#benny magalon

[tropes-and-tales]

Sharing is Caring

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

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

Word Count: 8434

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

Benny nods.

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

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

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

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

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

“Grim.”

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

“You work in family courts, right?”

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

Which Benny does later that night on incognito mode. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

“She doesn’t know me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But it’s the twenty-first century.”

“Close enough.”

-----

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

“What hurts?” he asks.

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

“Why would it hurt?”

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

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

“Oh yeah?”

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

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

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

You shake your head.  “No idea.”

“Favorite food?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What defines me then, huh?”

“Murph never told you?”

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

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

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

The meth makers had a kid.  Benny remembers that. 

Benny wishes he didn’t remember that.

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

“I didn’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, shit,” he finally says. 

“You’re a good guy,” you tell him.

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

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

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

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

He laughs along with you.  “You brought super-pot.  I’m a fucking lightweight.”

“Oh, god.”  You swipe at your eyes, then stand up.  You turn to go back inside, but you pause and look down at where he’s still settled on the patio step.

“For the record, you took good case notes and that’s why I think well of you.”  A beat, and you add, “I only want to fuck you because you’re hot.”

Hearing you admit it from your own mouth and not secondhand and obliquely from Murph makes Benny’s go all fuzzy in the head, a wave of lust so strong that he has to stay out on the patio for a while until he calms.

-----

“Just curious,” Benny asks Murph a few weeks later.  “How would it work?”

They are on another stakeout on the same miserable case, and Murph grunts from the driver’s seat.  “How would what work?”

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“Jesus, c’mon.”  Benny runs a hand over his jaw.  “Don’t make me say it out loud.”

“You can’t be so squeamish if you’re considering it, bubba.”

“Fine.”  He huffs out a breath through his nostrils, then turns to look out his window.  “How would hooking up with her work?”

He can see Murph turn and look at him; his reflection is a ghost in his window.  He can just make out a wide grin.

“How does it work?” he teases.  “Well, when a guy likes a girl a whole lot, he takes off her clothes—”

“Fuck off.  You know what I mean.”

Benny catches Murph’s shrug in the reflection of the window.  “How would it work if I wasn’t in the picture?”

“It’s that easy?”

“Yeah.  I can give you her number.”

Benny pauses, considers how out of his depth he is.  “And you’d be fine with it?”

Murph chuckles and turns to face forward, his eyes fixed on the house across the street they are scoping out.  “Dude, that time I hooked up at the hotel party and she watched on Facetime?  Then I went home to her?  I thought I was gonna die.  She was like a damned wildcat, and it was amazing.  So yeah, I’d be fine with it.  It’s a fun thing to explore.  You have your fun, I’ll see if I get all jealous like she did.  If I do, then I’ll go fuck her brains out too.  If I don’t, then she got to have fun with a guy she’s got a thing for.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.  Like I said, it’s fun to explore.  Fun to play around with.  Win-win-win all the way around.”

“Sharing is caring,” Benny adds.

Murph laughs.  “Exactly, dude.”

-----

Murph gives him your contact information when they clock out, and he puts a heavy hand on Benny’s shoulder.

“Treat her good, though, yeah?  She’s chill and fun but she’s also kind of a softy, so be nice to her.”

Benny nods.  “I will.”  He takes a beat, then adds in a lighter tone, “any tips?”

Murph laughs and drops his hand from Benny’s shoulder.  “You’re on your own there, bubba.”

-----

Benny probably asks Murph at least ten more times if it’s okay.

At the same time, he asks you probably fifty times if it’s okay.

“You seem uncertain,” you tell him over the phone one night as you try to hash out plans.  “You know you don’t have to do anything.  Hell, if you want to just go and grab a beer, I’m down.”

Benny chuckles at that—like he’d be content with just sharing a drink after living with you in the forefront of his thoughts for months. 

“Maybe it’s just difficult because I live in a framework of antiquated social mores.”

“That framework starting to feel like a cage yet?”

“You planning a jailbreak for me?”

“Yup.  Operation Free Magalon.”

He glances around his apartment:  spartan, utilitarian.  The latest in a long string of places.  He’s bounced between apartments and homes, marriage to divorce to marriage to divorce, and now he’s back here alone.  It’d be nice, he thinks, to let loose like this.  To explore something different. 

“When works for you?” he asks, and by the end of the call you have a date and time for him to go over to your place and hang out.

“Still no pressure though, Benny,” you remind him gently.  “We can hang out and see what happens.  If nothing happens, we’ll have had a nice evening of good company.”

-----

It turns out to be a nice evening of good company after all.

Benny goes to your place and brings a bottle of wine, because he has no idea the etiquette of this sort of thing.  He’s never actually seen you drink wine, and you take it from him with thanks, but then set it aside and tell him that dinner is about ready.

Because you cook for him.  Because of course you fucking do.

He relaxes little by little.  You eat, and you make a pitcher of margaritas light on the tequila so neither of you get wasted.  You chat, stilted at first, then more comfortably.  After dinner, you shift to the living room and the conversation continues.  You ask if he wants to spark up, then joke and tell him you have a milder strain, so the two of you share a joint, passing it back and forth, loosening up even more.

It probably helps, knowing that you want him.  Benny has always been secure in himself, but never as blustery confident as Big Nick or even Henderson.  There’s always been a thread of submissiveness in the beginning of his relationships, a subtle feeling-out before making a move.  He’s always wanted to know it was a close-to-sure thing before putting himself out there.

The tequila and pot relaxes him enough that he unclenches his shoulders, his arms.  He unclenches his jaw.  When you move towards him, he’s able to meet you halfway in a smooth motion.  He’s able to get an arm around your waist and maneuver you into his lap right out of the gate.  You settle there, your weight so close to where his cock twitches at the change to the evening.  Then you cup his head in your hands and lean in to kiss him.

It's soft, at first.  It surprises him how softly you kiss him.  He’s way out of his depths, and he supposes he has a lot of preconceived notions.  Part of him thought you’d open your door in some dominatrix getup, all patent leather and metal hardware, and Benny realizes that he doesn’t have much of a handle on any kinks beyond the tamest ones.  Because you answered the door in a simple dress, and now you’re kissing him gently, almost shyly, your hands soft against his face as you settle more of your weight on him.

It progresses in slow movements.  You kiss.  You deepen the kiss.  Your hands touch him in widening arcs:  his face, then his neck, then his shoulders.  His chest, his arms.  Lower, down his belly, and your palm slips under the hem of his shirt to touch him low, right where the waist of his jeans cut into him.

Lower still, as you kiss him, as you sweep your tongue against his, as you taste him and breathe against him and make little moans that make him grow harder.  You feel him there; you rock against him, and he swears he can feel the wet heat of you through your panties and through his own clothing.  Your hand fumbles at his belt, his button, his zipper, and he’s about to reach down to help you but you succeed.  A beat later, he feels your hand on him, grasping him lightly through his boxers. 

He can’t help the moan that tears out of his throat.  He hasn’t been touched since his ex-wife, the second one, left him.

He slides his hands from where they rest on your hips.  He slides them back and grips the fat of your ass, kneads and grasps you.  He pulls you closer to him, and you pull your hand away from where you’re grasping him.  You steady yourself, hands on his shoulders, and now he definitely can feel the wet heat of you:  the head of his cock has slipped the bounds of his boxers, and he bumps against the damp cotton of your panties.

“Benny,” you breathe against his mouth.  “Can we move this somewhere else?”

In a less-than-smooth move, he shuffles forward with you still in his lap, then staggers into a standing position.  He keeps his hands under your ass, hauls you up, and you wrap your legs around him. 

“Tell me where to go, baby.”

-----

Benny’s incognito searches made him think your sex room would be something wild:  padded walls with shelves of dildos, perhaps, or red satin sheets.  A piece of weird leather furniture, maybe, like he saw on one site.  Chains hanging from the ceiling like a meat locker.

Murph oversold it a little.  It’s just a separate bedroom, done up nicer than the average guest room.  There’s dark, soft-looking bedding on the king-sized bed.  The frame is wrought iron, and sure, there’s handcuffs dangling from either side of the headboard.  The lighting is soft and low, and there’s a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed that Benny will one day learn is full of sex toys, neatly organized by type.

He takes it all in in a split second and no longer, because you’re in his arms as he carries you to the bed.  He moves to lay you down, but you keep your legs wrapped around him.  He follows you then, an awkward drop but you tug his full weight onto you and kiss him fiercely.

The pot keeps it from being too frenetic.  The eagerness keeps the pot from making it too lazy.  It’s the perfect balance, an ebb and flow of energy and speed.  You strip him quickly, and when he goes too slow in stripping you, you push him away, kneel above him, and tug your dress over your head. 

Benny lays back on the bank of pillows and watches in awe:  your arms lifted up lifts your breasts, and you’re wearing one of those bras that barely covers anything.  Lacy black cups only cover the rounded fullness at the bottom, and he can see where your nipples peek out.  He takes in the rest of you:  the softness of your belly and the curve of your hips, the equally skimpy panties.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he mumbles.  He reacts automatically, grips himself and gives his cock a few pumps with his hand at the sight of you half-naked and kneeling over him.  Backlit by the soft lighting.  Gazing back at him with half-lidded eyes, lips parted.  The pink tip of your tongue skating over your lower lip as you watch him touch himself.

“You do this before?” you ask.  Your voice has a husky quality, either from the tequila or the pot or the moment, or all three.

“Do what?”

“Touch yourself thinking about me.”

No sense in lying.  He’s done it more than once.  He nods at you.

You rock back on your heels and smile at him.  “I’ve thought about you too.”

The admission makes a fresh pulse of desire rocket through him, makes his cock twitch in his hand.  “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

“How’d it go?” 

“Hmm.”  You move to all fours and crawl towards him, and he releases his hold on himself.  You work your way up from the bottom of him, teasing him.

“I thought about you the night I finally met you.”  You say it right near his erection, your warm breath skating over him, making him shiver. 

“And the night that Murph fucked that blonde girl?  I imagined you here, fucking me at the same time.”  Your tongue darts out and licks against him, teasing, lapping up the precum that’s leaked out of him.  Benny groans, and his hips judder upward, but you’re already moving away.  Pressing a kiss on his belly, right below his navel.  Then above it.  Up his sternum, his chest, his collarbones, and your lower body is hovering over his now.

“How would I have fucked you that night?” Benny manages, but it comes out strained.  You lower your weight on him, and he feels how wet you are, your panties drenched as you slide against his erection.  Back and forth, teasing him.  Torturing him.

“On all fours,” you reply.  You suck a line of wet kisses along the side of his neck, mouthing at his tattoo there.  He feels your teeth, your tongue.  Feels your words sink into him when you add, “your hand on the back of my neck, holding me down against the mattress.”

“Fuck, baby—”

“So deep that I can feel you in my throat.  So deep I can taste you.”  You bite the tendon between his neck and shoulder, and he groans, reaches up.  Slides his hand against the back of your skull and holds you there.  You continue rocking against him, sliding against his cock, and he’s glad for the pot because it always keeping him from coming too soon.

The pot also makes it difficult for him to focus completely.  The word taste lodges in his mind, and his thoughts drift in that direction and settle there.  He holds your hips for a moment, but then he reaches up to gently untangle you from where you’re kissing him, and he sits up underneath you.  You smile at him, your lips swollen, and ask what he wants.

“Wanna taste you.”  He reverses it back on you—he bends his head and kisses your neck, sets his teeth against the soft skin of your throat and makes you whine.  “Can I?”

“Fuck yes.”

“Lie down then.”

You do as you’re told, and Benny detours to your tits, has you arch off the bed enough to undo your bra and toss it aside.  He puts his mouth to you, thinks of it as a preview for you.  He lowers his head and nuzzles against your soft skin.  He drags his tongue over the curves of you, breathes against the wet line of spit, and smiles when you whine again.  He blows against one nipple, then the other, then wraps his lip against one.  Rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger, pinches lightly until you hiss.  Switches to the other:  his mouth on one, his hand pinching the other, and you making the sweetest goddamned noises he’s ever heard.

He makes his way lower.  He nuzzles here too, feels the delicious damp of your panties.  Takes a deep, blatant inhale of you, and it sets you squirming underneath him.  Eager.

Benny hooks his hands under the waistband and draws them down your legs, and you lift your hips to help.  Completely bare now, he rocks back on his heels to look his fill, and his earlier assessment was correct.

“Perfect,” he mutters, and the praise makes you squirm, makes you fix him with a heavy gaze.

Makes you part your legs as he stares down at you, drawing his eyes to where you’re already a mess just from fooling around with him.  You’re so fucking wet, your arousal slick on your inner thighs, and Benny is too stoned to finesse it:  he just dives in, clumsy and impatient, his facial hair rasping over your sensitive folds.

“God, Ben,” you moan.  He feels your hands on his head, and you tug against his hair.  Pull him firmer against your hot flesh.  He doesn’t need any convincing.

Eating pussy is generally one of his favorite moves in the bedroom.  Men who get squeamish about it mystify Benny; to him, there’s nothing hotter than literally tasting a partner.  To putting one’s mouth to a person.  When he was much younger, he could get off just by eating a partner out, and it never bothered him when he did.

It helps when his partner is so damned into it too.  Benny’s been with partners who didn’t like it, too traumatized by previous boyfriends who gave them shit about it.  You?  You’re all in.  You steer his head bossily, and he’s happily led.  You moan and swear in equal message; you groan out his name and praise and gentle instructions on what to do more of.

He works the flat of his tongue over your seam, and he reaches with a hand to part your folds to reveal the slick inner core of you.  He laps at your hole, then draws his tongue upward to swirl around your clit.

“So good, Benny,” you sigh.  “Oh, just like that.  Please.  Don’t…fuck, don’t stop.”

He sets that rhythm, over and over.  He adds a thick finger, slips it into your clenching heat, and he groans at the feel of you, of being inside you.  It makes your hips press upwards, makes you breathe out his name, so he adds a second finger, lazily slides them in and out of you as he laps up and down your slit.  He wraps his lips around the firm bud of your clit and suckles.  You lift your hips again, chasing the sensation, and he chuckles.

“Good?” he growls against your core, and you whine out yes, so good, so fucking good.

“Better than Murph?”

His words don’t give you pause—you go with it.  “Yes,” you whisper.  You sound wrecked, halfway fucked-out, and he hasn’t even gotten his cock in you yet.  “Y-you’re better.”

“Fuck yeah I am.”  He pushes his two fingers deep inside you and feels the answering clench of your cunt.  He crooks them, rubs his fingertips against you from the inside, tests different spots.  Finds it a moment later when a fresh pulse of cum coats his fingers, enough to slick into his palm.

“Murph ever find this?” he asks as he presses against your g-spot. 

“N-never.”

“But I did.”

Another press of your hips, seeking more, needing more.  “You did.  Feels so good, Ben.”

“Gonna come like this?”  He peers up at you from between your thighs and takes in your wrecked expression.

“I’m close,” you warn him. 

“Then let me have it,” he replies.  “Wanna taste you coming in my mouth.”

It only takes another moment, and you do what he says here too:  you tighten your grip on his hair, almost to the point of pain.  You moan his name, and then you come.  Your thighs clamp shut around his head, and there’s a moment where he’s deprived of enough oxygen that he sees sparks in his peripherals.  He grins at the thought of passing out between your legs.  Your orgasm sends a fresh pulse of arousal, and he laps it up as you tremble above him.

