#benny borracho magalon fic

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Procedure Part 3

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

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

Length: 5.2K

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m free on Friday!”

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

“...Yeah, I remember. You said.” 

“Yeah. So—Good. Good choice.” 

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

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

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

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

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

-- 

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

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

Shit, it went to voicemail. 

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

“Hey, there you are.”

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

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

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

“You still free tonight?” 

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

“You wanna do something?” 

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

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

“No plan, just. Dinner, I guess?” 

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

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

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

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

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

He was thinking? Since when? 

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

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

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

“Okay. I’ll see you then.” 

“See you.” 

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

-- 

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

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

-- 

“What’d you get?” 

“Cinnamon.”

“Gimme some.” 

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

“Chocolate and cinnamon don’t go.” 

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

“Swear jar.” 

“I’ll take it off your monthly.” 

“Generous of you.” 

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

“...Ben?” 

“I’m not sharing, either.” 

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. 

“Never mind.” 

“Was that it?” 

“No.” 

“So?” 

“I said, never mind.” 

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

“What’s up?” 

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

“Yeah,” He agreed quietly. “It is.” 

“Can I, um.” 

“Yeah?” 

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

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

“No.”

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

“I didn’t.” 

“You weren’t supposed to see Jessa?” 

“No.” 

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

“You like her?” You prodded.

“Talking about this doesn’t bother you?” 

“No. Why should it?” 

“Then why aren’t you looking at me?” 

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

“Not bad.” 

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

“What about you?” 

“Hm?”

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

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

“Meet anyone you like lately?”

Just you.  “A couple,” You fibbed. 

“You’re dating couples now?” 

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

-- 

“Thanks for dinner.” 

“Sure.” 

“And the ice cream.” 

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

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

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

“Cool.” 

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

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

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

Oh. Shit. 

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

“I didn’t mean—” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

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

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

“Look at me.” 

“You should go—” 

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

“I want to come in.” 

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

“This doesn’t feel complicated to you?” 

“We went to dinner, Ben.” 

“I know.” 

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

“I remember.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your turn.” 

You tipped your head to the side, brows raising. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forgot how good you taste,” He murmured. 

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

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

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

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

“Ben.” 

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

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

“Condom?” He asked. 

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

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

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

“The competition.”

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--  

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

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

“Time is it?” You mumbled. 

“Who cares?” 

“You have to pick up Liv.” 

“We got time.” 

“How much time?”

“Just relax.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-- 

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

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

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

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

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

“Coffee’s fine.” 

“Okay.” 

“Mugs in the usual place?” 

“Yeah, but I’ll—” 

“I got ‘em.” 

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

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

“Thanks for avoiding my neck.”

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

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

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

You should cut it dead there, you knew that. 

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

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

You cleared your throat, glancing down the hall. 

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

Borracho nodded a little, peering into his mug. 

“Anything I can help with?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey.” 

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

“Yeah?” You asked. 

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

“I’ll—Later.” 

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

--  

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

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

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

One-and-done.

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

Harvest Wheat. 

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

-- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t take too long.” 

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

--  

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

Tag list:

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

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

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

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

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[youvebeenlivingfictionalreplies]

Procedure Part One

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

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

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

Notes: This is gonna be two parts! Weeeeee lessgo

Length: 4.5K

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

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

“You’re doing it again.” 

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

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

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

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

Well. Ex-husband. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Made ya look

“...Heads up,” Alyssa muttered. 

“She better fucking not—”

“We got incoming—”

“She better fucking not—”

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

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

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

“Hi.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe they won’t go wrong. 

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

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

“No thanks—”

“I’m good.” 

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

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

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

“...You’re doing it again.”

“Shut up, Lyss.” 

Alyssa snorted, swiping your soda and taking a swig.

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good practice,” You commented. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I know. He gets uptight, pops off.”

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

“Alright.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“You gonna talk to her?” 

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

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

Poker face, damnit. Don’t let on.

“What text?”

His brows rose in disbelief. 

“I texted you.”

“When?”

“During practice.”

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

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

“That so?” 

“You two seemed pretty occupied.” 

“We were just talking.” 

“About what?” 

“Baseball.”

“Mm, really.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good, that’s topical.” 

“This is cute.” “Excuse me?” 

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

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

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

“No?” 

“No—Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Language—” 

“She can’t hear me—” 

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

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

-- 

Relax, we’ve all done it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--  

“Mom?” 

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

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

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

“You thought we were fighting?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Why do you say that, hon?” 

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

“You used a bad word.” 

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

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

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

“Okay.” 

“And your dad and I are okay. Okay?” 

“...Okay.” 

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know about wild.” 

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

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

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

“Were you?” 

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

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

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

“What?” Alyssa frowned. 

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

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

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

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

“You think Borracho feels the same way?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind of car do you drive?”

“I’m not sure I should say.” 

--  

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

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

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

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

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

“You good?” 

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

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

“Sorry.” 

“Are you?” 

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

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

“Olivia tell you that?” 

“Mhm. You tell that to Olivia?” 

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

“You doin’ okay?” He asked. 

“Sure. You?” 

“Mhm.” 

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

“...So you really okay?” 

“Ben—” 

“What’s going on with you?” 

“Nothing is going on!” 

"You’ve been distracted all day.”

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

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

You hesitated before you shook your head a little bit. 

“I’ve just been thinking.” 

“About what?” 

“Stuff, I don’t know.” 

“...Alright. I’ll wait.” 

“What?” 

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

“I don’t have anything to tell!” 

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

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

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

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

“By the car?” 

“Mhm.” 

“She worried about that?” 

“I think so.” 

“We’re good now though.” 

His insistence made you warm, and you nodded again.

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

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

“You think so?” 

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

“Uh-huh. Is this a trick?” 

“What?” 

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

“No! God no, I’m not even dating.” 

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

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

“Couple months.” 

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

“Work.”

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

“Alright—” 

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

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

“Swear jar.” 

“Dumbass.” 

“Now that’s two dollars, pal.” 

“I’ll throw it onto the monthly.” 

“You do that.” 

“What if I don’t?” 

“You just wait.” 

“Oh-ho—” 

“You just wait and see.” 

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

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

“I’m good for it.” 

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

“Just wasn’t feeling it.” 

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

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

“I’m busy, that’s all.” 

“Oh, and I’m not?” 

“That’s not what I mean, Ben.” 

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

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

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

“We can figure something out.”

“Yeah.” 

“...You try the apps?” 

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

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

“Figures.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You can’t meet people like that.” 

“Anyone can, that’s the point.” 

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

“I could if I wanted to.” 

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

“Alright.” 

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

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

“Am I wrong?” Borracho prodded. 

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

“I should set you up.” 

“What?” You scoffed. 

“I should.” 

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

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

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

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

“You know she gets so bored out there.” 

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

“Not true. She likes first base.” 

“I’m setting you up.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That sounds good.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Popped like an AK.”

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

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

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

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

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[the-hinky-panda]

Hinky’s Masterlist

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

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

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

Tag List: Sign up for your favorite characters here! 

Fic Fests:

October 2022 Fic Fest

**All stories are Fem!Reader and are explicit 

Dustland Fairytale - Complete

Mariposa - Complete

Pura Vida (An Alternate Ending to Mariposa) - Complete

Los Regalos - Ongoing series

La Chaparrita - Ongoing Series

After We Fall - Ongoing Series

By Land, Sea, and Air - Ongoing Series

How To… - Ongoing Series

The IT Series - Ongoing Series

The Penny Series - Ongoing Series

The Tremont Tempest - Ongoing Series

The Dog - Ongoing Series

The Lens - Ongoing Series

Sacrifice - Complete

Oneshots for Sacrifice:

Otherworldly

Ghastly

La Finca - Ongoing Series

Eldritch - Complete

The Florist - Complete

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

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

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

The Gin Blossom Series (Gilly Lopez x Reader)

Stand Alones: 

Vanishing Act (Kevin Jimenez x Fem!Reader)

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

Strings (Les Packer x Fem!Reader)

The Drowning Kind (Sean Renard x Fem!Reader)

The Seasons Series: 

The Fall Series (Porthos x OFC Reader)

The Winter Series (Aramis x OFC Reader)

The Spring Series (Athos x OFC Reader)

The Summer Series (Treville x OFC Reader)

Boss Mare Series (Jamie Dutton x OFC reader)

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

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

June Bug (Goodie Carangi x OFC!Reader)

Forged (Bill Bevilaqua x OFC!Reader)

War of the Roses (Bill Bevilaqua xOFC!Reader)

Vice (Armand Truisi x OFC!Reader)

[bobafetts-princess]

Good Luck Charms

Months 7-12

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

Pairings: Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 7.5K

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

A/N: This is slow burnnnnnnnnnnn

Months 1-6 can be found here!

MONTH 7

Month 7 is when things change.

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

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

“Fed? Is that you?”

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

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

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

Really. It doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MONTH 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

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

MONTHS 9&10

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

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

In fact, you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Benny never tells you that he fell asleep too.

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

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

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

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

“Still no boyfriend?”

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

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

“You seem like the type to own a cat”

“Got a hot sister?”

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

“Even if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”

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

“No it doesn’t disqualify you.”

“That’s a weird statement.”

You swallow hard before you answer the last one.

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

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

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

At least, Benny thinks it’s in thanks.

********

MONTH 11

Month 11 earns you a nickname.

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

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

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

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

You get shot.

You actually get fucking shot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine. Seriously.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————————

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

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

“We’re no-“

“It’s not like-“

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

“I’m FBI,” you explain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t have to do this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Nick: How’s Clover?

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

A couple hours later.

Z: Clover still out?

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

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

Z: OooOOooooHHhhhhh

Connors: Apparently only drugged women go home with you.

Henderson: Y’all are obnoxious

Benny: Fell asleep before I could get her address.

A couple hours later.

Connors: Clover good? Still out?

Benny: Ya. And ya.

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

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

“Are they always like that?”

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

“Why do you think that is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is that man?”

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

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

“Who is this entire family?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you willing to try it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————————-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nick: been there.

Henderson: same.

Z: does she need anything?

Borracho: food. And a coffee.

Z: what does she like?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Month 12

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

Big Nick: Anyone up for grabbing donuts this morning?

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

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

Big Nick: Rude. No donuts for you.

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

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

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

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

Benny: Borracho can grab some from the usual place.

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

Zapata: Uh oh.

Clover: What?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clover: You texted us first.

Benny: Chill or I won’t get donuts.

Henderson: You started the group chat.

Connors: You text first?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Nick: Y’all are fuckin’ idiots.

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

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

[mariamariquinha]

Bossa Nova (Benny 'Borracho' Magalon x f!reader) - Ten

Nine | Eleven

Summary: Benny's pov (my boy is so stressed).

Word count: 7.482.

Warnings: Bad words, slightly talks about cop corruption, violence, crime, talks about mental/physical health, mention of use of pills, hospital environment and police work.

Author’s Note: I like my men like how I visualize myself: stressed and in need of a fucking break.

I'm also on AO3 now!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Join my taglist! Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like! As always, I would love to know what you’re all thinking! ❤

****

If someone asked any woman who was involved with Benny at some point in their life about him, there would always be a universal phrase: he's complicated. Not 'complicated' in a 'he has a difficult and unstable life' way, because he did, but in a 'he hasn't known how to be a nice guy for a long time' way. 

Daddy issues. Classic. 

He was committed to the Major Crimes guys, especially Nick, because there was a part of him that hated to disappoint. Aside from ego or personal compensation, Benny saw a lot of his own father in Big Nick, so despite the two being almost the same age, the position of power gave O'Brien a very complex image of a patriarch – flaws and all. When Debbie left, it was clear that Nick would follow the same path as that father, with the difference that he would at least try to spend weekends with the children; Benny wouldn't be able to recognize what the 'head of his family' should be if he had to. 

It had been years since he was just Benicio Ramirez Magalon and not Benicio Ramirez Garcia Magalon, as if he erased every particle of his father from his own history in an arbitrary way, but still having that ghost on his shoulders with O’Brien. 

He didn't think much that night, but he knew it would be natural for him to walk away. It must have been the most genuinely decent thing Benny did for any woman under those circumstances. Maybe it was the fact that you knew how to set limits, that you recognized your weaknesses with an ease that Benny couldn't.

In conclusion, he was disappointed to not find you more resilient than finding out Nick slept with informants, which soon enough he caught himself being a fucking asshole. Maybe that's why, because of this lack of cynicism on your part and the excess of the same feeling on his part, Benny concluded that you were destined for good guys. Some who, at least, didn't make the decisions he made.

****

“And we have a fireplace.”

Yeah, indeed, they had a fireplace – one that was basically turning into dust. You stood there with your arms crossed, letting your mother inspect the apartment and make comments about it. While she and the realtor (a small woman named Eidra) went back to one of the bedrooms, you sat on the small bench left behind on the miniscule living room by the last residents, watching your father look through the window.

When you two shared a glance, the answer was all over the place: a huge and big and extreme and frustrated and disappointed no.

****

Listen, it could always get worse. That was life, you know? And you should know better than to expect that the divorce and the whole Isla stuff would pass by you. Well, it passed through you. With a delay, but still. 

Some of this was your fault, you could admit. Your brother had already advised you to negotiate the sale of the house as soon as the divorce procedures were in progress and you were so catatonic, in a way, that you didn't want to add more to what already seemed too complicated. After months, you found the buyers – good price, you made a profit. 

During Christmas, you ended up tripping over the closed moving boxes and spraining your foot, so on New Year's Eve you didn’t enjoy the trip as much as you could. A bad start to the year, but not the worst thing that happened to you in a long time. 

They were organizing a farewell party for Emma; by March, she would be at DEA headquarters leading their forensic team. You had to act surprised, and politely refused to help with the details ('I'm busy with this moving thing'), which she probably took as a bitter departure. Well, it was what it seemed to be. You didn’t call her off with that, but some part of you was feeling that pit of disgust. There was a murmur about whether or not to invite Major Crimes (even though they never attended that kind of thing), which everyone ended up looking at you for clarification. You didn't know, and that's what you said, accompanied by a modest shrug of the shoulders.

“Send an invitation by email, it's less work if they say no.”

Even because you had time to rethink the unfortunate occasions with O'Brien. You felt offended but you also felt guilty, which was a rather cruel conclusion that Nick was indirectly manipulating you. When you told Gina this, she just gave a genuine shrug and sighed.

“It isn’t like he wasn’t that kind of person before, you know.”

