by the hand, guiding you to the couch. His hand is shaky in yours, and you can smell the liquor on his breath.

You start, “KJ - if you were late because you were out drinking - "

“I - I fucked up baby, “ his brown eyes are sad and heavy. “I’ve got a hit out on me. An old contact gave me a heads-up. I had to hide out for a few hours before making the drive. I'm sorry."

“A hit? Who? Galindo?” You move closer to him and hold his hand tighter.

He shakes his head, “not exactly- we don't have a lot of time. I need you to come with me, so I can get you somewhere safe first.”

“Then what, you go dark?”

He nods.

“No, I’m not leaving you. If you need to go under the radar, we do it together.”

Your words surprised him, he was so convinced you were over and done. He didn't even expect you to still have your wedding ring on, “Really?”

“You drive me mad sometimes. But I love you. And if a price is on your head, that means I have one on mine too. Say you vanish, then what? I may have a week, a month, a few months then someone rolls up on me and shoots me to send a message to you? No, fuck that, we disappear together.”

KJ pulls you close and rests his forehead against yours. “Are you sure about this?” He asks again.

“Yes,” you confirm.

He raises your hand to his lips and then kisses it, “you know what you're signing up for?”

“I had an idea when I picked you, I’m not stupid. I knew the stakes were raised by taking this job.”

“I don’t deserve you” he holds your face then kisses you, “I love you. I’m sorry I wasn’t - stronger.”

“Don’t do that, all of this is a lot. We’ll go somewhere else. Start new. I’ll get the old KJ back, yeah?”

He nods, “we need to get the go bags. I have a friend, he's gonna help us get out of Cali, but we need to hurry.”

“You and me. We got this, okay?” You stare deep into his eyes and caress the side of his face.

“You and me.”

KJ forces a smile, kisses you again, then stands. "Let's go."

He needs a hug 😩

Masterlist (Mayans )

I don’t have a lot of Maurice, but find some narcos /Carrillo here

[mariamariquinha]

You know, I worked, came back (did a small grocery run before), took a shower and decided: huh, I need to ready OHDH.

GIRL WHAT THE FUCK ??????????????????

Listen, I could stay hours here talking about how this have SO MANY beautiful layers of grief, love, care, nostalgia... But I'll stay with one line that could describe my perfect idea of what I saw of a Carrillo' past.

It seemed stupid in hindsight, but Horacio looked forward to his Papá checking up on them like that because it at least meant he was home and spending time with them rather than with his work. It meant he was proud of Horacio, even if it was in the most trivial of ways.

Like... YES! YES, THAT'S IT! I YEARN for characters that feel things and miss things and... Ugh, FEEL!!!!! I love how you can use to 'tough' guys to express so many beautiful things all at once. Sensitive, warm, intimate and brilliant. That's all I can say.

The historical references were like *chef kiss*, one of the reasons why I appreciate your work so much it's the respect and care you have with such details. I couldn't expect less ❤️

(nothing like reading good gay romance after a long day at work)

And hey, I saw that. Steve and Javier writing a book? Huh, I can see Boyd Holdbrook and Pedro Pascal playing them in a future tv show. Even a guy called Maurice Compte as Carrillo. Do you know them?

Narcos Fic: Old Habits Die Hard (Chap. 19)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x Horacio Carrillo

Words: 7,943

Summary: Javier and Horacio deal with the aftermath of a fraught morning and try to make the most of life in Madrid. Meanwhile, Señora Romero and Chucho have some words of wisdom (as usual) for them.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Emotional smut (including ass play, spanking and aftercare), brief discussions of PTSD symptoms and healing, grief and parental loss, discussions of sexuality/coming out, allusions to period-typical and historical prejudices, smoking, swearing.

Notes: So, here's the second part of their Madrid adventures at last! But where to next? 👀 I'm currently working on chapter 20, which is taking a while because life, and also I swear the closer to the end I get, the harder it is to write lol.

Thank you once again to anyone still reading, or anyone who has recently jumped on board this emotional rollercoaster. I'm blown away by the comments I've received over the last couple of years and I still love hearing from people, so please feel free to drop me a line if you'd like to ❤️

I’ve also added to my OHDH trivia post to cover this chapter if anyone is interested. 

Whilst obviously I do not own Narcos or its characters, please do not copy, re-post, or plagiarize this fic in any capacity on this or other platforms. If you wish to create any fan works inspired by it, please provide a credit or send me a message if in doubt.

Chapter 19: In The Same Boat

After breakfast and back at their apartment, Horacio took a shower, relieved to finally be rid of his running clothes now that the sweat had long since dried.

Javier soon joined him, capturing his waist from behind as eager lips met salty wet skin.

Horacio didn’t question why Javier was on his second cleansing of the day, instead nudging against the ridge of his shoulder, letting the steam envelop them and the hot jets wash away the stress of an eventful morning.

They wanted answers about what happened in their absences, but for now, their bodies did the talking. They gave into unspoken needs and an insistent craving to be as close as possible now further hurdles had been overcome, even if they weren’t sure which ones yet.

If Javier was hungrier and more demanding with what he took, Horacio indubitably noticed but didn’t object. How could he mind Javier’s nails scraping and scoring, marking Horacio like conquered territory?

Or the way he crouched between Horacio’s spread legs, parting generous handfuls of firm flesh, mouthing and biting with fervour along each buttock towards their inner seams, the bristle of facial hair scratching in all the right places.

Javier was guided by the moans above him as his nose pressed forwards, licking a trail north and south, alternating between flattening his tongue and outlining meandering patterns, skirting down to Horacio’s perineum and back up. Because anything less wouldn’t have been enough.

All Horacio could do was steady himself against the wall with one hand, the other rolling over supple skin and the taut ridges of his pectoral and abdominal muscles, ebbing and flowing like the Sierra de Guadarrama, a bittersweet reminder of his Andean homeland on their doorstep.

He engulfed and tweaked his nipples, journeying below the soft slope of his stomach and groin, fondling his balls, his fingers briefly making contact with Javier’s mouth and grounding them instantly.

A desperate growl rumbled through Horacio’s chest as he clenched his fist around the shaft of his cock and tugged in time with Javier lapping at the tight ring of muscle until he broached it. Shallow thrusts to begin with, increasing the depth and pace the fiercer Horacio shook and shuddered.

Javier never grew tired of being the one to reduce Horacio to a lascivious wreck, knowing it was an honour exclusively bestowed upon him, made even sweeter now they were no longer looking over their shoulders, waiting for a cruel twist of fate to intervene.

With that thought fresh in Javier’s mind, he didn’t hold back, devouring with ravenous greed, the ache in his knees insignificant compared to the sounds he was drawing from Horacio, who was all wounded grunts and choked back sobs, and it was music to Javier’s ears.

It didn’t take much for Horacio to fall apart on the fire of Javier’s tongue and the ice of his own iron grip, his eyes screwed shut and his spare hand thumping against the porcelain tiles as he came with a silent cry, teeth clamped down on his bottom lip for the benefit of their neighbours.

Once Horacio had recuperated, Javier peeled himself off the floor and manoeuvred them under the faucet, their mouths fusing together as they rinsed off. There was no let-up, the rough collision of limbs building momentum until Javier’s breathless invocations echoed as loudly around the room as the sweet percussion of a palm against his ass, a slow burn blush blooming with each prayer answered.

“Are you sure?” had been Horacio’s first question, always compelled to check in whenever Javier displayed vulnerability like this.

But Javier was certain. He needed it in the way his lungs sucked on air. Needed Horacio to hold the reins now, to clear his mind so he could focus on the present. On every sensation, word of encouragement and exhalation. To leave physical evidence on Javier’s body, an undeniable reminder that Horacio was here, safe, and trusted to take care of him precisely how he desired.

So, who was Horacio to refuse? Not when Javier’s supplicating gaze scorched his own, kindling an inscrutable and mortifying urge to sink to his knees and recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

But instead, he positioned Javier facing the tiles, smoothing his hand back and forth, massaging each pert cheek to stimulate the blood flow, letting the anticipation build because he knew that was part of the thrill for Javier, not knowing when he would strike.

Seconds of stillness followed; the steady stream of water the only sound to be heard until Horacio permeated the silence with the flat of his palm.

He started off with little more than a mild tap, gauging where Javier was at, easing into it and letting him dictate how far this went.

A series of progressively bracing swats came next, alternating from side to side, caressing the areas he targeted as a balm to the prickling heat. “You’re doing so good for me, Javier,” he praised, his free hand stroking up and down Javier’s back in reassurance. “Tell me what you need.”

Javier’s forehead rested on his hand against the wall, his teeth wedged into his fist whenever Horacio let loose. “I need more,” he stated after taking a deep breath, knowing Horacio would waver in granting his request without such succinct clarity.

Several more vigorous slaps ensued, causing something between a huff and a groan to release from Javier’s throat as his body jerked and his cock twitched. “Harder,” came his response no sooner had the vibrations reached the seat of his ass.

Horacio took his time despite Javier’s demand, subduing with delicate circles as though polishing fine glass, allowing the cascading water to counteract the sting.

There was an agonising pause, rendering it impossible for Javier to second guess when it would end until it was too late.

A crystal clear thwack crackled through the air, followed by another and another, sending Javier into a wave of spasms that left bite marks on the back of his hand and tears welling in his eyes.

He was sure there must be pain buried beneath the pleasure that he would feel later, but for now, he was floating, delirious, gone. Fuck any drug the cartels had to offer because no way in hell could it ever be as good as this.

But he was determined not to take himself in hand or grind against the tiles; that was too easy. This required complete concentration and discipline, reducing Javier’s existence to nothing but Horacio’s touch and his response.

“Horacio, please.” He panted out his final beg for mercy, knowing it wouldn’t take much more to bring him home.

Horacio couldn’t be sure if it was the light glinting in the trickling water droplets, illuminating the imprint of his hand that had him fraying at the edges, or how his palm tingled, triggering a chain reaction all the way down to his groin again. But before he could stop himself, he covered Javier’s back with his body, his left hand meeting Javier’s on the wall.

The scent of Javier’s shampoo was potent, intoxicating, and lethal as Horacio buried his face in a mass of thick, damp hair, almost knocking the wind out of them simultaneously. They kept still, both trying to deepen their tremoring breaths, Horacio counting to 10 in his head and Javier closing his eyes in preparation.

Horacio retreated, leaving his left hand connected with Javier’s whilst his right resumed its position, gently cupping and kneading, teasing his knuckles between Javier’s cheeks.

There was a lull in movement, the tide receding as a prelude to the incoming tsunami, their pulses deafening in their ears as time froze and suspended them in a torturous self-imposed vacuum.

But then a seismic release set them free, plunging Javier’s weight against the tiles, no amount of chewing on his fist able to suppress the whimpered cry or control his quivering form as he came with Horacio’s name somewhere on the tip of his tongue but lost amidst the onslaught of concentrated bliss.

He couldn’t move even if he wanted to, merely trying to breathe whilst Horacio removed the shower hose from its cradle, letting the restorative warmth of the water soothe the tenderness, the temperature gradually reducing to lukewarm then cooler once Javier was accustomed to it, extinguishing the flames.

Horacio dried them off, dabbing the towel meticulously over Javier until he replaced it with chaste kisses then sweet almond oil, mapping a path across his ass, covering every inch, and taking extra time with the rawest patches of skin. He needed this part of the ritual as much as Javier did. Needed to be the caregiver at both ends of the spectrum and to still be touching Javier because that was what he needed in return.

------------------------------------------------------

They delayed dressing in favour of entangling themselves beneath the bedsheets after rehydrating and sharing a bowl of fresh strawberries bought from their favourite food market the previous day. It wasn’t as though they had anywhere to be, after all.

A solitary cigarette passed between them, the only nicotine-fuelled vice of the day worth having anymore. It was customary for either man to trace patterns through chest hair as he took a drag, their fingers and lips meeting somewhere in the middle, transferring cigarette and smoke in one smooth motion.

Their cigarette was now stubbed out in the ashtray by the bed, swapped for playing with each other’s hands whilst Javier lay tucked into Horacio’s side.

His fingers skimmed over the coarse edges of Horacio’s, sliding to the softness at the centre of his palm, then down to his wrist. Javier lingered until he got what he came for, the slow, steady beat keeping his own rhythm in check after a fraught start to the morning.

From there, Horacio dusted kisses across Javier's knuckles until Javier unfurled his fingers, offering them up for the same treatment, and Horacio gladly obliged.

It could have been minutes or hours they lay like this, lost in touch, neither wanting to break the spell.

But as Horacio’s hand snaked up Javier’s torso, pausing to play with the warmed silver chain, he folded first. “I’m sorry I was late.”

“You don’t need to apologise for being cornered. These things happen.”

“It wasn’t just that, though.” Horacio stroked his thumb over the surface of the cross. For comfort or courage, or both, he wasn’t sure. He explained everything about Álvaro, even down to the disconcerting parallels he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. “He could’ve been me, Javier. He was me. And if it hadn’t been for you – for us – I think he still would be. Either that, or I’d be dead.”

“But he’s not you. You’re not that man anymore. Look how far you’ve come, Horacio. You got out. And you found your inner cowboy.”

Horacio gave Javier a withering look, ignoring the devilish spark in his eyes. “I’m not a fucking cowboy.”

“But that’s what you want, though, right? To be a rancher?”

Horacio had thought long and hard about this, especially when confronted with the ghosts of his old life. Any worries about being lured back in were swiftly abated. If anything, it confirmed what he, deep down, already suspected. “Yeah, I think I do. But only if you still want to move back to Texas.”

“I thought I’d never move back. But after I left Colombia, you seemed so at home. And for once, so did I.” Javier didn’t say the rest out loud because he didn’t need to. His book dedication had done it for him.

“I was,” was all Horacio managed to get out before he kissed Javier, unhurried and thorough.

“It’s not like I’ve got any career plans lined up elsewhere anyway,” Javier added once they pulled apart.

“There’s still time to figure it out.”

A knowing smile passed over Javier’s lips. “That’s what Señora Romero said this morning. After I fucking lost it because you were a few minutes late.” His smile morphed into a self-deprecating scoff, traces of embarrassment still left over despite the kindness he had been shown.

“What?”

Now it was Javier’s turn to open up; for the second time that day. He reclined against Horacio’s chest, the fingers stroking through his hair relaxing his mind and muscles as he talked.

“Fuck, Javier, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, hey, no. It’s not your fault. And it’s not your responsibility to fucking babysit me. I was fine after a drink and a pep talk.”

Horacio strained his neck to meet Javier’s eye with an incredulous look.

“Okay, well, after that, then.”

“I didn’t go too far, did I?”

“No. It was perfect,” Javier replied without hesitation, meeting Horacio’s gaze head-on and with ease. A simmering afterglow had overtaken the initial sensitivity, but he was confident he would feel it for the rest of the day, maybe even tomorrow if he was lucky. “Was, er, was it good for you too?”

The luscious whip of his palm was still vivid in Horacio’s mind, along with Javier’s pleas for more and the spiral of his tongue as he fucked and feasted. Not to mention how the tension they had been carrying throughout the morning visibly dissipated in the aftermath.

“I think perfect just about covers it,” he replied, hunting down Javier’s mouth again before they collapsed into each other’s arms.

“Señora Romero’s been through a lot too,” Javier said after a soporific silence almost tempted them towards slumber.

“I know. She never talked about it much. But after the bombing, she mentioned Spain was always carrying old wounds.”

“I guess we all are. So, there are bound to be bad days sometimes.”