Benny makes his way back up to you, and your hands tug him down.  You kiss him deeply, and you must taste yourself on his tongue because you moan against his mouth.

You break the kiss and smile up at him as he catches his breath.  Your hands stroke his shoulders, and your fingertips scratch against his head.  It’s been so long since he’s been touched, he practically purrs under your attention.

“Still good?” you ask.

“You know it.”

“There’s condoms in the nightstand if you want more.”

Yes, Benny wants more.

-----

He gets you on all fours, just as you said you imagined.  He rolls a condom onto himself, gives himself a few experimental pumps with his fist as you shuffle backwards towards him.

“Now, like you said.”  Benny lays a palm along the back of your neck and pushes you down gently until your head is turned and your cheek is pressed against the mattress.  “Like that.”

He can hear how turned on you are when you echo, you’re voice heavy with desire, “just like that.”

“Good?”

“Perfect.”  You wriggle your ass at him, tempting him, and it doesn’t take much.  He grips his cock with his other hand, swipes the tip through your slick.  He teases it a bit, teasing the broad head of his cock along your plump lips, pushes the barest bit into you but then pulls out.  Does it until you whine, and there’s a threatening tone underneath the simpering.  Like there’s only so far he can tease you.

He enters you as slowly as he can.  He wants to feel every inch of you, and he stares down at where he splits you open, where he disappears into your body.  He can feel you try to push back and rush it; the only thing stopping you is his hand on the back of your neck holding you firm.

“Benny…”  It’s a drawn out whine.  A pleading tone. 

“Patience, baby.”  Benny grits his teeth and slides the last inch home, his cock buried to the root, his hips flush against you.  “There we are.”

He feels how tight you are against him, the little twitches against him as you mold to the shape of his cock.  If the analogy is a cliché, so be it:  it’s a perfect fit, a key made for a lock.  He releases his hold on your neck and skates his fingertips down the bumps of your spine.  You shiver against the sensation, and he smacks your ass lightly a beat later. 

“Benny, c’mon.”  Another whine.  “Please.”

“Please what?”  He smacks you again, not hard, and then he sinks his fingertips into the swell of your hips.  Holds you tight against him but only to stop you from moving.

“Please fuck me.”

“Yeah?”  He draws out an inch, thrusts back into you.  “Like that?”

It makes you groan, the sound coming from deep inside you, deep in your belly.  “Just like that.  Just like that, please.”

He does it again:  pulls out a fraction, slides back in, hard and firm.  “Feel good?”

“Fuck yes.”

Again.  Hard enough to jar you forward a bit, and his hands on your hips pull you back.  “You ever been fucked like this?”

“N-no.”

Again, and he pulls out halfway and pauses.  Looks down at where his cock glistens with your arousal, where your cunt twitches and spasms against him.  Struggling to push him out or pull him in, he can’t say for sure.  He pushes forward and pulls you back in one motion, and it knocks the wind out of you, pushes out a guttural moan.

“Murph never fuck you like this?”  He repeats it, a hard thrust that makes you keen this time, then he holds it, buried as far inside you as he can go.  He pulses forward, feels where the base of him grinds against your clit, where his heavy balls press against you.

“Never.  Never!”  Your voice is higher, reedy.  Breathless.  “God, Ben—”

“He’s gonna fuck you after I leave, isn’t he?”  There’s a filament of jealous burning in him.  He doesn’t understand this cuckolding kink from the other side of things.  If you were his, he’d fucking make you his.  He wouldn’t fool around at hotel parties like Murph did; he’d be right here with you, keeping you stuffed full of him, satiated. 

He also doesn’t understand the possession side of things, why it’s such a bad thing.  Of course you belong to yourself.  When he says you’re mine, Benny means a hundred nuanced things.  He means that he’s also yours, that you belong to each other not in an ownership way but in a way he can’t quite express without sounding like some antiquated asshole.  That you’re his to keep safe, to love, to take care of, just as he’d be yours to keep safe and love and care for.

Of course, you aren’t his anyway, and he’s not yours.  This is a borrowed moment, so he deals you a handful of deep, slow thrusts, his cock hitting the end of you and making you whimper each time.

“He’s coming over after this, right?”  Benny asks it again.  He wants you to say it.

“Yes.”

“He gonna fuck you this good?”

You shake your head against the bedding.  “Nuh-uh.”

Benny pulls you tight against him, and he grinds himself into you, pushes every fraction of himself into your clenching heat.  You’re so fucking wet that it goes a brush easier, but he can’t know that he’s deeper than any man’s ever been, that he’s nudging against the mouth of your womb, and that you’re thinking no, Murph’s never fucked me this good because he’s never been so deep inside me, and it’s just like I imagined that time—I can feel Benny in my chest, in my throat.

Benny knows none of what you’re thinking.  Instead, he reaches down and grasps you under your arms.  He hauls you off your hands and up to where he is.  He wraps his arms around your torso, holds you—your back to his chest—and he whispers in your ear, “good.  No one will ever fuck you as good as this.”

You turn your head.  He can see the fucked-out look on your face, the dazed expression, the teary eyes.  Your lips parted as you pant, breathless, then agree with him.  Echo his words, tell him, “no one will ever fuck me as good as you, Ben.”

It ends too quickly after that.  Even with the pot delaying his pleasure, Benny can’t put it off forever.  He feels you as your second orgasm approaches, the way you tighten up against where he’s bouncing you against his cock.  Then, a beat later, you come, and the walls of your cunt ripple against him like you’re trying to pull him into you.  Like you’re trying to consume him, and Benny thinks he wouldn’t mind being consumed by you.

His own orgasm is quick to follow yours.  He feels the telltale heaviness in his gut, the taut tightening of his balls.  In the split second before it breaks around him, he wishes he hadn’t worn a condom.  He wishes he could come inside you, fill you up with himself, leave you a mess for when Murph visits you later. 

He wishes the other man could see you looking blissed-out and satisfied, then could look down and see Benny’s cum trickling out of you.

The mental image—you filled with his spend, the mess of it as it drips from your body—is what pushes him over the edge.  The tension in him snaps, and he pushes in as deeply as he can as he come harmlessly in the latex.

-----

If Murph is due at any point afterwards, Benny can’t tell what the timeline is.  You don’t rush him out.  You don’t harry him along so your real boyfriend can come and take his turn.

In fact, it’s a lazy post-coital scene.  He helps you clean up.  He spends a long moment in your bathroom, sobering up and gazing at his own reflection.  This was a bad idea, he thinks now that his orgasm is behind him. 

There’s too much jealousy but not with the people he’d assume.  He’s the one that burns with jealousy. It's a cuckolding kink that has somehow boomeranged around to hit him, not Murph.

But back in the bedroom, you’re stretched out and sated, a lazy smile on your lips.  You pat the empty space beside you, and Benny takes it.  He puts an arm out and you curl up against his side, then he wraps his arm around you.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Mmm-hmm.  You?”

“Oh yeah.”  You turn your head and kiss him above his collarbone.  “You’re great, you know.”

Benny hums at that but says nothing.  You must read something in it, because you ask, “is this going to be a problem?”

What’s the point in lying?  There’s a hot ball of jealousy sitting like lead in his gut, and it’s not what it was supposed to be.  He was supposed to have a fun little interlude, then go home.  So why’s he the one feeling like he’s being cuckholded?

“I don’t want it to be a problem,” he answers honestly. 

You hear the unspoken “but” in his reply, and you urge him to explain.

“Maybe I wasn’t the best guy for this sort of game.”

“Why not?”

How should he put it? He's got two divorces under his belt. It should be obvious. 

“Because I fall pretty easily, I guess,” he replies.

You twist in his hold and settle your chin on his chest so you can gaze up at him.  “This wasn’t a game, you know.”

Benny snorts.  “No?”

“Murph and I have an open thing.”

“And you wanted a guy to fuck you so he could play around with being jealous about it.”

You shake your head faintly.  “You’re missing the point, Benny.  I wanted to be with you.  The cuckholding was secondary.  It’s not the other way around.  I wasn’t looking for a guy for the sake of cuckholding Murph.  I was looking to be with you first and foremost.”

It gives him the barest bit of comfort, but you still sense his confusion.  You sigh and push away from him, and you leave the room for a moment.  When you return, you have your phone in your hand, and you’re typing as you walk back to the bed.

“There,” you say.  You set the phone down on the nightstand, then crawl back in to lie down beside him.

“There what?”

“There…I texted Murph.  Told him not to come over.”

“But—”

“He sent back a thumbs up.”  You strain to brush a kiss onto his frowning mouth.  “It’s all good, Benny.”

He furrows his brow because he can’t quite believe you, and he tells you so, which makes you sigh again but smile.

“It’s an open thing.  It’s not serious.  He messes around with other women, I mess around with other men, and sometimes our outside stuff overlaps, but usually it doesn’t.”

“You sure?”

You nod, and you kiss him again.  Softly.  Lingering.  “I promise,” you assure him when you break away.

“I’m sorry to mess it up.”  Benny had been prepared to slink home and lick his wounds, but it turned into a massive non-issue.  He feels a sting of guilt all the same.

“Oh, you didn’t.”  You snuggle closer to him, the softness of your breasts pressing against his arm.  “But now that there’s no time limit on your exit, we could go again.”

Benny’s cock twitches at the thought.  “Yeah?”

“Mmm-hmm.”  You kiss him again, then run the tip of your tongue over his collarbone.  “But maybe this time, you don’t mention Murph at all while we’re fucking.”

“Deal.”  Benny reaches his hand and cups your breast, tests the weight of it in his palm.  Runs the pad of his thumb over your hardening peak. 

The second time that night, it goes slower.  It’s softer:  gentle movements against each other, and without the specter of Murph in the room—glowering from the corner, the cuckold—it’s an entirely different experience.  It’s quieter but deeper, more intimate, and when he comes a second time, Benny doesn’t think of the other man at all.

He falls asleep, though he doesn’t mean to.  He means to go home either way that night, but he falls asleep with you in his arms, with your arms around him, and the thought that he falls asleep to is this:  maybe he’s old-fashioned and maybe he falls too easily, but you could be his, and he could be yours, and it might be amazing if he could convince you to consider it.

[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]

Pictures that Benny would DEFINITELY have on his Instagram (which is funny because Maurice posted it):

[kilojulietsierra]

Working Late (Borracho x Fem!Reader)

Been a minute since I posted some Borracho and I’ve had this one ready and waiting for a minute. It’s very self indulgent but I hope y’all enjoy as much as I did. 

Warnings: 18+, smut, dirty talk, fantasizing, making out, brief drunkenness but happy drunk, hinted at age gap, sex in the workplace, Nick is an ass but Benny is protective and territorial

~~~

The phone on his desk beeped three times in quick succession. Borracho saw it was an internal line and reached for it, "Magalon."

"Uh huh." He listened a moment, "Yeah, send her up."  He hung up the phone and smiled a little to himself in the empty office. He tried to keep working as he waited, but he accomplished nothing in the time it took for the door to the Major Crimes office to open with a small knock.

Borracho turned in his chair, "Hey beautiful." He smiled at you across the bullpen.

"Hey." You gave him a little wave as you walked towards him, "Hope it's okay i'm here."

He slouched back in his desk chair and smirked, "Why wouldn't it be?" His eyes tracked your movements as you approached, raking over you head to toe taking in your tight leggings and hoodie. Something inside him ticked to life seeing you in the LASD hoodie he never wore.

"I don't know, separation of church and state and all that..." You walked around the office, taking a look at the empty desks and the odds and ends around the room.

"Babe," He huffed out a laugh as a breath of air, "The only time I wouldn't want you to stop by, is if the guys are here and I'm not."

You smiled a little coming to stand at the desk directly in front of his, sitting in the chair and spinning around, "I figured it would be safe tonight, them out partying and all and you here by yourself."

"You checking up on me?" Borracho needled at you, still slouched back in his chair, hands clasped in front of him, as he watched you start to nose through Tony's desk.

"I trust you." You opened and closed a few drawers and eventually looked up to find Benny's eyes boring into yours. "What?"

"Wrong desk sweetheart." The corner of his lips twitched up but other than that he does not move.

You spin around in the chair, looking over the other desks, "Oh shit, my bad. Is Nicks that one?" You ask as you jump out of the chair and step towards one of the others.

"Quit playing and get your ass over here." He's almost laughing at you now, but definitely smiling as you toss him a wink and come to sit on the edge of his desk. He still doesn't move, just looks.

Benny is always watching and not always sharing his thoughts, at first it had worried you, but now? Now you could almost read his looks as if he was speaking plain English.  Still in the same position he goes back to your previous conversation, "I sure as hell don't want you showing up dressed like that when the guys are here."  Finally he reached out and laid a lazy hand on the inside of your knee, thumb pressing into the muscle of your thigh.

You chuckled, "Why not?" You slide his laptop out of the way and move to sit squarely in the middle of his desk.

"You know why." Borracho was territorial as fuck and had been since the first time he saw you. Now that you were actually together at least it was justified. His eyes looked up at you ever so slightly, perched above him on his desk. "What are you really doin' here sweetheart?" His eyes hard, digging for information, but his body was relaxed, smile still soft. He was pretty sure  knew the answer, he just wanted to hear you say it.

The blush that crept up your neck to your cheeks betrayed you but you tried to stay nonchalant, "Haven't seen you much this week is all."

There's a pang of guilt in his chest, but it's diluted by the fact that you're here, in the office, sitting on his desk.

"I knew you had said the guys were going to party tonight but you were gonna stay behind." You toyed with the sleeve of his hoodie, fingers pulling at a loose thread

Benny licked his lips, his fingers clenched and unclenched around the armrest of his chair, and you lost your train of thought. He picked up your slack, "Not gonna get much paperwork done with you here looking like that." He was better at this, more experienced and collected. Finally he sat up, moving closer to you, rolling back to his desk and tugging you to the edge so he could wrap his arms around you.

He's nestled between your legs, rough hands smoothing up and down you thighs, eyes mesmerized with the motion. What stops him is your hand at the side of his neck, your thumb hooked under his chin, tilting up so he was looking at you. He doesn't say anything as he wraps his arms around you again and meets you half way.

You sigh as soon as your lips meet his and after a few slow steady passes of his mouth over yours your sighs turn to a hum as his hands slip under the sweatshirt and land on bare skin.

At first he doesn't really move them, tugs you the slightest bit closer as he kisses you but that's really it. Then, suddenly his grip tightens and his fingers dig into the skin at your lower back. "C'mere." He's pulling you off the desk and turning you around before you really know what his plan is but you catch up quickly as he pulls you back to sit in his lap.

Borrachos arms circle your waist again, keeping you snug against him, back pressed against his chest and his mouth hovering just behind your ear. He drops a kiss there before he turns the chair slightly, moving to look over his shoulder and the mostly dark, mostly deserted collection of cubicles outside. Then his lips are back on your neck and his hands are sliding up and down the insides of your thighs. "You're amazing you know that?" His lips are soft on the delicate skin of your neck but his mustache and goatee are not. One hand slides under the sweatshirt, his sweatshirt, and ghosts over your stomach, "Can't believe you're doing this for me." He nipped at the back of your neck before turning your face to him and kissing you again.

You giggle a little, only half of it nerves, and shift slightly in his lap. One of your hands gripping the side of his thigh, trying to keep yourself stable and with the other you reach around to cup the back of his neck as his mouth devoured yours.