You felt bad – you felt used again. Doubted, discredited. And the fact that you thought you wouldn't care if it happened, that you would be as strong as you had been through the divorce, just showed that you had an ability to lie to yourself. Benny left that night and you knew he had the same realization too; you found yourself believing that the opinion of someone who still followed such strict orders from someone like Nick had no opinion value in your life.

You no longer fit into LASD.

****

“You have insomnia and lack of nutrients. I'll prescribe you some pills and vitamins for both, but I need you to pump the brakes. Burnout has been killing people lately.”

Perhaps, deep down, you knew that this distancing also came with your need to hide that your physical health had worsened. It wasn't that bad, but you had barely been eating and… yeah, you really didn't need another surprise with so much going on.

The doctor pondered something, eyeing the papers and you with a serenity that was closer to reticence. You waited, shoulders slumped and eyes heavy, lacking energy to ask anything else. 

“... This seems like a pattern. The lack of sleep, your headaches… Have you considered another type of approach?”

Long short story, no. And he probably knew that too, since you were there and not in a therapist's office, so you saw him lean over the desk and give you one of those scolding looks.

“It’s very normal for people in your profession to have this type of behavior. Considering what has happened in your personal life, I would advise a psychological reevaluation.”

“I’m not depressed.”

But he hadn't hinted at it, or said anything like that out loud, which only made it all make more sense. He sighed in defeat, then signed the recipe and, alongside with it, put a flier about mental health just in case.

The medicines would be an unforeseen additional expense, but it should give you some peace of mind. At least you hoped so. 

****

“Yes.”

“Bad time?” Gina sounded quite confused on the other end of the line, so you frowned at her tone and stuffed the pills into your bag irritably, the breeze not doing much to cheer up your mood. It wasn't even summer anymore, but the day still felt unbearably hot.

“I’m not on my peak, no.”

Gina went quiet for a bit. In the background, you could hear the noise of people coming and going, as if she were in a crowded place. Calmly, you backed up the sidewalk until you were under the awning of the pharmacy you had just left, switching your phone from ear to ear to hear her better. 

“... What was it? Did someone die?” 

“Where are you right now?”

“I am…” You looked over your shoulder, then at the sign of the pharmacy printed right above your head. “Had to run some errands.”

“How far are you from the Good Samaritan?”

“Good Samar-Gina, I was joking about-”

“You won't believe who's here.”

****

He had been quiet since he arrived and it was understandable. Apart from the answers he gave to the police, there was not much interest in having any type of social interaction, which was respected: it was not as if he was or should have been accustomed to the context in which he was placed.

It was different from the other cases they had been following, Z mentioned. Maybe a slip, but no one could be sure because they weren't experts in psychological profiles and the idea of ​​involving the feds was out of the question. For a lot, there was intuition, experiences on the streets, informants… Murph had already checked, there was a strong lead and they were almost there.

No one wanted to mention the damn coincidences that led them to that hospital and, more precisely, the crime scene. Gina, perhaps, had reacted in some way that revealed a truth that no one wanted to verbalize, and Nick asked them to keep an eye on her – Emma’s leaving, until further notice these people would be a bit of a smartass. 

But what would Gina do, anyway? If she could? Would she call you of all people and ask you to pray for your ex's life? 

Still, Benny stood guard at the hospital until Gina finished work and kept an eye on the news, or at least Twitter. If you had known about it, there would already have been news on the internet and, if you had appeared, taken by an immaculate concern towards the tragedy, you would’ve already done so. All in all, the reason why everyone was on their last strings was how you going there could be harmful to the case.

Maybe that was the problem, after all: he didn't know that side of you. What kind of wife you were, what kind of friend you could be. Everything was too casual, limited to observations he made and the things he remembered when you talked. There was no more karaoke, nor costume parties or Cosmopolitans in your cards or a brother to rely on; he knew these things, but none of them were valid at that moment.

So when he saw you peeking down the hall right after Gina had left (when he himself was already determined to get out of there), Benny didn't feel so surprised because he had tested the odds. Cautiously, he stood nearby, watching your diminished, secretive posture pass by the nurses' table and take slow steps to where Theodore was at. He was frustrated, in fact, and maybe a little stressed by everything, because he certainly didn't expect you to make the dumbest decision possible.

You stopped at a safe distance from the room and didn't come any closer. With a bag slung over your shoulder, you gripped the strap tightly, standing still there as you saw what was left of a guy after getting his ass beaten up, perhaps processing things that Benny would never know about. 

The girlfriend appeared: Aileen. She also hesitated when she noticed you, holding a cup of coffee in her hand as she came up from behind. At this point, Benny became more alert, ready to intervene. Interestingly, Henderson was also returning from somewhere, certainly to pick him up, and his louder voice calling your attention caused a beautiful disaster, like an announced tragedy.

You turned around too quickly, right when she was already on your trail, and hit your arm on the coffee cup that seemed hotter than expected. It hurt, of course. You screamed as the liquid burned the skin of your hand, leaning down just in time for one of the nurses to come to your aid. Aileen stood there in confusion as the liquid hit her clothes, and before Benny could take any further steps to take action, the reality that everyone was in a hospital dawned on him and he stopped.

He exchanged a glance with you as one of the nurses took you to the emergency room. 

“What the fuck, is she out of her fucking mind?” Henderson asked eventually, even if they both knew he would apologize later. 

Benny didn't answer him, however; he doubted the answer even though he thought he was aware enough of your behavior. He just watched you go in silence, both fists clenched in anger. 

****

You had your head down, your eyes still wet from the tears from the pain you had felt. The nurse had been delicate and, considering it was relatively calm, was going through the entire process in a well-rehearsed way. The emergency room was still lively, with people going from one side to the other. When you weren't watching her clean the burn, you looked up at the other patients waiting: broken arms, bloody noses.

Last time, you saw Benny with his arms crossed near the curtain that separated your space, even though it was the only one far from the others.

You knew at that moment that you were fucked.

“Boyfriend?” The nurse asked, making you eye her then him rapidly. 

“No,” You two answered in unison, to which you ended up averting your gaze in embarrassment. 

“I'd like to talk to her privately, anyway. If you don't mind,” He pressed a little, not minding the rude tone he was using. 

She eyed him, then you. With a small nod of yours, she sighed in tiredness and rolled her eyes, tidying up the bandage before leaving. 

A silence hung in the air, tense and with a hint of the impatience he was clearly feeling. You ignored this, however, glancing at your injured hand here and there before adjusting yourself better on the stretcher.

“You know, when I was a rookie I used to get quite excited with the prospect of being heard just showing my badge,” He commented, so you couldn’t help but scoff.

“Yeah, yeah, perhaps the biggest problem in America is men with damaged egos because no one cares about the size of their dicks anymore.” 

“You always seem to have a metaphor for dicks.”

“It’s a talent.”

“As is your ability to put yourself in shitty situations.”

You looked into his face for a few seconds and found an anger that, in general, seemed to be the only thing available to you from him. No more smiles or sympathy: Benny had chosen his side of the story and, really, that was fine. Still, you couldn't help but miss the other version of him as much as you did at that moment.

“I'm not going to ask who told you because that would be a really stupid question,” He took one, two steps closer to the curtain, slightly pushing it to cover the both of you. “Let's be adults and then you tell me why you came.”

Good question. Great question, actually. Why were you there? Why did you make the fucking dumb decision to be the bigger person and show up? And, by all intends, to end up with a coffee burn from… 

Yeah, it wasn’t your prime, you could give him that. 

“He wasn't just my ex husband. And I didn't want to come, but I thought I would be an asshole if I didn’t do anything.”

Benny stared at you for a long moment then; he stood there, still, eyeing you as if he was looking for something – to the point of discomfort. You averted your gaze to the floor. 

“I've read your file, did you know that? As soon as you came in and became the talk of the team, I went to find out who you were,” It made you raise your head to him, taken aback by his sudden change of subject. “First in your class, completed a specialization while still graduating. You're kind of a genius, and honestly, you had every right to be a bit of an asshole to people.”

“... You don’t need to say this,” You said.

“What should I say then?”

“I can work with nothing,” And then you snapped at him, seeing his expression shift from serenity to full annoyance. “We’ve been doing this dance very well over the last few months.” 

When he didn't offer any further comment, sighing in impatience from your stubbornness. 

“What I mean is, you're a fucking smart scientist and everything, but you still insist on being naive like that.”

“I know,” You mumbled in defeat. 

“Do you now?”

In other times, there would be a cunning answer on the tip of your tongue; hell, in other times, you wouldn't even let him or anyone talk to you like that. The point was that you were so tired of putting yourself in this position, of facing things that weren't even your business because you had been in that defensive and combative mode since things started to get out of control.

You sighed and ran your good hand over your face, rubbing away the melancholy expression.

“Do you still like him?” You couldn’t help but raise your eyebrows in surprise at his question, watching the way he was so serious about it. 

“What’s that supposed to fucking mean?” 

He shrugged. 

“Means whatever.”

“I don’t like him.”

“It wasn't what it seemed.”

“Are you serious?” You couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief. “You don't know anything about my life to insinuate that kind of thing about me.”

“So answer me without sounding like I'm accusing you of something.”

“Well, then ask questions that don't sound like you're accusing me of something.”

And that seemed to have ended the argument (not the conversation), but Benny didn't move or seem willing to do anything to end the topic. 

“... What?” You asked with impatience. 

“The girl who spill the coffee on you, she-”

“Aileen,” Your interruption came with a huff, while wiggling the fingers of your bad hand. “Yes, she’s a stunning woman my ex cheated me with, if that’s what you’re trying to ask.”

“I’m not trying to ask anything,” Benny frowned. “You're the one on the defensive. I don't want to know the details, I just need to make sure you don't put yourself in the front line of something that’s none of your business.”

“He’s someone I know!”

“Are you serious right now?”

“No,” You used a firm tone, watching him go from stern to doubtful in a beat. “I’m a human being and unfortunately I’m sensitive enough to visit my ex who was beaten by a gang of robbers. Do I wish I had done something to her for what happened? Of course, but unfortunately I also like my job. And my ethics, if that matters.” 

“I just don't want to have to clean up any messes again.”

Deep down, if you really cared, you would’ve been more outraged by what he had said to you. In the end, you just became even more pissed off, so it probably meant that you were mad. The audacity, the… That seemed like the kind of thing that put him closer to what Major Crimes really was.

“... You're quite an asshole, you know that?”

He sighed, looking away and probably reevaluating a route. 

“I didn't mean it that way.”

“Sure. How lucky would I be to endure two public humiliations without having provoked them? I really must be a saint.” 

“Then I’ll be the bitch. I meant exactly what I meant,” You both shared a stare. 

In fact, he was right: you were complicating everything. If you had just done what you meant to do, maybe you wouldn't have acted so immature, but there you were, holding your ground because you were an idiot. This was so frustrating, so stupid. You didn't need to do that, you didn't need to try to be something you weren't. No one ever imposed this type of behavior on you, there was no gun in your head telling you that things should be that way. 

You felt defeated. Your physicality, your face, everything exuded the reflections of a woman well out of orbit. 

“I'm going to tell you something very honest,” He took a few steps closer, searching the eyes you’d been avoiding until you could be looking at each other again. “I want you away from this case. Not because I think you're gonna mess something up, but at this point it's clear that your judgment can prevail over the evidence.” 

It wasn't like he was wrong, so you stayed quiet.

“Nick is going to end up being pretty scathing about what happened here today, so believe me when I say that this time I'm really going to let you off the hook. You'll owe me one.” 

Again, you remained silent, which was a bit surprising since you almost always had something to say. He was there, stern, giving you a well-deserved scolding, pointing a finger in your face, and it was as embarrassing as it was incredibly satisfying. It wasn't like what happened in your kitchen or anything like that, because he was truly mad at you, not the circumstances. Without Nick, Isla, Emma; it was you and him. You were the target.

His eyes were focused on yours, because he wanted to say it in all words. They seemed even darker, more powerful compared to yours, and that made you move in shyness. It was a side of Benny you didn't know yet.

“And please wake up. That girl isn’t half the woman you are,” This shocked you even more, since he hadn't stopped looking visibly irritated while passing his eyes over your body. “Nor half-experienced.”

Okay, well, that was… Well… 

He shouldn’t have that right, did he? Why were you blinking several times and not saying anything then?

You stayed quiet – you didn’t want to embarrass yourself somehow. And with your silence, Benny just nodded while averting his gaze for a beat too long, passing a palm over his mouth with a tense sigh. 

“She's going to discharge you and I want you away from here, understand?” He murmured, both hands placed on the mattress to cage you. 

If he asked (which he clearly wouldn't), you would explain the details of your drunken confession from that first date. Benny was very intense, definitive; that was his version a little beyond what happened in your kitchen, and if you pushed a little harder, you'd notice that his eyes were darker than normal, putting you in an instant trance, whether out of fear, regret or… something else.

His eyes, at that moment when you just didn't say anything, went from your eyes to your eyebrows and then to your nose and mouth, agitated about how to actually look at you. 

“Am I understood?” Benny pressed with a growl. 

You nodded. 

“Yes or no?” 

“Yes.”

“Great.”

He walked away with some hesitation, but opened the curtain to leave with a brutality that made you jump instantly. You let out a heavy breath, bringing your injured and closed hand to your chest in a somewhat unconscious act of protection, but not necessarily because of him. Benny was right; reactive, but right. 

What the fuck were you doing in that place?

****

“Why did you do that?”

Henderson was driving back to the station when he asked. The car remained silent, with no answer for a long time, and Benny continued to stare at what he had written down of what Theodore said.

“She’s a partner. Big Nick would do the same.”

“I don't think so,” Henderson snorted. “You like her.” 

Benny didn't comment on that either, because there wasn’t anything to add. In any case, the lack of a reply said everything his friend needed to know.

****

Okay, Benny did like you a little. Amicably. At first it was purely sexual, and he even thought about bragging to Connors that he had managed to fuck you first, because he was sure he wasn't going to make it past the first date. But even with all the other interesting women he did the same thing with, the indifference you had made it for him. If it was just that, if you had drunk a little less and gone to bed with him that night, that would be fine to you; maybe you even expected the other guys would know about it. 

Then you two kissed and he didn’t mention anything to anyone. You became funnier and prettier and he noticed the things about you. Benny found out he liked the idea of it being a secretive thing, to remember how you sounded, the texture of your skin and the smell of your hair and keep it to himself. You were an irredeemable nerd, but you were rebellious: you clashed with Big Nick, you had a beautiful, huge tattoo on your leg, you smoked marijuana, you messed with other girls.