Horacio hummed in agreement against Javier’s forehead. “I should’ve been there with you, though.”

“You’re here now.”

Another string of kisses followed, the next more charged than the last. Because now wasn’t just tomorrow, the next day, week, month, or even year. Now was the rest of their lives.

------------------------------------------------------

They could easily have whiled away the rest of the day in bed. But the sun’s heat had broken through the haze of early morning fog by lunchtime, and it was the ideal afternoon for a walk around El Retiro Park.

The park was rarely quiet, but it was vast enough to disperse the crowds into all corners. They started with the gardens and fountains, one, in particular, stopping them in their tracks.

“Well, that’s…striking,” Javier said, cocking his head and taking off his aviators to get a better look at the imposing statue in front of them.

“La Fuente del Ángel Caído. The Fountain of the Fallen Angel. It’s the moment Lucifer was cast out of heaven.”

Javier turned to Horacio with a raised brow. “So, are you an expert in all artistic impressions of the devil, or just this one?”

Horacio feigned an irked glare. “I used to run this way sometimes with it being so close to the Consulate.”

“Oh, well, that’s a relief.”

It was the truth, but at that time of Horacio’s life, there was a strange and dark affinity to be found with the story of a fallen angel in exile. Occasionally, he would stop to study the fountain in all its horrifying glory, a visceral reminder of why he was here.

They quickly moved on to the Palacio de Cristal, the weather optimal for the impressive architecture above them. Sunbeams descended a halo down from the glass roof, a hush spreading through the crowd as they craned their necks in awe. It gave the building the peaceful atmosphere of a church, but it was a world away from the harsh wooden pew Horacio had prayed in every week.

Without meaning to, his hand brushed against Javier’s as they stood side-by-side, barely a hair’s breadth between them, and too subtle to be noticed by anyone around them.

Javier didn’t flinch, didn’t even look in Horacio’s direction, yet for the briefest of moments, their fingers connected in a way that could have been passed off as accidental if necessary. But of course, they knew there was nothing accidental about them whatsoever.

They came to the lake next, sitting on steps that led up to a grand monument by the water. On the base of it lay a statue of King Alfonso XII with three smaller ones beneath representing peace, freedom and progress, a stark contrast to the Fallen Angel.

“I never found the time to come down here before, but it’s a beautiful spot,” Horacio said, wishing he was wearing his Stetson now he was having to squint in the sun.

“Yeah, it is.”

Somewhere between arriving at the lake and finding a free spot, Javier exchanged conversation for staring out across the water.

Whilst watching the hire boats glide backwards and forwards, out of nowhere, he was reminded of the river back home. The traffickers made it look as easy as a leisure pastime. Like they never got the memo about the turbulent currents that required navigating life as the Rio Grande did, flowing in limbo and helplessly watching the gulf between each side widen like a splitting wound.

Javier vaguely remembered hearing stories from his Abuelas and Abuelos about their journeys across the border. But it wasn’t a subject he and Chucho talked about much. Officially, that was due to Chucho being so young at the time, but unofficially, Javier wasn’t stupid. He knew of the bleak dangers and challenges involved with moving to el otro lado, as he often heard the other side called, more so now than back then, and he always suspected there were stories his Pops would rather keep to himself.

“Hey, you still in there?”

Horacio’s voice brought Javier back down to earth. “Yeah. Sorry.”

It was typical of him to be sitting here ignoring Horacio and the scenery in favour of daydreaming about the very place they came here to take a break from. Their late morning interlude had apparently taken it out of him, and he was already reverting to losing himself in thought rather than focusing on the present.

But as Javier went through the day’s events, his attention still on the lake, an idea came to him. He could sense he was being watched as a playful smirk took hold. “Fancy a ride?”

It didn’t take long for Horacio’s mind to wander, despite the fact he could plainly see what Javier was referring to. Always the tease, which he’d no doubt pay for later. “Only if you take it in turns with the rowing.”

“Deal.”

Soon after, they set off from the jetty in a pale blue and white rowing boat. Horacio took the ore first, the reason already paying dividends as he watched Javier trying but failing not to fixate on Horacio’s arms.

“Nice view out here,” Horacio deadpanned.

Javier cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, triggering a welcomed reminder from a matter of hours ago and handing victory straight to Horacio. “You could say that.”

That was all Horacio had wanted in the way of revenge because two could play at that game.

They rowed in comfortable silence, taking in their picturesque surroundings and the fact it was easy to be around others yet still be alone here. From a quick glance at other boating parties, there was a diverse mix of groups and couples, and no one appeared remotely interested in them for a change. It was an antidote to the heavy conversations and emotions from earlier, even if that had been a necessary step for them to take.

“Do you think this still counts as a bad day?” Javier asked now that Horacio had taken a break from rowing, letting them slowly drift in the deserted end of the lake.

“A bad start, maybe. But I think we might’ve just about salvaged it.”

“Me too.”

Their eyes met across the boat, the afternoon light casting them in a golden hue. Their feet were the only part of them touching, both a frustration and a catalyst. But they knew that would be rectified once in the privacy of their apartment.

“We better be getting back,” Horacio said with reluctance. “Especially as it’s your turn to row.”

That earned him a “Fuck you” and a splash of water in his general direction.

But Javier accepted the ore, and set a course back to the jetty, Señora Romero’s words still echoing in his ears.

Because she was right; they couldn’t always be in the same boat. It was unrealistic to expect otherwise. But they could work hard to be as much as possible. They could take turns to bear the load, be the other’s anchor and cherish the times they succeeded. And today was proof of that.

------------------------------------------------------

In the week before Easter, there were celebrations across the city for La Semana Santa. Whilst Javier and Horacio preferred peace and quiet to the processions through the streets, they couldn’t say no to Señora Romero’s invitation to a festive meal.

As it turned out, they were also roped into helping with food preparations in exchange for an extra pitcher of lemonade and leftovers to fill their freezer up to the brim.

Señora Romero’s family were to visit the next day, so they made multiple batches, and it was all hands on deck. They prepared an array of dishes, including espinacas con garbanzos, empanadas, croquetas de bacalao, bartolillos madrileños, buñuelos de viento, flores fritas, and torrijas, passing along their contributions like a conveyer belt, Señora Romero issuing instructions without even looking up from her work.

“My Mamá would’ve evicted us from the kitchen by now,” Javier said after his first attempts at frying flores fritas resulted in a sea of uneven misshapes floating in the pan of hot oil.

“No such luck today, Javier. Try holding the mould for longer in the oil after each one. The batter won’t stick to it if it’s not hot enough.”

Javier did as he was directed. And lo and behold, Horacio soon was sprinkling sugar and cinnamon over light, crisp, fully-defined flowers.

“And give yourselves some credit,” Señora Romero continued, finishing cutting up her empanada dough and spooning filling into the segments. “Your tamales are delicious. My lot will be lucky if there are any left by tomorrow. You’ll have to tell me your secret.”

Repeating their success from Laredo had been a challenge in their apartment kitchen as it wasn't as well-equipped or organised as Chucho’s. There must have been something about the simple domesticity of the situation that appealed to them – or perhaps memories from the guesthouse - as they found a pleasing way to pass the time whilst their tamale fillings cooked, involving Javier sitting on top of the kitchen unit, legs wrapped around Horacio and their hips grinding together. They didn’t undress, the friction of their jeans enough to have the desired effect.

“Oh, just plenty of practice over the years.” Javier's tone was guileless, although the roguish expression he fixed Horacio with told another story.

The heat rising in Horacio’s cheeks rivalled the pot of oil simmering on the stove, and it was time to rescue the conversation fast. “Erm, yeah, the pork ones are my Abuela Margarita’s recipe. Alejandra and I made them every Christmas. My Papá would watch us like a hawk. He said it was so we didn't burn the house down, but I think he wanted to be first in line for the tamales.”

It seemed stupid in hindsight, but Horacio looked forward to his Papá checking up on them like that because it at least meant he was home and spending time with them rather than with his work. It meant he was proud of Horacio, even if it was in the most trivial of ways.

“My Mamá made them when I was a kid. Pop insisted on the beef being from our best cattle, though, because he always wanted the best for us." The mischief in Javier's eye had been replaced with something more earnest. That had been the one role his Mamá allowed his Pops to undertake when it came to the tamales, and it was a role taken seriously.

“So many of my family’s traditions started in the kitchen. Recipes I use in the café were handed down to me through the generations, ones I’ve made with care and love; over and over again. What better way to remember those no longer around?" Señora Romero broke off to place her tray of egg-washed empanadas into the oven. "And that would certainly explain it too.”

“Explain what?” Horacio asked.

“Your secret,” she replied with a simple smile, as though it was the most obvious statement anyone could ever have made.

------------------------------------------------------

The morning passed in the blink of an eye as they filled the apartment with a tempting blend of aromas, and it was late afternoon when they sat down to enjoy the fruits of their labour.

Plates, bowls, and dishes filled the table, and they tucked into a feast that rivalled one of Chucho’s. Not that Javier dared to ever tell his Pops that.

Once they had eaten as much as their stomachs allowed and chatted over coffee long past sunset, Javier bid Señora Romero goodnight, taking two large Tupperware boxes of leftovers back to their apartment, a haul that would stave off hunger for at least a month or two.

Horacio stayed behind to help Señora Romero clear up the kitchen. He was the designated washer whilst she dried, on account of knowing where to put each item back in its rightful place.

Once all the cutlery, cups, and plates were washed, Horacio refilled the sink, a comfortable lull in conversation settling over them.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” Señora Romero asked after she delivered a second load of dishes to be washed. “When I asked if there was someone back home.”

Horacio switched the tap off now the sink was full, concentrating intently on swirling soap suds and a cloth around the serving bowl he had plunged under water. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear. You didn’t owe me an explanation then, and you don’t owe me one now. I understand when the newspapers have been no better than the days of Franco. And mark my words; those were dark, dark days.”

A righteous anger erupted from the surface in Señora Romero’s tone. It was one that Horacio had rarely heard but recognised and understood instantly.

“Spain’s old wounds,” he stated rather than asked.

“On good days, I like to think of it more as scar tissue.”

“Makes sense.”

“We used to hide people whenever there were raids. Sometimes you’d know why they were hiding. Other times, you didn’t ask; you just did it. Anything to keep them from harm. So, please know that you and Javier will always be safe here.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

“How was it living in Texas?”

“There was gossip, a few looks and comments, as you can imagine. But Chucho, Javier’s father, was like – he treated me like family.”

“Sounds like we’d get along. And what about your family?”

“I, er, haven’t told them. Alejandra knows I’m here but not why or who I’m with. I never told her or my Mamá about Laredo either. So, I know I owe them the truth.”

“It’s your truth, and you decide if or when you share it with anyone else, Horacio. I can’t pretend to know your family, but if my child or brother had been through everything you have, I’d count my blessings he was alive and well. And happy.”

A palm landed on Horacio’s soapy hand resting at the edge of the sink, the last few dishes now cleared. He had no words to offer beyond thank you, even if that felt wholly inadequate.

He wished her goodnight, returning home to join Javier in bed, both wiped out after a busy day of good company and far too much food.

Horacio slotted himself in front of Javier, back to chest. Slow, deep exhales and groggy mumbles passed between them as Javier instinctively scooped Horacio closer to him, an acknowledgement of each other’s presence without the expectation of conversation.

Javier soon fell back to sleep, leaving Horacio caught somewhere in the middle as snapshots that could have been dreams or memories – or both - played like an old slideshow in his head.

In one, he and Alejandra were kids again, flicking water from the kitchen sink and squealing with delight. He couldn’t see them, but he knew their parents were in the next room as faint traces of their voices travelled through the house.

In another, Horacio was his current age, standing at the sink in what he remembered of Alejandra’s kitchen in Manizales. Every surface was piled high with dishes waiting to be washed and dried. A flash of movement in the corner of his eye revealed his Papá walking briskly across the room, his police uniform a vivid green even though the outline of his form was incorporeal.

Horacio followed and called after him as they made their way through the house, but there was no response. He looped back to where he started, his father now gone as he stood by the sink with hands submerged in hot, soapy water. He noticed the dishes stacked on the drainer were somehow clean, so pulled the plug, water whirlpooling down the drain until all that was left was suds…and a glint of gold. He reached through the bubbles until he was grasping his father’s necklace.

That was enough to pull him fully awake, the spasm in his limbs causing a chain reaction as Javier roused too.

“You okay?”

“Hmm, yeah, I think I was dreaming. I’m fine, though.” Horacio shuffled them around the other way, placing a reassuring kiss at the nape of Javier’s neck. “Go back to sleep.”

It was likely an exchange neither would remember in the morning. But as they settled down again, and Javier placed their hands over the crucifix at his sternum, Horacio swore he could feel an invisible weight around his own neck.

------------------------------------------------------

The transition between spring and summer in Madrid was abrupt if you weren’t used to it. But one advantage to August was most Madrileños escaped to the coast or mountains for respite from the heat. It left the city emptier than usual, which was more than fine by Javier and Horacio.

It was a strange contradiction for them to seek refuge in a city as lively as Madrid when they preferred the tranquillity of ranch life these days, but city living brought anonymity. Las Posadas was like being under the microscope, whereas no one bothered them here.

Prime shaded spots in the park or the outdoor seating at cafés and restaurants were plentiful. And there were no problems hiring a boat at El Retiro Park before the hottest part of the day kicked in. Then they would hide out in their apartment during siesta hours.

It was doubtful if many people actually slept during siesta these days. But it did mean some shops closed for a few hours, and a general hush would fall over the city.

Sometimes, they would watch T.V. and old films or listen to the radio. Occasionally, Horacio would read aloud to Javier like last Christmas, the significance of Lorca’s words being spoken in their shared apartment, in this country not lost on them. On reflective days, it was rare but not unheard of for hands to connect, their cross clasped between their palms and their minds quiet.

There were also regular phone calls to Laredo, Miami and Medellín. It was funny; in the months they had been in Madrid, Javier had spoken more with his Pop than his entire time in Colombia. His Mamá was often a topic of conversation, Javier making sure to tell his Pops he’d been reading her book here as instructed.

“She always had her head in a book. And she always dreamed of travelling. She was like you when she was younger; she had her heart set on leaving Laredo. Even though your grandparents did everything they could to keep them here. But maybe that was why she wanted to spread her wings; I don’t know.”

“What changed her mind?”

“She met me.”

“Oh, well, good to know ruining lives is a Peña family trait.”

“Think of it as a gift, Mijo. I can’t take all the credit, though. She built herself a good community here. And then, she got involved with the farmers’ unions before she was ill. I think she was just getting started.”

They moved on to how Abuelito Mauricio never intended to settle permanently in Texas. He had left Abuelita Rosa and their brood – Chucho being the eldest – back in a rural town in Guanajuato, and he would send his wages home to them each month. Once the then-small plot of land he scrimped and saved to purchase grew, and made a profit, the rest of the family followed.

“What did Abuela Imelda and Abuelo Guillermo do again?”

“Your Abuelo ran a grocery store downtown, and your Abuela was a seamstress. She did more than that, though, especially in the ‘30s, when they nearly lost the store. Some of their extended family were repatriated back to Michoacán. And many of their customers left for Mexico too. So, they had no staff, and takings were down. Your Abuela managed every cent and dollar of their finances. She’d mend clothes for a small fee or in exchange for food to make sure they never went without.”

“Sounds hard.”

“It was. The ranch struggled too. There weren’t many workers left, and most people couldn’t afford a lot of meat. But we were luckier than most. Some never came back, and even those who did were strangers on one side of the border and a threat on the other. Things got ugly for a while.”