~~~

A couple weeks ago you had been making dinner together and Benny had been mixing drinks for the both of you. By the time the pasta was ready you were both sort of living up to his nickname. But it was light and fun, and you didn't get to see that version of drunk Benny a lot. The guys at work? They never get to see that version of drunk Benny. The smiley, happy one with the jokes and the stories that have you laughing until your sides ache. The handsy Ben, that had fondled you in the kitchen while you cooked. Not enough to turn into anything right away, but enough to be distracting.

Borracho was still that kind of drunk even after dinner that night, the two of you laying on the couch ignoring the dishes. You had gone and changed, to get comfy, he was always comfortable in just jeans and a shirt, could sleep in them if he had too, but not you. That's how this had all started. You had came out of his room in a pair of leggings and the black LASD sweatshirt he let you borrow because you were always cold.

His eyes had locked on you immediately and never blinked until you were snuggled up with him on the couch.

You had gone back to watching the movie on the TV but he did not. "Can't believe how fuckin' sexy you look like that." He had said it in his normal tone of voice, not like he meant it to start anything, just one of his many observations.

When you looked up at him he was still staring, arm wrapped loose around your middle, "Do I not look sexy all the other times."

"Not what I said." He hiked you up on top of him, face to face, eyes staring into yours. "I can't believe seeing you dressed in your 'comfy clothes' turns me on so bad." To prove his point his hands groped at your ass and tugged you against him, making his point clear.

You had been the one to initiate the make out session, something Borracho had sworn up and down he was too old for when you first started dating. You had proven him wrong. When it was getting almost to the point of no longer being just heavy making out and turning into something more he had pulled back, biting your earlobe gently before kissing it and pressing his mouth against your ear. "Can I tell you something querida?"

The question had caught you off guard, the tone in his voice slightly different than normal. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, "Of course."

"I think about you sometimes, a lot actually." He started, his voice quiet.

"I mean I would hope so, considering..." A slap to your ass and a string of Spanish mumbling cut you off.

"I think about you all the fucking time, don't worry about that." He moved to bite at your neck, working it between his teeth and sucking until you both knew he had left a mark, "What I was saying was; I have this..." He trailed off. Staying silent so long you thought he had lost his train of thought. Or that he had thought better of going further. Then he took a deep breath through his nose, traced his lips up the side of your neck and continued, "It's like a daydream, when my mind wanders at work... or maybe a fantasy." He took another deep steadying breath and blew it out, soft, slow and warm against you ear. "I think about you coming to see me at work, dressed like this, on your way home from the gym or something. Watching you walk into the office with those long fucking legs and perfect ass," He grabbed your ass again, with both hands this time, "Wearing this stupid hoodie." His hands slid underneath it, dragging his blunt nails down your back.

A shiver rolls through you as you squirm a little on top of him. Realizing what he was telling you, you couldn't help but kiss your way along his jawline, nipping him slightly at the apple of his cheek, encouraging him to keep going.

"I think about you in my lap, I think about you on the edge of my desk with my head between your thighs, I think about you bent over me desk while I peel these off of you." He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of your leggings while pulling you tighter against him.  After that Borracho didn't say anything for a minute, just continued to stroke his hands over every inch of you he could reach. "Is that okay?"

You pushed yourself up a bit, enough to look him in the eye, "Why wouldn't it be?"

His eyes were heavy, half lidded as he met your gaze, his hands smoothing over your naked back under the fabric of the sweatshirt, "Kinda feel like a dirty old man." His halfhearted smirk lets you know he's only part way kidding.

You scooted up to press your forehead against his, "Ben, you are allowed, dare I say encouraged, to fantasize about your girlfriend." When his only response was to hum and nod his head you continued. Moving to wrap your arms around his neck, smiling when he lifted his head up of the arm of the couch to allow it, you held his gaze, "I fantasize about you like that all the time. Even before you asked me out."

"Oh really?"

~~~

It had been long enough ago and he'd had enough to drink the conversation had more or less slipped his mind. Until the front desk called telling him you were here. He tried to not get his hopes up as he had waited for you to get to the Major Crimes floor. But then you had walked in, looking a little shy and a little bit like you were trouble.

Now he had you in his lap, just like he had wanted. He couldn't keep his hands still as he kept your face twisted towards his and kissed you until neither of you could breath. He pulled back, only as far as he had to, "I should go lock the door. Just in case."

You smiled and pulled his bottom lip between your teeth before kissing it gently, "I locked it behind me when I came in. "

His arms around you squeezed you tight and he groaned as he immediately went back to claiming your mouth, "Good girl." He mumbled between kisses as his right hand slid back under the sweatshirt and moved to grope your chest. "Jesus Christ." Ben growled as his hand closed around your breast finding no shirt or bra in his way.

It was hard to talk with his hand massaging you, the rough pad of his thumb circling your nipple, all you could really do was smile and sigh into his lips.

Slowly he switched to the other side, gently stroking and cupping it as he pried his lips away from yours, "You sure this is okay sweetheart?"

You bit you lip, arching into the palm of his hand and being rewarded with a slightly firmer squeeze, the motion causing you to grind your ass down into his now obvious erection. "I'm sure Benny, very sure." You kissed him as soft and sweet as you could while taking his hand and guiding it towards the waistband of your leggings.

Taking the hint he kissed you back as he worked his hand inside the tight clothing, groaning as you opened your legs wider for him. "Fuck baby," He was shocked and exhilarated by the warmth and wetness he found there, "You are so fucking wet." Ben dropped his chin to your shoulder and watched the outline of his hand through the material as he traced your lower lips.

"Told you I was sure." You whispered in his ear as one of your hands reached behind you to grab the back his neck.

Before you could say anything else Benny had two fingers sliding in and out of you and your breath caught in his throat. You didn't have time to settle into that feeling because after just a few strokes he removed his fingers and moved them to your clit, pulling a moan from you loud and clear.

He smiled as you dropped your head back to his shoulder and tried your best to move against the circling motion he was making. Borracho was grinning as he tilted his head to speak directly into your ear, "You gonna come for me already mami? It feels like it. You're so fucking wet, I can already tell you're gonna make a mess." When you could only respond with little gasps and moans he began circling your clit harder. "You are gonna feel so fucking good. It's been a long damn week and now you're here, dripping wet for me, I'm going to make you feel so good baby I promise." He groaned when your hand tugged at his hair, "You want that baby? You want me to bend you over my desk and fuck you till you cream all over my cock."

Just like that you were biting your lip hard and arching up out of his lap and into his hand, circling faster and faster, your whole body writhing for a moment until you took a gasping breath and sagged against him. He smiled into the side of your neck, slowing his fingers as he kissed you there.

When your grip on the back of his neck loosened and you turned to kiss him Benny was still smiling, "I gotta warn you baby, I'm not gonna last long."

You chuckled as you reached for a kiss, but you both knew there was no meanness in it, "Why you say that papi?"

Borracho groaned and drug your ass back against his painfully hard cock, easily noticeable even through his jeans, "You got me so keyed up baby, not gonna be able to help it."

"When my brain clears up a little bit, I'll come up with an old man comment." She laughed, still a little breathless, but it turned into a surprised squeak as Ben stood you both up and walked you back against his desk.

"You're such a brat." He was kissing you so hard you were bending backwards over the desk. "Don't make me get my cuffs out." When he pulled back his eyes were dark and he was smirking.

To your credit you blushed a little, trying to hide your face in his neck, remembering all the things he had done to you when you had revealed that particular fantasy of your own to him. Recovering quickly you pulled him down for another kiss, "Bring 'em home with you." You mumbled the words against his lips as your hands worked at his belt buckle.

"Hold on sweetheart." He leaned back from you standing up straight and pushing back the side of his button down shirt to pull his holster off his belt and shut it in a desk drawer.

Laying back on his desk you propped a heal up on the edge and rolled your eyes, "Couldn't have done that earlier Detective Magalon." You watched him with a smile as he undid his belt and untucked his shirt.

His eyes snapped to yours, still black and heated, but with an easy tilt to his lips, "I was a little distracted." Without going further he moved back to you and slid his hands up your legs until he could hook his fingers in the waistband of your leggings and peel them down, slowly. Inch by inch. "You are very distracting."

Your teeth sunk back into your bottom lip as you picked your hips up and allowed him to strip you of your leggings and pull your shoes off. Before you could respond though he gripped your ankle and tugged you to the edge of his desk, flush against him with your legs on either side of his hips. Even after another surprised little squeak you were speechless, watching his hands smooth up and down your bare legs while he looked at you. Took in the sight before him, committing it to memory.

When his eyes focused back on yours again he caught you smiling, licking your lips, your mouth dry in anticipation. "What're you thinking sweetheart?" He asked the question as his hand moved to splay heavy and wide over your lower abdomen, his thumb slipping to part our lower lips again before settling directly over your clit. Picking up a steady, slow, building pressure.

Eyes falling closed you pursed your lips and fought to keep your thoughts in order, "This was a good idea."

Borracho smirked, increasing the pressure on your clit while the other hand held your thigh tight against his hip.

When you opened your eyes and looked back to him you were blushing, only slightly, but enough to notice, "I never would have been able to do anything like this before..."

Before... you met him. Ben finished your sentence in his mind. The thought sending an electric shock to the base of his spine. You hadn't been innocent, perse, when you had started dating, but shy and a little insecure. Borracho knew he wasn't necessarily a good guy, he did bad things, but he had made it a point to treat you well, better than any other woman he'd attempted a relationship with. Looking down at you, half naked, laying on his work desk with your pussy wet and warm and waiting for him he knew that he was doing something right.

"C'mere." Removing the hand from your thigh he reached up to the back of your neck and lifted you up, bending over you and meeting you half way to steal a kiss he spoke low, his voice a little strained from the effort and the position, "You're amazing, y'know that?"

Wrapping your arms around his neck you moaned into the kiss, hips still trying to keep up with his fingers as they stroked in and out of you, "Mhmm."

You were so caught up in the kiss that you didn't notice the hand between your legs disappearing, did not notice what he was doing until you felt the heavy head of his cock tapping against your clit. You moaned into the kiss, hips jumping at the surprise and the sensation, body bowing up to press against him as much as you could.

That little jump of surprise had Benny clenching the base of his cock tighter, fighting against the urge to lose control. Your fingers were digging into his neck, his hair, his shoulders, whatever you could get hold of and he knew he had been right, he was not going to last long.

"Papi please..."

All he did was smile, line himself up, and drive as far and as deep into you as he could. A shiver overtook him as your pussy clenched around him and your entire body trembled as you lay back over the desk, back arching and your one hand digging into his shoulder hard enough for your nails to leave marks, even through the shirt. He didn't stay still long, immediately moving to withdraw and slide back in, "Is that what you wanted?"

You nodded, eyes closed and bottom lip between your teeth.

Hands moving to hold your hips tight and pull you to meet each thrust he let some of his control slip, glancing over his shoulder one last time while he still had the capacity, his head snapped back to you when you groaned again, frustrated.

He had to close his eyes and collect himself, "What's wrong baby?"

"More, need more." Your hand came down to wrap tight around his wrist and try to use the leverage to move your hips against his, "Please.. so close."

Borracho knew, you didn't mean close to coming, he could feel that much. You meant close to what you wanted, what you needed to get there. Changing his stance slightly and moving one arm so that he could brace himself above you he whispered in your ear, "What do you want querida? Harder? Faster? Want me to play with you?" He chuckled, dropped a sloppy, open mouth kiss to your neck when your pussy fluttered around him.

"Yes, that." You giggled.

Benny was done for, then and there.

Still leaning down over you, reclaiming your mouth, he slid his hand back to thumb over your clit and with your arms still wrapped tight around him Borracho let the last of his control slip away. The desk was shaking beneath to two of you as he drove into you over and over, groaning slightly when you buried your face in his shoulder, your sweet little moans and cries muffled into the fabric of his shirt.

It came over him quickly once he felt your body jerk and go rigid beneath him, your pussy pulsing and clenching around him sent him over the edge. It was all he could do to keep himself quiet with you trembling and gasping for breath. Once his own tremors had subsided he dug his hand into your now messy hair and drug your mouth to his for a bruising kiss that was all tongues and teeth. "I fucking love you, you know that right?" He whispered between kisses, groaning when your nails ghosted over the nape of his neck.

You sighed, all of your strength leaving your body all of a sudden. "I know baby." You tugged him back down for one more kiss, "I love you too." before he begrudgingly stood up and pulled away from you.

Winded, trying to ignore the tremors still pulsing through his body, Borracho stood up straight and tucked himself back into his jeans leaving his shirt untucked. "C'mon sweetheart." He reached down to pick up your leggings and help you stand up, "We'll get you cleaned up at home."

On shaky feet you stood up, one hand bracing on his shoulder for a moment, "In a hurry to get home?"  

He chuckled as he helped you get back into your leggings without falling over. "Maybe." With one hand on your thigh he guided you back to sit on his desk as he knelt down and helped you back into your sneakers. Standing up Borracho leaned in for a kiss, winking at you before he stepped back to finally do up his jeans and belt. "Unless you wanna stay here longer?"

You stayed there, perched on his desk, still catching your breath and trying to hide the way your legs were shaking, "I'm good." You watched him as he moved around, pulling his gun from the drawer and putting it back on his belt, then gathering up his phone and keys, slapping the laptop next to you shut.

When he seemed ready to go he paused, looking you over one more time, sitting on the edge of his desk, legs crossed,  nd hair disheveled. Smirking he stepped closer and placed a gentle hand on the back of your head pulling you into a kiss. Benny chuckled when you uncrossed your legs and shifted to let him step closer.

"What're you thinking handsome?" You settled your hands on his sides and leaned into the kiss.

Voice quiet and sure Benny moved his hand to your hip and easily tugged you off the desk, letting you slide down his body to land on your feet, "You're amazing, I love you," He dipped his head for another fleeting brush of the lips, "And it'll be weeks before I can sit here without getting a hard on."

That made you laugh, but it also made you blush and lean into him to hide your face, "I'm sorry? I think."

Borracho patted you on the ass with another chuckle, "Don't be." He leaned down and snatched his gear bag off the floor by his desk, "Let's go."

You let him guide you out of the office, bag slung over one shoulder and his hand at the small of your back, shivering as his hand slipped under the hoodie to settle on bare skin. By the time the two of you made it to the elevator you had calmed down enough to relax into Ben’s side and talk casually. You were about to reach up and kiss him again when the ding of the elevator doors made you jump.

"Borracho!"

Ben’s face hardened instantly at the booming voice of his boss and his hold on you tightened, pulling you close to his side, "Boss, what're you doin' back here?"

Nick was fidgety, eyes pinned and face red and sweaty, "Bar was a bust tonight, too wired to get any sleep," He sniffed loudly and rubbed at his face, "Thought I'd come see what kinda trouble I could get into here." Apparently for the first time Nicks eyes settled on you. "Looks like you got into some trouble of your own there Borracho."

He snorted once, his hand flexing at your back, "Got tired of waiting on me I guess, came down here to drag me home herself." His voice was both detached and a little deflective, covering for you and himself, playing you off as another annoying girlfriend.

You would have been upset if it wasn't for the soft and steady pressure of his hand at your back, Benny’s thumb passing back and forth, gentle and comforting. Letting you know his words did not reflect his feelings.

Nick laughed and stepped towards Borracho, slapping him on the back. "Y'know if I had a nice, little piece of ass like that at home..." He dragged his eyes up and down your body, "Well, I might actually go home." Nick laughed loudly at his own joke.

Borracho forcing out a chuckle, subtly guided you towards the elevator and away from Nick.

Apparently taking the hint Nick laughed again, "Hey, don't let me interrupt." He stepped past Borracho not so discreetly trying to steel a look at your ass. "Don't let her keep you up too late bro, we got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

When you were finally, safely, inside the closed elevator you groaned heart still pounding from almost potentially getting caught, "I know I don't know him, but I really don't like your boss."

"Not a lot of people do, don't worry." Ben leaned back against the wall beside you, "I"m sorry."

"What're you gonna say when he tells everyone he saw me down here, leaving with you?"

Benny held your eyes and smirked, "The truth." The doors dinged and opened to the parking garage.

"Which is?"

Grabbing a fist full of the hoodie he tugged you in the opposite direction you had been walking , your body bumping into his in the process. "You got tired of waiting on me to come home so you came down here and dragged me home."

When he noticed you staring out the corner of your eye he came to a stop beside his truck and carefully pressed you back against it,"This, is just between you and me baby. No way in hell am I gonna let Nick or any of the other asshats I work with know that you came down here to surprise me and let me fuck you on my desk." He tossed his bag in the back of the truck one handed, eyes never leaving yours, as his hands settled on your waist, "Definitely not gonna tell them that I walked you right past the boss with my cum still dripping out of you."

You shoved him back away from you, groaning in frustration as much as embarrassment, "Not helping!"

He easily came back to stand in front of you a cheeky grin on his face, "I'm serious though, okay?

"I know, I know. Just still can't believe I did that." You reached to cover your face but Benny stopped you with easy hands and a gentle shake his head. Looking him in the eye again you smirked, "You're a bad influence on me Magalon."

"Don't I know it."

The End

~~~~ 

[justreblogginfics]

The accuracy is just—perfect!