He enjoyed your closeness, whether as a friend or as a lover. It was advantageous to have you around.

Since what happened at the hospital, Benny thought about apologizing and saying that he was just upset. They were really close to get that guys, there was a lot of pressure from above after the debacle with the DEA, no one was in the thick of the fucking around. He didn't apologize despite wanting to, though, because he knew things didn't feel easy for you either.

Well, he couldn’t be sure of it, if he liked you as if in a crush or just as a person who he got along with. You made him hesitate to make some kind of mistake towards you, so what Benny could say for certain was that he liked you. Just a little.

****

“Do you know anything about this?”

You and your dad were in the kitchen washing the dishes when he asked. His tone was low, almost discreet to be heard only by you and, hopefully, distant enough for your mother to take note of the question. The room was small, very different from your old house, and the walls provided good coverage so that she, who was on the emergency stairs smoking a cigarette, was at an even safer distance.

Still, you peeked out the small window above the sink and could see the smoke rising from the exact place you saw her climbing. 

Earlier, they arrived talking about how the newspapers and Twitter had reported what had happened to Theodore. You did no more than say that Gina brought it up, but you weren't on the case and it was ethically (as well as judicially) wrong for you to get too close. Still, you tried hard to say that you knew he was okay – which your father clearly managed to see as a half-truth.

“... I went to see him at the hospital,” You mumbled, eyes fixed on the dishes in front of you, not daring to find out how he was looking at you. 

“You two talked?”

“No,” You paused. “But I saw Aileen.” 

He didn't say anything; the tap was still on, but the noise of dishes being moved had stopped. You pretended you hadn't noticed, going to the cupboard and putting away the already dry glasses, trying to stay away from the excruciating gaze you felt on the back of your head.

That silence had meaning; your father could go days without bringing up the subject waiting for you to talk about it. Like it or not, you could let him use this strategy, and you would have more time to decide how to talk about it, but your mother knew this habit better than you and, well, there was a reason why you were talking away from her. 

You closed the cabinet and turned around, moving closer to him before leaning the small of your back against the table, defensively crossing your arms. He turned off the tap, dried his hands; the worried expression never left his face.

“I was in the hallway and one of the detectives in charge called me. I turned around without realizing she was behind me, so she accidentally spilled hot coffee on my hand,” You held up your hand wrapped in the bandage.

“So you two didn’t interact? Aside from this?”

“Like in an indian soap opera, yeah,” Your answer made him hiss. “She apologized, I think. I don’t remember a lot.”

Well, it was a lie – one he could catch from a mile away. You remembered each piece of moment you could grab from that mess: the way her eyes widened at the sight of the coffee being spilled on your skin, the way she raised her hands to reach out, the pain, the step back you gave to make sure she wouldn’t get any closer and, specially, the way Benny and Henderson were watching the whole scene. 

The reason why you didn’t go into a spiral of remorse was this fact, that amongst Z or Nick, the ones who were there were the least worse. Gus was nice, polite and Benny was… Benny. And for days you expected for something, for Emma to give you one last penitence or for O’Brien to spill some shit on your face; God knew you deserved it all. It was a bad feeling. You didn't like the idea of ​​feeling embarrassed, the exposure or even your lack of reaction, but more than that, you felt torn by the idea that you hadn't felt as sorry for Theodore as you thought you would.

“It’s just… I’ve been punching myself for even going there in the first place,” You sighed in defeat, your good hand passing all over your face. 

“Maybe we raised you way too well.”

“That’s not entirely true… But not because of you, that is.”

And you knew you shouldn't have said that, at least not in those words, because then he would come with more arguments about how you should let your mother in, about how she wanted to be part of your life and how it would be better to have her as a support – as a woman-to-woman conversation would be more enlightening.

He didn’t even need to point that out, in fact; you already slipped in before he could open his mouth. 

“I think it's better not to.”

“Because she could be too harsh?”

“Because she could be too honest. I love her, dad, I really do, but I had a hell of a moment with a coworker that makes me ashamed to even look at his direction because of it. I…”

I don’t want to disappoint her again. I don’t want to be a burden. 

It was always much easier for your brother when it came to your mother: she welcomed him and they just understood each other. With you it was always a problem. She said you spent a lot of time with your dad, that you must be like this or that, that, honey, Theodore is a great kid but I don't think he'll come back after college. He returned. You got married. You got divorced and, during all the crises, you were also embarrassed to come back with your tail between your legs to say that she was right in a way. You made your brother swear under professional secrecy that he wouldn't tell her anything, but you still contained details just in case.

So no, it was better not to. It would be another shame, another thing that she would look at you with great pity, and you were tired of putting yourself in that position.

“I'm off the case anyway. Gina doesn't report to me, just like she gave the tests to the person on the other shift. There's no risk of me getting closer to Theodore again.”

“But you were looking for something when you went there. Did you find it?”

You stared straight at his eyes for a long, beating moment. 

“... I did.”

“And what was it?”

For a brief second, you could still feel the sensation of seeing Theodore beaten up, the dried blood and lowered eyes. Could see the way he seemed fine, injured but not unstable, able to still be operative, essential to the industry. 

“Relief.”

****

“I know you.”

You didn't expect it to come out so full of doubt, but you expected him to have some memory lapse in the time you had seen him.

Dr. Cillian Byrne was a professor you had at university just before you changed your major. It was in your first year, at the end of the first semester, and with the changes in the curriculum for your audiovisual expertise, you only had the chance to attend, roughly, three or four of his classes. He was a bit young for the position, people said, and when your academic psychopathy caught other people's attention, they told you the same thing. Unlike him, you never went that far. After you graduated, you joined the LASD and managed to pass the evaluation for field CSI, but with so much bureaucracy in the way, you ended up stationed in the laboratory for good.

Looking at him there, it felt like a full circle moment. You didn't connect the dots until that last name took place and you exchanged glances with Emma from afar, who just shook her head lightly as if to say you shouldn’t mention Ballard. 

“I took some classes with you in college,” You mentioned after saying your name, watching his eyebrows raise in recognition. 

“Right, I remember you. The girl who ran to the second boring stuff in CSI.” 

“The second?”

“It's the rule. First come the academics, then the laboratory rats, then the coroners and only then the self-centered field ones.”

Emma was walking towards you when he said that, so when she got closer and saw that the two of you were sharing friendly laughs with each other, she went from confused to pleased in seconds.

“It isn’t that usual to see a successor at a faraway party, but I feel like it’s going well,” She said.

The hotel ballroom was full (exaggeratedly, but fair enough) and judging by the amount of times you saw Dr. Byrne going from group to group with smiles, you could agree that he was breaking the awkwardness of being there under these circumstances. Maybe it was the mood itself. Everyone was well dressed, sipping expensive drinks they could only have on special occasions, laughing at whoever was on duty and taking photos for Facebook; the boring part could wait until the next day.

“I was telling her she’s the first familiar face I've seen here, which is a surprise,” Dr. Byrne lied, so you sipped on your soda to avoid giving that away. 

“... Oh,” Emma frowned, a confused smile fighting for its life to not make her discomfort so evident. “You do know each other, then.”

“He was one of my professors in college.”

“Almost,” He teased, eyes swiping from you to her. “I found out just after two weeks that she fled to the computers.” 

“You seem to have been upset about this,” She was the one teasing now, on the verge of embarrassment to be honest. 

“Well, when you start hearing how much this student who changed majors became one of the bests… It’s hard not to feel at least jealous, right?”

And perhaps Emma and you would talk about this in the future if it hadn't been in that sensitive context, because it was clear that Dr. Byrne had looked into everyone in the department and was perhaps doing background checks as if he were doing his homework. It was the first time in months that you and Emma exchanged a similar look, raising your eyebrows and understanding the situation right away, sharing glances with an inside joke that you hadn't told each other for a long time.

“She’s really great, I have to admit. Hurts me to leave this whole amazing team, to be honest,” She went the easy and polite way, one hand tapping on your arm. “I'm sure you'll get along great on a daily basis.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Who else would give me a better report on what’s up with the infamous Major Crimes’s gang?” 

This time, the discomfort that had been eating away at the edges and that you were able to overcome came to the surface, which made you step back with confusion close to indignation. Dr. Byrne seemed neutral despite this, smiling from ear to ear as he watched Emma unsure of what to say and then you, coming to the inevitable conclusion that he was an idiot.

“... I’m afraid that I’m not the best person to expect that. Perhaps the sheriff?” You gave one more chance to get away with the topic, but he shook his head and insisted, keeping that smile that started to scare you off a little. 

“Why wouldn't it be you? Emma told me that you all have an extensive professional partnership. Not to mention the quality of your reports on Ballard's cases.”

“Oh.”

“I just told him that you could explore more of your expertise with the complex cases they work with,” She rushed to add, the glare on your face now clear as the day.

“I see.”

“But I believe, Dr. Byrne, that I also added that she knows how to limit herself to technical reports, all personalized for each context. You saw it yourself, as she was an expert on a case with one of our most senior detectives.” 

Only then, perhaps added to the way you were no longer so interested in being friendly around the subject, did Dr. Byrne step back and nod, praising your ability to remain professional in the work environment or something. You honestly stopped paying attention, eyes swiping over your drink in hand to avoid any signs of clear embarrassment. 

“I’m really excited to start this new journey with you all. See you on Monday?” He turned to you, giving just enough time for your reaction to snap your head up and force a smile. 

“Of course. Welcome to LASD.”

You two shook hands, then he left. 

But Emma stayed. 

“I didn’t mean to-”

“Did you also mention your friendship with Walsh?” You couldn’t help the venom on your voice, which made her sigh. “Very professional, Emma. Very professional.”

“He just did the research, okay? I wasn’t intending to share everything about you guys, but he just came by with a fucking folder with all your names on it. Not to mention what the sheriff told me…” 

Not that you were in a position to speculate, much less to sympathize with whatever she had faced, but Emma lost her neutral posture as soon as he walked away, that you lost some of your irritation and eyed at her suspiciously, seeing her looking around and making sure no one would hear.

“I made a list of recommendations, but he didn't even read them and said that Byrne had already been chosen. Nick came up to me and said that-”

“You talked with Nick about it?”

“See how weird things are,” She rolled her eyes. “I think he feels threatened. Byrne is close to the sheriff, this could undermine O’Brien's freedoms.”

“And is it bad?”

“I don’t know… I mean, when you know how someone operates, it can be easy to guess, but I’ve never been around him enough to be sure of anything.”

“So you’re suspicious because of this,” You concluded and she agreed. With a deep breath, you looked around just as she did minutes before, catching sight of Cillian and Lennon talking. 

“He’s… an academic.”

“He’s a brat,” You shook your head, biting your lower lip while still staring at him from afar. “Older men, high IQs... Just the smell of testosterone bothers me.” 

“It's not like my feminine presence made any difference.”

When you looked at her again, surprised by her condescending tone, Emma was sipping her own drink with some embarrassment. You didn't know if you should give any approval, if you even had the right to do that, but you knew that it was just her trying to have a clearer conscience about what happened. Byrne was going to take over, and she admitted she had misgivings about the guy – it was noble, like a last shred of ethics in the middle of what seemed like a specifically planned transition.

“... You made it easier for Walsh to take over the case once and for all, didn't you?” 

Emma kept quiet, which was enough of an answer. Not knowing what to say, you nodded along in that silence, unsure if you were shocked or just… relieved. 

“I can understand your disbelief in Nick's methods. Take it from me, I had some problems because of it,” You conceded, so she raised her eyes at you sheepishly. “It's hypocritical to say that in parting, but I was upset that you did that knowing that Walsh would somehow throw me into the fire.” 

“You better than anyone could understand that it was an inevitable consequence.”

“I do, that’s why I never tried to make it a big deal all these months. God knows we have a lot to be forgiven for, so… Be careful with Mathias, ‘kay? Just as you’re telling me to be careful with Byrne.” 

It was the closest you and she could get to resolving the problems. In the future, perhaps, you could look at it more coldly and understand that it was too dramatic, but it wasn't the time; at the moment, the two of you have reached a consensus for the greater good.

The kind that included men with a lot of midlife crises.

****

Benny had seen the whole scene, from Byrne approaching you, the jokes he made you laugh at and even the moment he made you throw a look of disgust at him. He shouldn't even be there anymore: he had a date that night, one that would probably result in a good fuck and none of Emma's rascality. Still, as he watched you interact with those people, Benny ended up traveling in thought again.

He thought he missed what you had risked before. You were more relaxed, determined; you had no way of deciding what he was because the two of you barely knew each other. The dress you wore there was similar to the one on your first date, but not the same. If he tried, he could still feel your awkward drunken ways or, with more effort, visualize the result of an alcohol-free night like the one you were having at that party.

Deep down, Benny wanted to feel like a good guy because, for some reason, he didn't want to put you in that trophy position like he did or would do with other women. This comforted him; encouraged him. If he got closer again, if you started a relationship again, he was afraid that he would succumb to the boredom of not being able to hold on to that heroic feeling of having spared you from something toxic, that would soon hurt you or he would hurt himself.

“Are you going?” Connors asked as soon as he felt Benny shift beside him. “She’s gonna say some words.”

So he stayed, both feet firmly planted on the floor as long as he could, watching each other as Emma went up on the small improvised stage to test the microphone and you, who remained in the same place, one arm resting on the bar counter as you looked at the scene with a blank expression.

“You know, I never thought I would go through this before I was 60, but I think destiny is something impressive,” Emma said. “Having to say goodbye to you all is painful, but I know that this new phase will be transformative for all of us. In a positive way, that is.”

You passed your hand (the injured one) over your mouth, as if you were hiding a reaction even though no one other than him was paying attention to you.

“Since I'm not much of a talker and since I know I said my private goodbyes to everyone here, I'd like to recite one of the emails I received from my mentor once I got my position at LASD.”

Everyone got quiet. 

“True peace is only truly achieved when we realize that we cannot be all good and, therefore, we will be villains for some and heroes for others. It’s an unfair and cruel measure, but despite being protagonists of our own stories, our moral compass will not always point in the right direction. It’s up to us, as human beings, to embrace our weaknesses and ensure that, within our obligations, we can do our best. Therefore, our sacrifices will soon be seen as choices, which will or will not shape who we’ll be as people.”

It was only for a second, a thousandth of a second, when Emma finished that corny speech and everyone applauded, that Benny looked at you again and saw that you looked back. It shouldn't have meant anything to you, just like it did to him, but he knew that, perhaps, that adventure should’ve ended before it began.