“What happened to the ones who came back?”

“They had to start from scratch again. Local charities were set up to help with travel costs, finding somewhere to live, reuniting separated families, that sort of thing. Your grandparents did what they could to help. It was your Abuelita’s idea to build the guesthouses. Your Abuelito took on labourers struggling to find work for the construction. Then they hosted a few families until they got back on their feet. I think that's why your mother wanted to keep them over the years - because someone always needs them.”

It wasn’t the first time Javier had been told about his family history, but it might have been the first time he asked. And it was strange how differently the same pieces of information could be interpreted depending on the stage of life in which they were shared. In his youth, it was hard to see the drawbacks of leaving Laredo. Because anywhere else had to be better.

But now, all he could think was how much of a throw of the dice it was. Too many families weren’t as lucky as his parents; they never got the option of crossing back over the bridge or pursuing the illusive American Dream. And if fate had decided otherwise, Javier could have grown up on the bank of the Río Bravo rather than the Rio Grande.

Chucho would also discuss ranch business with Horacio, updating him on staff changes, how the newborn calves were thriving, and the latest local gossip.

“Ciro’s thinking of selling up,” he informed Horacio one afternoon.

“Hasn’t he threatened that before?”

“Oh, plenty of times when his back plays up. Or when the weather’s on the turn. But Malena’s health isn’t so good now. And like me, Ciro’s not getting any younger. He was talking about moving closer to their daughter in San Antonio.”

Ciro and Malena Ortega owned the corn farm next door and had been there long since before Javier was born. They had always shared a close professional and personal relationship with the Peñas by selling them feed grain for the livestock and helping in any way possible during and after Mariana’s illness.

“Have they found a buyer? Or are we going to need a new supplier?”

“Not sure yet, to be honest, Mijo. I’ll keep you posted.”

They rounded off their catch-up with the latest on Luna’s, Sol’s and Leo’s adventures. But when Horacio discovered that Luna still waited outside the guesthouse door from time to time, he almost booked himself on the next flight to Laredo.

He had also managed to catch up with Trujillo a couple of times. But it was hard pinning down a busy Major tasked with clearing up whatever dregs were left of the Medellín cartel. After Steve opened his big mouth about Trujillo’s girlfriend, Horacio had half a suspicion he was being avoided deliberately.

In Miami, Connie was back in the E.R. part-time now Olivia was old enough for day-care. A promotion and countless commendations had been thrown Steve’s way since the New Year. If anyone suspected he was the source of the Cali intel – and both Javier and Steve knew someone would - they didn’t let on, apparently too busy getting off on the reflected glory of the Escobar circus.

“There’s a rumour we’re gonna be offered a fuckin’ book deal,” Steve said with a bemused snigger during one of their phone calls.

“A rumour from who?”

“My boss. My boss’ boss. Probably my boss’ boss’ boss. How about it, Javi? Fancy being an author now you’re unemployed? We could make a fortune.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” was Javier’s only response to that suggestion.

------------------------------------------------------

Regardless of what they did during siesta hours, one thing often led to another. They were hot and sweaty anyway, might as well fully commit or continue in the shower if the heat got too much.

Even though they didn’t have jobs to get back to, it was an indulgence to set aside time in the middle of the day for sex. It couldn’t have been further from their previous lives. But here, they could drag it out as long as they liked, teasing and edging each other, keeping their bodies still for as long as possible. It was as relaxing as it was arousing, intimate as much as it was erotic, and an apt way to spend downtime gifted to them by the city that once kept them apart.

This time, they had been reading on the bed before becoming distracted by lying mouth to cock in exquisite symmetry across the mattress. It was all bobbing heads and bucking hips swallowed down with muffled purrs of pleasure until they were satiated.

Fresh out of the shower, Horacio lay back on his pillow with a towel around his waist. From this angle, the mirrored wardrobe door reflected the image of Javier in the same attire as he shaved over the bathroom sink. There was still something sacred about witnessing the day-to-day rituals like this, and it was impossible to take them for granted.

“Did you always know?” Horacio asked once Javier re-joined him.

A vague question on the face of it, but Javier had already seen his copy of Giovanni’s Room on Horacio’s nightstand with a bookmark slotted in the centre of it.

“Not always. But there was this new ranch hand when I was about 10 or 11. He must’ve been 23, 24. I never spoke to him, just watched him work. I thought I wanted to be like him - I think everyone thought I’d follow in Pops’ footsteps back then. But, er, one summer, I walked in on him changing his shirt in the stables and,” Javier broke off with a boyish grin, “that was that.”

“So, that’s why you have a thing for cowboys.”

“Just the one cowboy these days, actually.” Javier shifted to face Horacio, fingers dipping beneath his towel seam until he squirmed. “Nothing ever happened with him; I was just a kid. I tried to ignore it, went to church, chased girls. And obviously, I couldn’t tell anyone. But it was always there in the background. Like some sort of...fucking unscratched itch. Then at high school, I met Antonio.”

Javier hadn’t said his name out loud in decades, but it stung more than expected. Antonio was Javier’s first…not quite everything, but it felt like it at the time. For almost two years, they were inseparable. They shared similar heritage and backgrounds, although Antonio’s family were crop farmers rather than ranchers. Not that it mattered when they had twice as much land to explore in the holidays or when Javier needed to escape the deafening quiet of the farmhouse now that it was just him and Pops. Or when they hid in the cab of one of Antonio’s father’s harvesters, passing a bottle of Chucho’s whiskey between them until they were drunk enough to take the plunge.

The following months were a whirlwind of exhilaration, fear, discovery and shame. Like the door had been unlocked on something that had never been a possibility until it was. However, they knew it couldn’t last. It had been a close enough call on the afternoon that Chucho came home earlier than expected. But the beginning of the end came when, without warning, Antonio’s family sold their farm and moved back to Mexico. Javier never did find out why, but once the place was up for sale, Antonio was no longer allowed to visit the ranch. And the only time they saw each other, and the only place they could say goodbye, was at school.

It was clear to Horacio that Javier wasn’t going to elaborate further. And if he wasn’t telling, Horacio certainly wasn’t asking. “I was in my first year at the Academy.”

“You about to make me jealous with stories of all the men in uniform you had your way with?”

“If you must know, there was just one…Andrés.”

Horacio hadn’t thought about him in a long time, a ghost from the past he preferred to keep there. He and Andrés were assigned to the same training barracks when they were cadets. There were supposed to be another two trainees sharing their bunkroom, but one withdrew his place at the Academy at the last minute; the other was a no-show at the first induction meeting and was automatically excluded.

Without the camaraderie of other cadets in their sleeping quarters, they had no choice but to rely on the other for company, which was no easy feat at the beginning when neither was particularly talkative. Bit by bit, they bonded over their work, discovering they both had fathers further up the ranks. It was often a bone of contention for other cadets, but that was never a problem between them.

There were subtle signs, lingering looks, and shared smokes even before they started gravitating towards each other in the shower blocks. Whilst there was an unspoken eyes-down rule that wasn’t worth a man’s life to break, when they were the last ones left under the spray, gradually, glance by glance, it was broken until their eyes locked, breathing hard, fists clenched by their sides. Nothing happened there and then, but it was a different story later that night behind the safety of a closed door and beneath starched sheets.

They never talked about it, couldn’t even if they’d wanted to, which they didn’t because there was nothing to acknowledge in the first place. Yet it happened again and a few more times after that, always under the cover of darkness, apart from one reckless time in the shower block when they didn’t have the discipline to wait, the thrill of it heightened and tempered by the possibility of being caught in the act.

But then, one morning, Horacio woke to find Andrés’ bed made and his belongings gone. He had requested and been granted a transfer to his father’s regiment without telling anyone. A perk of being a General’s son, Horacio supposed. He never heard from Andrés again.

“Even after him, I brushed it off as…circumstantial. An occupational hazard.” Disbelief caught in Horacio’s throat at the blatant denial in that sentiment, but it wasn’t like he knew better. Not when dread and nausea washed away any unnameable fleeting feelings that may have surfaced in his pre-Academy days. “Women were the only option, so I buried myself in work and tried to forget.”

“Before ‘81, right?”

“Yeah. So, maybe a blessing in disguise.”

“No maybe about it.” Javier’s sight line suddenly landed on the ceiling, even though he was the one who went there first.

This wasn’t a subject they liked to talk about, but there was no escaping the way the last decade and more had played out, even when they were neck-deep in the world of cartels and cocaine. Maybe now the dust had settled, and their minds weren’t so full of work, they were finally able to come to terms with all of it. Maybe now they could see so much of their pasts had been borne out of fear.

“I still got tested when I was with Juliana, though. And with you.”

“I was the same after Lorraine. And definitely when I was in Colombia.” Javier couldn’t help but laugh, even though it wasn’t funny to think of those days anymore. Not because he was ashamed of sex, but he couldn’t deny it had been a sticking plaster at times. In his defence, despite the stance of the Catholic Church, he used condoms. Until Horacio, that was. “I never would’ve let you…if I hadn’t been sure.”

“Me neither.”

Horacio rolled on his side until they were face-to-face, his hand cupping Javier’s cheek, gently coaxing his gaze back to him.

Their lips met, both fully aware they had survived two war zones when the odds were stacked against them. When too many men like them hadn’t been so lucky. They had seen the headlines, the ostracization, the mishandling, and those in power looking the other way. But they were still here, alive and well. Surer of themselves and each other than ever before.

------------------------------------------------------

Javier sat down at the kitchen table, bleary-eyed and reaching straight for the pot of coffee left waiting for him, the rich scent alone beginning to stir him awake. As much as he preferred staying in bed wrapped around Horacio, that wasn’t the most comfortable option at this time of year. At least there was still shade to be found outside at this hour, and Horacio was to bring back a breakfast of hot, fresh churros from Café Romero on the route home from his run. So, Javier could hardly complain.

He was several sips into his coffee when a key turned in the lock.

Horacio came through to the kitchen carrying the churros and what appeared to be a newspaper with a small envelope perched on top of it.

“Perfect timing, I’m starving,” Javier declared as he grabbed the bag and divided the churros across two plates.

Horacio murmured a vague “Me too” in reply. But his attention was focused on the envelope, which was addressed to him in familiar handwriting.

He tore the edge of it carefully and pulled out a card, a proud smile spreading across his lips after just a couple of seconds.

“What’s that?” Javier asked as he dusted excess sugar off his fingers.

Horacio handed the card over without elaborating.

Javier read it and soon had a smile to match Horacio’s. “I take it we’re going, then?”

“Of course we are.” He joined Javier at the table, his stomach swooping like he had missed a step on the stairs. “But I think I need to make a phone call first.”

[adesertdaydream]

It’s late by almost a week and a half but I just wanted to drop a quick post to squee about reaching 100 followers (now 108 😳) and to thank everyone for all the love and support they’ve shown to my work so far! I haven’t been the most responsive on my blog recently but please know that I’ve seen every lovely comment and that each like and share have meant the world to me!

I’m a baby in the writing community but I hope to continue to hone my skills and produce some more content soon. Thank you all again and have a beautiful day lovelies!

[skarface]

¡Habla, perra!

[goodnitedrdead]

Dr. Dead's Masterlist

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤ ◢◤◢◤

i promise to make it look nicer, but this will do for now.

↳ Colonel Horacio Carrillo

winter falls (Carrillo x reader)

god only knows (Carrillo x reader)

christmas headcanons (Carrillo x reader)

miscalculated steps (Carrillo x reader)

↳ Javier Peña

despite the situation (Javier Peña x reader)

[beelicious-and-fictitious]

🐝 Bee's Masterlist 🐝

Welcome, welcome! This is the archival equivalent of a Table of Contents or a Directory, if you will, to all of my works posted on tumblr. Everyone is invited to stroll through this archive and read any stories that are appealing to you!

Please be advised that my fics are created first and foremost for my enjoyment and are mostly NSFW content so please, if you are a minor (under the age of 18), do not interact with me or these stories. And there is no RPF (Real People Fiction).

NOW THAT THAT'S DONE, PERUSE TO YOUR HEART'S CONTENT ->

CHALLENGE FICS

Kinktober 2021 | my first kinktober ever! In the spirit of it, I will not be making it look better lol

Kinktober 2022 | my latest kinktober, please note the improvement in quality and nod at your phone and/or computer screen in acknowledgement and/or praise (/joking)

MASTERLISTS BY ACTORS

Joseph Quinn (plays Eddie Munson, GOT Koner, Tom Grant etc)

Joe Keery (plays Steve Harrington, Walter Keys McKeys, Kurt Kunkle etc)

Joel Kinnaman (plays Takeshi Kovacs, Rick Flag, Stephen Holder etc)

Maurice Compte (plays Colonel Carrillo, Diego Jimenez, Benny Borracho etc)

Alex Brightman (plays Beetlejuice, Dewey Finn, Ralph [Blue Bloods] etc)

Just The Girls (archive for female character fics that did not warrant their own masterlists)

Just The Boys (archive of male character fics that did not warrant their own masterlists)

I’M ON ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN TOO! [link incoming]

All of my fics will be posted and archived here! Engagement vis-a-vís comments and reblogs, hell anon messages even, are strongly encouraged! They help me get excited about new works and fuel me to complete projects to share more ❤

[mariamariquinha]

What's behind...

Well, it's been a while since I wanted to bring this kind of "trivia" about the things I write here.

Music has always been with me as an emotional and life support - basically everything I do involves music. I love it. With my stories, it's no different; each thing takes shape through other stories that the songs I listen to tell or represent. 

Today I start with this small project for my multi-chapter stories, Versos de Placer and Bossa Nova. In the future, when I start writing more, I can keep doing it.

Let’s go, then?

--------------------------

Bossa Nova - Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon

Being a minor character in a B-movie of very dubious quality, writing for Benny is always an adventure, but at the same time a great writing exercise tool (for those who like that approach) or even pure and simple creativity. I like to say the benefit of writing for him is having the one and only physical sketch that Maurice Compte brought us, which was awesome because the guy knows how to be pretty as fuck.

ANYWAY

Bossa Nova was planned a little more closely than Versos de Placer, so even the title was chosen from a meticulous perspective of a Brazilian musical rhythm - with meaning. I've already explained this here, so I won't extend myself and go straight to the structure of the story haha

THE DIVORCE: 

The moment that kicks off the whole story is the main character's divorce. There was a past and an established relationship between everyone, but the trigger for everything we've been doing since then comes from that moment of separation.

The reader and Theo, her ex-husband, had a crisis through cheating. Therefore, this plot was thought with a song in mind:

DREAMS - FLEETWOOD MAC

I think it's common sense that the Fleetwood Mac drama yielded that impeccable album called Rumors and ‘Dreams’ is my favorite song by far - theirs, of course, because there's so much fucking artistic pain in there.

--

Now here you go again, you say you want your freedom Well, who am I to keep you down?

--

Players only love you when they're playing

--

Theodore was the antagonist due to a classic but no less painful situation, which opened wounds that the reader disassociates, but that she feels. Parents don't know about suffering; the brother, limited to a minuscule fraction of the divorce bureaucracy. She knows that, deep down, Theo became empty and selfish enough to find what he wanted, when he wanted it, no matter what it could cost him, and hopes that he will be frustrated in the end (overcoming? I don't know her). ‘Dreams’, for me, is the biggest representation of someone mourning towards a person they loved but couldn’t have because, in the end, this someone choose to be with another someone. Tell them, Stevie. Tell them! 