So many people on here write so so well and amazingly that this is a regular occurrence for every character they write for 🥰🥰🥰🥰

Just tagging these amazing writers to show my appreciation for them: @something-tofightfor @darlingshane @just-chirpin @kteague @tropes-and-tales @drabbles-mc @tripleissue @fallatyourfeet @velocibeewords @writefightandflightclub @lucy-sky @carni-val @whiskeynwriting @yellowcabdriver @chellestrash @anna-hawk @banditthewriter @sillyrabbit81 and many many more ☺️

Picture from Pinterest

[servenas-inner-fangirl]

If I, strictly theoretically speaking, had a list containing the fate of all Maurice Compte's characters of shows/movies I've seen so far and whether he's a cop, a criminal, or something else in that medium... would anybody be interested in that?

My friend and I had been wondering if there are any interesting statistics to gather from that (apart from the fact that he dies... a lot.)

[the-hinky-panda]

I miss my babies MIT Girl and Benny

I really miss them too. And I may have a belated Christmas fic for them coming up soon.

[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

[tropes-and-tales]

With Teeth

(Benny Magalon x F!Reader)

CW:  Talk of drug use; vaguely smuttish (kissing, groping, biting), but nothing explicit. 18+ only just to be safe.

Word Count: 3062

AN:  This was originally requested from a prompt list ("i won’t bite. unless you’re into that sort of thing") by @outlawedmando!

Major Crimes isn’t the only division of the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department to host illicit parties.  Many of the divisions have their own deals with their own vibes that fit the unique character of the division in question.

Major Crimes, lorded over by Big Nick, is almost a cliché with the booze, women, and drugs.

The Gang Squad is led by a man much like Big Nick, so it’s no surprise that they do it up similarly, only bigger, with more women and harder drugs.

Cold Case Division’s modus operandi is to go out to the desert with big guns and lots of beer and blow shit up.

No one really knows what Parking Enforcement and Services does, but there are jokes about it.  Some say lean into the relative lameness, say they unwind with a knitting circle, or scrapbooking evenings when they listen to New Age music.  Others say they go fully feral, that they have a fight club in an abandoned warehouse where they beat each to near-death.

In terms of the group with the panache, though, the honor belongs to the Fugitive Apprehension Team.  Maybe it’s the nature of their role—always hunting, always on edge and in the front lines of dangerous work.  Something makes their unwinding efforts an ultra-chill affair, a complete decompression and sloughing-off of the stress.

The Fugitive Squad is a tight-knit group—arguably tighter than Major Crimes, though the two often overlap.  Major Crimes cracks a case, needs someone hauled in?  Big Nick drops a call, and it’s like setting a pack of well-trained wolves on the busy streets and dusty roads of Los Angeles County.

On big cases, sometimes the Fugitive Squad invites Major Crimes to their parties and vice versa.  Usually Major Crimes attends the Fugitive events, since the Fugitive folks don’t quite care for Big Nick groping hired girls while the fug of cigar smoke hangs over some hotel room.

-----

What does a Fugitive party entail?

Borracho is never clear on who exactly plans them.  If it’s a situation where the team takes turns, or if there’s one mastermind behind the events.  It’s always at the same place:  a low, sprawling mid-century place in the Pacific Palisades, owned by one of the members of the squad who came from old family money. 

There’s a pool and beyond it, the ocean.  There’s low, cool lighting that swaths everyone in blue shadows.  There’s ambient music—a low, steady pulsing beat that seems to sync everyone’s heart rate to the same rhythm.  The food is always elegant, an elaborate sushi bar one night, tapas another time.  There’s alcohol, plenty of it, but no one ever seems to overdo it to a sloppy degree because everything is so damned chill.

Drugs?  Big Nick is partial to coke and often brings enough to the Major Crimes events to get loaded, but the Fugitive parties are purely for the psychedelic shit.  Weed, obviously.  Mushrooms.  Molly.  Nothing that will get people worked up:  only stuff to calm and maybe take the user to another galaxy while they celebrate another night on the right side of the dirt.

Honestly, Borracho kinda prefers the thing the Fugitive folks have going on. A big joint case has just wrapped up, and he finds himself with an invite along with the rest of his team. 

Which means he gets to see you in a more social setting.

At work, you’re all business.  Mostly silent, the way Borracho is mostly silent.  You let your commanding officer do all the talking the way Big Nick does all the talking, and like Borracho, you stand nearby and look and listen.

Early on, you caught Borracho studying you.  It had made your mouth twist in a small smile, and you had winked at him, but it was a lone instance of your personality shining through during work hours.

Off-duty?  Fuck, you drive him insane.

It’s not entirely the sort of insanity that comes from flirting and sexual tension.  At these parties, you’re someone else completely.  Totally at ease, which means you feel comfortable enough to be yourself, to untether your mouth from your brain, and Borracho never knows what the fuck you’ll say to him.  If you’ll drop something banal about the Dodgers’ pitching depth, or if you’ll stare at him, unblinking, and ask if he thinks life as he knows it is just a simulation.  Because both has happened in the past at these parties, and both were before you even touched a drug.

Tonight, though, he’s late to show up.  The party is in full swing, the low bass audible from the street when he parks his truck.  He makes his way inside, sees the crush of people dancing in the living room, sees the cluster of people in the dining room where the food and drinks and drugs are laid out.  Borracho sees Henderson, tips a nod in his direction, but he keeps walking through the place.

He always seeks you out at these things.  He always swears he’ll play it cool, but his resolve always melts away the moment he hits the door.

Borracho finds you in the den—a separate space that usually has a movie projected on the far wall while people sprawl out and trip and sometimes get cozy in the dark room while some old black-and-white movie plays out in the background.

Tonight, you’re settled on the deep leather couch at one end.  Another guy is at the other end of the couch, his wide eyes fixed on where “The Third Man” plays against the far wall.  There’s a couple curled up on a separate easy chair, murmuring together, making out, and it charges the room with an undercurrent of sexual energy that feels…promising.

It takes you a beat to notice him leaning in the doorway.  You’re watching the movie too, and it’s only in a scene break that you glance over and see him.

“Borracho!” you call out.  “Finally made it!”

“Never like to arrive too early.”

“Smart, smart.  Gives you an air of mystery.”

You smile and continue.  “C’mon in.  Take a seat, settle in.  We’re following Joseph Cotton here around post-war Vienna.”  You lift a hand and gesture at the wall.

Borracho tilts his head at the couch where you sit.  “No room.”

You turn and look at the guy on the other end of the couch.  When Borracho looks closer, he sees it’s one of your coworkers in the Fugitive Squad.  He watches as you reach over and swat at him, tell him to move over and make some room.  When he does, you turn back to Borracho and pat the middle cushion invitingly.

“C’mon, handsome.  I won’t bite.”  He cocks an eyebrow at the handsome moniker, but you add, “unless you’re into that sort of thing,” and he realizes that you’re throwing him for a loop like you always do—only this time, you’re flirting with him, not interrogating him about what reality really is.

You drive him fucking insane.

It’s not entirely the sort of insanity that comes from flirting and sexual tension, but it’s a big part of it.  At work, it’s the way you move around, the economical way you move when you’re on the hunt.  If the Fugitive Squad is a pack of wolves, you’re their panther:  more of a big cat padding on quiet paws, ears pitched forward, slinking after prey. 

At parties, it’s this:  always keeping him guessing, keeping him back on his heels, making him feel like a teenaged boy again straining for just a moment with you.  The anticipation of it, the frustration when it never materializes, the eagerness for the next invite to the next party. 

He makes his way into the room and sits down beside you.  You reach over to the little table beside the couch and snag a small tray with party favors on it.  You present it to Borracho with a flourish.

“Want to partake?” you ask.

He squints at the offerings.  There’s edibles, a cigarette case of pre-rolls, and some unidentified pills with tiny smiley faces printed on them.  He points at them.

“What are those?”

“Designer shit,” you reply.  “Boss has a buddy in Twentynine Palms who makes these small-batch, artisanal drugs.”

Borracho snorts.  “Hipster shit.”

“Like a macaron shop in a swiftly gentrifying neighborhood.”

“What’s it do?”

You click your tongue as you think.  “Little bit of everything, I’d say.  Relaxes you like pot, but kinda gives you the euphoria of molly.  Also offers the barest bit of trippiness, in case you want to peer behind the veil between realities.”

“Haven’t peered behind the veil lately.”

“Treat yourself, Borracho.”

He plucks one pill from the tray and considers it.  “You take one already?”

You answer by taking another pill from the tray, then setting the tray aside.  You turn to face him, stick out your tongue, and lay the pill on it.  The whole time you hold his gaze, and he holds yours.

A second later, you close your mouth and swallow.  “Yes,” you tell him with a smile.  “I’ve taken one already.”

You drive him fucking insane.  How could he not want you?

-----

Whatever this designer pill is, it’s the sort to creep up slowly on a user. 

Borracho relaxes by degrees.  Feels himself melting into the couch by degrees, like his bones are softening, his muscles are lengthening.  The light from the projector takes on an ethereal glow, and at some point, he blinks and realizes, shit, I’m feeling it now.

He turns his head, heavy against the back of the couch, and sees you.  You sense his gaze on you, and you turn your head to face him too.

“How you feeling?” you ask.

“Good.”  It comes out rough, a dry-throated croak, and you laugh at him, which makes him smile. 

“Good.”

“You?”

“Good.”

“That’s…good,” he replies, and it makes you laugh again, makes him laugh too, and he realizes how much he’s feeling it after all.  How effortless it feels to sit beside you right now.  He glances up at the movie and sees that it has changed entirely – to some grimy-looking ‘80’s crime drama with a synth soundtrack.  The couple who had been making out in the chair have disappeared, and when Borracho turns his head to the other side of him, he sees the third wheel has left too.

How long have the two of you been alone?

Time seems to stretch and distort.  He watches the movie, a car chase scene, then blinks and it’s rolling credits.  Another blink and it’s another movie, a low budget sci-fi with lots of lasers.  He sits on the couch, his legs sprawled wide, and his knee presses against yours.

Blink, and his leg nearest you now is pressed against yours, thigh to thigh, and the heat he can feel coming from you seems to have a shimmering quality when he looks down at where you touch.

Blink, and he’s watching the movie again.  There’s an alien in bad makeup, more lasers, a jazzy stream of music that seems to come from somewhere else.

“I am,” he blurts out.  He rolls his head again, peers over at you, waits for you to turn and look at him.  When you do, you look confused.

“Huh?”

“I am.  From earlier.”

You snort, then laugh.  “I am so lost right now.”

Blink, and he feels the smile that creeps across his face.  “What you said earlier.  You asked if I was into it.  I am.”

“Into what?”

Blink, and he swallows.  Feels the heat of your thigh pressed against his.  “You said you wouldn’t bite—”

“—Unless you’re into that.”  You pick up the thread and remember.  The smile you offer has a feral edge, unless he’s imagining it, which is very likely.  Maybe none of this is happening at all:  maybe he’s passed out and drooling on the couch while you’re sober and elsewhere, cornering people and trying to discuss string theory.

“You like biting, Borracho?” you ask, and your voice is low, a near whisper.  Like you’re sharing secrets, so he whispers back.

“Depends on who’s doing the biting.”

“Hmmm.” 

Blink, and you’re moving towards him, that same cat-like fluidity you have at work.  He never takes his eyes from you, never blinks, and you don’t either.  He watches as you straddle him, settle on his lap.  His hands find your waist, then slides them down and back to grasp your ass.  Your hands reach up and cup his face, low on his jaw, and you smile down at him.

You’re backlit by the projected wall of the movie.  He opens his mouth to say something nice, to tell you how fucking gorgeous you look, but you lean down as you tilt his head and…he thinks you’re going to kiss him, but you brush your lips over his cheekbone until your mouth is right by his ear.

“You want me to bite you?” you whisper, and your warm breath fanning over him makes him shudder, a delicious frisson of trembling through the core of him.  He wants to say something slick in return, but he only manages to grunt an affirmative.

Blink, and you lean against him.  He can feel your tits pressed against him, can feel the flex of your body as you bend your head.  Another blink, and he feels your mouth on him, your soft lips, then your tongue as you taste him—the spot right where his neck meets his shoulder.

Then he feels your teeth on him, a slow and steady sink of your teeth in his skin, and you take him right to the edge of pain and maybe a half step beyond, but no further.  His hands grip your ass harder, spasm against the soft curve of you, and he jerks you closer to him because he’s growing hard underneath you—faster than he usually does, and maybe part of it is the drug, but part of it is definitely you.

Your mouth on him, the heady weight of you on him, your hands gripping his face and holding him steady. 

You draw your teeth out of him, and you soothe where you’ve marked him with your tongue.  You run the tip of your tongue over his dimpled flesh, then kiss him there.

Blink, though, and Borracho finds you climbing off him, and he pushes a disappointed exhale through his pursed lips.  You didn’t even kiss his mouth, and he turns to where you settle back on the couch.  You catch his pout and offer him an apologetic smile.

“You know we can’t do more,” you offer as explanation. 

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his jeans too tight.  “I think we could.”