That was the choice you two made.

****

No pressure tags:

@cheesybadgers

@thoroughlymodernminutia

@seaweeden

@thesandbeneathmytoes

@eclecticfashionbookszipper

@servenas-inner-fangirl

@mysoulisasunflower

[thoroughlymodernminutia]

This Christmas - Prequel

Pairing: Benny "Borracho" Magalon x F!Reader

Word count: 8,219

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

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

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

-----------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Even Nick. You seem surprised.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So this means you’re not mad at me?”

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

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

“Take care, Benny.”

—-

“You like that girl at the donut place?”

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever you say asshole.”

—-

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

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

—-

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

“Benny, hey. Do you have a second?”

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

“Did Connors’s card get declined again?”

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

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

“Yeah, of course. What’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t put that on yourself.”

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

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

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

—-

“What was that about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, again, for everything.”

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

—- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You too.” 

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

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

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

 Dinner on the 27th at 7 sounds great

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

Sounds good. And you meant Dec 27th right?

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

Just making sure 🙂

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you always want to be a detective?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See, I knew this was a scam.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I’d love that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[chemicalalice]

@tropes-and-tales gives me something better than Christmas each October 🥹

God, these two make me hurt so good. Love love love seeing another piece of their tangled mess!

If You Weren't You, Part Two

Day 1:  Hate sex (Benny Magalon x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Light angst, kinda; smut (PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count:  5618

AN:  This is a sequel to this, and it was requested for Kinktober by @thesandbeneathmytoes!)

The weekend passes uncomfortably for Benny Magalon.

He has the usual bullshit chores to catch up on.  He gets groceries, does his laundry.  He calls home, gets the updates on his family from his mom.  He goes through the pile of mail that accumulated on his table during the week.

Every idle moment, his mind drifts to you.  That moment with you, specifically.  The moment of insanity.

Nighttime is the worst.  He doesn’t fall asleep easily anyway, but Saturday night, Sunday night…it takes longer than usual to drift off.  He keeps replaying that moment.  In the darkness of his room, he swears he can exactly remember the weirdly tender way you touched him—your hand in his hair, the gentle way you kissed him. 

The way he made you laugh—really laugh—when he jokingly accused you of getting turned on by being mean to him.

The curiously hurt look on your face afterwards when he implied that fucking you was some bottom-of-the-barrel situation for him.  It was inexplicable, the hurt in your expression, because Benny hadn’t thought you were capable of feeling hurt.  You were too cool, too dispassionate…or so he thought.

Sunday night stretches out long and uncomfortable.  The minutes tick by slow, and he’s no closer to falling asleep.  In only a few hours he’ll have to get up, get dressed, and face you. 

“Goddammit,” he mutters in the darkness of his room, and he rolls over, punches his pillow into shape, and tries to push you out of his head.

-----

He doesn’t have to face you Monday morning.  Lobbin’ Bob is the one leading the morning debrief, and you are nowhere to be found. 

Benny finds out later that you are with the LAPD, plying your charm to get some case files they have on the suspect on a separate case.  Right now, though, he’s just relieved to not have to see you. 

He and Big Nick go outside after the debrief to head back to Major Crimes.  His boss looks awful—he hits those Friday parties hard and never seems to have enough time to recover.  Nick gestures to Benny to wait a moment, and he leans against his truck, slides a pack of smokes out of his coat pocket.  He lights a cigarette with a grumble, then tosses the pack and lighter to Benny.

They smoke together in silence for a beat.  God only knows what Big Nick is thinking. 

Benny?  He’s thinking he’s dodged a bullet, but that he’ll have to face you soon enough. 

Big Nick takes a deep drag of his cigarette.  “Sorry about Friday night,” he says.  “You drew the short straw.”

Benny flicks the ash off of his own cigarette.  “S’ fine.”

“You missed a good party.”  A beat.  “So how was she?  Lobbin’ Bob’s pet ice queen?”

He shrugs.  He refuses to tell his boss about that moment of madness in the backseat of your SUV, the weirdly tender moment that turned sour as soon as you both put your pants back on. 

“Same as always,” he replies.

Big Nick chuckles, shakes his head.  “You know, I’m all for women in law enforcement.  Equal rights and all that shit.  But I hate it when they get too high on themselves.  The way she marches around, acting like she’s better than everyone…there’s no room for ego in this game.”

Benny bites his tongue, doesn’t point out that Big Nick has the biggest ego of anyone.  How he insists on being the center of attention, the center of any moment.  The Sheriff’s department resident bad boy who get results at the cost of….well, everything.  At the cost of good procedures and policies, at the cost of his family, at the cost of his detectives’ personal lives…

“She needs taken down a notch or two,” Big Nick says.  “Think we should be the ones to do it.”

Benny has witnessed plenty of his boss’s pranks and mean-spirited jokes.  Big Nick plays rough.

He remembers the feeling of your fingers combing through his hair, the soft way you pulled him to you to kiss him.  The startling sound of your laughter.

“Nah, leave it,” he tells Big Nick, but he should know better—Nick does what Nick wants, and tough shit to anyone who doesn’t like it.

*****

You learned how to compartmentalize things when you were just a kid, and the knack for it serves you well in adulthood—in your personal life, but especially in your job.

When you make the terrible decision to fuck Detective Magalon, that decision straddles both your personal and professional life, which makes it harder to shove away in a box and forget it…but you’re a pro at sealing off unhappy moments, sliding them into some cobwebbed corner of your mind, so that’s exactly what you do.

You seal off that moment with Magalon, you push it away, you start to forget it.

Monday:  you spend the better part of the day with LAPD, sifting through evidence tangentially related to your case.

Tuesday:  you testify in an unrelated case, drive up to Sacramento and walk a judge and jury through your investigation from months ago.

Wednesday:  you return to the office and the case at hand.  The LAPD sent over all of their casework while you were in the state capitol, boxes of evidence, so you sigh and settle in for a day of combing through it all.  It’s a proverbial needle in a haystack, but you aren’t alone for long.

An hour into it, you’ve only just ordered the boxes and cracked open the first one.  There’s a knock at the door of your office, and Bob peeks his head in.

“Hey, the Sheriff’s Department sent over one of their detectives to help you sort through the evidence,” he said.  He shook his head, chuckled.  “I tried to tell O’Brien that we didn’t need any help, but he’s afraid of getting iced out.”

You roll your eyes and hope the gesture covers the way your stomach cramps and twists.  You know it’s going to be Magalon.  That shoved-away, boxed-up memory resurfaces—the gentle way he had cradled the top of your head in your SUV, the way he had smiled down at you…then how he had insulted you right after, and how hard that stung.

“It’s fine,” you lie to Bob.

“Good.”  He raps his fist against the doorjamb.  “He’s on his way up.  Play nice, but if you need me, just call.”

“Will do,” you reply, and you have only a handful of minutes to compose yourself:  to pull on a neutral face, to take some steadying breaths, and then Detective Magalon—Mr. Tall, Dark, and Stupid—is in your doorway with an inscrutable expression on his face.

*****

You’re quiet all day.  Through the morning, through lunch and into the afternoon—you say so little.  The sum total of your conversation is you asking him what he wants for lunch, then you calling out to an assistant to place the order.

You eat in silence.  You work in silence.  Benny goes outside to smoke a cigarette, and he finds his hands tremble to light it.  He lingers outside as long as he thinks he can, and he returns to your office slowly, drags his feet.

Your silence is unnerving.  It holds weight and takes up space, like a third entity in the room with the two of you.  Benny’s not used to women being so quiet when they’re pissed at him—and you must be pissed at him.  Women he’s done wrong, they usually yell at him, scream at him, come at him like wildcats.

You just sit there and page through wire-tap records, witness interviews, phone records.  You don’t avoid eye contact with him but you don’t stare him down.  You’re perfectly neutral, exactly down the middle of the line.

His weird guilt and unease shifts back to a more familiar feeling:  irritation.  Lobbin’ Bob’s goddamned pet ice princess.  Fussily perfect, completely boring.  You drink water all day to stay hydrated.  You brush and floss your teeth after lunch.  When you get a headache, you pull open a desk drawer—neatly organized—and shake out a single tablet of ibuprofen that you toss back with a practiced flick of the wrist.

You’re a goddamned robot, not even a real person, and Benny hates that you took up so much space in his head over the weekend.  He hates that he felt a burgeoning guilt over what he had said after your hookup; he hates that he felt nervous to see you again.  He hates that he lost a single moment of sleep over you.

The sun reaches its apex and starts its slide into the west.  The quiet murmur of office noise dies off on the other side of your door.  Benny’s concentration wanes too; the numbers on the phone logs he’s combing start to blur together.  His thoughts drift off to other things.  He starts to fiddle with his phone, restlessly scrolling through his email, his texts, the handful of bare-bones social media he has.

You glance up at him from your pile of paperwork when his phone chimes—a text from Big Nick—and Benny feels your eyes on him.  When he looks up from replying to Nick, he catches your studious look, your arched brow.

But you say nothing, so when you bend your head back to the task at hand, he goes ahead and breaks the onerous silence with a terse, “we gonna be much longer?”

“Big Nick got a line on some coke and hookers?”

There it is.  Finally.  He pushes a hard exhale through his nose and shakes his head.  “That wasn’t Big Nick.”  He doesn’t add more to the lie; he’s curious if you’ll think it’s a woman.  He’s curious if any glimmer of jealousy will cross your features.

He’s disappointed a beat later.  Instead of feeling jealous, you seem to see through his ruse but you play along.  Your lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. 

“Oh, a hot date, then?”  The smile widens, and you lift a hand towards your closed door.  “If you leave now, you won’t lose your deposit on her.”

Another huffed out breath, and his irritation rachets up a degree.  He hates your implications around him paying for women, but he hates even more how close to the mark you’ve hit.  He hasn’t paid for it, not in a long while…but there was a time when he had, back when he was freshly-divorced and smarting from it, licking his wounds at their big seedy parties each weekend. 

“Jealous?” he asks, and he hates how lame it sounds as a comeback, but he pairs it with a stony expression.

You nod, and a fake frown replaces your smile, a pouting moue that would be charming on anyone else but you. 

“I’m devastated,” you reply, dead-pan, but then you sigh and look back down at your paperwork.  “No, go ahead and go.”

He would leave if you’d leave, but you seem like you’re staying.  The sun is almost set now, and your office is darker, but you make no move to box up the remaining evidence.  You seem like you’re hunkering down until the job is done, and that needles at Benny even more.  You’ve always obliquely—and not so obliquely—implied that you are the better cop.  That he and the Major Crimes assholes are reckless tramplers of the law, and that you and Lobbin’ Bob are upstanding examples of law enforcement.

“You coming?” he asks.  He stands up but doesn’t move towards the door.

“No.”

“It’s late.”

You tilt your head but don’t look up at him.  “I’ve worked later than this.”

The implication, Benny hears, is that he’s never worked late before, and he bristles at your tone.  “There’s probably nothing here,” he replies, and he gestures at the boxes of evidence from the LAPD case.  “Leave it.”

You snort, and you finally lift your head.  You stare at him dead-on, no blinking.  “That’s excellent police work, Detective.  ‘There’s probably nothing here.’”  You repeat his words back to him in a startingly good impression of him, his lazy California accent and soft voice, and he bristles even more.

“This stuff was always a long shot,” he argues.

“Long shots pay off all the time.  Some cases are built on long shots.”

“So you’re gonna stay here and finish?”  He glanced over at the boxes you haven’t gotten to yet.  There’s three of them.  You’ll be here all night.  He feels that familiar sting of guilt, and then he feels pissed, like you’re manipulating him into staying longer, even though you’ve been beating him with your silence all day—

“Yup.  I am.”

“Well, I’m leaving.”  He takes a step towards your door but goes no further because that fucking guilt keeps him rooted in place.  The thought of you spending a lonely night with boxes of evidence, and he’s supposed to be your partner in this—

“C’mon, let’s just go,” he adds.  “We can hit it tomorrow fresh.”

“Tomorrow I have to hit something else,” you reply.  There’s tension in your voice, a tightness to your words.  You’re getting irritated with him now.  “And the next day there’s something else.  I have to get through this now or it won’t get done.”

“Shit, there’s nothing—”

“Christ, Magalon!”  You snap, sudden, and it makes him jolt where he stands.  You toss your pen aside and bring your fist down on your desktop like a hammer, and the display of anger makes him take a half step away from you.  You stand up, round around your desk, and you go to your door and yank it open.

“Go.”  You stand in the doorway and point out of it, and you actually fucking snap your fingers as you point, like he’s a recalcitrant dog caught chewing on the furniture.

“Jesus, calm down—”

The words slip out despite knowing that telling any woman to calm down always elicits the opposite reaction:  you actually stamp your foot on the floor, and it’d be cute as shit, how feisty you’re getting out of nowhere, but you’re you, and he’s been ready to leave for hours, exhausted by the boring work and the frustration to be paired with you again.

“Get out,” you tell him.  “I’ll finish it up myself.”

“I only—”

“I don’t need any excuses.  Seriously, Magalon.  Go home.  Go find O’Brien or your band of merry assholes.”

He should leave.  He wants to.  You’re back to being a bitch, a living cold front that leaves him chilled by your silence and your judgement.  He’s completely free to stalk away; he has no obligation to stay and suffer more.  Except…

…except you’ve been calling him by his name all day.  Calling him by his title.  Magalon.  Detective.  You’ve dropped the pretense of calling him the wrong name, the pretense of conflating him with his Major Crimes teammates—the message that they’re all the same, interchangeable, identical in their awfulness.

Does it mean you see him as himself now?  Did he lay you well enough to distinguish himself from the pack and earn that scant bit of respect—razor-thin, admittedly—that you use his last name now?

“Calm down,” he repeats, and this time it’s intentional.  He’s rewarded by more outrage:  you stamp your foot again (it is cute, he decides now, because you’re usually so collected).  You actually go so apoplectic that when you open your mouth to respond, nothing comes out.  You glare at him gape-mouthed, and nothing comes out, so he adds, “shit, you need laid again?  You already missing it after a few days?”

Your eyes go wider, and you huff out a breath so heavily that your nostrils flare at the effort.  “Shut up.”

It’s not a no.  Benny smirks at you, and your eyes narrow into slits at his expression.

“Just go,” you seethe, like you’re pushing the words out between your clenched jaw.  “Seriously, don’t leave whoever waiting.  Your date.  O’Brien.  Whoever.”

“I can spare you five minutes.”