FEMALE ENERGY PART. 2 - WILLOW

BEING HERSELF AGAIN:

In another, slightly older post, I mentioned how I constructed father-daughter relationships differently in my two "biggest" stories, and that applies a lot with this aspect in particular. In both cases, I explored something that is personal to me, which is my relationship with the men I live with in life - I work in a predominantly male place, a father who is present but a difficult family history in this regard. Here, I think it's important to use such relationships to demystify the woman built under what she lives with a man.

The Bossa Nova reader is not as close to her mother as she is to her father; this dynamic will often interfere with her future relationships, from what to expect from a man to living with other women. When she loses Theodore, she finds herself alone. The father would not understand her like the mother, but how to talk to this figure who has always been partially distant?

--

Oh, and I'm falling into the arms of naked truth Not surprised to see the sky and know what I must do

--

I am human, I am woman Drifting down my life

--

The changes she has been going through include facing her own nature and looking for all the personality hidden in a failed relationship. We still have a lot to explore here, but I value that heartfelt, honest parallel as we build a background romantic drama.

BILLIE BOSSA NOVA - BILLIE EILISH

THE FIRST DATE:

Oh yeah, yeah, I’ll be the devil’s advocate here and give credit to a white girlie using a latin rythym to make money. SORRY. The song is a banger tho, I like Billie. 

That’s basically the beggining (where we are now btw) of Benny and reader’s relationship. No one wants to prove anything or have high expectations - it came naturally and they linked right away. A few drinks, a kiss below a lamp post, a football game and sex. Everyone could do that. Makes sense for me. 

--

'Cause waitin' for it gets so borin' A lot can change in twenty seconds A lot can happen in the dark

--

I'm not sentimental But there's somethin' 'bout the way you look tonight, mm Makes me wanna take a picture Make a movie with you that we'd have to hide

--

For me it’s the basics of: hey, found you really attractive, let’s fuck. In a way, they both don’t want complications and happens that Benny and reader can provide that to each other. I wouldn’t say they are 100% in tune, but they both agree that they should do what they should because there’s nothing better than a few orgasms. 

FADE INTO YOU - MAZZY STAR

THE FIRST TIME:

This song was mentioned in the last chapter of Bossa Nova and it wasn’t just because. 

--

I look to you and I see nothing I look to you to see the truth

--

Some kind of night into your darkness Colors your eyes with what's not there

--

I think that's something we'll explore in the future, but there was a reason Benny was wary of the reader in her house and genuinely indulged in lying on the floor with her to relax. I hate being that playful type of person who puts metaphors into everything because sometimes life is life, but they both knew it wasn't going to be, generally speaking, a grab and go thing. It's the beginning of opposition to what they think will be that 'convenient meeting', even if they don't know it yet. She knew him, but she didn't know who he was; the same happens with Benny. In the living room, the two of them are discovering themselves and understanding that to get where they wanted, they would have to find a balance point, something that would erase a more difficult reality for a moment of satisfaction.

-------------------

P.S.

It's a little early to bring more of this, we have a way to go, but I think it's worth sharing this kind of creative dynamic to help set a good narrative tone and involve those who follow the story. 

I want to take this opportunity and thank everyone who has been giving me this strength here, as well as congratulating all the fanfic writers who keep sharing incredible stories with dedication and affection. You are amazing! ❤

--------------------

No pressure tags: 

@cheesybadgers

@thesandbeneathmytoes​

@nerdyreaderpapi

@thoroughlymodernminutia​

@the-hinky-panda​

@mysoulisasunflower​

[thoroughlymodernminutia]

-Chicago Hope, s03e19, 1997

Let me tell you a little story: Chicago Hope is not on any streaming platform (in the USA at least). Apparently 20th Century Fox doesn't want to pay every time Mandy Patinkin would sing along to a show tune while operating on someone. Guess who owns the whole series now on an external hard drive I bought from Etsy? It's me. And now I can watch the entire series at my leisure, so I'm coming out on top really.

For those of you that weren't around in the 1990s - before there was Chicago Med, there was Chicago Hope. It was like E.R. but with more broadway songs and less Noah Wyle. My dad was a fan - it was a dad show.

The Episode The Son Also Rises is split in three(!) storylines. All having to do with fathers and sons.

Storyline A - I don't know single character's name except for the one Maurice played and it's Lead Gang Kid. He's the one in the baseball cap. So Hector Elizondo's character is driving and a kid jumps in front of his car and hits him. When he gets out to check on the kid, the other gang members jump him and steal his car. How Maurice is 'lead gang kid' is a real head scratcher because there's like 3 other gang members that seem like they are vying for that. Blah blah blah, Elizondo ends up at his estranged son's apartment to call for help. He ends up going back with his son and taking the injured kid to the hospital. The son and the dad seem to make up at the end. And if you couldn't tell from the lack of gifs here, Maurice doesn't show up again lol I watched til the end, but no. He lives though (I'm assuming).

Storyline B: Alan Arkin shows up at Chicago Hope to introduce himself to doctor son Adam Arkin (real life father and son here). They end up getting drunk together in his office.

Storyline C: This fucking bonkers storyline. Christine Lahti's character has a doctor for a patient. TURNS OUT it's actually like a 9 year old who is a doctor and he's dying. If you've ever seen Fast and Furious: Tokyo Drift - it's that white kid. His dad is like...scared of him?? because he's so smart and Christine has to like convince him to go spend time with his dying son?!!?!

And that's the episode.

When I was screen grabbing the episode, I felt like someone trying to get a photo of sasquatch.

Anyways I'm weird and love doing this and writing these dumb little recaps so thanks for indulging me.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

The Pool

Next Part:  The Difference | Masterlist Pairing: Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x Reader Rating: Explicit - 18+ only Warnings: Slow burn. I know that I always say that but I mean Seriously. There will also be fluff, excessive cursing, canon-typical violence, canon-typical sexism, alcohol, and explicit sexual content - oral sex, vaginal sex. Notes: Yeah this got way away from me. Wow. Wowowow. Length: 13.1K Summary: So day one, Henderson starts a pool that you’re not gonna last the week. 

The guys are putting bets on you the second you start working in the Major Crimes Unit at the LA County Sheriff’s Department. The first bet is whether or not you’re gonna make it the week.

Thing is, most of the work you do at first is systems maintenance, so you come in in the morning, give whoever’s there a wave, then sit down and put your headphones on. The guys think you have music playing. But you don’t. They’re all pretty damn polite when your headphones are off, but when your headphones are in your ears with no music playing, not only do they swear like sailors, but they talk about you. Openly. You’d expected that. You’d known going in that it was a boy’s club - Big Nick had warned you himself when he’d interviewed you. He’d asked you if you’d be uncomfortable, and you’d told him that you didn’t give a shit, that you were going in to do a job and that you would get it done. Hell, he’d hired you on the spot. So day one, Henderson starts a pool that you’re not gonna last the week. Frankly, you’d only been there an hour, so you try not to feel to offended, but damn, dude, let a girl settle in, you haven’t even set up your fucking email yet. Your fingers don’t even stop moving over the keys as he announces it to the office. You feel a couple of guys turn their heads to look at you, but you don’t flinch, don’t blink, don’t turn your head away from your monitor to give any indication that their voices are only slightly muffled by your earphones. “I’ll take that action,” Zapata chimes in once (he thinks) the coast is clear. “I don’t know, kid looks kinda tough,” Connors shakes his head, and that puts one point in his favor; you make a mental note to update his computer first, and if the guys ask why, you’ll just say that you’re going in alphabetical order. “Alright that’s one against-- What about you, Borracho, you gettin’ in on the action?” Henderson asks the man with the desk adjacent to yours. You feel another gaze flit back to you. Still, you don’t turn to meet it. There’s a pause before you hear, “Nah.” Simple. Flat. “C’mon man, why not?” Henderson presses. You’re kinda curious yourself, but you really aren’t in a position to press; looking at ‘Borracho’ (Nick had introduced him as ‘Magalon’ in the same way he’d introduced all of the guys by their surnames) would call attention to the fact that you could hear them. “Big Nick picked her, right?” Boraccho points out. There are a few mutters of, “Right.” “Right,” Is the resounding argument topper that Boraccho answers with; it’s said with a finality and Henderson doesn’t push it. “Alright that’s three to one odds. It’s not lookin’ good, Connors,” Zapata chuckles. “Loser takes care of the winner’s paperwork,” Henderson tacks on. “Sounds like a good deal to me.” “It would, I’m the only one with odds that the kid can hack it,” Connors muttered. “Maybe don’t say ‘hack’,” You hear Nick come into the office behind you all. He passes in front of your desk, shooting you a questioning look. You finally lift your eyes from your screen, giving him a quick nod before looking back down. -- By the end of week one, Connors is vindicated (and paper-work free). You’re in one piece, have hardly spoken a word to the rest of the guys. As they all file out of the office, heading for drinks at a bar down the block, you hear a knock on your desk. You glance up and do a double-take when you spot Boraccho standing in front of you. You pull one of your earbuds (which still isn’t playing any music) out and look up at him, brows raising. “You wanna come grab a drink with us?” You’re surprised by the invite, but shield it carefully. “Can’t, I’ve still gotta finish up here. Thanks, though.” “Sure. Night.” “See ya,” You shoot him a quick smile before lifting the earbud to your ear again. You wait until they’re all out of the office before actually turning on some music. -- The crass jokes or the occasional comments about your body start to roll right off of you after the second week. When they’re not working, they seem to be making little bets all the time; about who’s gonna make it to the office late the next day; about who’s gonna fail their piss test at the end of the week; about whether or not Big Nick is gonna ask for the Pepto that day (usually depends on how rough the guy looks in the morning; Borracho usually wins that one, which seems to explain why the Pepto lives in his desk). Thing is, you seem to be their new favorite betting topic - whether or not you’re a Dunkin or a Starbucks drinker (the answer is Starbucks, but you have them put it in your travel mug, so none of the guys know or win that one); about whether or not you’re single (you are; they haven’t wormed that answer out of you); about whether or not Big Nick wants to bang you (you don’t think he does, but even if he did, it would not happen because the feeling is not mutual). Henderson starts the pool about your sticking through the end of the month in your third week there. Zapata again agrees that you won’t stick; Connors sides with you. This time, Borracho sides with you, too. “Seriously?” Henderson asks, “The hell, man?” “She talked Connors’ dumb ass into setting up multi-factor authentication thing that the department’s been riding us to get done, so I think she can handle just about anything.” You have to bite down on the inside of your lip to keep from cracking a smile. That had been the week before - you’d been sure Connors had just been putting you on when he’d asked for your help, but halfway through your explanation, you’d realized that the guy understood how it worked, he just hated it (“But if I have my password--” “People can steal your password, Connors.” “This one is unstealable.” “Just download the app--” “The app could get hacked!” “Oh my god--”). --

“You should loosen up a bit.” It’s Nick that says so. It’s not a surprise that he makes the comment; you’ve been working with the department for nearly four months and you still hardly talk to the guys if it isn’t work-related. You don’t live in your headphones anymore; they still make plenty of comments and bets about you, ask you if you’d prefer a salted caramel mocha frappachino or a Shakerato (you thought they were making up that second one, but then you saw a sign in the window at the Dunkin near your apartment). They haven’t exactly tried to meet you in the middle; apart from that one initial invite from Borracho, they leave you out of social gatherings. Look, you’re not complaining. But you also understand that your longevity with this office also, unfortunately, kinda hinges on you fitting in with them. So when Nick announces the next day that everyone’s clearing out to grab drinks, you know that that means you, too. So you shut your monitor down and grab your jacket. The room goes kinda quiet, kinda tense; when you look up, you catch sight of the guys glancing away from you to each other, unsure. You roll your eyes. “I can’t just keep taking swigs from the bottle in Connors’ desk that he thinks no one knows about,” You say. Nick snorts a laugh, most of the rest of the guys chuckle (save for Connors, who’s muttering swears up and down that there’s nothing in his desk even though you all know that that’s a lie). It doesn’t matter, anyway; no one hears Connors’ protest over Nick’s yell of, “Newbie buys the first round!” 

-- Even nestled among the guys, you’re still pretty quiet. It’s just-- well, they’re a little intimidating. Not their looks, not their smack-talk. Their dynamic. They’re so comfortable with each other, it’d be hard for anyone to muscle in on it. “So how’d you get into this, anyway?” It’s Henderson that asks. “This?” You repeat. “Yeah, you know. Computers.” You know it’s a set-up. The guys have a bet going on how you wound up working in tech. So you lean back in your seat and shrug and say, “The way anyone gets into it, I guess.” The guys trade looks, but no one will say a word about it; Borracho huffs a short laugh through his nose beside you, just quiet enough for you to hear. He’s the only one that didn’t bother to try and guess how you got into it. Borracho seems to be getting pretty bored of the guys betting about you. You drain your beer before you sit up again. “You guys need another one?” You ask. There’s a wave of grumbled, “No”s and you stand and head for the bar. You lean against it and wait for the bartender to finish with a group down at the end. You can only imagine that the others are deciding that no one won that one - maybe Henderson’s asking for another pass, he’s got a round of drinks riding on this one. “So how long have you known?” You glance over when you hear the question; Borracho settles at the bar beside you, setting his now-empty beer on the counter (wasn’t it half-full when you left the table?). “Known?” You ask. “About the bets,” He clarifies, and arches a brow. You’re caught. “You’re a group of loud talkers and you’re not super subtle guys,” You say before facing forward again. Borracho chuckles quietly, shaking his head.

“I don’t know what it is about ‘em with those damn pools all the time. I mean they did them sometimes before but it’s way worse with you around.” “I don’t know. Makes sense to me-- You guys gamble with your lives all the time, must be able to gamble on the mundane.” Once the bartender takes both your orders, you nudge Borracho’s arm with your own. 

“So who’s got the highest bid back there?” “Nick.” “That tracks. Nick interviewed me, so he knows the truth and he’d know if I lied.” Borracho snorts. “I don’t think those fools even considered that when they were placing their bets,” He chuckles. “You gonna tell them that I know?” You ask. “Nah...Though I’m wondering how many other ones you know about.” You smile as the bartender sets your drinks down. “I can keep a secret, detective, just like you can.” Borracho frowns, “Secret?” “I know you saw me in Starbucks last week,” You wink at him before you pick your beer up and head back to the table. -- Things are a little easier after that. You wear your headphones only when you absolutely need to zone in on your work - it signals to the guys that you’re really busy, they let you at it. They invite you out for drinks, or lunch, and you take them up on it now and again. The bets don’t stop. They don’t make them in the office now, though, they make them when they’re out on calls. You know so because Borracho texts you and keeps you updated. Sometimes, depending on what’s for grabs, you text him and tell him the answer as long as he cuts you in for half. It’s infrequent enough that no one’s caught on to your scheme yet. So far, though, the two of you have split one box of donuts, one six pack of beer, and a $20 Starbucks gift card (he was horrified that you basically only bought one thing with your half because you added a lot of espresso to your coffee; he even sprang for a morning bun for you out of his half, saying that you were going to get jittery without anything else in your stomach). You like Borracho. No, not like that. I mean sure, the guy is nice to look at, but you don’t know him very well beyond work. Borracho is a nice workplace pal. He’s smart, attentive; he keeps a lot of notes, you notice that about him. Borracho likes to handwrite his notes. You wonder if it’s because he remembers things better that way, or if it’s because he can take the notes home and look them over that way. Does he type them up and send them around for the guys or are they just his? You never ask him, just watch him hunch over his notepad and jot down things quickly. Does he use shorthand or is he just a fast writer? You catch yourself staring in the middle of one of his jot-athons more than once and you always force yourself to refocus on the work in front of you. The guys don’t notice, which is lucky; usually if Boraccho’s writing something down it’s because they’re in the middle of a briefing or a brainstorm, so they’re occupied. It’s not that you can’t take a little ribbing about looking at the guy, of course, it’s just...Well, Boraccho’s kinda the only one there that you sort of consider a friend. You don’t wanna make things weird. 