Another smile that turns into a laugh.  You reach out a hand and lay it on his arm, jostle him playfully.  “We could.  But we shouldn’t.  We’re both pretty fucked up.”

“You’ve never fooled around while stoned?”  His voice has a whining edge to it that he doesn’t like, but you keep your hand on him, keep grinning at him, and that’s something, he guesses.

“I have,” you admit.  “But within boundaries established whilst sober.  I might get sloppy at these parties, but I keep my sloppiness contained within certain limits.”

He can’t help but smile back at you despite the twinge of disappointment in his gut.  “You need a lesson from Big Nick.”

At that, you release his arm, fling your head back against the couch and blow out a heavy breath.  “God, that asshole.”

“He kinda is, right?”

“He has a sort of all-encompassing sloppiness that I can’t support, Borracho.”  You turn your head, smile again.  “Tempting though you may be.”

He sighs but smiles back at you.  “You know you drive me fucking crazy, right?”

“Yeah?”  Your eyes widen—you look genuinely surprised.

“Yeah.”

“You gonna be shitty with me now?”

He shakes his head.  He’s never been the type of man to get a bug up his ass about a woman not putting out.  He’s never gotten angry at dates that led to nothing, or dates who changed their mind.  That’s life, and he’s always thought of men who got shitty about women not putting out as childish assholes.

Besides, he’s gotten plenty.  He knows what it feels like to have you on top of him, how it feels to have your tits pressed against him.  He knows what your mouth feels like and will bear the mark of your teeth for at least a week until the bruise fades.  He knows that your ass feels amazing under his big hands.

“If you ever want to establish boundaries while sober…” he starts, then trails off, and it makes you laugh again.  It’s probably the drugs, but he’s made you smile more, laugh more in this one evening than he has in all the time since he’s known you.

“Don’t open that door if you don’t want me walking through it, Borracho,” you warn.

Maybe he’s sobering up a bit, because he manages to both think of a slick line and deliver it. 

“You’re Fugitive Squad, baby.  You can kick down my door anytime you want.”

It’s the coup de grace of the moment:  you throw your head back and laugh, deep belly laughs that come from deep inside you.  You throw out a hand and brace yourself against his shoulder, and he chuckles along with you.

“Duly noted,” you finally manage to say once you calm.  “I’ll hit you up sometime.”

Borracho nods.  “You should.”

Then, because he’s still loose from the drugs, still feeling pretty damned good, still wanting to show that he’s not going to be shitty about you clambering off him, he lifts his arm in invitation.

“C’mon,” he says.  “At least curl up with me here.  I need someone to ground me so I don’t drift off to Saturn.”

You don’t even hesitate to move closer and tuck yourself under his arm and against his side, and that’s how you both fall asleep within the hour, and how you both wake up just before dawn—both dry-mouthed and cranky, but not so cranky that you don’t sheepishly exchange numbers.

And Borracho might think you’re just being nice, but you call him that evening, stone-sober, eager to kick in his door at his earliest convenience.

[bobafetts-princess]

Good Luck Charms

Months 1-6

Summary: A nasty case has taken over the FBI and LASD headquarters. You’re paired up with Detective Magalon and it doesn’t start out well.

Pairings: Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Benny and reader don’t get along and say some mean shit. Canon-typical sexism.

A/N: I’ve been sitting on this one for about a month and I think it’s ready to be posted. I hope yall like it!

Months 7-12 can be found here!

A file slaps down on your desk labeled ‘confidential’ and you look up to see your boss, Mike, standing there, brows furrowed. It’s a case you’ve been working on, suspected crime circle specializing in the trafficking of teenage girls.

“Bad news,” he starts and you stifle a groan as he sets down another file. When your boss says bad news it always leads to worse news than he’s letting on. “LASD already has a case going on this guy and his affiliates, so you’re going to be working with them to get him,” you flip open the file and skim the new file before you register what he said.

“LASD?” He nods at you and your stomach drops. “Which precinct?” The grimace he gives you confirms your worst fears.

“Uhhh,” he starts, pulling a little at his collar. “Nick’s precinct….” You stifle another groan and try to remain professional. Big Nick and his guys are the worst. Unless you’re talking about police work, then they’re the absolute best. There’s been many rumors through the grapevine over the years about their off-the-books parties after a big case or a load of passed of drug tests. You’d also heard that their police work was so solid that higher ups let these off-the-books parties slide. Big Nick himself has run off at least three female agents, unable to cede any ounce of power to a woman.

“Magalon,” Mike is saying but you missed the start of the sentence.

“Hmm?”

“Benito Magalon,” he says again, “goes by Benny or Borracho,” he repeats, glancing at his own case file. “He’s the lead on this.” Of course the lead on this case would be a guy whose nickname means drunk. Just your luck.

“You’ll go there through the week, but Fridays you’ll stop in and give me or Bob a brief of what you’ve done,” he was explaining and you nod. Today was Monday so you’d probably spend the whole week over there.

“Friday here or Friday there?”

“Friday there this week. You’ll need the time to build team trust, they’re a tight-knit group. Their last new member,” he glances at his file again, “Connors, joined close to 7 years ago. They’re wary of newcomers,” he explains. “Head on over there now, introduce yourself, and get settled. See you next week,” he grimaces again before taking off and heading back to his own office.

Figures. He’s not gonna introduce you or help you get settled, he’s probably just as terrified of Big Nick as all the other agents who know him. You gather your things, instructing your secretary to send over all the necessary files and head out.

***********

“Borracho!” Big Nick shouts and Benny’s head gives a thump.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Feds incoming. Gonna help you with that case,” he says, holding out his hand. Benny opens his drawer and passes over the bottle of Pepto. “Some dude named Mike? Said he was sending over his best. He’ll be here in 30,” Nick tells him in between swigs of Pepto. “I’m putting his desk next to yours,” he sets the bottle on Benny’s desk and meanders off, probably to tell someone else to move the desk.

Benny rubs at his temples. The feds are probably going to be more of a hindrance than a help, with their rules and regulations. He hates when Big Nick does this, passes off a big case to Benny cause he doesn’t want to do the legwork. And because Benny is the most organized of the group. It should be a compliment him but it feels more like Big Nick is simply pushing work into his lap.

But this case? This case is a goddamned nightmare. Every time he thinks he’s going to break it wide open, he ends up finding another sect of this guys operation. It’s huge, so far stretching from trafficking to coke to heroin to guns and bank robberies. There’s going to be so many agencies involved, so many fucking reports, so many goddamned trials. And Benny, Benito Magalon of the LASD, gets to be in charge of so much of it. He’s drowning in work, reports to siphon through, files to skim. He doesn’t even notice when a woman pops up in the bullpen, his head down and pen in hand as he makes notes.

He does, however, hear the low whistle coming from behind him. Zapata. Dumbass. Benny glances up and has to do a double take at the woman standing in the door. She’s gorgeous, but prissy looking. Her pantsuit and silk blouse probably cost more than his entire wardrobe and the only defining thing he can discern is that she’s stunning.

“How can I help ya?” Nick booms, crossing his arms across his chest as he looks you over. The whole bullpen has eyes on the interaction and Benny doesn’t see the point in not being a pair of them. You give your name, tell Big Nick that you’re fed, give your supervisors name and Nick laughs.

“You’re one of Mike’s best?” He laughs again and Benny feels a heat in his chest. One of annoyance and….anger? Is he angry on your behalf? He finds that he is. They’ve worked with women before, found them perfectly capable of doing their jobs. But here Nick is, acting like you’re not.

“As a matter of fact,” you snap, your voice coming out icy and professional. Benny feels a shot of sympathy for you. “I am his best.” Big Nick booms another chuckle and Benny sees your face tighten.

“Borracho!” Benny groans internally, he wishes they’d let that fucking nickname go. One time, years ago, he got hammered at a fancy event and had to be helped out by Nick and his first wife. The guys started calling him Borracho and it. Never. Fucking. Went. Away. He stands and takes the open space next to Big Nick. “Looks like this is your new partner,” he claps a hand on Benny’s shoulder, smiling like the cat that ate the canary. Benny knows his jaw is ticking, knows he looks frustrated, but he can’t make it stop. Some days, he gets so frustrated with Nick and his stupid macho act. Especially with this case trying his patience and exhausting him. “Least you got something pretty to look at while you work,” Nick snipes and Benny sees your eyes narrow, but they’re narrowing at…..HIM?

“Where am I putting my things?” You ask, lifting the box in your hand. Nick chuckles again, sweeping an open hand to the desk that’s directly across from the only other open one. Borracho’s desk, you assume. The man in question gives you a hard head jerk and shows you to your new desk, home for the foreseeable future.

You’re damned determined not to be the first one to talk, so you set your things down, unpacking. A nameplate with your rank, a small potted cactus, a couple framed pictures, and an armload of files. The activity in the bullpen resumes like you never appeared and Big Nick, still chuckling, heads back to his office. “A fucking chick,” you hear him mumble and there’s rage coursing through your veins. So when Benny asks you a question, something related to the case, you can’t help but snap at him.

“Detective,” you snap, fixing your cold hard gaze on him. “I’m sure I don’t want to be working alongside you every bit as much as you don’t want to be working alongside me. But we have a job to do and I intend on doing it. Whether you like the fact that I’m a woman or not.” Magalon’s lips curl up into a sneer as he responds.

“I don’t give a fuck about what’s in your pants as long as you can make my job easier.”

It’s bullshit. All men in this field care about what’s in your pants. Care if they can sweet talk you enough into taking them off. Care if you’re ’too emotional’ to get the job done. Care if your period is going to set you back a week in workloads. So, you sneer right back.

“I will not be taking shit from you and your crew. I will not be run off like the previous female federal agents that have worked here,” you tell him, raising your voice enough that you’re heard by everyone else except Nick.

It sets the tone for the beginning of your relationship.

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

MONTH 1

Month 1 is rough. Neither of you speak to each other and when you do, the tone is downright nasty.

“Borracho!” Connors shouts as he comes in that morning. The man in question is sitting across from you, buried in files with tired eyes and slumped shoulders. It’s only 8 AM, how could he already be tired? Probably one of their infamous parties last night. (What you don’t know is that he was here until 2 in the morning and then back at 7)

You sneer at the stupid fucking nickname and Borracho glances up and sees you. “What’s your fuckin’ problem?”

“What’s with the stupid ass nickname? Can’t handle your alcohol?” You taunt him, piercing him with a nasty gaze.

“Maybe a good drink or two would make you less of a bitch,” he sneers right back but it doesn’t have the same venom that yours did. (What you don’t know is that Benny doesn’t hold anything against you, but he also isn’t going to sit there and take your shit either)

The guys exchange a glance, equal parts concerned and entertained.

“Borracho!” Yells Big Nick as he comes out of his office. There’s that stupid fucking nickname again and you roll your eyes. “Come talk to me, man,” he says as he shoots a glance, more like a glare, in your direction. They both look at you when the door shuts and you know that the conversation is about you.

Inside, Nick asks Benny if he wants to run this chick off.

“Nah, man. She’s just defensive. She’ll lighten up,” Benny assures him.

“We can’t have that shit if we want to solve this case,” Nick points out but Benny shakes his head.

“She does great work but she’s heard some shit about us. She thinks we’re gonna be awful to her so she’s keeping us at arms length,” Benny explains. He does like you, at least likes how you don’t take their shit, and your work is rock solid. But LASD and the FBI don’t have the best working relationship and you’ve probably heard bad things about his precinct. Nick likes to party hard and he doesn’t like to do it alone.

“Well, let me know if it gets out of control. I’ll handle it,” he assures him and Benny has no doubts that he would indeed, handle it.

********

MONTH 2

Detective Magalon, as you’ve decided to call him out loud, (dickhead, as you’ve decided to call him in your mind) never asks if you want food when he calls out for lunch. Or dinner. Or a midnight snack. He doesn’t ask you if you want some of his leftovers, doesn’t care if you’ve eaten that day. You barely speak, as a matter of fact, unless it is directly relating to the case. Shelley, your assistant, sends over the files a couple weeks later and they arrive just as you’re planning to be done for the day. Detective Magalon already has several boxes of files you’ve been sorting through so you haven’t needed them yet. It’s a day that you’ve been there for almost 12 hours and only had a protein bar from the snack machine. Benny had a burger and fries for lunch, Chinese for dinner. You can still smell the leftovers of General Tso’s and house fried rice wafting from the containers on his desk.

An agent wheels the boxes in and you peek a glance at Detective Magalon to gauge his reaction. There’s nothing except a tightening of his eyes and a small drop in his shoulders. You can almost predict he’s thinking ‘another long night’ because it matches the echoing thought in your head. You give your thanks to the man, whose name you don’t know, and then stand to grab the box on top. Your stomach gives a nasty rumble, loud enough that Detective Magalon looks at you and furrows his brows. He looks like he’s thinking, then opens his mouth to speak before closing it again. The next time he opens his mouth, he does speak.

“Hungry?” He asks but of course you say no. “I’ve got extra,” he offers waving a hand toward the Chinese.

“No,” you say, giving him a tight smile. The last thing you need is for him to think you’re a helpless creature that can’t feed herself. “I had lunch while you were out.” Not true. You shoveled a protein bar in your mouth in between witness phone calls. He nods like he doesn’t believe you and when you get up 20 minutes later to use the restroom you hear him shuffling but don’t look back. When you get back to your desk, the food is sitting on your desk with a note attached.

‘Tasted like shit anyways’ it says in a slanting scroll that’s neither sloppy or neat and you have to smile in spite of yourself. You wait for Detective Magalon to come back so you can refuse the food but when 15 minutes pass and he hasn’t appeared, you can’t help yourself. You open the containers and absolutely wolf down the food, and you know what really pisses you off?

It doesn’t taste like shit.

Not even 5 minutes after you’ve finished, he’s sitting back down in his chair. He doesn’t acknowledge what he did anymore than you do, and the two of you let a sleeping dog lie.

But you get to the office before him the next day, (and let’s be honest, every other day too) and leave a note on his desk, written in your neat, cramped style were the words ‘thank you’.

**********

MONTH 3

Things have warmed considerably between the two of you after that first two months, especially after that first time he shared food with you. The two of you can ask questions without getting their head bit off. Things aren’t exact cordial, but they aren’t ice cold anymore either.

You’re pretty sure he’s keeping track of days you eat and days you don’t because even though he never asks you what you want, on days you don’t eat, there always ends up being extra of whatever Detectice Magalon ordered. He doesn’t directly offer it to you though, he waits until you’re up from your desk and puts the food down, often disappearing for 20-30 minutes afterwards. You assume he wants you to be allowed to eat in silence without saying thank you (at least aloud) and you’re thankful for it.

The only time he mentions the food is when he gets burgers one time. It’s been a helluva day, so many tip calls coming in as well as reports from surrounding police precincts and being grilled by the district attorney about individual testimonies in a related case. Neither of you have eaten that day and when Detective Magalon dips out around 8:30, you pray he comes back with food for you.

He does, a greasy-looking bag that smells fucking divine. You get up immediately, hoping he’ll put the food on your desk while you’re ‘in the restroom’ and by the grace of the heavens he does. He’s sitting at his own desk when you get back, burger in one hand and a pen in the other. A matching burger and fries sit on your desk and you dig into it eagerly, not even ashamed to be eating basically with him.