You snort, roll your eyes.  “What’s that come to, four minutes of foreplay and a minute of action?”

This is cute too, he decides.  You talking shit about his game when you know better.  You acting like you don’t know how he is, like you don’t have the first-hand experience of him pretty effortlessly coaxing an orgasm from you—

“Aw, sweetheart.”  His smirk widens, and he reaches out to trace a fingertip down the curve of your face.  “You know that isn’t true.”

You swat away his hand and make a dismissive tsch sort of noise, but you don’t reply.  He lifts his hand again, traces his forefinger across the neckline of your blouse.  He doesn’t touch you, but he’s close, and when you go to swat him away again, he catches your hand in his.  Pulls you towards him, takes you off your balance until you sway closer to him.

“C’mon,” he says.  “Five minutes, then we leave, and hit those few boxes fresh in the morning.”

He sees that you’re tempted.  He sees the way your expression wavers, and he isn’t sure if you’re more tempted by him or the prospect of not spending the night in your office…but either way, he’s snaking his way around the wall you have up, and you’re wavering—

“C’mon.”  He drops his voice to a low rumble right by your ear, and he catches the way your breathing picks up, the rise and fall of your chest quickening.  “I know you’re already wet, sweetheart.  You’ve been mean to me all day.  You must be.”

It makes you laugh, and just like that night in your SUV, it startles him.  It’s such a rare sound, he guesses.  It’s throaty and low but loud, punched-out.  Just like before, he feels a thrill of pride to draw it out of you.  He bets it’s a rarer thing to make you laugh than to make you come, and he’s done both.

“I haven’t been mean to you at all,” you point out.  “I’ve barely talked.”

“Silent treatment can hurt.”

Another eye-roll.  “You complained the other day that I talk too much.  Now it’s not enough.”

A fair point:  he did snap at you that night, right before he kissed you.  He doesn’t want to rehash it at the moment.  His own arousal is awake, powering up, so he lifts his eyebrows at you and says, hopeful, “so?”

“So what?”

“Five minutes, then we go?”

“Fuck off.”  You move past him, out of the doorway and back into your office.  “You just want more ammo for your asshole buddies.  Tell ‘em all about hooking up with the ice princess or whatever.”

Benny shuts the door to your office, but he’s on the wrong side of it.  He takes the few steps to follow you and says, “I didn’t tell them.”

Another one of your bitter tsch sounds.  “Because it’s embarrassing.  Yeah, I know.  You already—”

“It isn’t their business.”  He cuts you off, and if he’s been teasing you before, he’s deadly serious now.  It isn’t their business.  Not Henderson, not Z, not Connors.  Certainly not Big Nick.  He chafes under their closeness sometimes, hates that they work and party together so much that it feels like he has no privacy.  But this thing—a one-time hook-up that maybe is burgeoning into more—belongs to the two of you.  You and Benny.  No one else.  He tells you so, in far fewer words.

You don’t believe him.  You finally turn and watch him, and the expression in your eyes is pure wariness.  Underneath it, though, he swears he sees a glint of something else, something not easily defined—

“Come on,” he says.  He sounds whiny but he doesn’t care.  “You keep scrapping with me, and we could already be fucking.”

It makes you smile.  It blossoms across your face like you can’t help it, and in the moment Benny just thinks got you, sweetheart, but afterwards he’ll think about how your smile, rare as it is, holds no artifice, not a single ounce of guile.  He’ll think, later on, how your smile transforms your entire face from one of a brittle sort of prettiness to something extraordinarily beautiful.

“Fine,” you answer him, and if you weren’t you, it’d be adorable how you act like you’re put out, like you’re doing him a favor.  “Lock the door then, Magalon.”

-----

The interlude in your SUV wasn’t romantic by any stretch, but you try to make this moment even less so.  At least that first time, it started with him kissing you, you kissing him back.  Now, you’re all business, and he stares for a beat as he watches you kick off your shoes, as you start to unbutton your pants.

“Damn, slow down,” he says.

“You have five minutes.”  You push your pants down, give a little shimmy to get them over your hips, over your ass.  You get them off but you shake them out and hang them over your chair, fussy as ever.

Benny closes the gap between you, and he manages to reach down and still your hands before you can get your panties off.  He clasps them and draws them up, presses them to his chest. 

“Slow down,” he repeats.  He says it softer, almost a whisper, and it makes you lift your gaze to find him.

The corner of your mouth quirks into a near-smile.  “Well, now you have four—”

He doesn’t let you finish.  He bends his head and cuts off your smart-ass mouth with a kiss, steals the words from you.  Your lips are just as soft as that night, and when he groans at the feel of them, he feels them curve into a smile.  A beat later, he feels the sharp line of your teeth nipping at him, not very hard, and then the tip of your tongue tracing along his lower lip.

Benny releases your hands.  He wraps one around the back of your neck to hold you to him.  He places the other on your waist, and he pushes his fingers under the hem of your shirt to revel in the feel of your skin—soft, and so warm that you feel almost feverish.

You?  You don’t romance it beyond kissing him, but you’re eager.  He can feel it shimmering off of you like heat on pavement on a summer’s day.  Your hands reach down on him; one fumbles at his belt and the button and fly of his jeans while the other cups him through the denim.  He inhales sharply at your touch, even through the layers of clothing.  He breaks the kiss a moment later when you snake your hand under his jeans and his boxers—the sudden feeling of your warm palm on his cock, coaxing him from half-hard to fully erect.

“Eager.  Knew you missed me,” he gloats.  He tries to catch your eye but you avoid him, shake your head.

“Shut up,” you mumble, and it’s defensive, and it could lead to you stopping this whole encounter and putting that wall up around you again, so he leaves it be and kisses you again.

Benny wonders what it would be like to take his time with you.  This is paltry; it’s a meager mouthful, barely enough to sate any appetite.  When he hoists you onto the edge of your desk and pushes into you—you’re already wet, just as he had guessed, so you must get turned on by scrapping with him—it feels just as amazing as before.  Your pussy is molten, velvety, gripping him like a fist until he grits his teeth so he doesn’t embarrass himself and come too soon…

…yet he wonders how much better it would be to take his time.  To have the luxury of time and space and privacy, to strip you completely naked and see what you really look like.  He’d love to edge you, he thinks.  He’d love to see you stretched out on a bed, back arching away from the mattress as he pushes you to the precipice of your orgasm only to deny you at the last moment.  He’d love to strip away every bit of ego you have, every bit of smugness that sets you higher than him in your own opinion.  He’d love to frustrate you completely in bed, would love to see your eyes leaking tears, that mean mouth of yours begging him so sweetly…

…because even like this, once he gets his cock in you, you turn so nice.  It gentles you, rounds off the sharp bits and edges of you.  Your face goes soft with wonder.  Your eyes go soft when you meet his gaze.  As he fucks you—sharp thrusts, steady pace—you tilt your face up to him, and you look so unlike yourself that he kisses you again.  You sigh into it, hold him tighter where your arms are wrapped around his shoulders to help hold yourself steady at the awkward angle.

Neither of you say much else.  He wraps an arm around your waist as he drives into you, and you mumble when you’re close but he already knows:  as inscrutable as you are, as placid as your face can be when you’re masking yourself around him, your body is an open book.  He feels like he’s tuned in perfectly to whatever wavelength you’re operating on.  He hears the way your breathing picks up, feels how your kisses get sloppier as you sink into the sensation of your approaching orgasm.  He feels how your cunt grips him tighter, how your arousal coats him and makes it easier to bottom out in you.

He tells you he’s close too, and that’s about the sum of your conversation for the rest of the night:  you come a beat later, with a keening whine that sets him off and gives him barely enough time to pull out before he’s painting your belly with his cum. 

You’re both quiet afterwards.  He resists the urge to kiss your forehead before he parts from you.  You might be resisting a similar urge, because you pat him awkwardly on his shoulder in a “way to go, sport” sort of way.  But neither of you say much as you clean up, dress, reassemble yourselves.  You’re both silent as you leave together, likely remembering how quickly shit turned mean the last time you fucked.

“Hit the rest of the evidence tomorrow morning?” he asks, and you meet his gaze and then nod. 

You turn towards where your SUV is parked, but you turn back a beat later, tell him to drive safely. 

*****

The case progresses slowly. 

You and Benny continue…well, whatever it is, you continue it.

It gives you whiplash.  The mean sniping with each other, the insults and barbs you trade.  He still follows the ice princess routine, the prissy, bland, clean-living routine.  He makes wild assumptions about your life—accuses you of loving beige, of being boring, of decorating your home in “live, laugh, love” décor.  His speculations about your sex life—as it exists outside of your hookups with him, that is—make you sound repressed and tedious.  You fuck white-collar men, he claims.  With the lights off.  Missionary.  Through a hole in the sheet.

All of that contrasted against how he’s kinda, sorta nice when you hook up.  He kisses you nicely, helps you clean up afterwards.  You tend to fuck in inconvenient places that test your flexibility, and Magalon is nice about it, considerate to take as much of the discomfort as he can rather than let you twist or strain to make it work.

Tall, Dark, and Stupid.  He is capable of being nice, you guess.  Who would have thought?

Only capable of it, though.  It’s not an innate character trait, you assume.  He’s still a mean asshole, snarky, and sometimes his words hit their target dead on and other times they only glance off of you.  You’re never sure when they’re going to hurt and when they’re going to make you laugh.

Once, you hook up in your office again, quiet because it’s the lunch hour and there’s twenty fellow FBI agents on the other side of your locked office door.  Magalon makes a crude joke afterwards about how you need to take a day off to meet up with your waxer, and your anger at the double standard—this dude who rolls around Los Angeles in a flannel with scruffy facial hair, judging you—washes through you immediately.  You open your mouth to argue because his judgement still stings, still makes you feel small and unworthy, but you catch him holding back a smile.  His stupid dimple gives him away, and he reaches down and smacks your ass lightly before he goes to leave.

“Save that feistiness for next time,” he tells you, and he drops you a wink, and you hate that he knows you will hold onto his comment, that you will likely visit your salon before you see him again.  You hate that he’ll see the results and smirk knowingly. 

You hate that he’ll know he is capable of getting to you.

Another time, he hurries you along.  It’s early evening, and he’s watched the clock all afternoon.  It’s distracting and keeps your orgasm frustratingly out of reach, like you can brush your fingertips against it but not get a firm grip.  You do what you always do, then:  you gasp beside his ear, you bear down.  You fake it.

You think he probably knows, because he peers at you through narrowed eyes right before he comes, and you hate that he’s savvy enough about your body to know the difference between the real thing and faking.

“Got somewhere to be,” he tells you as you clean up.  You hear the rustle of his jeans, the clink of his belt buckle. 

“Well, don’t let me hold you up.”

“Got a date,” he adds, and you catch the sidelong glance he gives you.  No dimples though.  You wonder if it’s true or if he’s riling you up.

“Lucky girl.”  You perch on the edge of your desk and pull your shoes back on.

“You sound jealous.”

“I’m not.”  You aren’t.  You’re relieved to find the thought of Magalon going on a date with someone else doesn’t spark any emotion at all.  You’ve done a lot of dumb things lately—chiefly the detective standing in your office, zipping up his pants—but at least catching feelings for said detective isn’t one of them.

“You sure?”  He peers at you again, and his face is back to its usual stoic stoniness.  Not a hint of smile, and you can’t read whatever is going on behind his dark eyes.

“Be sure to hold the door open for her,” you advise him.  “Women love basic politeness.”

“If you’re jealous…”

“I’m not.  Go.  Have fun.”  You shoo him away.  You sit down at your desk, not wanting to leave with him and go through this jealous-or-not-jealous routine in the parking lot too.  You see him out of the corner of your eye while he lingers in your doorway, and then he’s gone.

You don’t catch the faint hurt, the disappointment on his face when he leaves, like he was hoping you’d be jealous of the thought of him out with another woman, wining and dining her properly instead of just hate-fucking her. 

And he, of course, isn’t there later to see when the jealousy finally does hit you.  It’s just a small feeling; there’s no wild tears or tight chest.  You’re already home and walking your dog when it hits.  You imagine him out with a nameless woman, and you fill in all the features based on where you find yourself lacking:  this nameless woman has smaller, perkier tits, a better ass, a perfectly landscaped pussy.  She oozes warmth and openness.  No one has ever accused her of being an ice princess.  She has a complete, happy family:  parents who are still married and still very much in love, an older sister, a younger brother.  By the time you’re done walking the dog, you have written an entire history for this nameless woman, and the sting of jealousy needles deeper.

“It’s just fucking,” you remind yourself in bed that night, chiding yourself for getting so worked up over nothing.  “It’s just hate sex.”

Still, maybe this is the moment you need to end it.  It’s just a bad idea all around.  Magalon says he’s never told his buddies, but you can’t be sure and you certainly don’t trust him.  Hooking up isn’t against the rules, per se, but you’d hate the judgment that would spring up around the office.  It also distracts you when your attention should be elsewhere; the thought of prior hook-ups, the promise of more.  And now that you know he’s seeing other people outside of this thing you have, you’d have to make him wear a condom anyway.  No sense in putting yourself at risk.

“Easier to just end it,” you mumble as you roll over, tuck your hands under your pillow and try to make yourself comfortable.

Yes, that’s what you’ll do.  You’ll just end it.  Cold-turkey.  No need to make a scene about it.  The next time he reaches for you, you’ll just gently and firmly decline.  You’re not really the sort of woman to go for hate-fucking anyway, so breaking off your thing with Magalon is just you getting back to who you really are. 

A temporary break from sanity, but now you’re returning to who you are.

[chemicalalice]

Hello! I hope you’re having a good day! May I please request Benny Magalon coming home to his wife and kids after a long day of work, tucking the kids into bed and cuddling with his wife.. (your work is amazing btw) 🙂

Title: Homecoming

Summary: Benny at home after a bad day. A small, extremely fluffy, pretty angsty, slice-of-life, with soft!Benny

Pairing: Benny Magalon x female!Reader

Warnings: Pretty tame but mentions of child violence/death in regards to his job. Please be mindful of yourself and do not read if this content bothers you.

Word count: 1237

When Benny finally pulled his car in his driveway after a day from hell that included two dead kids, he found himself just sitting there. The engine ticking as it slowly cooled off in the night air was the only noise in the car besides his soft uneven breathing. He felt drained and couldn't even find the energy to push open the car door, let alone pull himself up and out and all the way to his front door.