-- 

“What about the kid?” 

The suggestion comes from Connors. You’ve only got one headphone in, so it’s not strange when you lift your head at this question. The guys have turned to look at you, too. 

The team is smack in the middle of a murder investigation - the wife of a gubernatorial candidate Joshua Sutton has died and it looks fishy. FBI has thrown it to Major Crimes, and it winds up with your team. The guys have been authorized for a bug and a wiretap on Sutton’s laptop, but they need to get the bug and the wiretap in the building themselves. His apartment building has round-the-clock security - guards and cameras; Sutton has two personal bodyguards, and a state of the art security system besides. He’s also condemned the additional prying into the circumstances surrounding his wife’s death - even made a commercial, asking for “the dignity that ought to be afforded any man that’s just lost the love of his life.” He even managed to muster a single tear. The commercial had been filmed in his penthouse - he was wearing plain clothing, came off all casual - you were able to spot a personal laptop in the background, a USC decal stuck on the left hand side of the keyboard, beside the track pad. Thing is, Sutton’s also known on the down-low for throwing parties in his penthouse downtown. They haven’t stopped since the ‘tragic incident’. You’d already done some digging, had managed to find a few videos and stories of them on Instagram that the guy’s PR team hadn’t been able to catch and pull down. In one of the videos you found, a woman had been in Sutton’s bedroom, high and giggling; his laptop had been on the desk behind her - same USC sticker. The guys have been trying to figure out how to get into one of those parties - they’re invite only, you’ve gotta know the code. Borracho’s got a friend from back in the day that can get people in -- all that’s left is the hardware. 

Hence Connors’ suggestion. 

Henderson had floated the idea of two of the guys going in and hiring girls to go in with them, but Zapata had pointed out that left too many unknowns; the girls weren’t with the department; anything happens to them, it’s on the team.

“You up for getting your hands dirty?” Nick asks. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Borracho shuffling a little; you think he might be shaking his head.

--

“You nervous?”

“No.”

You’re lying, but if Borracho can tell, he doesn’t call you out on it. He just reaches into the backseat of his car and grabs the hardware kit. He passes it to you and watches you open your purse and pull out two empty plastic test tubes with stoppers and wrappers. 

“What is that?” He asks. 

“Fake tampons. Usually used as booze tubes,” You explain, “But it should work for this. I mean, if Sutton’s got a bodyguard checking bags at the door, I doubt they’re gonna reach in to make sure my tampons are actually tampons.” Borracho looks a little impressed, and you let yourself revel in that as you load the two bugs into their own tubes before sealing them in the wrappers. “Where do you even find fake tampons for booze?” “You kidding?” You ask, tucking the tampons away, “I’ve got a bag with a lining that can hold a full bottle of wine.” “Can’t believe Nick was worried about you fitting in.”

--

Once you’re out of the car, Borracho’s hand settles in your lower back, steering you into the building. The outfit you wound up wearing is a set with a short black skirt and a tank top with a cut-out strap that reveals a strip of your stomach and back. Borracho’s hand is warm, a little rough against the few spots where it sits against your skin. You can analyze why that’s making your stomach flip later. 

Once you’re in the elevator, Borracho leans against the wall and watches you for a moment. 

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

“I feel like if you were going to try to sincerely talk me out of this, you should’ve done it in the car,” You say, and he holds his hands up in concession before he glances over to watch the digital dial flip number after number as the elevator rises to the penthouse. 

Borracho’s opted for a black t-shirt that hugs his form, as well as a dark pair of jeans; he’s forgone a jacket - it’s May in fuckin’ Los Angelos, what would he need it for? 

You turn your head as the elevator slows, reaching the top. Borracho straightens and loops an arm around your shoulders. 

“I won’t leave you alone in there,” He promises softly before the doors can open. 

A bodyguard does check your bag, pokes around in it, but your hunch is right. Once he spots the red and pink wrappers of your fake tampons, he recoils and waves the two of you inside. 

It’s easy to lean into Borracho’s side once you two are in. The two of you drift through the packed revelers that are all drunk, high, and coked out of their minds; you grab beers and take the odd swigs from them. You’re both careful not to get too suckered into conversation with people while you mill around. 

The beers get ditched in the living room as you venture deeper into the apartment. The two of you check Sutton’s office first, just in case; the drawers are locked, but you plant the first bug in the further most corner under his desk, where anyone’ll be least-likely to knock it or spot it if they bends down to pick up something. 

It takes the two of you a while to find the bedroom, and when you do, there are two girls in there. One is sniffling, the other is trying to console her. So you take Borracho’s hand and step a little closer and murmur to them, “So sorry, but-- Do you think me and my man could get some privacy?” 

And they’re not happy about it, but they gather themselves and they go. You drop his hand and shut the door behind them before turning to the desk in the room. 

“Your man?” He asks, and you can hear the teasing in his voice.

“It got them out of here, didn’t it?” You point out, “Check the bookshelf.” 

The drawers on this desk are locked, too, and you can’t help the irritated swear that leaves you. 

“Hey,” Borracho draws your attention, and you turn your head to see him unearth an upright closed laptop from between a few books. He brings it over to the desk and opens it. You allow yourself a half-second of relief when you see the USC sticker. You put your purse on the desk and open the second fake tampon, popping the lid off of the tube and shaking the USB loose. You plug it in, then open your phone to monitor the program uploading.

“How long is this going to take?” Borracho sounds as impatient as you feel; your foot won’t stop bouncing, your heart is pounding. He’s casting nervous glances at the door, tensing when the two of you hear footsteps or voices that get too close. 

“‘Bout… Another twenty seconds,” You tell him, eyes darting between the laptop and your phone.

You can hear someone coming closer -- You recognize Sutton’s voice. 

“I know,” You say before Borracho can warn you. You pick your phone and the laptop up and walk over to the bookshelf with them. This is risky - the bookshelf is in the direct eyeline of the door. 

“The fuck are you--”

“Ssh!” You hush Borracho as your phone chimes, signalling that the program has loaded. You snap the laptop shut and yank the USB out, tucking the laptop back where he found it. Then you take a few steps deeper into the room, waving him closer and holding your hand out. He frowns, but he takes hold of your hand. You draw him over to the window, shoving the USB in his pocket before nudging him back against the sill. 

You turn, leaning back against his chest and pulling the camera up on your phone. 

“Just play along,” You mumble, holding the phone up.

You hear the doorknob turn and the creaking of the door opening; you feel Borracho’s hands sliding over your hips, anchoring you to him; the image on your screen could be of a couple - cute, sweet. You take one picture of the two of you, then another. You nudge Borracho even as Sutton steps into the room; you tease him,

“Would it kill you to smile?”

You set up to take another; he swoops in, arms wrapping around your middle as he presses a kiss to your cheek, and you can’t help but laugh as you take the picture. 

“Excuse me.” 

Sutton’s voice rings through the room. You lower the phone and lean back into Braccho’s chest, allowing a confused expression to fill your features. 

“You can’t be in here,” Sutton steps aside to let you leave. 

“See, babe? Told you,” Borracho pinches your side, and you reach back, slapping at his shoulder. You wriggle out of his grasp and grab your purse from the desk before the two of you are skirting around Sutton, step out into the hall; you catch the eye of a woman that you spoke to on your way, and she waves. Borracho’s hand is clasped around yours as you hurry out of the apartment. 

--

“... All good...Nah, kid handled it like a champ,” Borracho’s reporting to Big Nick. You’re trying not to preen in the passenger seat. The adrenaline and nerves are starting to wear off, and you’re a little sleepy, but you really don’t want to pass out in the guy’s car. I mean he just said that you handled it like a champ for cryin’ out loud. You can almost hear it now: “kid handled it like a champ...And then she k’d the fuck o in my car like a fuckin’ toddler”. “Alright… Yeah, I’ll let her know.” You glance over as Borracho sets his phone down into one of his cup holders. “Bug’s transmitting loud and clear, and the laptop’s already kicking data over to the office.” “Sweet,” You nod, relieved, “You can drop me off there.” Borracho throws you a sidelong glance, brow furrowed. “The office?” He tries to clarify. “Yeah? I wanna see what we’re getting.” “I’m taking you home.” “I’m telling you not to.” “Look,” Borracho turns his head to get a better look at you when you two pull up at a red light, “The only people in the office right now are the janitorial staff and Nick. Neither of them are gonna be a good time.” He’s right, which is unfortunate; it doesn’t help that you’re tired, otherwise you’d argue just a little harder. “...Fine,” You say after a moment, facing forward. Borracho does the same. The rest of the car ride is silent. When he pulls up outside of your apartment building, you sit up in your seat. “Night,” You say. “Night-- Hey,” Borracho adds, and you turn back to him when he stops you, “You did good tonight.” You’re surprised by his making a point to say so, and you smile a bit. “...Thanks,” You say after a moment before tacking on, “You were alright.” You pick your purse up off of the floor of the car as you hear Borracho scoff a laugh. “Smartass,” He mutters. “But I’ve got a cute ass,” You counter before getting out of the car. You sort of can’t believe you’ve said so, but it’s...Too late, you’re already out of the car and telling yourself to just walk away because the damage is already done. So you don’t bother to look back at the car until you’re unlocking the door. He’s still there, and you give him a quick wave before stepping inside. You practically sleepwalk through talking off your makeup and getting changed. Once you’re in bed, you pick up your phone and scroll through your notifications. When you open your phone, it’s on your camera roll, and a picture of you and Borracho is right there. It’s the first one you took. You’re looking right at the camera; Borracho’s eyes are set elsewhere, at where Sutton was coming in. You swipe to the next one - Borracho’s looking at the camera now, brows raised, his expression one of… Ease, almost. You swipe to the last one, and you feel warmth spread through your chest at the sight of Borracho kissing your cheek, and you grinning and laughing. It seems like such a soft moment for a man that, even in more relaxed moments, has always been somewhat gruff. You delete the first two, but when you come to the last one, your finger hovers over the little trash can icon. You bite your lip. No one’s gonna know if you keep it, right? You save it to an album and hide it from your camera roll before you set your phone aside, closing your eyes.

-- It takes a while for the bug or the wiretap to pick up anything. You’re walking by Zapata’s desk a week later as he scans through footage from the guy’s video conferences when you stop. “Hey, stop,” You lean against the back of his chair, leaning over his shoulder, “Go back like...Ten seconds?” He complies and you frown. It’s not a complete view of the woman’s face, but it’s enough to be recognizable. “I’ve seen that woman.” “Where?” Zapata asks. “She was at the party.” Boraccho and Nick are at your side in seconds, peering over Zapata’s head. “You’re sure?” Nick asks. “Yeah, she complimented me on my eyeliner.” “You were wearing eyeliner?” Henderson asks. “Okay, how made up I was at the time is kinda immaterial in relation to the rest of the anecdote.” “She say what her name was?” Borracho presses. “Cat? I had cat-eye, she made a joke it being her eyeliner-- she was really drunk--” “I thought cat-eye was a marble.” “I’m not giving you all a fucking makeup tutorial, Connors.” “Unless we can tie her to Sutton, it doesn’t help us,” Nick pipes up behind you. You push away from Zapata’s desk and walk over to your computer, pulling up a campaign rally, then the press conference about Sutton’s wife, then the commercial clip asking for peace. “C’mere,” You wave them over. The guys gather around your desk and watch you play a few seconds of the clips. You point out Cat in each of them, standing close to Sutton. “She was in the hall with him when we were leaving,” You remind Borracho, looking up at him, “She at least works for his campaign - If you give me a crack at the recordings from the bug, I bet I can identify her voice again.” “Do it,” Nick nods firmly, “Borracho, see if you can get a subpoena for her finances, her emails--” “On it,” Borracho answers. The others go about their business. A hand lands on your shoulder, and you glance up to see Borracho. He gives your shoulder a squeeze, gives you a nod and a wink before heading back to his desk. -- “Ah, nope. You’re not paying for any drinks tonight,” Nick waves your wallet away, “You just busted your first case wide open.” “Is it just the first case that’s free, or…?” “Don’t push it, newbie,” Zapata shakes his head, and you smile, tucking your wallet back into your pocket and leaning back in your seat. You’re all in a good mood -  the case had been long, but Nick had been able to unpin all of the photographs from the board once Cat had broken down and confessed to the murder of Sutton’s wife. You’re less quiet with the guys tonight, more one of them. They rib you, but you rib them right back (“So can we just move back to cat-eye--” “If you really want, sure, Connors, I’ll bring in my makeup bag tomorrow and we can make you real pretty. You have a date coming up? How do you feel about ditching the beard?”) 

Borracho is at your side again, arm brushing yours now and again when he reaches for his beer, thigh brushing yours when he shifts in his seat; his arm is thrown over the back of your chair. He doesn’t touch your shoulder or anything, you're just...Very aware of where his arm is. You don’t think anything of it; when he gets up to grab the next round of drinks, Connors’ arm takes over. It's a matter of having a perch, you tell yourself, Borracho's just getting comfortable. You tap out before the rest of the guys, head home knowing you have an early shift (and a piss test later in the week). You’re half asleep when your phone buzzes at 2AM with a text that says: Still have those pictures?   You frown. Pictures. He can’t possibly mean… You reply ? From Sutton’s place.

You bite your lip. You do have that one - where he’s kissing your cheek. What’s he asking for, anyway? Blackmail? A pool? You going swimming? Clever, techie. 

That’s not a yes or a no, so. It’s not a pool. Promise? Cross my heart. God, for some stupid, stupid reason, you believe him. You open your phone album and tap on the picture of the two of you. What will he think that you’ve kept one, let alone the fact that you’ve kept that one? I don’t have them. He doesn’t reply to that one. You're wide awake now, though, and your head is buzzing with questions. Why are you asking? He doesn’t reply to that one, either. -- 

Things in the office are...Fine. You still assist the guys with cases, you still pal around with them. They still place bets on you -- whether or not you’re an only child (you don’t really talk about your family when you’re in the office, so no one’s got a lead on that one); if you’re a cat or a dog person (you’re tempted to lie and tell one of them that you prefer lizards); what your favorite color is. Borracho’s told you about all of these - you told him all of the answers, but he hasn’t claimed any of the pools. Sometimes you consider sending him that picture, but as it gets further and further away from when he’s asked, you just can’t bring yourself to. You’re sure that it’ll be weird. --

It’s pure coincidence, honestly. It’s been a shitty week, you’ve been buried under a mountain of work lately, and some friends convince you to go out with them. You worked a double shift - overnight into the next day; you’ve got the following day off, which is good, because you know that you’ll need it to recover. Your best friend, Annalise, comes over to help you get ready. She’s prodding, knows you haven’t had any fun lately. “Come on, go a little crazy tonight-- Oh,” She gasps, turning to you, eyes wide, “Break out a wig. Where’s that cute shoulder-length pink one?” You watch her rifle around in your things, looking for it.  “‘Lise-- No. No! I’m not--Put the wig down.” -- “I almost didn’t recognize you.” You almost don’t recognize yourself - Annalise has definitely talked you into going a little crazy. Your outfit for the Sutton party had been understated, easy - it had helped you slip into the crowd. Tonight, though - between the pink ombre wig, the short, lacy, open-back dress, and your full-face of makeup, you’re a far cry from what you look like at the office. It’s a wonder Borracho is able to pick you out of a crowd. “What threw you off?” You tease, and he chuckles. He crowds up behind you, cages you against the bar and orders for the both of you. You’re not complaining; you’re asking how long he’s been there, if he’s been there before, if he came with anyone. You kinda don’t really focus on any of the other answers, because Borracho came alone. He came alone, and he’s here alone, and he’s caging you against the bar and paying for your drink. You two talk for a little while - as much as you can over the hum of the bass - until Annalise comes and tugs you away to dance. You apologize, try to coax Borracho out with you, but he won’t go. After a while, you lose sight of him. But apparently he doesn’t lose sight of you. When Annalise finds someone to fuck, you decide to tap out for the night. You go to the bar to settle up your tab, and then there’s that hand on the small of your back again, warm and steady. “Grabbing one more?” He asks in your ear. You shake your head, “I’m gonna grab something to eat and then head home.” You hesitate before you lean back and ask, “You hungry?” 