Except, you take the first bite and spit it back out. Fucking mustard. The absolute worst condiment. One that shouldn’t even exist if you were being honest. Detective Magalon looks up at you, his eyes amused and a smile twitching at his lips.

“Everything okay?”

You give him a tight smile and nod, pulling the bun off the burger and reaching into your drawers for a napkin. Of course, there aren’t any.

But a stack of napkins lands on your desk, along with a ketchup packet. You grab one and begin to wipe off the offending substance from your sandwich and dropping the napkins in the trash. Grabbing the packet of ketchup, you dump the entire thing onto the burger before you put it all together and glance up.

Detective Magalon is smirking slightly at you from underneath his mustache and you resist the childish urge to stick your tongue out at him.

“I don’t like mustard,” you say, feeling like you have to fill the void. One corner of his mouth ticks up as he responds.

“Noted.”

Your burgers never have mustard on them again.

**********

MONTH 4

Month four brings with it witness calls. It’s time to start tracking down the people who have seen, heard, or experienced weird shit. Your main perp, code name Reaper, legal name Jimmie Smith, keeps cropping up all over LA either right before or right after a crime scene. He’s got lackey’s that do the dirty work, you and Detective Magalon are both convinced of that. But he likes to be there. Likes to watch the chaos unfold. But there’s nothing solid, nothing yet.

You and Detective Magalon are working to change that.

The bullpen is different too, the guys have been working with you for almost 4 months now. They know what they can and cannot get away with when you’re around. They know they can joke about not passing their piss tests but they cannot talk disrespectfully of their latest girlfriend/fling/one-night-stand. They know they can rib you endlessly about your ‘relationship’ with Detective Magalon, but you refuse to answer personal questions. Henderson got stoned on his weekend off? That’ll pass without comment or even an eye raise. Big Nick snorted two lines and fucked his way through 5 escorts? Nope, leave that one an inside thought. Or a group text thought.

You know they gave a group chat, of course they do. They’ve been working together 7 years and partying together every minute of that.

And it doesn’t bother you.

Really.

A call comes through to Detective Magalon’s cell and he’s on his feet within 30 seconds, grabbing his jacket and coffee. You glance up, hoping it’s something to do with the investigation and he nods at you, acknowledging your interest.

“New crime scene. You comin’?” He asks, and you nod, standing and grabbing your own coffee. Today’s outfit isn’t exactly crime-scene-friendly. A pencil skirt with the accompanying jacket and soft-red silk blouse you got from the nearest goodwill. It’s cheaper than buying it new and rich folk don’t give a shit about making money back on their clothes. At least you’re used to wearing pumps, the red of today’s pair matches the red of your blouse.

You dig in your drawer to grab a notepad and for some reason, have no luck. You’re sure that you had one in there yesterday so where did it go? It doesn’t matter because a pad of paper slaps down on your desk and Detective Magalon is standing beside you.

“C’mon. Body is still warm.”

“I’m coming. We’re taking my car,” you tell him, grabbing the keys to your fed-issued SUV. You don’t see his eye roll or the money exchange hands behind you.

What they don’t see though, is you handing the keys over once you hit the parking garage because you still don’t know LA that well. And driving in LA traffic makes you rage, so it’s easier to let Detective Magalon drive.

**********

MONTH 5

More witness statements. More time spent in a car with Detective Magalon. It’s rare you don’t ride together now, and most of the time he drives. He’s more familiar with the streets and traffic, having lived in LA all his life. You know because it was in the file that was given to you when you started working at Major Crimes. You make him take your car, it’s bigger and nicer and the fed pays for gas. You definitely refuse to notice the way he looks, one hand on the wheel and the other up against the window. The way his jawline looks so sharp when the sun—-

Nope. No. Not going there.

Before, when there was full hatred instead of bare minimum cordiality, you never rode together. Even if you ended up talking to the same witness, inspecting the same crime scene, and one time y’all even drove separately to the fed headquarters for the same debrief. But after that time he invited you to a crime scene, you don’t go to mutual places separately. It works fine for the both of you, he doesn’t talk, you don’t ask questions.

One time, only one time, does he ask you a question.

“How long you been in LA?”

“A bit,” you answer, being purposely vague. It’s been about 6 months since you’ve been in LA and the last five have been with LASD Major Crimes. Honestly, you’ve seen more of the city driving around with Detective Magalon than you have off work. You’ve tried more food places from his leftovers than you have for your own meals. He hmm’s, not deterred by your lack of response and you have a feeling that he would’ve given a similar response if you’d asked him that question.

Things aren’t frosty, but they aren’t friendly either.

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

MONTH 6

Month 6 is more of the same, except now when Detective Magalon orders food, he asks you what you want instead of guessing.

And sometimes you order food too, asking politely what he wants to eat. You eat at the same time, passing files back and forth or sharing new information from the case. You never eat out a restaurant, of course. Only in the car in between stops with witnesses or crime scenes or after briefings with the FBI. No pleasantries are exchanged while you eat and to be completely honest, no pleasantries are exchanged ever.

You don’t say good morning or good night, a simple head nod in place of words. You don’t leave at the same time, usually Detective Magalon leaves first and you follow shortly behind. For some reason he’s always in his car when you find your own and pulls out right after you do.

The guys are more comfortable with you, constantly peppering you with personal questions that you steadfastly refuse to answer.

“Gotta boyfriend?”

“Where ya from?”

“Do you drink?”

“When’s your birthday?”

It’s never ending and you do your best to ignore them and give short responses.

“No.”

“Not here.”

“On days when you people are exceptionally annoying.”

“Not today.”

You wonder why all the other female agents were run off from here and you can’t help but think they might’ve been a little too straight-laced for this group. Which makes sense, considering they’re fed and they kind of have to be. Yeah, you’re fed too, but you’re not in fed headquarters. Things are different here and you’re on their turf so you have to have a little acknowledgement for their rules.

To be fair, you don’t really care that any of them smoke weed on their days off. Or get blasted when they aren’t on call. You don’t love the way they talk about their hookups but in the larger scheme of things, it could be worse. You call them out on their shit when the time is right and let things slide when the time isn’t. In fairness, you have a feeling that if these guys find a crack in the facade or think something might bother you, they’ll latch in. They’ll put their hooks in and dig down into that opening until you lose your mind.

Which is why you don’t show them any cracks.

[mysoulisasunflower]

My god i'm in love ! This fic is amazing ! The ending is so cute and cozy !!!

Points of Contact

Pairing: Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x Reader Rating: M

Warnings: Slow burn, allies to friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, canon-typical sexism, alcohol, brief description of a car accident, me pretending to know anything about the law or criminal procedure beyond what I've read

Notes: ...I spent way too much time on this. Not beta-read. Edited it three times, but will likely find 102 typos as soon as I hit post.

Length: 11.4K

Summary: You reach out to Detective Magalon again and again. It goes on for a week before you’re forced to take matters into your own hands. 

But you don’t go to their office, oh no. 

You turn up at a crime scene. 

“It’s a doozy.” 

That’s what your new boss tells you. There’s an insidious little grimace on her lips as she says it. You want to tell her that whatever it is, you don’t want it; that you’re already spread too thin a month into this job. Instead, you take the file with a smile, a word of thanks, and flip it open. That smile stays frozen in place as you skim the details—the victim, the crime, the reasons for retrial, the rap sheet, and the department that handled the case. 

You’ve been warned about Nick O’Brien’s team. 

They’ve become known for effective, highly unconventional (and sometimes incredibly questionable) methods. This case is no different. You push a soft breath out between your lips as you scan the document for the lead and point of contact for the case— 

Det. Benjamin C. Magalon

--  

You send emails. You call and leave messages. You tell him over and over in different forms of communication that this is an urgent matter, but nothing seems to hammer the point home or garner a reply. In that time, you work other cases, and go over the facts on this one—the victim’s statements, the confession, the court documents. It makes your head spin. 

You reach out to Detective Magalon again and again. It goes on for a week before you’re forced to take matters into your own hands. 

But you don’t go to their office, oh no. 

You turn up at a crime scene. 

--

It’s bleak. It’s nothing that you haven’t seen before, but that doesn’t make it any less harsh. You eye the small cones marking out evidence in the dingy strip mall parking lot—shell casings, two darkening pools of blood, one car with a dented hood and a caved-in windshield. From the looks of it, someone either fell onto it, or was thrown onto it. You glance up at the height of the roof of the mall, the distance between it and where the car is parked at a crooked angle. If you had to guess, the person was thrown.

You approach the crime scene tape, flashing your credentials to a nearby officer and thanking them as they lift the tape for you to cross under it. Your eyes scan the officers and detectives on the scene, catching on a couple of familiar faces before you spot your point of contact. He’s talking with someone—a vic, or a witness, maybe?—so you hang back, watching closely. On second inspection, you’re not entirely sure he is talking to someone connected with the case.

They’re both smoking; Detective Magalon seems to only refer to the small notepad in his hand once in a few minutes before he’s patting the man’s arm and turning, flicking his cigarette away. Before you can step up and introduce yourself, he's intercepted by someone else—a tall attractive man that you recognize from another file that crossed your desk. You puff your cheeks out in irritation before you steel your resolve, striding over to them and speaking up:

“Detective Magalon.” 

The two men stop and turn to look at you, brows raising a lowering as you grow closer. 

“Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to step back behind the tape,” Magalon gestures behind you. “Press isn’t allowed here.” 

“I’m not press.” You draw your credentials out again, showing it to the two and introducing yourself. Recognition flashes across both their faces. 

“Ah, shit, you’re the chick that’s been blowing up his voicemail,” The other man laughs. Your brows raise. 

“Yes, Detective Henderson, I am the assistant defense attorney that has been trying to get in contact about an upcoming retrial.” 

“Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you,” Magalon shifts from foot to foot. “We’ve been a little busy.” 

“Right, because I’ve just been twiddling my thumbs and sitting on my ass.” 

Magalon’s brows creep even higher up his forehead as Henderson scoffs a laugh and mumbles an excuse before he walks away from the two of you. 

“We need to go over your testimony,” You press on.  

“Right now?” 

“...Not right now,” You speak slowly, forcing yourself to keep your tone level and steady, “But soon. The retrial is in a month—” 

“So we’ve got time—”

“But this isn't the only case I’m trying, and I’m sure you also have your hands full,” You gesture toward a puddle of blood. “We need to get a time on the books that works for both of us.” 

“Could’a done that over email.” 

“And you know what, I would’ve, if you had answered any of them.” 

Magalon’s lips twitch with a small, amused smile. His gaze flits over your shoulder, his hand raising to signal to someone that he needs a moment before he returns his focus to you. 

“Look, I’ve gotta get back to the office, get a BOLO out on a stolen truck, and file this report. Soon as I’m done there, I’ll answer one of your emails, counselor.”

You just manage not snap at him as he brushes around you. Instead you draw in a deep breath and turn, calling out, 

“You better—if you don’t want me cropping up at any more of your crime scenes, detective.” 

He just raises a hand, giving you a dismissive wave. 

You wish your boss had been wrong—but this is really is gonna be a fucking doozy. 

-- 

You don’t expect a call. Hell, you start planning to commandeer a police scanner. And then your cellphone rings at nearly 11:30 that night. You don’t look at the contact name; you don’t check to make sure it’s not a spam call (answering the phone with your name and title usually gets scammers to hang up pretty quickly). You just answer as you typically do. You’re met with silence for a half-beat, and you’re about to draw the phone back from your ear to check that the person is still on the other side before the voice crackles over the line—“I figured I’d get your voicemail.” 

Your brows raise at the sound of his voice. 

“You said you were going to send me an email,” You counter.

“Did I?” 

“Yes, you did.” 

“Want me to hang up, hop on my computer?” 

You have to bite back a smile as you shake your head. “Thanks for the offer, but I think this’ll do.” 

“Have it your way. Are you available, ah…” Magalon trails off. You can hear papers shuffling on the other side. “...Tomorrow?” 

“Not really. I have a meeting at nine, and a deposition at eleven, another meeting after that. I’m honestly not sure how long that’s gonna go. Might be finished up around four.” 

“Four’s not gonna work for me.” 

“Alright, then after four.” 

“I can’t tomorrow night.” 

“Do you have an alternative?” 

“...You busy now?” 

“No, detective, I’m still in the office for fun,” You bat back dryly. 

“So am I,” He chuckles. “We goin’ to yours or mine?” 

The innuendo is unmistakable. It’s everything that your boss warned you to expect from O’Brien’s outfit—throw-away comments that can be excused as makin’ nice for the sake of interoffice cooperation; leering looks, whether you’re in a skirt, a suit, a dress; pointed smiles and niceties chased by grumbles of know-it-all-bitch behind your back. You need to get out ahead of this. 

“Mine.” 

--  

You know that you’re not shielding how unimpressed you look, but you can’t help it—the little penned drawing in the old flip notebook is laughable. Your gaze darts between Magalon and the notepad before you turn it over in your hands. There’s a rough (incredibly rough) sketch of the room, with a little stick figure on the floor. There’s a crude doodle that mocks and mimics the pool of blood around the body that you'd seen in the crime scene photos, and two small x’s mark out the eyes of the stick figure’s head. You turn the notebook around, brow furrowing at the doodled bloody footprints, and a half-moon shape beside a ‘couch’ labeled rectangle. 

“...Is that supposed to be the gun?” You ask, raising the book and pointing to the shape with the tip of your pen. 

“Yeah. You couldn’t tell?” 

You purse your lips before you turn the drawing back toward yourself, muttering, “It looks like a croissant.” 

“Is my drawing really what you need to be scrutinizing right now?” 

“The way you drew it looks pretty disrespectful to the deceased.” 

“I think that’s a matter of opinion.” 

It probably is, but holy shit, the guy can’t draw. Neither can you, but your doodles of a crime scene may not be material to a case. His, on the other hand? Well, you know for sure that the counsel for the accused has seen this doodle, as well as Magalon’s other notes. 

“Are the rest of your notes in here?” You ask. 

“Yeah.” Magalon shifts in his seat on the other side of your desk as you flip to the next page. You can see him looking around in your periphery. You don’t know what he’s looking at—especially considering that there isn’t really much to see. You have several shelves with 2-3 items on each of them. They're mostly notebooks, law tomes—the things that you absolutely needed from the box of shit that you’d shlepped into your office three weeks ago and ditched on the floor in the corner of the room. You hear the creak of the chair, glance up to find him twisting all the way around, eyeing said discarded box. You give him one curious sweep while he’s distracted, from his profile, his well-groomed head and facial hair, to the plaid shirt that sits atop his white t-shirt. You look back down at the notepad as he twists back, your eyes scanning the shockingly neat, loopy script. 

“Okay,” You set the pad down. You don’t hand it back to him; you just keep your eyes on it, and your own notes. “Take me through it.” 

Magalon eyes you with bored impatience from the other side of the desk. 

“We can’t just go over the basics?” 

“Look, detective,” You sigh heavily. “I know it’s late, and I’m sure you’ve had a long day, but I’ve got a meeting with Webster’s defense in the morning to talk about a plea deal,” Magalon’s expression shifts from disinterest to shocked anger at the revelation, but you push on: “And if they don’t take it, I need to know what I’m getting into with you on the stand.” 