Most days with this job were bad. But they were the kind of bad that years of seeing the worst of the worst had made him slightly immune too. Bad was relative now. It had to be. Otherwise there was no way someone could stay sane or survive in his line of work. He had seen it before. Burnout. Careers that crashed and and went up in flames, ruining families and lives with it. He didn't want that for himself. He didn't want to end up like Nick.

He looked up at his house. A light clicked on in the front window, joining the other lights already glowing in the second story and the kitchen. A small shadow raced by the window and the curtains moved slightly, followed shortly later by an even smaller shadow.

Benny smiled and though it was exhausted, it was genuine. This is what kept him strong, sane. This is what he worked so hard to come home to each night. What made life worth living.

He could picture what was going on inside perfectly. You would be standing over the stove, working on dinner while yelling for your son to slow down so his sister doesn't fall and hurt herself trying to keep up. You wouldn't really expect a reply besides more shrieks and giggles as the kids continued whatever game they were playing.

Benny's chest suddenly burned and he sucked in a breath, everything narrowing down to those glows of light and his intense desire to be in there with you, with his family. He shoved open the car door and practically ran to the front door, not caring if any of his neighbors saw and thought he was crazy. He wanted to be in that light with you, not alone in the dark outside, haunted by the experiences of the day.

The kids practically attacked him as he threw open the door, their shouts of "Daddy" filling him with warmth as they threw their little bodies at his legs. You emerged from the kitchen shortly after, and it was as in the breathe he had felt like he was holding since the car was punched from his body at the sight of you and how, in that moment, he didn't think he had ever seen anything more beautiful. You would have laughed if he had said it out loud. Your shirt had a splash of red sauce across it and you were wearing the sweat pants that had paint stains on them, your hair was messy and your makeup was slightly smeared from a long day, but you had the smile that was just for him. He wanted to kiss you then, properly, but with this kids hanging off him he settled for your quiet "I'm glad you're home" and a soft press of your lips to his cheek before you disappeared back into the kitchen.

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

Benny always insisted on being the one to get the kids ready for bed when he was home. His job caused him to keep odd hours so he wasn't always home for his family's nighttime ritual. He didn't want to wake up one day and realize his kids were all grown up and he missed out on being a part of it.

He idly listened to you wash the dishes from dinner, the faint strains of the music you were listening to drifting up, as the kids splashed in the bath and flooded the floor. He would have to clean it up before you got upstairs and yelled at him. He didn't care though. Seeing his kids happy was all that mattered to him.

He let them play until he heard the music shut off and then he was hustling them out of the bath and into their pajamas. His son was currently obsessed with Where the Wild Things Are so the three of them crowded into his son's bed and he dutifully pulled out the book. His daughter was sleep by the second read through, and his son was having trouble keeping his eyes open by the third.

He moved slowly as he lifted his daughter up and brought her to her own bed, making sure she was tucked in before return to his son placing a kiss on his head before shutting off the light.

You were waiting for him out in the hallway, already changed into your pajamas with hair damp from the shower you had taken. And as the events of the days bubbled up inside of him, the images of the two kids whose lives were ended so cruelly, so early, today he found he couldn't tear himself away from the spot in his kids' doorway, eyes fixated on every slow breath they took.

"Baby?" Your touch on his arm was soft, your voice even softer, worried. His eyes were wet as he turned to look at you. You pulled him to you without another word, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull his face down to nestle in the crook of yours. He never told you the details of his worst cases, and you understood. Saying it aloud was a form of reliving it. You were always there for him if he needed to talk, but some days, like now, he just needed comfort. Nearness. A reminder that he was safe. His family was safe. He was home.

You led him by the hand to the bedroom. He began stripping out of his clothes, not even having the energy for his own shower, and you we sitting on the bed, propped up against the pile of pillows you insisted the bed needed by the time he finished. He crawled up next to you and wrapped his arms around your middle, his head resting on your chest. Your arms wrapped around him as well, and it moments like these they felt like is own personal shield against the world as he shook silently.

The guys from work would rib on him if they saw him like this, had given him shit in the past when he passed on the drugs and the women at their little unsanctioned "office" parties, said what a "good boy" he was. But it didn't bother him. He had everything he wanted right here. And he knew, deep down, that they envied his life; his family; his stability; you. You were beautiful, you were the mother of his children, and you were his. You were there for him in the good times, and you stood by him in his low times, because lord know he wasn't perfect.

You were humming something, he realized. He was too sleepy to really pick up on the tune. Your fingers were running gently through his hair, slowly lulling him to sleep. Thank you, he thought. I love you. I wouldn't survive without you. He wasn't sure if he managed to say it out loud before he finally slipped away.

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

Tag List:

@buckybarneshairpullingkink

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Anon with the Borracho x Killer Klowns ask, tumblr ate your ask, so I hope you find this. I decided to add some of the other LASD boys for flavor, I hope that's okay!

Send In The Klowns

Pairing: Benny "Borracho" Magalon x Reader

Warnings/notes: clowns are creepy; strongly implied death; implied sexy times; violence; language

Rating: R maybe

Word count: 961

The Major Crimes office is practically deserted. Nick has closed himself away in his office, the door shut tight and the blinds closed. 

“Probably fucking sleeping,” Henderson scoffs to himself, flipping a file closed on his desk. It’s been a long day that’s turning into a long night. Murph and Zapata are out getting dinner, and Borracho, well, who knows where the hell he fucked off to. 

You know. A text that said “Meet me” had pulled you away from your desk and into a supply closet. It will be a long night for you too, but at least you’ll have a good memory to get you through. 

The door to Major Crimes opens. Henderson doesn’t hear it until it closes, the blinds rattling against the glass. When he looks up he doesn’t see one of the other men. He doesn’t see anything, just the rattling blinds. Henderson leans back in his chair, taking a deep breath, thinking he must be going crazy. He looks over at Nick’s office, still shuttered off from the world. When he looks back, there’s a clown standing by Murph’s desk. Henderson jumps, pushing his chair away from him as he gets to his feet. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he demands. “How’d you get in here?” He wants to rest his hand on his gun, but it’s sitting in its holster on his desk. Henderson feels a little silly, being afraid of this four-foot guy caked in make-up, wearing a goofy outfit, but he never did like clowns. That’s when he settles a bit. 

“Somebody hired you huh?” Henderson asks. “Was it Murph? Fuckin’ had to be.” He shakes his head, knowing this is just the kind of shit Murphy would pull, and his breathing calms. The clown doesn’t say anything, just stares at him with big jaundiced eyes. 

“So what, did he pay you to leer at me all night?” he asks. The clown shuffles over to Henderson, who tries not to flinch noticeably, and pulls a brightly colored jelly bean can from the folds of his gold suit. He tries and fails to get the lid off and taps the can against the edge of the desk, playing up the fact that he can’t get it open. Finally, he holds it out to Henderson. 

“Oh, I get it. I open it and stuff flies out at me, okay,” he says, taking the can from the nodding, smiling clown. Henderson does get the can open, and things do fly out at him. Real things, living things, wriggling things. 

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” you say, stepping out into the hallway as Borracho closes the door to the closet behind him. 

“Ok, then how should we meet?” he asks, curling an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in for a kiss. You’re distracted though, squinting at something that looks like a cotton candy balloon sitting by the elevator. It wasn’t there earlier.

“What is that?” you ask. You watch as Borracho goes over to it. He tugs at the sticky floss, pulling it away to reveal a bloodied face frozen in a mask of horror and death. Borracho flinches away from it, realizing it’s Murph. 

“Not now,” Nick groans. He has his face buried in his hands and he’s ignoring the tapping at the door. But what he can’t ignore is the door opening. 

“What the fuck did I just say?” he demands. A clown in a purple and blue suit with a red ruffled collar and green tufts of hair waddles into the room. 

“Guess I have Bob to thank for this one,” Nick sighs. “Go on, get it over with, and then get the fuck out.” He doesn’t bother to hide the bored look on his face as he watches the clown go through his gags. The fake sneeze into a line of handkerchiefs that never ends and soon becomes strewn all over Nick’s desk, the small black pistol that when fired pops out a flag that says “Bang!”. The clown pulls out another gun, this time something that looks like a small laser out of a corny sci-fi film. 

“And what’s that gonna do?” Nick asks. The clown smiles and pulls the trigger.

“This has to be some kind of joke,” you say, knowing Borracho’s team too well. 

“Yeah, sure,” Borracho says, but he’s looking around and the hallway’s too quiet and it’s a weird fucking joke even for them. The door to Major Crimes opens and a tall clown in a purple and blue suit steps out. He’s dragging another cotton candy cocoon behind him. He looks at the two of you and waves. 

“This is ridiculous,” you say, looking at Borracho and then back at the clown. “You guys have serious work to be doing but instead you’re parading around in fucking clown costumes playing weird jokes.” You start walking toward the clown, thinking it’s probably Zapata or even Murph. Whoever it is, you plan to rip the silly mask right off their head. And you try. You really try, and that’s when you get scared. 

“Benny?” you ask, looking over your shoulder, and his eyes are wide, staring off to your right. You look and a clown in a painfully pink suit steps through the stairwell door. A third, shorter clown comes out of the Major Crimes office and you’re surrounded. The first clown hands the cotton candy sack off to the one in pink and you turn to run back to Borracho, but the clown grabs you and throws you over his shoulder. Borracho is running down the hall after you and there’s a honking sound as he punches a clown in the face.

“Benny!” you shout. You thrash against the clown as it carries you out into the stairwell, and down, down, down.   

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Procedure Masterlist

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

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

Notes: This was supposed to be two parts. It's going to be four

Update: It is now four with an epilogue. So....4.5.

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

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

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Epilogue

[chemicalalice]

So. Good. Just…….so good. 🤤

Uniforms - Benny 'Borracho' Magalon

Sixty-nine || Lap dances || Uniforms Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x f!reader

Words: 670 Warnings: smut. Cop/Prisoner Roleplay which is not going to be everyone’s cup of tea. handcuffs. PiV.

Kinktober Masterlist

Keep reading

[the-hinky-panda]

The Hinky Panda’s Masterlist

Alright folks, here is a link to my masterlist. It’s organized by character so find the picture of your man and see if any of the stories suit your fancy! 

Hinky’s Masterlist

[mariamariquinha]

Next chapter's snippet - Bossa Nova

****

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

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

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

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

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

You just didn't want drama.

****

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

No pressure tags:

@cheesybadgers

@thoroughlymodernminutia

@seaweeden

@thesandbeneathmytoes

@eclecticfashionbookszipper

@servenas-inner-fangirl

@mysoulisasunflower

[thoroughlymodernminutia]

This Christmas

Pairing: Benny "Borracho" Magalon x Reader

Word Count: 4,755

Summary: Benny tries to create a Christmas Eve for you during a hard time in your life.

Warnings: Kind of fluffy, but talk of grief, guilt, parental loss. Some foul language. If I missed anything else let me know and I'll add it in.

A/N: This is the first fic I've finished in over 20+ years so...it's probably mediocre at best. A lot has changed in how fics were written in late 90s and I'm still trying to grasp that. Fair warning: I am not a good writer unless it's an email. Apologies in advance if my inability to understand sentence structure is obvious and if there are any typos.

I love stupid lifetime and hallmark Christmas movies, so there are probably hints of that in this. I chose Benny because he had like 4 lines in Den of Thieves and he seemed easy to work with. The story has some personal meaning to me, so if you hate it just keep it to yourself lol

I also want to give a shout out to @mariamariquinha @the-hinky-panda @cheesybadgers @mysoulisasunflower and @bullet-prooflove for the encouragement and kind words when I posted about my hesitation in sharing this.

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

The guys are sitting in their chairs, staring at Benny like he has three heads. He’d just spent the last 20 minutes explaining why he needs their help in a few days; on Christmas Eve. He wouldn’t be embarrassing himself like some love struck fool if he had any other choice.

“This is sick, Borracho. Really sick.” Zapata shakes his head as he breaks the silence.

“Didn’t realize you were so fucking romantic.” Henderson joins in.

Big Nick slaps his hand on Benny’s back as he passes him to go back to his office, “Count me out, shithead.” 

Benny groans and hangs head. He really should have just figured out a way to do this himself. Now he’ll never hear the end of it from these miserable fucks. And calling him a “romantic;" these idiots wouldn’t know romance if it punched them in their faces. It’s not even like he’s that romantic. They’re acting like it’s a crime to be thoughtful. 

He can’t help it if being a good detective makes him more attentive, more considerate in relationships. He’s always finding himself filing away little things that you mention–or don’t mention. He has a collection of these in his mind, some even from before you started dating. And now he wants to use all these bits and pieces of information to try to create the perfect Christmas Eve for you. Christmas Eve because he knows you love it more than the actual day itself. But the guys' blank stares and biting little remarks are not inspiring confidence. Benny runs his hands over his face and rolls his chair closer to the desk.

“Forget I said anything.”

“Look at this sad, sack of shit.” Connors is laughing and throws a paper clip at Benny. “You’re going to owe us big time, you know that right?”

Benny breathes a sigh of relief. The guys are definitely going to haunt him with this for as long as he lives, but it will be worth it.

“I know.”

—-

This is Benny’s first real Christmas with you. Although he secretly counts the morning of the previous Christmas Eve when he stopped by your donut shop Glazy For You. He wasn’t working and had no reason to be in the neighborhood. But he wanted to see you without all the other guys there. If they were all there, he wouldn’t have been able to work up the nerve to ask you out. They’d harass both of you to no end. When he stood in front of your counter and asked, he’ll never forget how you laughed. You questioned him if it was a ploy for a group of cops to get free donuts. Then you were quiet for a moment and he almost started talking to fill the silence. But then he heard you say yeah okay and it was like he had been struck by lightning. You wrote your number down on a business card and handed it to him. Benny struggled to play it cool while he was leaving only to break down and text immediately from his car. He thought if he waited even one second longer you’d change your mind. 

The first date was the week between Christmas and the New Year. That week is like a brief interlude in your life where anything can happen. Benny remembers that he must have been on that night because you stared intently whenever he spoke. He also remembers how beautiful you looked when you were talking about your work. The way you lit up when talking about Maple Bars made him laugh. He’d never met someone so in love with one type of donut. He could swear at one point when you were talking about them he saw your eyes actually sparkle. There was a familiarity throughout the date that made Benny feel immediately comfortable. The first date turned into a second date, and then a third. At some point when he was loading the dishwasher at your house, he realized he had stopped counting.