-- “I’ve lived here my whole life, I’ve never been here,” Borracho is almost wondrous as he says so through a mouthful of food. You raise a brow. “What, you know every late night spot in LA?” You ask. “All the good ones, yeah.” “Apparently not,” You reach out, stealing one of his fries and popping it into your mouth. “So what’s with the wig?” You shrug. “I don’t know, it was my friend’s idea. I used to wear it all the time when I went out and then I...Stopped going out.” “Work?” “Work.” Borracho reaches across the table. You assume he’s going for your food, but he takes a few wig strands between his fingers and twirls them around before rolling them between his fingers. You sit still, as unaffected as you can possibly be with the man’s hand so damn close to your face. His hand lowers after a few moments, fingertips brushing your cheek on the way. Your stomach flips unsteadily at the contact, and fight not to let Borracho see it effect you. “What’s brought you out tonight?” You ask. Borracho shrugs. “Needed a night out, is all.” “Struck out, huh?” “What?” “At the club.” “What makes you say that?” “Well, you’re eating with me,” You point out. “That’s the opposite of striking out.” He’s saying it with a perfectly straight face; you can’t help but duck your head to try and hide from him this time, the wig shading your face a little bit. -- When you’re at work on Monday, you’ve recovered from your night out, but you’re still pretty fucking sleepy. You’ve got an obscene amount of Starbucks espresso and drip coffee in your travel mug; you’re eating a breakfast sandwich that you grabbed on the way in. Henderson and Nick have already teased you about your obvious fatigue, to which you’ve smartly replied, “Like neither of you fuckers have ever turned up looking like shit.” That had resulted in a round of hoots from the office before things had settled down. You manage to work in silence for a little bit before your phone buzzes. You don’t reach for it right away. When you pick it up, you see a text from Borracho. You glance over at him, but he’s hunched over a form. You read the text: Forgot that that was what your hair looked like 

You roll your eyes, texting back: Missing the wig? It’s a few moments of nothing before he replies, Think i like this better Tho the wig was cute like your ass 

You read those over a few times before you rest your forehead in your hand, shading your eyes from Borracho. You’re gonna need a moment to process this. When you do lower your hand, you refuse to look in Borracho’s direction, just in case he’s looking at you. My ass is cuter than the wig. i’d need to see them both again, make sure You do look at him then, eyes wide, and he’s watching you; he’s got this smirk on his face. You shake your head a little bit, looking back down at your phone as your phone buzzes with another message: get a drink with me later Your brows raise. I’d have to go home to get the wig. 

i’ll make do with your ass for now 

‘For now’. You’re about to combust. -- 

The two of you don’t go to the usual place that you hit up with the guys after work; you go somewhere out of the way, near the club that the two of you were at that weekend. You’re wondering if he lives around there, but you haven’t really found a way to bring it up yet because you two have been talking about other things -- work, mostly: the guys, the pools, a case here and there. “You like it?” He asks. You consider for a moment, a finger flicking over the sagging corner of the label on your beer. You’ve been in the department for almost seven months now. “I do,” You nod after a moment, “More than I thought I would.” Borracho’s phone buzzes and you watch him pull it out of his pocket. “You been itching to get your hands dirty again?” He asks. “Maybe, why?” “Nick needs me back, I'm guessing you’re about to get a text, too.” A few seconds later, your phone buzzes and you pull it out, looking it over. “I don’t like it when you’re right,” You sigh, standing. -- Maybe this is a little too dirty for you. You’re able to drive yourself home, sure, but today has been a lot. You’d gotten shot at. You work for the Sheriff’s office, sure, but you work in the office. The Sutton case, your in-person involvement, that was supposed to be a one-off, and that was different. Besides, Borracho had been right beside you the whole time during the Sutton case, but this? You’d wound up driving back to the office in your own car, and getting in a car with Connors, Borracho, and Henderson to head to pick up a perp. You were using your phone, coordinating with FBI air support, tracking a GPS chip that the guys had planted on a suspect’s car a week prior. You were fine. You were loading out of the car with the guys, and then a bullet had whizzed past your side. The next thing you knew, you were on the ground; Connors was over you, asking you if you were alright. You’d nodded, stayed down when they’d told you to, moved when they’d said. Look, you’re fine. You told them that you’re fine. They got the guy, you did your job, you weren’t hurt -- no one was hurt. You’re fine. You’re fine-- You jump out of your skin when you hear a knock on your door. You take careful steps over to your door, peer through the peephole, and frown when you see who it is. You open the door and take a step back, looking up at Borracho. “What are you doing here?” You shake your head. He holds up a bag. “We didn’t finish our beer.” You hesitate before stepping back. “I’m not putting the wig on,” You warn. He comes in anyway. -- 

You wind up on your couch, side by side. He’s put a football game on - you’re not paying attention; you don’t know the game well, you don’t know the teams. A car backfires outside and your head turns to the sound, your shoulders going tense. A feeling of idiocy immediately washes over you and you slouch down in your seat a bit. Borracho’s hand slides from the back of your couch to rest on the back of your neck. “It happens to all of us,” He doesn’t even bother to look away from the game as he says so. “What does?” “That,” He nods toward where the sound came from. “Does it? Cause you didn’t jump.” “Well, I been doin’ this a lot longer than you.” “...How do you handle it?” “Like this, sometimes,” Borracho holds up his beer, then uses it to gesture toward the tv. “And other times?” “Depends on the day.” You wait for him to expand on that; he doesn’t. You shift closer, leaning into him a little; his hand slides from your neck to wrap lazily around your shoulder, hand dangling over your bicep, fingertips trailing over the bottom of the sleeve of your t-shirt. You feel yourself falling asleep on him. He doesn’t shrug you off, he doesn’t push you away. He does drink your beer, though, because you refuse to move and you won’t let him up to grab another. “It’s late,” You mumble as the game ends. Borracho hums in agreement. “...I’m gonna ask something ridiculous, and I’m gonna ask you not to make fun of me,” You add. You feel Borracho glance down at you. 

-- You’re curled around him when you wake up. You frown, confused for a moment, and then you remember. You feel ridiculous for asking. You can’t believe you actually asked the man to stay with you -- even more, you can’t believe he agreed. You roll onto your back, wincing as you go. You sit up, groaning quietly as you do. “You alright?” You glance down at Borracho where he’s blinking up at you. “I know he was saving my life and all, but Connors wasn’t exactly gentle when he tackled me,” You give him a small smile. A glance down at your arms confirms it, too - your forearms are mottled with bruises where you landed on them; you can only imagine what your knees and thighs look like, and you’re not incredibly eager to find out just what the damage is. “I didn’t wake you, did I?” You add. Borracho shrugs, and you know that that’s a yes. “Sorry,” You add, sliding back down in bed and settling against your pillows. Borracho rolls onto his side, watching you. “Thanks for staying,” You mumble. “I only stayed to snoop around while you were asleep. Couldn’t find that wig,” Borracho says. You roll your eyes, reaching out and flicking between his eyes. You’re quiet for a few moments as Borracho rests his forehead against your shoulder. You glance down at him to find his eyes closed. It was sweet of him to stay, you can at least thank him somehow, right? You look back up at the ceiling. “...I’ll buy you breakfast before we go in,” You promise. He doesn’t lift his head; you don’t even check to see if he opens his eyes. “I gotta go home and shower and shit,” He mumbles. “So we’ll meet in the parking lot of the Starbucks and I’ll throw the bag with your food from my car to your car. Easy.” He laughs and lifts his head. “I’ll bet you miss my window.” You raise a brow, looking down at him. “You’re on.” -- You see him out, ‘cause it’s the polite thing to do. There’s something gnawing at your stomach, so you finally bring yourself to say it when the two of you are in the front hall. “...Don’t tell the guys about this, please,” You shake your head. You know that he knows how they get. “I won’t.” Simple, flat. Finite. The way he told Henderson on your first day that he wasn’t in to bet on your sticking around. You smile as you lean in your doorway, watching him. “Thanks, Borracho.” “Benny,” He corrects quietly. “What?” He meets your eye, repeats, “Benny,” Then adds, “I’ll text you when I’m on my way to Starbucks.” He leaves you in your doorway, blinking, stunned, and feeling like you just unlocked a fucking level. 

--

You’re not gonna lie, you’re not really sure what you’re expecting out of Borracho’s apartment. Sparse isn’t the word for it -- plain isn’t, either. Simple? Kind of unlived in. I mean, you know the guy works a lot, but jeez. You’re almost tempted to look in the fridge. Okay, that’s lie, you’re insanely tempted to look in the fridge. You’re willing to bet that there’s 2 cans of beer, 1 expired bag of shredded cheese, and maybe a some pepperoni for snacking on or something. You don’t get to look, though, because you’re already being herded to the couch. It’s become a habit between the two of you. You don’t do it every day, or every week, but if a day is particularly shitty, if the guys have had a scrape during a firefight or it came just a bit too close for comfort, Borracho would come over. Sometimes he’d go out with the guys first, but he’d always come to your apartment after; the two of you took turns buying the beer. You’d put the game on-- whatever game was on -- and you’d settle in on the couch. This time is different, though. Borracho is in a mood. You don’t know what’s gone down - you haven’t seen the guy in almost a week, he’s been coordinating with the FBI. Nick couldn’t be fuckin’ bothered - he’d put Borracho on it because he’d had it with Lobbin’ Bob, so the guy’s been out of the office, out of reach. And then today Borracho came blasting back in, radiating tension and a solid pissed off energy. You’d just gotten off of your shift, and he had just muttered for you to follow him as you’d headed down to the parking lot. You followed his car back to his place, and now you really wanna look in the guy’s fridge. But Borracho’s already pressing a beer into your hand and dropping like a bag of bones onto the couch beside you. The game’s on (it’s basketball this time) and Borracho takes a long swig from his beer as he stares ahead, wordless. “What happened out there?” You’re careful when you ask - you wait for the game to come back from commercial first, you’re quiet about it, you don’t look at him. It takes him a few minutes to answer - you don’t know why, maybe he’s focused on the game, maybe he really doesn’t wanna talk about it, maybe he’s just sorting it through in his own mind. “Lost the witness,” He says finally, and the way he says it tells you that when he says lost, it doesn’t mean misplaced, it means the witness is fuckin’ dead. The witness that had been the key to a case that the guys had been working for months, since before you even got hired. “Shit,” You breathe, turning to look Borracho over, “Are you alright?” It takes him another few moments, and then he nods. You know it’s bullshit, but you don’t push. You turn back to the tv, frowning. This isn’t like when you were on the field for the first time - Borracho isn’t just gonna cuddle up to you, he’s not the type. And while you know the guy better now than you did a few months ago, he still finds ways to stun you. So instead of trying to guess, you ask, “What can I do?” When he lifts his arm to rest around your shoulders, you’re confused for a moment, and then you sink down into his side, and he curls you close, and presses his face into your hair. You hear him take a deep breath; you wonder if he’s still watching the game, but looking would dislodge him and you don’t wanna do that. So you settle in, wrap your arm around his middle and settle. “...Anything else?” You ask after a few minutes of silence. His soft chuckle rumbles in his chest, the sound warm in your ear; his hot breath ruffles your hair. “I’ll keep you updated, techie,” He murmurs. He doesn’t call you that often - and never around the other guys, you’ve noticed. You’ve wondered why. They’d probably latch on and start using it, too, if they heard it. The two of you have gone out a couple more times - for drinks, for dinner (it’s never gone anywhere, though not for your lack of wanting). Nights like those, you’re both chatty, teasing. You don’t limit yourselves to talking about work anymore. He knows that you’re sort of alone in LA, that your family’s back East; you know that he’s the youngest boy, that he’s got three sisters (Megan, Isobel, and Nadia) and one older brother (Gabriel), that his dad passed away when he was fifteen and his mom is still around. You know that he tries to see her every couple of weeks. You know he’s an uncle; you’ve seen the little glimmer in his eye when he talks about his nieces and nephews. Nights like these, though, neither of you push to fill the quiet. Nights like these you both let the worry, or the anger, or the hurt drain into the air and be drowned out by beer and the sound of the tv and the other person’s quiet breath. When the game’s over and the beers are drained, you take a chance and peer up at Borracho. The tension’s dropped; he just looks tired now. “...Bed?” You ask softly. He nods, mumbles, “Bed.” 