“A plea deal?” It comes from him low, and pissed off. The sound makes your stomach churn. Still, you force your face into a calm mask and give a shrug. 

“Orders from the top,” You excuse. “There are other cases, new, untried cases that we could be putting the state’s resources to.” 

“What are the terms?” 

“Alford, second degree. Thirty.” 

“He’d be out in ten.” 

“And if we try this again and it doesn’t clear a jury, he’ll be out in a couple of months,” You point out. 

“Why the fuck wouldn’t it clear this time?” 

“Different jury, different sentencing standards, new evidence allowance, and he's got new counsel. Could be a whole new ballgame.” 

You don’t scold him about his tone, or the cursing. You don’t even flinch when he pushes his chair back and begins to pace. You just watch, and consider him. You know that if it comes to it, it’s better that his frustrations are letting out now. You raise your brows as he stops, his hands flexing on his hips, squeezing and loosening, like he’s trying to pull himself back down from whatever conclusions his mind is jumping to. 

“I need to know what I’m getting into with you on the stand,” You repeat patiently. “Take me through it.” 

Magalon is quiet for another moment, seeming to gather himself. He stares at the desk hard, eyes lingering on his notes intently. 

“...You want the pad?” You ask. 

“No.” 

The reply is surly and flat, like a moody teen. You give him another moment, and when he doesn’t start, you push, “Fine. If you’re not gonna tell me, let’s game it out.” You lean forward, folding your arms on your desk and beginning to rattle through the questions you'd ask him in court:

“Are these your notes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are they in your handwriting?”

“They are.”

“And they were written at the time of the event?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are they in pen or pencil?”

“You can see them, you tell me.” 

Your neatly manicured nails press into the palms of your hands. 

“Doesn’t matter. It’ll be needed for the record,” Is your careful reminder. “Are they in pen or pencil.” 

“Pen.” 

“Have they been altered, added to, or corrected?” 

“No.” 

“Can you recall the events in question?” 

“Yes, I can.” 

“Do you need the drawing of the croissant gun to refresh your memory?” 

It cracks his tension, a little. His hands loosen a touch around his hips; his lips twitch with a smile that disappears as quickly as it appears. 

“I do.” 

You take the pad up, holding it out. Magalon takes the three steps forward needed to reach it, and you. He takes the pad from you, but he doesn’t look at it. He just absently taps it against his hand and turns, pacing again. 

“You know you’ll be stationary for this, right?” You ask. 

“We don’t need to game it out. I can just tell you.” 

“You sure about that?” 

Magalon turns and drops like a stone into the seat, scrubbing his palm over his eyes. You think you’re going to have to press him again, but—

“I got the call at 12:32 in the morning.” 

“Were you already on shift, or did you get called in?” 

“I was on shift. It was a slow night. It came in as a tip on a man named Jesse Briggs.” 

“Who is Jesse Briggs?” 

“He was a drug dealer, pretty high on our most-wanted list. He had an outstanding warrant for ditching parole. He’d been ducking us for two, three months, which was understandable, it was his third strike.” 

“What was the tip?” 

“A sighting, and an address. We’d had a couple tips similar to it in the previous weeks, but none that had pinned him so accurately. They’d mostly been area sightings.” 

“What was the address?” 

“Mill and Industrial Street. Skid Row.” 

“I think we ought to frame it as the Wholesale District for the sake of testimony.” 

Magalon gives a small nod, mutters, “Understood.” 

“Go on.” 

“There were already cops on the scene when I arrived. They’d been on patrol when they’d gotten a call about a disturbance in the same apartment building. They had already gotten into the apartment, found Briggs’ body and cordoned the area off.” 

“And what state was Mr. Briggs found in?” 

“Incredibly deceased.” 

You have to fight back an inappropriate smile as you try again: 

“And what state was Mr. Briggs found in?” 

“California.” 

“Detective.”

“He’d been dead for a little over a week.” 

“How could you tell?” 

“The state of the body’s decomposition was advanced. It had been there for ten days at the height of summer. No air conditioning, no open windows.” 

“We can skip what that does to a body for now,” You wave him on as you look down at your notes. “How would you describe the scene?” 

“Briggs was laying on his back, surrounded by dried blood. There were multiple visible gunshot wounds—one in his head, three in his torso. There was a discarded gun by the couch, 22 caliber.” 

“Anything else?” 

“Yeah, there were dried, bloody footsteps leading from the body to the door.” 

“Were there any in the hall?” 

“No.” 

“And did it seem that someone had gone out of their way to clean up in the hall?” 

“Objection. Leading the witness.” 

You bite back a smile as a teasing one blooms on Magalon’s face. He shifts in his seat, averting his gaze as he adds, “We checked—luminol on the tiles from the door to the elevator. Checked the walls and backstairs for splatters, nothing popped. Webster took his shoes off before he left the apartment.”

“Allegedly.” 

“It’s not alleged,” Magalon argues. “It’s in his confession.” 

“His confession which has been thrown out because your department went through four hours of questioning before you Mirandized him, despite considering him a suspect from the moment you arrested him.” 

The atmosphere that seemed so light a moment ago is sinking again, holding the same charged indignation that Magalon directed at you when you told him about the plea deal. You’re quiet for a moment before you draw in a deep breath, eyeing the time. 

“Maybe we oughta call it for the night,” You finally say, “Regroup after I discuss the plea with Webster’s team. But this was good, this was a good start.” You’re not entirely sure you believe it, even as you say it yourself. You don’t think Magalon does, either. He’s staring you down like he’s ready to go to court now, like he can talk you, the judge, the defense attorney, the jury—anyone he needs to convince out of giving Webster a plea of Alford, second degree murder, and thirty years.

But after a moment, he nods, and breaks eye contact, rising out of the chair. 

“You need a ride home or have you got one?” He asks. 

“Ah…Thanks, but I'll just take my car. I’ll be here a while.” 

“I don’t mind droppin’ ya.” 

You nod a little. “I appreciate that, detective, but I really do have things that I need to finish before heading home. I’ll let you know how the negotiations go tomorrow.” 

“Sounds good.” 

“Thanks for coming in.” 

“Sure.” Magalon pats the back of the chair he was sitting in before turning away. “Goodnight, counselor.” 

“Night.” 

--  

You notice the car when you finally leave work two hours later. It’s hard not to—there are only three cars in the parking lot besides yours. You can see that someone’s in it, but you can’t see their face. You’re a block away from the courthouse when you see that same car behind yours. Your stomach twists with nerves, but you force yourself to remain calm. You have no real reason to worry, not until you have proof. You take a long winding way home and manage to lose track of whoever it is. When you reach your apartment’s parking complex, you make a hasty retreat from your car to the elevator. 

You don’t dwell on it. It could be a coincidence—you weren’t the only person in the building. Maybe whoever it was takes a similar route home. 

Whatever the reason, you’re sort of glad you didn’t take your typical route and find out. 

-- 

“He take it?” 

Magalon doesn’t bother with a hi or a hello. You don’t gripe. You kept the guy out pretty late last night. 

“Nope,” You tuck your phone between your shoulder and your ear as you set your bag down beside your desk. “Deal’s gonna stay on the table, but I don’t think they’re gonna go for it.” 

“They really think they’re gonna get him off?” 

“Considering the fact that his confession was thrown out and there’s a video of Webster on the other side of town at the time of the murder, yeah. They’re feeling pretty fucking confident.” And you don’t blame them. Magalon sighs heavily. 

“Maybe we got the time of death wrong,” He offers. “The Medical Examiner wasn’t completely solid on his estimate, the body’s decomposition was so advanced—” 

“Right—” 

“I mean when they turned it, it popped—” 

“Okay, I could really do without that detail,” You shudder, shaking your head. 

“You squeamish, counselor?” 

“No, but I’m starting to rethink the spring roll I got with my lunch.” 

Magalon chuckles softly on the other side of the phone. It’s a sweet sound, one that sends wholly inappropriate butterflies fluttering in your chest. You raise your hand to steady the phone, setting your free hand on your hip. 

“I’ll take another look at the ME’s report,” You offer. “Maybe there’s something in there that we seize on.” 

“Alright. You callin’ him?” 

“I might have to. Could help us out. If we can reframe the time of death, the video’s gonna validity can be called into question.” 

“Don’t forget the shoes,” He adds. “We found a pair that matched the footprints on Brigg’s body and floor to a pair from Webster’s dumpster, two nicks in the sole in the exact same spot as the prints.” 

You nod. “Right. DNA match on the shoes?” 

Magalon’s lengthy pause tells you everything you need to know, and you mutter, “Right,” Again. 

“It’s his MO. He dropped the gun, picked up the casings, took his shoes off to avoid leaving prints,” Magalon argues. “I can point you to four other cases that he was convinced in where he did the exact same.” 

“Good, I’ll need you to point to them for the jury.” 

“Just tell me when, counselor.” 

You settle down in your chair behind your desk. 

“Alright. I’ll track down the shoes, see if there are any additional tests we can run. Was there a pop on the luminol?” 

“And a swab. Confirmed for bleach.” 

“Damn.” 

“I know. He’s not stupid.” 

“Bummer, huh?” 

“My job’s so much easier when they’re stupid.”

You laugh, nodding. “That makes two of us. Alright, I’ve got a call in half an hour that I need to prep for, so I’m gonna let you go. As soon as I have more on Webster, I’ll let you know.” 

“Alright. Keep me close on the ME?” 

“Sure thing.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Thank you, detective.” You hang up, dropping your phone on your desk. You reach out for the bag with your egg roll, then go still, frowning. You look up, spotting one of the paralegals passing your open office door. 

“Hey Ang!” You call out. “You want a spring roll?” 

-- 

“Uh-oh.” 

It’s muttered behind you. You don’t mind it at first—but it’s chased by, “Ay, Borracho! Your attorney is here!” 

You frown, turning and finding a ginger-headed man behind you. He turns to face you, giving your body an open sweep before smiling tightly. “He’ll be right over,” He adds. 

“No, that’s—” You start, frowning. It doesn’t matter—he’s already walking away. You puff softly, looking around the hall and shifting from foot to foot. Magalon pokes his head out of a door down the hall before he steps out. 

“Did I miss an email?” He asks. 

“No,” You chuckle. “But I’m starting to get the feeling I have a reputation with you guys.” 

“You sent me thirteen emails and left six voicemails. Think they’re just jealous that we have such a committed relationship.” 

“Ha-ha,” You drawl sarcastically, folding your arms across your chest. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I had a meeting.” 

“With someone other than me? You’re breaking my heart, counselor.” 

“Something tells me you’ll recover.” 

“Yeah. Hey, thanks for the notes from the ME.” 

“Sure,” You nod. “I think we’ve got enough to work with from the tongue, I’m trying to get them to retest the soles for Brigg’s DNA.” 

“The tongue?” 

“...Of the shoe.”

“Right.” 

“We’re pretty far down on the pecking order, though. Results might take a while.”

“You done with your other meeting?” He asks, nodding over your shoulder. 

“Yep.”

Magalon nods, considering. “What are you doing for lunch?” 

“Hitting up the vending machine for some doritos and a cliff bar.” 

“No more spring rolls?” 

“I have sworn them off.” You smile, stepping around him. “Have a good day, detective.” 

“Thanks…Hey.”

“Yeah?” You ask, turning to face him. 

“You heard anything from Webster’s team on the deal?” 

“Not a thing.” 

Magalon nods, eyes lowering to the floor. You sweep your eyes over his face, the knit of his brow. 

“I’ll let you know if I do,” You offer. 

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” You give him one more look and a half-hearted thumbs-up before turning away again. 

--  

The next month and a half are a blur of depositions, discovery, voir dire, pleas, trials. Now and again, on late nights, you note a car following you out of the parking lot at odd hours, but you’re able to convince yourself that it’s a coincidence every time. Your work on the Webster case is slowgoing. You don’t remind them of the plea on the table. You don't have to. Your conversations with Magalon are sparse and perfunctory—hi, anything new, no, bye. It’s enough, more than enough, until you get a call from him on a Thursday evening. 

“What’s up?” 

“...Where are you?” Magalon asks. You go still, frowning, adjusting your phone between your ear and shoulder. 

“Uhhhhhhh,” You glance around. “My apartment. Why?” 

“Your voice sounds strange.” 

“Acoustics weren’t the number one thing on my li—” You wince as the dishwasher rack falls to the floor. “...List. What’s going on?” You add. 

“I got new notes from the ME.” 

“Oh, great! Can you drop them off?” 

“Your office?” 

“I’m actually out for the next couple of days. Could I ask you to run it by my place?” 

“Sure.” 

“Okay. I’ll send you the address.” 

“No need, I’ll pull it from our file.” 

You blink dumbly for a moment. “You have a file on me?” 

“I’ll be there in an hour.” 

“Please answer my question.” 

“One hour, counselor.” 

You huff softly, shaking your head and reaching up, taking the phone from beneath your ear and peering down at he’s hung up. You set it on the kitchen counter, turning and leaning in to look at your dishwasher. Why the hell isn’t it working? 

You glance dejectedly at your sink full of dishes. Aw, hell. 

-- 

You jump at the sound of three harsh knocks on the door. You scuttle away from your sink, grabbing the dishtowel and jogging over to the door. You peer through the peephole before opening the door. 

“Hi,” You greet. 

“Hey. Got the file for you.” 

“Great.” 

He peers over your shoulder, brow furrowing. “Did you leave your water running?” 

You huff, embarrassed. “You used the cop knock, dude. I panicked,” You grumble, turning away from him and hurrying back to your sink, shutting it off. You set the dishtowel down and turn in time to see Magalon stepping inside and shutting the door behind himself, file in hand. 

“Thanks for running it over,” You add, holding your hand out. “May I?” 

“Sure,” He nods, holding it out. You lean back against the counter, taking the file from him and flipping it open. 

“...Why aren’t you using the dishwasher?” Magalon asks. 

“Hm?” You glance over to where he’s looking at the unit. “Oh, it’s broken.” 

“What happened to it?” 

“I don’t know. My thing is the law, not the plumbing.” 

“Want me to take a look at it?” 

It doesn’t land right away—you’re distracted. You manage a belated, “What?”, but it doesn’t matter. Magalon’s already kneeling down and prying the door open, looking inside as he draws his phone out to use the flashlight. You raise your brows, watching in open amusement. 

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“Saving you a $500 fine for wasting water.” 

"Thought you'd be happy to add a ticket to your quota."

“You know that’s illegal in California?”

“I do know that. I’m just glad to hear that you do, too.”

"Keep it up, counselor."

You can’t help but smile, watching him. You raise your brows as he leans back, shrugging out of his short-sleeve unbuttoned button-down, tossing it and watching as it lands on the back of one of your chairs. Your gaze skims his biceps as he reaches in, fishing around. Your tongue absently sweeps your lips as you watch the play of his back muscles beneath his t-shirt. Oh…Boy. You puff your cheeks out before you turn away again, looking at the file. 

Look, you’ve been busy. You’re still new to LA, you haven’t had a ton of time to make friends, or to date. And while your vibrators are good company, it’s not the same as being with someone. You miss the press of a body against yours, the tender worry of kisses, the sting of grasping hands and the blooming of marks the next day. 

You’re horny, and the very attractive, moderately muscular detective that’s currently trying to fix your dishwasher isn’t helping a goddamn thing. 