You both tried to keep the relationship quiet whenever the guys had stopped by to cure their hangovers with donuts and coffee. He knows how obnoxious they can be and he didn’t want them ruining anything. Ultimately, Benny ruins it for himself when he breaks the cardinal rule of never smiling while texting. When Connors had grabbed his phone and started showing how he has your contact name as Maple Bar—he knew there was no chance of keeping you to himself anymore.

Benny was right, of course. The next time they went, they practically dragged him in while shouting “Maple Bar” at you. You laughed as your face turned red, trying to play it off, but the secret was out. After the novelty of the relationship wore off for the guys, they started calling you “Benny’s girl”. Whenever he heard, he felt like the pit of his stomach was going to drop out. Things between you and the guys stayed largely the same—you joked around with them before and you joke around with them now. The only thing that’s different is Benny feels protective of you even though he knows you’re fine. That was another thing he filed away—that you were the first woman to actually appreciate his bond with the guys. You know they have his back and that’s what’s important to you. It’s just one of the reasons Benny’s love for you grows.

—-

Near the end of the summer your dad passed away suddenly. Benny was at work, but when he got your text, he called you asking where you were. He knew your family dynamics were difficult and he didn’t want you to be alone. He thinks maybe a different sort of man would have been scared by the rawness of the situation. That it would have been too much, too soon. But Benny doesn’t scare easily, so he sat with you on the floor, in the kitchen of your closed shop. He kept you close to him while you cried and listened as you told him how you felt stupid for crying because your relationship with your dad wasn’t the best. His chest tightened when you told him you felt like you didn’t deserve to feel sad. That sadness was reserved for a relationship that had been whole. Benny anchored you to him, afraid that if he let go, you might drift away.

Benny knows you tried to hide being sad after that. You sneak off to the bathroom to cry periodically and one time he follows you. Benny knows about stuffing feelings down—it’s part of his job—but he doesn’t want you doing the same. He gets you talking, you tell him you have this guilt for not attending the funeral. You couldn’t bring yourself to be in a room with his wife of only a few years making everything about herself. Especially after she wouldn’t let you come to their house to look through his things. He didn’t judge you for making that decision; he knows what it’s like to have to make choices not knowing if you are making the right one. Still, Benny’s heart would break when you would  refer to yourself as a horrible person, a horrible daughter. He knows he wasn’t a witness to many things in your life, but he also knows you’re not a bad person. He’s seen how you always step up to help people—giving your money or your time. You even kept Connors fed while he was on leave due to an injury. You give to others what you seem unable to give to yourself and it makes Benny’s heart ache

You seem okay until Thanksgiving with his parents. It was your first time meeting his family and in Benny’s eyes, it was a success. His parents loved you right away. His mom loved the extra help in the kitchen. His sister delighted in telling you the secrets of his childhood. His dad was impressed you owned your own business. But as you both sat in the car outside the house you broke down crying. You kept apologizing while telling him how wonderful his family is; how being around them reminded you that you’d never have another holiday with your dad. You explained how Christmas was his favorite holiday. That he would spend hours stringing up lights around the house before making spritz cookies with you. You took some shallow breaths trying to calm yourself down before listing all the Christmas Eve traditions your family had. That those memories somehow always eclipse the shittier parts of your childhood. Benny held your hand while you spoke. He knows what it’s like to lose people, in his line of work it’s inevitable. But he doesn’t know what it’s like to lose a parent so he stays quiet. When Benny feels you squeeze his hand it sparks something in him. He suddenly becomes very determined to make this Christmas Eve perfect for you.

—-

When December 24th finally arrives, Benny feels as excited as he did when he was a kid. He knew you would be working which gives him time to decorate your house. The only person that backs out from helping is Big Nick—but he never actually agreed so Benny can’t really hold it against him. He puts Connors and Henderson on Christmas lights duty. Benny takes the inside, he knows the guys well enough to not trust them to go through your things. 

Benny finds all of your Christmas decorations and another string of lights in the hallways closet. When he’s grabbing a box labeled ornaments off the shelf a box, wrapped in silver and red striped paper falls to the floor. When he picks it up to place it back on the shelf he catches a glimpse of the white tag on it—To: Benny. He can’t help but smile when he closes the door. 

While he is untangling the lights, Zapata comes in with a tree. Benny looks at it and laughs. It’s so sparse and wide he can see through it. 

“It’s the only one they had.” He shrugs as he props it up against the wall. 

Benny touches one of the branches. “It is a tree, so I guess you did what I asked.”

Zapata shakes his head. “Man, this is a crazy, fucking thing you’re doing.” 

Benny smiles to himself thinking that love will make you do crazy, fucking things.

“I know.”

Zapata leaves and he can hear him shouting up to Connors and Henderson on the roof. Benny can hear them talking about him using their standard terms of endearment: dickless, crazy asshole, and idiot. Benny doesn’t care, because Benny has you. 

It only takes a handful of hours for the guys to put the lights up outside and for Benny to finish decorating inside. The tree doesn’t look as bad once he wraps some lights around it and puts your ornaments up. He’s charmed by the fact you kept all these ornaments from when you were a kid–one for every year until you turned 18. He got some frosted glass spray and tries his best to make your windows look wintery. Finally, Benny wraps your gift in some plaid wrapping paper he found. He surprises himself by the fact that it doesn’t look like complete garbage.

—-

Your car is conveniently having its brakes repaired so Benny told you he would pick you up once you closed for the evening. You’d come back to his place for dinner and a movie and then call it a night. But Benny is sending Connors to pick you up instead. Benny is going to need the extra time to do something he hasn’t done since he was a kid—make cookies.

There’s a reason why Benny hasn’t made cookies in decades. He’s lost when it comes to anything more than standard kitchen fare. Spaghetti, grilling, he can do that just fine. But baking might as well be nuclear science. He’s grateful your kitchen is 90% baking supplies, it saves him from having to fumble around a store looking for all of it.

You have so many recipe books he doesn’t know where to begin. He tries looking through them, but gives up and resorts to googling one on his phone. He thinks maybe it’s cheating to look up the recipe online, but how many variants of this could there be? Somewhere between the 1st and 10th recipe he looks at he finally notices the jump to recipe feature; saving him from the life stories of food bloggers. He settles on one that has minimal backstory, thinking that means it’s an easier.

By the time Benny is done he has what seems like 10 dozen cookies and has made a mess of your entire kitchen. He doesn’t know how he used almost every single dish you have to make one kind of cookie. He tries one of them and he can’t tell if they are supposed to taste like that or if he fucked something up. For Benny, the most pathetic part of the whole thing was that he had to call his mother. A grown, adult man Face Timing his mother because he couldn’t figure out how to work a cookie press. He didn’t realize it would be more complicated than cleaning a gun. He knows he’ll never live this down.

—-

You’re waiting outside of your shop for Benny when you see Connors’ car pull up. Your stomach tightens automatically when you see him step out of the car. Your mind goes to the worst, that something’s happened to Benny.

“Hey Murph, is everything okay?” 

“Borracho got called into work. Asked me to take you home.” 

Once you know Benny is okay your mind goes to how much you hate his nickname. It’s so totally unrepresentative of the man you know.

“Oh, he should have texted. I could have just taken an Uber or something.” 

“You can pay me if it makes you feel better.” 

You laugh as you double check the lock on your security gate. 

“I know how you drive. If you get me home in one piece, then we can discuss your fee.” 

As you get in the car you can hear Connors go on and on about how excellent of a driver he is. You roll your eyes as you put your seatbelt on. 

You’re thankful for the mostly quiet car ride to your house. Connors fills you in on why Benny had to go into work. For whatever reason he seems to be laying it on a little thick—a string of toy store robberies makes it sound like he just watched Home Alone 2. At any moment you feel like he is going to mention a woman covered in pigeons. You don’t think you’ve ever said ‘uh huh’ so much in your life. 

On the drive you see so many houses lit up with Christmas lights and decorations in yards that it starts to make you sad. Sad that you didn’t even get a tree. Sad that you won’t be able to spend your first real Christmas together, together. The Christmas Eve when he asked you out probably only counts in your mind. It still feels strange—the fact that he asked you out. From the first time he came in you developed a little crush. Initially, you didn’t know he was a cop. If you had, it might have stifled your growing crush a bit. You liked that he stood out in that pack of loud voices by not being one. The first time he spoke to you, you wondered how a man with a neck tattoo could have a voice as soft as his. And he was so handsome on that first date in his dark green flannel. You loved the gray speckled in his facial hair; it gave you the impression he was a serious kind of guy, not prone to playing games.

You sigh loud enough that Connors gives you a weird look and you try to pretend like it was yawn. You look back out to the houses and think maybe being alone tonight is better. You’ve been a real fucking downer lately and why ruin a perfectly good Christmas Eve for someone else.

—-

Connors stops at the bottom of a driveway belonging to a house that’s not yours. It looks like your house—a small, one-story, dark blue house with white trim, a small porch, and a window looking out to the street. But you know your house does not have Christmas lights. And this house masquerading as yours, is all lit up.

“This is not my house.”

“Yeah it is.” Connors points and you see Benny standing on the porch, illuminated by the lights. 

“You’re such an asshole.” You blink back the tears that are on the edge of falling. 

He laughs, “Yeah, I know.” 

You thank Connors before getting out of the car. You have a feeling he did more than just give you a ride home. When you step out of his car and close the door behind you, you stand for a moment staring at your house. You don’t think you've ever seen it look so beautiful. It looks like a painting with Benny standing there looking so beautiful too in his dark green flannel buttoned all the way to the top. 

“I knew something was up when Murph was reciting the plot to Home Alone 2 as your work emergency.” 

You give a sly smile as you walk up your porch steps. You can hear Connors’ car idling until Benny waves and he drives off.

“I knew I should’ve had Henderson pick you up.” 

You kiss Benny lightly and wrap your arms around his neck. 

“If I’d known you were breaking out the formal flannel, I would have dressed up.” 

Benny laughs as he takes one of your hands in his. He looks at you in your sugar and icing stained t-shirt and jeans. You look so pretty standing there he almost says what he’s been holding in for months, but stops himself.

“You look perfect.”

Benny squeezes your hand as he brings you into the house. 

—-

You’re overwhelmed when you see everything. You see the tree decorated with your ornaments. It’s so breathtaking, better than any tree you’ve ever seen in your life. But you know that even if it was just a branch tacked to your wall you’d feel the same way. Before you can turn around to tell Benny how much you love it, he’s next to you.

“It’s a little sparse, I know.“ 

You look at him looking at the tree.

“Benny,” you stop to choke down the sob that’s building in your throat, “it’s wonderful. This tree is perfect. It’s all perfect.” 

And everything is. The garland he’s hung around your house. The haphazard fake frostiness added to the windows. The cinnamon scented candles he’s lit all around your living room. It’s like being in a snow globe after everything has settled.

“A lot of sap in here! Looks great. A little full. A lot of sap.”

You didn’t even catch that the television was on, but when you hear it, you know exactly what it is. You turn around and see that Benny has Christmas Vacation playing. That’s the thing that finally pushes you over the edge. This movie that you watched every Christmas Eve since you can remember. The movie that perfectly encapsulates what Christmas meant to you as a kid. The sadness you’ve been feeling and now suddenly the joy you’re experiencing because of Benny finally all bubbles to the surface.

You bury your face in his neck and start to cry for everything that you know you’ll miss but also for what you have right now. His body acts as a solid mass you can lock yourself to. Benny is kissing the top of your head and you’d be embarrassed if it was anyone else witnessing this. But with Benny you know he won’t judge you. He will give you exactly what you need, even when you don’t know you need it.

You pull back and look at him. He cups your face in his hands and brushes the tears from your face with his thumb.

“I miss him, Benny.” 

“You’re allowed to miss him.” 

When Benny says it, you feel like a weight has been lifted off of you. The weight of the self-inflicted punishment for mourning something that wasn’t perfect. You take a step back from him and look around the room again. You want to remember this moment as it is.

“This means everything to me. I hope you know that.”

“I have something else. Stay here.” 

Benny can feel his heart vibrating in his chest as he goes to the kitchen to grab a plate of cookies. He holds it behind his back until he’s in front of you. When you look down at the plate he sees you smile as you grab a wreath shaped cookie off the plate.

“You made these?”

Before he can answer you, you take a bite. He can see your face changing from excitement to what can only be described as delighted horror. Benny’s chest tightens knowing he messed something up.

“Uh….what’s wrong?”

“I think you mixed up the salt and sugar measurements.”

You see Benny’s face fall and you feel so bad that you finish the cookie in your hand and grab another one.

“Don’t eat it!” 

He quickly knocks the cookie out of your hand. You grab another one and he does the same thing. He drops the plate on the floor and it’s all so magically bizarre that you start laughing and can’t stop. You try to say something but you end up in a fit of giggles that makes Benny start laughing. 

“It’s happened to me before. Don’t worry about it.” You manage to wheeze the words out as you wipe the tears–happy tears–from your eyes.

Benny gets serious for a moment, “I just wanted this whole night to be perfect.”

You step over the pile of cookies on the floor and kiss him gently on the lips. He rests his hand on your low back and sighs into you. 

You whisper against his lips, “I can’t imagine anything more perfect than what you’ve done for me.”

Benny rests his forehead against yours, “I have one more thing for you. I didn’t bake it, so don’t worry.”

You smile, “I have something for you too.” 

You break out of his hold and go to the hallway closet. Benny crouches down and gathers the cookies that dropped on the floor back onto the plate. He can’t believe he used so much salt and didn’t even notice. As he’s placing the plate on your coffee table he sees you by the tree holding the wrapped box he spotted earlier. You pick up a thin box wrapped in plaid paper. You walk over to the couch and hand Benny his gift.

“Open yours first.” Benny nods to the gift wrapped in plaid paper that you’re holding as he sits down.

Benny watches you sit down as you carefully undo the ribbon and slide your finger underneath the tape. He’s never seen someone unwrap a gift so carefully and it makes him smile.

“Oh Benny, you remembered.” 

Benny watches you run your hand over the open box containing The Polar Express book set with the silver bell and cassette tape. He remembered the time the movie came on and you complained how it could never compare to the book illustrations and the William Hurt narration. You told him that you always listened to it as a family before you got too old to think it was cool. When you said it he saw the look on your face and he did what he always does; he filed it away.

“Guess who learned about Etsy this year?” 

The face Benny makes, causes you to laugh. The thought of him making an account and searching for this is a gift in and of itself.

“I would have paid to see that.” You look back at the book, “This is the best gift. Thank you.” 

You lean across the small gap between the two of you and kiss him. It’s deeper this time and you can feel the little moan that comes out of Benny’s mouth making you smile. The scratch of his facial hair on your face is a reminder to you that even though Benny seems tough on the outside he’s the exact opposite with you.