-- You’re flustered as fuck, but the room’s dark, at least, as you crawl into bed beside him. You’d asked Borracho to shut the light off before you came out of the bathroom, and he’d conceded. You’re wearing one of his old t-shirts and your underwear -- and you would’ve packed some damn pajama shorts or something if you’d known what the night was going to bring. You settle in for an uneasy night. You never did sleep well in a bed that wasn’t yours. -- For a moment, you don’t know the room that you’re in, but you know the arm wrapped around your stomach, and the arm tucked under your head. You glance back at Borracho over your shoulder before you reach out to where you’d deposited your phone on the bedside table the night before. You scroll through a couple of notifications before you hear a grumble behind you. You loose a squeak as Borracho’s arm tightens around you; your phone falls out of your hand onto the bed beside you. You start to turn your head back to look at him, but then his face is pressing into the crook of your neck, his stubble and goatee and lips are rasping over your skin, and you can’t help the clench in your stomach and the throb of your clit and your helpless little whimper of, “Benny.” You get an answering hum, sleepy, as he repeats the motion and brushes his cheek against your neck again. You squeeze your eyes shut, biting your lip to keep from letting out any more embarrassing sounds. “How awake are you?” You whisper. “...Enough,” Is mumbled into your skin. You smile, setting a hand on the arm that’s wrapped around you. “Did I wake you up?” “...Little bit.” “ ‘m sorry.” “Wanna make it up to me?” “Mm?” “Stop talking.” You roll your eyes, but you comply. You pick up your phone and you scroll on in silence, letting Borracho wake up slowly. You know he’s getting there when he begins to untangle himself from you. You hear him groan, hear one of his elbow joints crack from being straightened out all night. You glance back at him, finally, and smile a little. He doesn’t stay away for long, because he rests his forehead against the back of your neck, his hand skimming, warm and a little rough, over where his shirt has ridden up over your stomach; his voice is soft and gruff and he’s mumbling something about being hungry. “I could make something,” You offer. He’s had a long week, you don’t mind. “There’s nothing in my fridge,” He grumbles. You knew it. “Starbucks?” Is your next suggestion. --

The two of you take his car to the drive-thru, because what’s the point of driving separately right now? Borracho’s past teasing you about how much coffee you drink and how bad it is for you, though he does still take jabs at how overpriced it is. “This is why you live in such a small apartment,” He says as he passes you your drink. You roll your eyes. “You’re such a dick.” “You’re a coffee snob.” “A coffee snob with a cute ass.” Borracho doesn’t even try to dispute that, just grunts, and you grin, leaning back in the passenger seat and taking the bag with your breakfast sandwich next. He drives to the Hollywood Bowl Overlook; there are a handful of other cars there, but it’s quiet. He rolls down your windows and shuts the car down. “You try this one yet?” You ask as you open the bag with your breakfast sandwich. “Nu-uh.” “Wanna? Mm, hang on-- It’s better with hot sauce,” You reach into the baggie and pull out the packet that it came with. “You say that about everything.” “Have I been wrong yet?” “...” “Right, so shut the fuck up,” You dribble a few dots of hot sauce on the sandwich; a couple of dots miss and land on your hand, but you’ll wipe those off in a minute. You hold the baggie and sandwich out to Borracho. He takes a gentle, steadying hold of your wrist before taking a bite out of the sandwich. He hums, and you’re going to pull your hand back, but then he’s dipping his head and sucking the hot sauce from your skin, too. You might’ve been able to hide from him last night, but in broad daylight, in the cramped car, there’s no way for you to hide. Borracho flicks his tongue over your skin one more time before he lets go of your wrist and settles back in his seat. “You’re right, everything is better with hot sauce.” -- On the anniversary of your being working there for a year, the guys take you out for drinks. Henderson claps you on the shoulder, teases that they didn’t think you’d even make it a week - you have to laugh, bite down a, ‘Some of you didn’t’ and chase it with the tequila shooter that Henderson bought you. Borracho leaves ahead of you that night; the guys rib him for tapping out early, and for the sake of appearances, so do you. They don’t press you to drink more than one beer, even if they’re all slamming them down - you’re driving yourself home, they know that, and they can be dicks, sure, but they’re not assholes. When you get to Borracho’s place, the door is open for you, and he’s on the couch with his own beer. “How fucked up are they?” “So fucked up,” You laugh and shake your head as you kick your shoes off before you plop down onto the couch beside him. You take the beer out of his hand and take a swig from it. “Get your own.” “Make me.” Neither of you are harsh as you say so; Borracho’s already drawing you in and you’re already curling up. You don’t even pretend to watch the game tonight. You turn your head, press your face into his neck, nudge your nose along the packed-in black ink of his tattoo. Now and again he’ll take his beer back for a drink before pressing it back into your hand. “I think I like it better that way,” He mutters after he finally drains the bottle and sets it on the coffee table, “I don’t even have to hold my drink.” “Shithead,” You laugh. Borracho’s hand lifts from its customary spot on your shoulder to smooth over your hair. You hum softly. “...I still think about that wig sometimes.” You laugh at his admission before you lean back to get a good look at him. “You miss it?” You tease. He shrugs a shoulder, eyes trailing from the top of your head to meet your eyes. “Wouldn’t say that.” “Cause you’d be embarrassed?” “Cause you’re just as sexy first thing in the morning as you are when you’re all dressed up.” ...This is new. This is the most forward Borracho’s been in a long time. There’s been flirting, yeah, and there’s been cuddling up, and there was that one time he licked hot sauce off of you (and you think about the feeling of his tongue on your skin a lot). But you two have been in this grey area for so long -- and now the man is looking you in the eye and calling you sexy and you’ve suddenly got this urge to hide from him because he’s seen you -- because he sees you. His hand drifts down to cup the back of your neck again, and then he’s drawing you up to crush your mouth against his, sweet and hot. You sigh, lifting your own hand to cup the side of his neck, paw at his collar, sweep over his cheek -- you can’t keep still, because now that you can touch like this, you want to touch everywhere, and you don’t know where to start. Borracho’s got a better handle on this, though, he’s keeping his head. He wraps an arm around your waist and steers you up until you’re straddling one of his thighs. 

You like this better - from here you can reach down and let your hands smooth over his shoulders and chest. He’s got a hand steadying you on your thigh, but the other is smoothing over your lower back, occasionally dipping down to palm and squeeze your ass. You press back into it, rolling your hips and grinding down against his thigh with each pass and squeeze. He doesn’t complain when you reach down and tug his shirt up and off, but he’s doing the same with yours before you can duck back in for another kiss. You toss the shirt aside, uncaring of where it ends up before you lean down, sealing your mouth over his. He groans quietly as you nibble at his lower lip. His hand has settled on your ass now, tucked into your back pocket, and you can feel him flexing his thigh, encouraging the way you’re grinding your hips down. You break your kiss to lower your head and mouth over the tattoo on his neck. You whine against his skin, hips rolling harder, and you don’t even care that Borracho is chuckling at you right now. “You like that?” He murmurs. You reach down, palming at where he’s hardening in his jeans. “You like it, too,” You accuse before scraping your teeth over the patch of skin. His head tips back with a growl, and he turns his head to murmur, “Bed?” You nod. “Bed.” -- Borracho’s a quiet guy, so it doesn't surprise you that that extends to the bedroom-- for the most part. He’s not chatty, is all. But he’s touchy, and the way he looks at you -- so open, and wanting. You’ve been on your back since the two of you ditched your jeans and made it to the mattress. Your bra got discarded a while back, and he took his damn time kissing your neck and sucking and teasing your nipples. Your underwear was the next casualty.

But what gets you is the way he is between your thighs. Borracho’s not chatty, but now and again, as he’s eating your pussy, he’ll let out these little moans. The first one happens when he suckles your clit after neglecting it; your hips give a little jump at the sensation, and you gasp, and he moans. The next is when he slides a finger into you. You keen high in your throat, squeeze down on it, and he turns his head like he can hide the moan he makes in the soft skin of your thigh. The loudest one that you get from him is when you’re right about to cum -- you warn him, you feel it coming on -- “Benny,” You warn, “Fuck ‘m gonna-- Fuck, fuck!” You reach down and weave your fingers into his thick hair and pull, and he lets out such a sweet sound as he sucks hot, wet kisses to your pussy and fucks his fingers into you faster. You’re falling apart seconds later; his tongue and fingers keep at their ministrations until you’re using your hands to pull him up for a kiss. He hums, pleased, as you lick into his mouth, as he pulls his fingers out of you and smears your wetness over your skin. You slide your tongue along his and massage the tips of your fingers over his scalp, soothing the sting of your tugs. “Fuck me,” You mumble, drawing your knees up to cage his hips. He groans then, and kisses over the hollow of your throat before he leans off of the bed to grab a condom for the drawer on his bedside table. You prop yourself up on one elbow and reach down, massaging him through his briefs. He chuckles shakily as you push the waistband down. “Looking for something?” He teases. “You’re an ass,” You mumble, leaning up to kiss his chest. “You’re such a sweet-talker,” Borracho drops the condom packet beside your arm before he sits up to get his briefs off. You follow, and you press a hand to his chest, keeping him upright as you lean down, taking the head of his cock into your mouth. You hear him suck in a breath; his fingers brush your hair back from your neck and face, and you turn your head, releasing the head to mouth along the side and bat your eyelashes at him. His tongue dips out of his mouth as he watches you, swiping his bottom lip, and you follow suit, flicking the tip of your tongue over his glans. He groans low in his chest; you flex your hand a little, lightly digging your nails into the muscle there, and his groan grows louder. You want more of those sounds; you want this man to fall apart for you. After a few minutes of teasing, though, he quietly sputters, “Fuck-- Lay back.” You do, but not before you press a few kisses to his chest and lips first. Borracho grabs the condom he’d dropped by you. You can feel yourself practically vibrating with want; your hands are still wandering his shoulders, his chest, his sides. You still as he presses into you. He’s watching you again. He’s watching you tip your head back and bare your throat to him; he’s watching you squeeze your eyes shut and open your mouth in a moan; he’s watching you arch your back and press your hips down to take more of him. You feel yourself flutter around him as your hands anchor around his forearms. You feel Borracho sheathe himself in you completely. He curls over you and presses his face into your neck, nuzzling gently. You wrap your legs around his, urging him to move. He hums, rolls his hips slowly at first, easing you both into the feeling. And for a few minutes, that’s enough. But then, “Benny,” You mumble, pleading as sweetly as you, “Please, please.” You squeeze down around him, turn your head and bite his jaw, and you feel his hips snap like you’ve flipped a switch. And fuck, maybe you have, because Borracho’s pinning your hips and fucking you into the mattress. You run your hands up to his shoulders, gripping to him as he nails that spot inside you, and you gasp. “There! There, Benny, yes-- God, ohgodohgodBenny--” You’re whining as you cum again, and Borracho’s moaning your name, you can hear it. It’s low under his breath, but it’s yours. He’s curling over you again, and his hips are juddering and he’s cumming, fuck, he’s cumming. He’s slotting his mouth back over yours, and lapping gently into your mouth. You slide a hand into his hair, keeping him close even as you feel his cock soften, even as your trembling thighs splay. 

-- “You need to shave.” “You weren’t complaining last night.” He makes it a point to nuzzle his chin along the valley of your breasts and you roll your eyes. He looks so fucking smug, too, but damnit, he looks so good on top of you. “My mouth was a little occupied,” You retort. “Oh yeah? What with?” He’s lowering his to your skin, skimming his lips along the soft underside of your breast, then up over the curve to ghost over the nipple. “Oh… Your neck, your dick...Your mouth--Borracho!” You gasp at the feeling of his goatee on your hardening nipple. He chuckles, mumbles, “Sorry,” And lowers his head, lapping over the nipple as penance. He gives it another lap, and a suck, and you shift under him, biting your lip. You can’t help the slight shift of your hips against where his chest is keeping your thighs spread wide apart. “You’re s-so not sorry,” You retort shakily. “Maybe I am,” Borracho argues, lifting his mouth from your breast. It doesn’t matter, it really doesn’t, but his hand is drifting between your legs to lightly thumb at your clit. You blink down at him, eyelids fluttering, hazy at the teasing pressure. “Let me show you how sorry I am, sweetness,” He adds, kissing his way down your stomach. -- It’s a text you’re never supposed to see and you know it. The two of you take your damn time getting out of bed. Borracho still doesn’t have food in his fridge, so you order in. He’s making coffee, so when his phone buzzes, he asks you to check it, muttering, “Food might be outside.” You reach into the pocket of the sweatpants that he’s pulled on, dropping a kiss to his shoulder on the way before you straighten up, looking down at the text. It’s a group text with guys, and it’s a message from Nick that says, ‘If no one claims the pool for fucking Tech by midnight, you all get your $50 back.’ You almost drop the fucking phone. “Food outside?” Borracho asks, glancing back at you. He does a double-take when he sees your face and frowns, “What?” You pass him the phone without a word before you walk away, heading back to his bedroom. You feel gross. Is that all that last night was? Did you just make Borracho $250? You’ve got your jeans on by the time Borracho’s in the doorway of his bedroom. He folds his arm over his chest, watches you for a second before he asks, “What are you doing?” You turn back to him, waving toward the phone that’s still in his hand. “What was that?” “That was the guys being the guys.” “You never told me about that bet… When did they set it?” “End’a your first week.” A year ago? You bite the inside of your cheek, looking around Borracho’s room. “...So you gonna text back, let the guys know?” You ask, steeling yourself, “Cause if you take it, half of that’s mine.” Borracho’s eyes narrow. “You think I’m in on it?” “Are you? We always split the good takes and $125 is pretty fuckin’ good, I can get a lot of Starbucks with that.” “Not with the way you order. That could get you three drinks at the most.” Borracho looks down as his phone buzzes. He holds it out to you. You hesitate before you take a couple of steps forward and take the phone from him. It’s a text from Henderson, Borracho ain’t dropped shit on this pool he can’t be cut in for shit 

And then another text from Z, Borracho hasn’t gotten any in like a year, whoever wins needs to buy him a hooker 😂 The gross feeling is still there, but some of it is replaced with shame. You pass the phone back to Borracho and take a couple of steps back, sitting on the end of his bed. “...I’m sorry,” You shake your head, “It was a knee-jerk reaction and that wasn’t fair to you.” Borracho steps further into the room, sitting on the bed beside you. “I didn’t tell you about that pool ‘cause you and I weren’t close when it came up-- And honestly I haven’t thought about it in a long fuckin’ time.” 

“Do you want me to leave?” You ask. His brow furrows as he looks at you. “For my dumbass assumption?” You clarify. Borracho shakes his head. “Look, I know how the guys are, I get how it came off.” “I am sorry--” “I know. S’alright,” He murmurs before he leans in, kissing you softly. You relax a little bit, shaking your head. You can’t believe the guys have had that pool going for a year. The other thing you can’t believe? “You haven’t gotten laid in a year?” You ask after a moment, looking over at Borracho. He rolls his eyes. “I’ve been a little distracted,” He leans down and bites lightly at your shoulder. You huff and swat at his thigh. “...Damn, you guys made like eight bets on me that first week, huh,” You say after a moment, getting off of his bed, adding, “Is the food here yet?” “Yeah, it got here a couple of minutes ago-- How’d you know about the other--” “Thank god, I’m starving,” You add before Boraccho can finish his question. 

-- “...You’ll tell me if they make a bet like that again, right?” You mumble later, when the two of you are half asleep. “They won’t.” His hand is rubbing over your back in slow, soft circles. “But if they do--” “They won’t.” “How can you be so sure about that?” You push yourself up on his chest to look at him. “I know the guys, sweetness-- better than you,” He cuts off your protest before you can voice it. You pout a little, and he reaches up, pinching your cheek. “It was a shitty bet they made when they barely knew you. They’re only bringing it back up ‘cause they put real money down. They won’t make another bet like this but...If they do, I will tell you.” “...Thank you,” You say after a moment, lowering your head back to chest. You rest your chin on it, watching him. His hand starts those circles again and you sigh, closing your eyes. “Tell you something,” He mumbles. “Mm?” “That first night you stayed here.” “Mhm?” “In the morning, when I started lovin’ on ya and you whined out my name? Sound went right to my dick.” You laugh, sliding one of your legs over his. “Such a romantic,” You mumble.

-- Thing is, he is romantic, a little. You don’t realize it until the two of you have been sleeping together for a few months. It’s probably because you’re so used to the gruff exterior, the harsh edges, and the quiet evenings. But the thing is, when the two of you no longer need the pretense of a hard day to be together, once you two start going on things that can be qualified as dates and not just dinner-with-the-guy-I-wanna-fuck, you learn Borracho is the open-your-door, pull-out-your-chair type. The guy even starts buying hot sauce to keep at his apartment because when you two order in, wherever it is never includes enough extra packets for you, and he can’t stand you pouting about it. And it’s a small thing, sure, you’re not gonna equate hot sauce with an engagement ring, but it seriously is the thought that counts. 

--

It’s hard not to be intimidated. You’re not even being eased into meeting his family, you’re meeting everyone at once at one of his nephew’s birthday parties. “You nervous?”

“No.”

You’re lying, but if Borracho can tell, he doesn’t call you out on it. He just squeezes your thigh where his hand has been settled on it for the majority of the car ride. “It’s gonna be fine,” He murmurs. “Maybe for you. You know them already.” He chuckles as he parks the car. “It’s gonna be fine for you, too.” “Okay. But if they all decide that they hate me, you’re gonna be straight with me about it, right?” Borracho’s hand lifts from your thigh to your chin to turn your head to look at him. “They’re gonna love you…” And for a moment it looks like he’s gonna say something else, but instead he leans in for a kiss. “I won��t leave you alone in there,” he promises.