You shift back to your seat and nod at the gift Benny is turning over in his hands. He holds it still for a moment before opening it. He takes an opposite approach in unwrapping; ripping the ribbon off, and tearing through the paper. When he opens the box he’s surprised to see a watch that looks exactly like the one he had lost while he was out working on a case. This was right around the time you two had started dating and he wasn’t even aware you had ever paid attention to it. It was a watch he had worn forever—his favorite watch. And when he couldn’t find an exact replacement, he settled on a lesser watch, a watch that never quite measured up. But this, this was it. This was his watch.

“How did you—“

“You’re not the only Etsy user around here.” 

Benny laughs as he takes off the watch he’s wearing to put this one on. You had planned on finding it for his birthday, but it took longer than expected. You can’t even remember how many places you went searching for a watch you could only describe from memory. It was a gift that you bought to hopefully express your love to him when you were afraid to say the words out loud.

Benny grabs your hand and yanks you on top of him. His arm wraps around your waist, his brown eyes looking into you, trying to determine if it’s something he should say now or if he should wait. He knows he could have—should have—said it months ago. Now, there’s something now about the way you’re cradling his face with your hands. Or how your eyes are locked on his own, that is making him loopy.

“I love you..” he stammers to correct himself, “I’ve loved you.” 

He blurts it out like a criminal breaking down and confessing a crime. You’re both still and Benny’s worried he’s made a mistake. But then you run your hand over his hair and back down to his cheek–it makes Benny twitch. You kiss the crown of his head, the side of his nose, his jaw, and then his lips. 

“I love you too, Benny.”

Benny’s skin prickles when you say his name. He shifts so he’s more upright, holding you in his lap. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He buries his face in your chest and squeezes you against him. “I love you so much.” 

You’re thinking of how Benny’s hold on you feels like you’re finally home when something catches your eye through the window.

“I think it’s snowing?”

You climb off of Benny and you both turn to look out of the window. There’s a flurry of white flakes all around your front yard. Benny sees you staring slack jawed through the window and starts to laugh.

“Come on.” He stands up from the couch and tilts his head towards the front door. 

You get up and follow him outside onto your porch. You see a layer of snow covering the grass in your yard and don’t understand how it’s snowing in Los Angeles when it’s 70 degrees out. You stick your hand out and feel the crisp flakes land and melt into your palm.

“How?” You look at Benny and he’s smiling. He points to a man in the corner of your yard with some kind of machine and you finally realize where it’s coming from.

“Compliments of Big Nick!” The man yells it across the yard.

Benny can’t believe that shithead Nick came through. He knows he’ll be paying him back for the rest of his life. But when he looks at you watching the snow like it's some kind of Christmas miracle it doesn’t matter, Benny would pay him back ten lifetimes over. He feels the sting of tears in his eyes and pulls you to him resting his head on top of yours.

“Merry Christmas, Maple Bar.”

“Merry Christmas, Benny.”

[chemicalalice]

Down the Rabbit Hole - Kinktober Day 2 - Threesome

Summary: It was an inevitability you should have seen coming.

Pairing: Ray Merrimen x female!Reader x Benny “Borracho” Magalon

Warnings: threesome, unprotected PinV sex, oral sex (m receiving), swearing, minor degradation but used in kink fashion and not to be hurtful. Please be mindful of yourself and do not read if this content bothers you. 18+ only!

Word count: 864

A/N: Thought about this one for ages. Couldn’t figure how to it up. Finally I came up with this. I guess it works? Not beta-read. This takes place very shortly after Ray gets out of prison. Dedicated to @my-rosegold-soul who is the only other person I know who likes this thurple as much as me.

Life, relationships, people; they could all get so complicated. Things that you took for granted as a child with such ease were so much different, so much harder, as an adult. Hell, even good and bad weren’t as black and white anymore; it was all a matter of perspective. People came and went as you drifted through life, most only there for a short time. But some people came and went and then came back, as if in a fixed orbit. And you supposed that is how you found yourself in your current position.

Your current position being bent over the edge of your bed, Ray fucking you into the mattress, while a foot away Benny sat propped up against your headboard slowly stroking his dick.

You were the center of their orbit. You always had been. There wasn’t a single memory from your childhood that didn’t include at least one of them; but the majority of the time it was the three of you. Together. Against the world. For a time, at least. You could tell yourself you had no idea that you would be here, right now, with the both of them, so many years later. Too much time had past. Too many things had happened. Your guys had reached a fork in the road after high school, one that was more like a ‘T’ than a ‘Y’. Two different paths heading in two very different directions.

But Ray had been there when Benny gave your first kiss at 12 years old. And Benny had been there when Ray took your virginity at 16. You had been thick as thieves people had said. Well. If only they had known the foreshadowing of that statement……..

So all and all, maybe it wasn’t that surprising after all.

A low groan from Ray and an answering chuckle from Benny pulled you from your thoughts. “I think Raymond has missed that sweet pussy of yours, querida.” Ray dragged his gaze up from where he was watching himself disappear into you to glare at Benny. You huffed out a laugh, knowing how much Ray hated it when people used his full name. Your mirth was rewarded with a sharp slap to your ass that had you jerking forward and away from from the blow and you could feel yourself grow impossibly slicker in response.

One of Ray’s hands slid up from where it was gripping your hip to rest on the back of your neck, forcing your face down into the bedding. He bent over you and nosed at your shoulder, and the new position pushed his cock even deeper inside you, pulling a whimper from you and causing your toes to curl with the mind-numbing pleasure of it all. “Don’t think I forgot what a dirty little bitch you are, sweetheart; how you like it rough - especially when Magalon is watching.“

You let out a shuttering gasp as your orgasm raced up over you completely by surprise. Ray moaned, pushing off of you to stand upright again and you clenched around him. “Fuck! Yeah baby, just like that.” His pace picked up as his hands settled back around your hips. You knew you were going to have bruises tomorrow. You didn’t mind at all. It felt like longer than a lifetime since you last had Ray’s hands on you.

“You know how this is going to go sweetheart? Huh? I’m going to cum in tight little cunt of yours. And then while I’m still dripping out of you, you are going to get up there and suck Magalon’s dick until he fills you up too.” His voice was little more than a feral growl.

“Yeah Ray, ok.” You voice was high and breathy, bordering on a whine as he continued to pound into you, the feeling almost too much to handle in the aftermath of your climax and you buried you face back into the bedding to hide your sobs.

You could feel the slight stutter in Ray’s hips before he plunged into you a final time and then stilled, his head tilting back and his eyes slipping shut as he made good on his word and his cum shot into you. You whimpered at the the feeling, hands digging into the bedding as you came again while he slowly ground his hips into your ass, pushing as deep as he could inside of you.

Ray’s hands moved from where they were clenching your hips to stroke softly at your sides and back, conveying with touch what he always struggled to put into words before he pulled out gently, stumbling back a few steps, and practically collapsed into the chair across from your bed.

You lay panting for a moment, completely overwhelmed. But it wasn’t long before you regained enough strength to push yourself up slightly and look to where Benny still sat. His hands rested on his thighs now, but his cock was still hard between his legs and his eyes were filled with a hunger for you.

His lips twitched upwards in a smile as he met your gaze. “I hope you aren’t too worn out hermosa, you still have work to do.”

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Black Lace and Wine

Next

Pairing: Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x Reader

Summary: When you accidentally send a nude during a night of heavy drinking.

Rating: R?

Warnings/notes: Alcohol consumption; inebriation; sexual content; swearing; Maurice Compte’s arms; I know nothing about what crime scene technicians really do or what their work schedules are like, that’s not what y’all are here for anyway; listen. i told myself just have it be a oneshot. why are you writing this like it’s going to be more than that? here we fucking are. Benny deserves more fucking content, okay? He deserved more in the movie and he deserves more now. If you’re on the taglist and don’t want to be, or aren’t on the taglist and want to be, let me know.

Word count: 1470

It was a good night. You were out celebrating with your team. The case was closed, the bad guys put away, and you didn’t have to take the witness stand. 

You hadn’t found anyone to go home with which was a bit disappointing, but it wasn’t the end of the world, all you needed to have fun was yourself, anyway. You were feeling yourself that night, giddy and warm from the booze. You put on some sultry music and took off your dress, leaving yourself in a pair of lacy black panties and your knee high boots. You looked yourself up and down in the mirror and smiled at yourself, biting your lip. You felt sexy, you felt good. Maybe it was just the alcohol, the success of the case, but you didn’t care. Life was good, and so were you. You set your phone up and started taking pictures: one straddling a chair, your bare back to the camera, hair pulled over your shoulder, turning your cheek coyly to the camera. The next you had your knees bent up on the chair, arm draped over your chest, eyes cast down demurely. You kept going, all the poses you could think of in every room of your apartment. You drank more, too, cracking open a bottle of red wine. The last one you took was of you lying on your side on the couch, hand playing with the lip of your underwear. You placed your empty wine glass on the kitchen counter and walked back to your bedroom, flipping through the pictures on your phone. Was it the wine talking or were they all amazing? You clumsily unzipped your boots and kicked them off before falling into bed and selected the last photo you took. You tried to edit it, but your phone froze. You should have known better than to keep hitting buttons, you should have just waited. But you kept tapping away at your unresponsive phone, and when it finally did respond, you watched as the screen flashed through all of the selections you had unconsciously made. One of which was to share the picture. You’d never sobered up faster in your life. You sat up in your bed, urging your phone to work faster. Who did you send it to? When you saw the name, you threw your phone away from you and put your head in your hands. You tried to tell yourself that it could have been worse. You could’ve sent it to O’Brien for Christ’s sake, but it didn’t make you feel better. You got up and put a shirt on, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, and tried to settle yourself.

“Okay, bright side: there’s no case right now. You have some paperwork, but you can easily work around their hours, you’ve done it before,” you said to yourself. In fact, you’d always done it. It was actually a suggestion your boss had made when you took the job. She said Nick and his crew got the job done, but they weren’t people you wanted to be around if you wanted to get yours done. She’d said it with such a final tone that you’d taken it more as an order than a suggestion. That separation didn’t exist in the field though, and your work there made you understand her stance on the office work. You didn’t have to report to Nick, but that didn’t stop him from trying to interact with you. You wished it did. Your first day he’d introduced himself, standing too close, smelling of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and cheap cologne. You had made quick work of that conversation, breaking away as soon as you could. That was also the day you met Borracho for the first time. Benny.

“Borracho,” you said, letting the r’s roll over your tongue. “That means ‘drunk’.” 

“Estoy muy borracho,” you muttered to yourself now, hiding your face in your hands. You looked over at your phone where it sat disturbingly silent. Maybe you hadn’t actually sent anything. He would’ve responded if you had, right? You picked up your phone carefully, like it would explode if you jostled it too much, and checked your messages. Yep, there it was. Of all the pictures you took, he got the one with your tits out and your hand almost in your underwear. You let out a feral groan and threw your phone away again, planting your face in a pillow, determined never to show it again. You couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t responded to it--of course you were grateful--wait, were you grateful? Which was worse? A response or silence? You couldn’t decide. 

“Maybe he’s asleep like a normal person because it’s two in the morning,” you mumbled into the pillow. You knew that was bullshit, though. It was a Friday night and they’d just closed a successful case. You gasped and sat up on your elbows, eyes wide. Would he show it to the others? No, you decided. They may not be the nicest group of guys but they were better than that. You got ready for bed, deciding you would just ignore the situation, praying it would somehow sort itself out. 

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

Borracho was true to his nickname when his phone went off. He fumbled with it and unlocked it to see your photo, and almost choked on his beer. He coughed and sputtered, alcohol dripping down his chin onto his shirt. Borracho set his glass down and wiped himself clean.

“You okay, Borracho?” Connors asked.

“Take it easy, bro,” Z said. Borracho nodded, waving the two of them off. He glanced around him, making sure no one would see over his shoulder, and looked at the picture again.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes sliding over your form, careful not to miss an inch. “Borracho!” Nick called, startling him. He almost dropped his phone on the floor. “You comin’?” 

“Yeah,” he said, tearing his eyes away from your picture and finding his breath again. 

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

A week went by. You had almost forgotten about the picture, but there was a voice in the back of your head that nagged at you. Borracho had never responded to it. On the one hand, you were grateful, but was he unimpressed or something? That was a sexy photo, you were sexy...right? Of course you were. If he wasn’t interested, that said nothing about you. It was a week of you arguing back and forth with yourself over your level of desirability. You would see a reflection of yourself in the bathroom mirror or the elevator door and your lips would be pursed tightly, your eyebrows knitted together in a permanent state of confusion. You would rub the wrinkles out from between your eyebrows and unscrew your jaw, remembering all the times your mother would tell you your face would get stuck that way. 

You always arrived at the Sheriff’s Department long after Nick and his crew were gone and you worked into the early hours of the morning, leaving before they arrived. It wasn’t a perfect schedule and neither was theirs, but for the most part it worked. And every day you were grateful when you weren’t called out to another crime scene, but Christ, paperwork was tedious. Tonight was like any other. You pulled into the parking garage as the sun fell low and made your way into the building, heading for the elevator. The door started to close and you caught your face in the reflection, tightened up once again. You worked at it as a hand stopped the door and it slid back, letting Borracho step inside. You moved perhaps a little too far to the side, backing into the corner, gripping your bag tightly in front of you. Borracho nodded to you and pressed the button for his floor, taking his place to wait. Was it just you or was the ride longer? Was it just you or was there less air? He’d seen you naked. Well, almost naked. And he’d said nothing. Were you breathing too loudly? Were you breathing too fast? Was your heart rate normal? Was it always that warm in there? Were your thoughts always that loud? 

“Shut the fuck up,” you whispered to yourself.

“What?” Borracho asked, turning to you. 

“Nothing,” you said, “just left something in my car.” You cleared your throat. 

“Looks like we’re both forgetting things,” he said. “Had to come back for my jacket.” You noticed now that he was wearing a short sleeve button down over a white t-shirt, and you noticed too how the sleeves hugged his arms. Okay, it was definitely too hot in that elevator. The door finally slid open and Borracho started for the hallway. 

“You look good in lace, by the way,” he said over his shoulder. You hoped he didn’t see you drop your bag.

Taglist: @massivecolorspygiant @vanthrefrigeration @madlyhowling @lettherebrelight​ @funtasi @m1sund3rst0od @girlpornparadise​​ @1zashreena1​​