-- You’re besieged by all three of his sisters when you step inside. You lose sight of Borracho and you don’t catch sight of him until an hour later. 

“There you are, jesus,” His hand lands on your lower back, steady, solid, and you lean back into his chest once you glance back and see him behind you, “What was that?” “Your sisters waterboarded me in the basement,” You give him your most deadpan expression as his youngest sister, Nadia giggles beside you. “Stop,” She bumps your hip with hers, “We were nice! Tell Ben we were nice.” “They were very nice,” You add before you lean up, pecking the corner of his lips, “Honestly.” Borracho slides his hands over your hips, drawing you closer. “Promise?” He lowers his head, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and you nod, murmuring, “Promise.” “Hey,” Nadia draws your attention, pulling her phone out of her pocket, “Look over here.” You hear Borracho groan and grumble, “Nadia--” But she sticks her lower lip out, and you smile, knowing that Borracho’s a softy when it comes to his sisters. He mutters, “Fine,” and tightens his grip on your hips. At the last second, he swoops in and pecks your cheek, and you laugh so hard that you hinge forward over his arms. He leans with you before he draws you against his chest, and for a few minutes, neither of you can tell Nadia why you’re laughing. -- “Did you have fun?” His tone is carefully casual, but you can hear that he’s a little guarded about it. You smile, walking over to where he’s already sitting in bed. “Yes,” You say, climbing into bed and straddling his thighs. He tips his head back against the headboard as his hands smooth over your thighs, “Does your family hate me?” “No,” Borracho shakes his head. “Swear?” “I swear, sweetness.” His phone buzzes on his nightstand, and he reaches out for it, picking it up and chuckling. “Look,” Borracho urges, turning the device to show you. It’s the picture of the two of you that Nadia took. You smile, shaking your head a little bit. “What?” He asks. You glance up at him. “I just… Hang on,” You get up and run to grab yours from where you’d left it on his dresser. “You asked me a long time ago if I still had any pictures left from that party we went to? Sutton’s?” You climb back into his lap as you remind him. “...Yeah?” His brow is furrowed, and he’s watching you scroll through a year’s worth of crap. You find the picture. It’s nearly identical to the picture that Nadia took. You turn the phone to show Borracho. He looks at it for a few moments before he takes the phone from you and stares down at it, brow furrowing. “...You said you didn’t have ‘em anymore.” He’s quiet as he says it, and he’s staring down at the picture with laser focus. Your stomach is twisting suddenly with oh fuck oh fuck did I fuck up?, and you shrug. “I...I only have that one. I deleted the other two, but that one was cute, and I didn’t tell you, cause I thought you’d think it was weird that I only kept that one,” You admit, keeping your eyes safely on the phone, “And-- And you’d texted me asking at like 2 in the morning, I don’t know, I panicked? And then I kept thinking about telling you but it kept getting further and further away from when you’d asked and I thought you’d think it was weird--” He’s laughing. You only manage to stop talking because Borracho is laughing, a deep, soft sound, and his shoulders are shaking with it, and he’s looking up at you. “You thought I’d find this weird?” He repeats, “I was the one that texted you about them and you thought--” “It was 2 in the morning!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. Borracho surges up and wraps his arms around your middle before you can topple back and off balance. He presses his lips to yours gently, still chuckling, even as you’re settling against his chest and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “God, I love you, sweetness,” He murmurs, and you melt. “I love you, too, Benny,” You mumble, relieved and elated.

-- A month later, when the guys find out that the two of you are officially together, Connors yells, “Pay up!” And the rest of the guys groan and pull out their wallets.

[artemiseamoon]

After Dusk

Makena (Hunter/half vampire demon) x Brasa (crossroad demon/high level demon)

Words: 1,027

Warnings: dead vampire, demon portals, a bloody fight

About: When The Order calls a worldwide Hunters meeting, Makena know something dangerous is on the horizon. What she doesn’t know is her new assignment puts her face to face with an a demon she made a deal with over 30 years ago.

Top Gif: The search tool on here is a complete nightmare. I had this gif saved bc I can’t find it via gif search. Credit to the creature, here is the original post.

💫 Arte releases a draft into the void 💫 | A03

(new process note: since this was already whole, I’m posting it as such)

When The Order called a meeting, Makena knew a huge threat must be on the horizon. Unlike the old days, they barely called meetings. All hunters have regional managers; they handle correspondence, assignments, and anything else the surrounding hunters need to know.

No matter what a hunter was up to, if a meeting like this was called, they had to drop everything and show up in person. Hunters in training, those earning their stripes, would step in for the time being. Doing things like patrol, and security until every region's hunter returned.

Makena learned there’s been several troubling things happening and from the sounds of it, all hunters would be on deck, and given specific assignments by their RM’s. Among the troubling revelations, she learned portals have been opening up at an accelerated rate, the demon population has tripled and though maintaining the vampire population is part of their jobs, and less around isn’t really a bad thing, someone has been killing nests of vampires.

Since this is not the work of a hunter, The Order wants answers. Who is doing this and why? Are they a threat to the Order and its Hunters? What is the cause of the portals and increase of demon activity?

Perhaps the most disturbing of all is the sudden and drastic reduction of hunters. They’ve been disappearing, quietly, in the dead of the night with no trace. It’s very clear to Makena why a meeting of this scale was called.

Post meeting, she went back to her room and waited for her assignment.

…

Makena found him in the middle of the desert. It took a lot of blood, sweat and detective work to get here. All signs lead to him. To her disadvantage, he was expecting her; in spite of how quiet she’s been.

Now, they stand in the middle of the abandoned church, the wood hot from the desert sun, dust and sand mingle in the air with the taste of their blood and sweat. Of all the battles Makena has fought, this one has taken the most out of her.

Silence has fallen in the church, she laid back against one of the rickety pews, Brasa is on the other directly across from her. The both of them catching their breath, eyes still locked on each other.

Brasa holds his injured arm closer to his chest and lowers the sword in his other hand. When his left leg hits the broken pew to his side, it falls over completely, sending a loud crashing sound through the old building.

“How’s a cambion-vampire get into the Order anyway?” He asked after a big exhale. His dark eyes shoot down to his hand, it’s starting to heal.

“Things have changed since your day Brasa. The Order has diversified, “she pauses to spit out blood, then wipes her mouth, “we even have werewolves.”

Brasa raised a brow, “werewolves?”

“They figured - “she struggles to sit up and holds onto the back of the pew for support, “what better way to keep the order than have inside men. Human hunters have done fine for centuries, but the level of peace we had the last 10 years, that couldn’t be done with just humans.” She winches and grabs her side.

“Wouldn’t you be considered traitors?”

“Of course,” she lowers one of her legs and puts her foot on the ground. Now she's seated upright with one knee bent on the bench. “But I don't care about that.” she pauses and collects her thoughts,

“Who would have thought?” He smirks and rises from the pew. With quick reflexes, she has her sword in her hand again and is on her feet too. Brasa’s eyes move to the sword, then back to her face, “30 years.”

“Seems we both climbed our way up the ranks since then.” She comments, still keeping a sharp eye on him.

Brasa steps out of the pew and examines the large slash across his leather jacket.

She continues, “Crossroad demon to what? One of the Queen's most trusted soldiers. Must be. How are you doing it? The portals, the mass killings?”

The sinister smirk returns to his lips, “did you know it was me you were tracking?”

“No. Not until I saw you face to face.”

“Same,” he holds up his hand, it’s fully healed now, “I’m not who you’re looking for. I’m here working on the same thing you are.”

Makena stands opposite him, “Bullshit.”

“What's happening now, this isn’t us. The Queen isn’t happy.”

“What? Someone got hold of an ancient tablet somewhere. Causing so much chaos the Queen of Hell is annoyed?”

“If this was her, she’d own up to it, you know that “he starts to move with slow steps, so does she. Soon they're like a couple of crows in a slow-paced dance. “The advantage of your little Order getting their shit together is how it’s benefited her. This, what’s going on now, doesn’t.”

Makena continues moving, they’re burning a circle into the dusty ground, “that doesn’t make sense.”

“This isn’t the first time someone got their hands on an ancient tablet. Won’t be the last.”

“If so, someone on your side fucked up.”

“We know that.”

“What's with the disappearing hunters? The dead vampires?” she asked.

“They don’t mean anything, it’s what’s inside that matters. I read the missing table once. In part.”

“Their blood?”

He nods.

She goes quiet and breaks eye contact, taking in all the information.

“You know what this means, Makena - instead of The Order sending you out to hunt, you should be kept away. You are the goldmine. A hunter and a Cambion made vampire - your clock is ticking. You’re working on borrowed time. They’re always made stupid decisions, and they’re making one now.”

She dismisses his comments. “If you’re not the one doing it, why did everything lead me to you?”

“Did you not hear me earlier? I am working the same case you are. You are following my steps; I’m following who’s ever the fuck we’re looking for. If you’re a dog with a scent, of course you’re following mine.”

She raised a brow and went still. So does he.

(That’s all I have, so it’s a one shot. If I do expand, subscribing on A03 is the best way to get updated)

Maurice Compte list

Masterlist

[danniburgh]

I will be eternally thankful for you if you could please write some smut with horracio and the reader calling him sir, like maybe she pisses him off at work and he just puts her in her place so quickly and is really rough and dominant with her AAARRGGHH after reading your little stint about him I have him in the feels HARD. Okay please and thank you queen 😇😇😇😍🥰

alright i received your request AND this one ↓ so i decided to combine them lol

i guess we all are thirsty for some Coronel Carrillo roughness looooool, let’s gooooo

context tho: Colonel Carrillo worked canonically for the Colombian National Police, which means for this, reader would have to be colombian and i would have to write this whole ordeal in spanish, which is fun for me bc i love my language but my readers are mostly english speakers lol, so im gonna have them speak mostly english and Carrillo not being her direct chain of command.

warnings: filth, smut!, dirty talk in spanish and english? im really using my bilingualism here guys lol, am, some spanking, rough rough unprotected sex, please don’t read this lol, some talk about violence because well, #theplot but very light

“Tienes que aprender a quedarte callada,” (you have to learn to be quiet) Carrillo said, closing his office door behind him after shoving you inside. You frowned to him.

“What the fuck?” you spat, he crossed his arms on his chest and looked at you “you expected me to just shut up after seeing that whole fucking plan was a mess?” you pointed to the door. Peña and Murphy had planned another raid and tried to get clearance from both the ambassador and the Colonel, you were there because you had to. But you weren’t blind, you knew everything those two fools had was as weak as a tweak and you just couldn’t not vocalize it.

“It’s not your place,” Carrillo’s voice was sturdy and harsh, low and commanding. It made you stiffen in place, but at the same time your lower belly turned at the sound. “you’re just so damn stubborn,”

“I’m just saying what I think, Colonel,”

“Well don’t,” he spat and stepped towards you, his eyes were deep in yours “I don’t wanna have to deal with your bullshit, ¿entiendes?” (understand?) this time your eyes hardened on his face and he took it as a sign of disobedience “you need to learn to shut up and listen, girl,”

“Don’t call me that,” your voice was deep and defiant, your chest rose and he stepped incredibly closer.

“It looks like you need to learn it,” his arms fell to your waist and your breath hitched, “turn around,”

“What?” he said nothing else and moved you from the waist so your back hit his chest, “Horacio,” your voice was thin, both with surprise and anticipation.

“Right now, I’m Coronel to you, ¿estamos?” he growled in your ear and his voice made your entire body shiver, you nodded twice.

“Si, señor,” you bit your lip when you heard him chuckle behind you, his hands started unbuttoning your shirt nimbly and you threw your head back to rest on his shoulder. His hands worked quickly, his touch was as hot as the sun, and your skin started trembling with the excitement of what he was about to do to you.

“You’re stubborn,” he stated, your shirt now opened and hanging from your shoulders, his hands moved your breasts over the thin fabric of your bra “you’re confrontational,” his voice was so deep and so low you could feel his words sinking into your belly and sliding out into your panties, Carrillo kneaded your breasts and slid both hands inside the bra, playing with your nipples “you’re difficult,” you were letting out soft moans while his hands roamed around your chest and down to your waist “you just don’t shut up.”

Your head was an entangled mess of angriness and horniness, his hands were rough, his touch was hot, his words were aggressive and you were loving it. His fingers played with the hem of your jeans and before you could react he was already unzipping them and sliding them of your hips.

“Te voy a enseñar a guardar silencio,” (I’m gonna teach you to keep quiet) his hands lifted your body as if it was made of rags and he leaned you down on his desk, face resting on your forearms, his hands rested on your hips, “you’re gonna learn your lesson and you’re gonna learn it good,” Carrillo slid down your panties and caressed your ass for a few seconds and then suddenly his hand fell harshly on your buttcheek, making you whimper and grow wetter, “don’t even dare to make a sound, niña,”

“Si, Coronel,” you muttered, biting your lip as his hand swatted again at your ass, your body bickered and you closed your eyes, Carrillo smirked when he saw your faced quirked in pleasure, his pants already tight against his erection, he slapped your ass again two consecutive times and you had to bite your own arm to stop yourself from moaning.

Suddenly, Horacio’s hand left your body and you opened your eyes, turning back to see him unbuckling his pants and getting out his hard cock. Your mouth watered at the sight of him and he pumped himself a few times at the sight of your reddened ass, marked with his hands.

You felt your core clench around the air and he almost lost himself in how your folds were already dripping with your arousal.

“Coronel, por favor,” you mumbled, moving your ass slowly, Horacio sighed and played the tip of his cock on your slit “shit,”

“Not a sound, remember?” you nodded desperately as he thrusted into you, setting a merciless pace in and out of your cunt, you bit your forearm again, his pounding was everything you had expected and more, his hands were gripping your hips and you were sure the sting you were feeling was because his nails were digging into your flesh “mierda, niña,”

Absentmindedly you moved your leg and lifted it, letting it rest on the desk and opening more for him. Horacio let out a groan and slapped you again, making you clench around him.

“Tan ansiosa,” (so eager) he leaned down to pound deeper into you, his forehead resting on your shoulder “te tenía tantas ganas,” (wanted you so much)

“Coronel, más,” you moaned as low as you could, he left a few kisses on your covered skin and angled his hips to thrust into you faster and harder.

“You understand why you need to shut up, ¿verdad?” Carrillo panted in your ear, you nodded, already so close to your orgasm you could barely hear his voice. His hand slid below you and started circling your clit, making you gasp “it’s so dangerous out there, chiquita,”

“It is, sir,” his free hand moved to stick a finger inside your mouth and you started sucking on it eagerly.

“If you shut up they can’t touch you,” you nodded again, your legs started shaking as he played your body like a master violinist would their instrument "I want you safe,” at his words you felt your climax explode inside you, you bit his finger and he felt you clench around his cock “¿dónde?” (where?)

“Inside, please, Horacio,” you begged around his wet finger, the Colonel closed his eyes as you milked his orgasm out of him and he stilled behind you, filling you of his hot, thick release with a soft groan that made you smile in satisfaction “fuck” you panted when he pulled his finger out of your mouth.

“Yeah,” he let out a tired chuckle as he moved out of you and you whined at the loss of him inside “¿estás bien?” his hands moved from your hips to your back and moved them softly through your covered skin, you nodded.

“I definitely learned my lesson,” you muttered, ripping a smile out of him.