You draw in a deep breath, forcing yourself to refocus on the file. You make it through three lines before your eyes widen, and you straighten up. 

“We got a match?” 

“We got a match.” Borracho’s voice is muffled from where his head is still stuck into the dishwasher. 

“We got a goddamn match for Brigg’s blood—” 

“Dumbass must’ve used Clorox. They ran a leucomalachite, got the sample out of the two nicks.” 

“Son of a bitch,” You chuckle. “Oh, he’s so fucked.” 

“Yeah, he is.” 

You jump at a clatter when something is slapped onto the counter. Your brows raise, and you turn to look at it. 

“What’s, uh…What’s that?” You frown. 

“Looks like a bread tie,” He groans, leaning back. “It was wrapped around the washer arm.” 

You frown, watching as he stands, shoving the drawer of the dishwasher closed and pressing the button for the quick wash. It’s only a moment before you hear the hum of the machine, and the shushing of water. Magalon listens for a moment before turning the machine back off. 

“...Damn,” You raise your brows, “Thank you.” 

“No problem. So,” He nods toward the file. “Can you work with that?”

“Between this and the surveillance footage from the apartment's back door, I can do a lot.” You smile. “Thank you for running this over, and, uh…Thanks for fixing my dishwasher.”

“Sure.” 

You could just send him off. You could just tell him that you’ve got a lot to do, thank him one more time, and shoo him out. It would be the easy route. But… “You want a beer?” 

-- 

“You gonna eat that slice?” 

“Nn-nn. Go nuts,” You insist, nudging the box toward him. There’s only one slice left—between the two of you, you’ve whittled down the pizza that you ordered fairly quickly. You lean back in your seat, sighing softly as you take a sip of your beer. You’re already regretting the inevitable bloat. 

“...Can I ask you something?” 

You arch a brow at the question, already bracing for some stupid put-on. 

“Sure,” You nod.

“How long you been doing this?” 

“Few years.” 

“You like it?” 

You purse your lips, considering. “At moments. Do you like being a detective?” 

“Most of the time.” 

“When don’t you?”

“When I’m completely KO’d and I get a call at three in the morning.” 

“That’s the only time?” 

Magalon shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m not gonna pretend it’s all sunshine and roses. You’ve seen what we deal with. I try not to think about it outside of work.” 

“Yeah,” You nod. You reach for your beer, taking it up and sipping it. You can feel Magalon watching you closely still. 

“...Why’d you ride me so hard when we met?” He asks. Your brows raise as you set your beer back down. 

“Wasn’t aware that I did.” 

“C’mon,” He rolls his eyes. “You turned up at a scene, you chased me down.” 

“Because I had to. I wasn’t getting through to you.” 

“You ever consider that I may’ve been busy?” 

“You ever consider that you weren’t the only person that was?” 

Magalon’s eyes narrow slightly, and you sigh through your nose. 

“Look,” You manage as patiently as you can, “I picked up my entire life and moved here for this job. I have…No one here, and nothing to go back to there. I need this to work.” 

It’s more honest than you’ve even been with yourself since you moved, and far more honest than you’ve been with anyone that’s asked. You’re not sure what prompted it—Magalon’s irritated indignation that you’d dogged him that first week, the lateness of the hour and how loose your tongue has become, or the beer. Whatever it is, it makes your stomach churn with fatigue and lonely defeat. 

It’s a moment before Magalon nods, lowering his gaze to the table. You sigh again, sliding down in your seat a little. 

“That was unnecessary,” You add. 

“What was?” 

“The look,” You raise a finger, waving in the direction of his eyes. “You know, the interrogation…Gaze.” 

He chuckles. “You seen that a lot?” 

“Oh, I’ve seen it plenty. I’ve worked with a lot of cops.” 

“Surprised it still works on you.” 

“What? It does not work on me,” You shake your head. Magalon’s brows tip up before he raises his hands in concession, muttering, “Alright.” 

“It does not,” You insist. 

“Whatever you say, counselor.” 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. 

“What the fuck makes you think it works on me?” 

“Objection. Badgering.” 

“Alright, get out,” You groan, standing and taking up the empty pizza box as Magalon laughs. 

--  

You’ve stopped noticing it so much. Sure, it still happens, but this is the worst it’s been yet. This puts a scare in you. 

You tend to get into work early, and leave late. Now and again, a car follows you out. But when two cars follow—when one drives directly behind and the other directly beside until you manage to peel through an empty drive-thru and around a corner, you concede that something is very, very off. 

You lean back in your seat with the car's lights off, your heart pounding in your chest. There’s a lump in your throat; your mouth is dry. You chew your tongue, trying to work up some saliva, to wet your lips and your throat as you wait and wait. You sit on an unfamiliar, dark street for an hour. There’s no sign of either car. Still, when you can bring yourself to move, you take a long, convoluted route home. When you arrive, you keep your hand on the little can from your purse, the keys in your hand as you run to the elevator from the parking lot. 

It’s worse. It’s worse than it’s been since you arrived in LA—and the increasingly threatening emails that you’ve been receiving are doing nothing to calm your mind as you creep closer to Webster’s court date. You don’t sleep well. You push your panicked energy into your work, unsure of what else you can possibly do with it. If you do more than panic—if you dive into the potential truths and implications behind the threats, you’ll never sleep again. 

You’re prepared to just eat it, to swallow it and let it go. But when Magalon storms into your office, a stormy look on his face and a handful of papers clutched in his first, you have a sneaking suspicion that this incident isn’t going to go quietly. 

“What can I do for you, detective?” You ask placidly. 

“You’ve been getting death threats from Webster?” He asks, slapping the copies of your emails onto your desk. 

“They are not directly from him as far as we know, they are from his associates. Anything else?”

“His associates?” Magalon repeats, dumbfounded. “His gang.”

“Anything else?” 

“This is serious.” 

“I’m well aware of that, thank you,” You lift your head to meet his eye, your expression stoney and set. “I thought these matters went to Homicide, not to the Sheriff’s department.” 

“Considering how closely we’re working on this retrial, they passed it on to me.” 

“How kind of them.” 

“You should’ve been the one to tell me in the first place.” 

“It’s none of your concern.” 

Your insistence is met with silence, and a tightening of Magalon’s expression. It takes him a few moments before he presses out—

“I’ll be escorting you home in the evening from now on.” 

“That’s totally unnecessary. I’ve been fine.” 

“And the cars following you home, that’s fine?”

It’s your turn to go quiet, for your eyes to narrow slightly at his assertion. 

“What have you got to protect yourself with, anyway?” He presses. 

“If you must know, I have wasp spray.” 

“...Wasp spray?” He repeats with unimpressed slowness. 

“Yes,” You nod. “It reaches up to thirty feet away.” 

“How effective is it against gunfire?” 

“I’ll keep you updated.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Magalon takes a few steps back, his head shaking a touch. “You text me when you’re ready to go home.” 

“Seriously, you don’t have to do that.” 

“That wasn’t a request, counselor. It was an order.” 

Your jaw drops in shock as Magalon turns away from you without waiting for a reply. He stalks out of your office, shoving the door shut behind himself. You manage to scoff out a stunned, embarrassed laugh to your office, leaning back in your seat as your face goes hot. Audacity must’ve been on sale, two for one—you have no clue where and why he’s gotten this damn attitude with you. 

--  

“Ready to go?” 

You only just manage to stave off a flinch at the question. You haven’t contacted Magalon; you haven’t called, you haven’t emailed, you haven’t texted, nothing. You can’t imagine how long he’s been waiting for you, but it’s 2:17 in the morning and there he is. 

“Yep,” You chirp shortly, striding past him. He falls in just a couple of steps behind you. He stands by your side as you wait for the elevator, as you get on the elevator. Before you can get off, he reaches out, stilling you and stepping out ahead of you. Your brows raise as his hand lowers to rest on his belt, steadying there authoritatively as he waves you out. You bite back a comment, walking at Magalon’s side and trying to ignore the way his head swivels around the mostly empty garage. 

“You know which car is mine?” You tease. 

“2015 Honda Civic, dyno blue pearl. Two dings on the bumper, one scratch on the right side.” 

“Show off. You know the license plate, too?” 

“You're kidding, right?"

You roll your eyes a little, drawing your keys out of your pocket and hitting the button to open the doors. You wait as Magalon peers into the backseat, a little surprised as he opens the door for you. You set your bag down in the passenger seat, going still when you see Magalon reach in and shove your bag into the backseat. You peer after it, frowning as he gets into the seat beside you. 

“What, uh…” You shake your head. “What are you doing? I thought you were going to follow in your car.” 

“My car is parked near your apartment.” 

“How’d you get here?” 

“Connors drove me over.”

You stick your key in the ignition, turning it and stilling as the car rumbles to life. Magalon frowns when you don’t move, and he waves forward. 

“Go on,” He insists. 

“Seatbelt.” 

Magalon sighs heavily, leaning back in his seat and doing his seatbelt up. You nod to yourself, satisfied, and drove off. You absently check your rear and side mirrors for anyone following you, but there doesn’t seem anyone trailing you out of the garage. You absently check the mirrors again for the first few blocks. 

“How long were you waiting?” You finally ask, glancing toward him. 

“...A while.” 

“How long’s a while?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

You have other questions—how long has he been on shift, is he hungry, is he tired, does he want to crash at yours—but any goodwill bridges that you’ve built with Magalon were burnt with his demands and your attitude that afternoon. You’d felt a little regret once he’d left. He was only doing his damn job. But you didn’t want to make a big deal out of this. It was a hazard of the job, something that you had grudgingly reported because you’d known that if it had come up later, you would’ve caught hell for keeping your mouth shut. 

“...Caught any cases lately?” You hedge. Magalon doesn’t answer for a moment, and you’re certain you’ll be riding home in silence. Maybe there’s something good on the radio—

“Shooting this morning.” 

“MO?”

“Seemed related to a stolen goods rap.” 

“Sounds like a dunker.”

You frown as you hear Borracho chuckle beside you, and you can see him shaking his head beside you. 

“You spend too much time with cops,” He mutters. 

“Occupational hazard.” 

Magalon grunts. 

“Should be a dunker,” He agrees. “Or would be, but we pulled a separate set of prints from the scene.”

“Someone else that lives there?” 

“Someone that was reported missing and subsequently declared dead about three years ago.” 

“Fresh?” 

“Piping hot, straight outta the oven.” 

“Yikes,” You mutter. You shift in your seat, gazing in the rear and side mirrors. 

“...So how long are you gonna be riding back with me?” You ask. You expect him to say until the end of the trial, but—

“Long as I need to.” 

“That’s gonna get pretty boring. There’s gotta be a better use of your time.” 

“Not if we keep up these delightful little chats.” 

You shoot Magalon a sidelong glance, eyes narrowing a touch. You return your gaze to the road as you reach out, flicking his shoulder petulantly. 

“Ah ah ah,” Magalon warns, “I can cuff you for that.” 

“Well that would just make my night.” 

The comment is off-handed, and loosed without a thought, but you belatedly realize how it may’ve sounded. Your face goes hot. You don’t dare look at Magalon. The two of you are completely silent for a few moments. 

“Maybe when I’m not on shift,” He finally says. 

And it’s in the same vein as what he threw at you the first night he came to your office—that smiling question of your place or mine from the other end of the phone. But it doesn’t infuriate you the same way. It doesn’t make you want to scoff, or roll your eyes. It just excites the nest of butterflies in your belly, sending them swirling. You keep your eyes steadfastly on the road, biting back your next comment—

Will you still be on your shift when we get back to mine?

-- 

You chalk it up to your loneliness. You just need to get laid, that’s all. You’re not into Magalon. You’re not physically or romantically interested in a material witness. Nope. You’re not at all into the man that can clearly barely stand your general presence while having to ferry you home after work. 

What he said, about him being off-shift? That was a reflex, the same shit he probably spits in the office with the guys, or to anyone he meets in a bar. It’s his schtick. 

…His night schtick. 

You could use his night sti—

Nope. No. Not going there. 

-- 

The rides get better. Every night, you’re less and less on edge. You almost forget why he’s been assigned to you. Magalon seems to lighten, too. He’s a little more chatty, more engaging. He asks you how your work day has been, and when you tell him, he seems to actually care. 

The case moves along, and as you get nearer and nearer to trial, you become more and more certain that Webster is really going to hold out for the process, rather than taking the deal. Still, you’ve gained more confidence in your defense. You’ve run through the evidence, the witnesses; your theory of the case is solid, you’ve crafted your opening statement, and drafted your closing statement. 

You’re comfortable—until you’re not. 

--  

You don’t think to call him. It’s still practically broad daylight. You’re planning on heading home early, on getting some fricking rest before the trial the next day. You’d text Magalon when you got home. You’re certain that he was used to you leaving the office so late that there was no way he’d get to your office before you got home. 

Everything seems normal as you leave the parking lot. One car trails you out, but it turns in the opposite direction. You feel yourself relaxing back in your seat, sighing softly. You glance back, watching another car merge into traffic behind you. You take a turn, eyes darting to the rear view as they follow. It’s not that strange. So someone had to take the same turn as you. So what? You’re just reading into things. You eye an upcoming turning lane and switch on your signal, sliding over to it. Your eye catches the car behind you doing the same. Your stomach twists with nerves, your fingers flexing nervously around the steering wheel as you hurriedly push your car through a yellow light. Your heart leaps into your throat as the bar behind speeds up, following you through. 

You speed up a touch, rounding a corner without signaling. The car follows steadily. Okay, this is getting weird. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, eyeing your phone in the console holder. 

“Call Detective Magalon,” You say hurriedly. The phone screen lights up, and the phone rings through the car speakers. You bounce warily in your seat. 

“C’mon, c’mon,” You mumble, “Pick up.” 

“You miss me already, counselor?"

You want to revel in how cute the greeting is, but your nerves supersede your excitement. 

“Can you run a plate for me?” You ask, glancing in the rear view mirror. 

“Sure. Gimme a second.”

You don’t have a second. You speed through another yellow, making a hasty right turn without signalling, mumbling a curse as they follow you. 

“Okay,” Magalon tacks on, “Go ahead.” 

You squint in the rearview, rattling the plate off. You can hear him typing on the other end. 

“...You’re not gonna like this,” He warns. 

“Why?” 

“It’s registered to Webster’s number two.” 

“Well, Magalon, you’re not gonna like this.” 

“What?” 

“It’s following me.” 

“It’s what?” 

You wince at his snap, and the scrape of his chair scraping across the floor. 

“Where are you?” He presses. 

“I was gonna get on the freeway, try to shake ‘em off.” 

“Do not do that.” 

“Why not?” 

“What if you wind up in a gridlock? You can’t move, they get outta the car, and then what?” 

You wince. He has a point. 

"I still have my wasp spray?"

“Where are you?” He presses. You glance at the street sign as you pass it, hurriedly rattling off the cross streets. 

“Stay on the phone with me,” He urges, “Which way are you headed?” 

“Uhhh…” You reach out, glancing hurriedly between the road and your phone as you unlock it. You swipe to your map app, opening it and eyeing the compass rose. “East.” 

“Stay on that avenue if you can. If you have to turn, let me know—if they speed up, if you see anything weird—” 

“Weirder than being followed?” You snip, glancing back at the car. “I don’t like going straight. I feel like a sitting duck.” 

“You start winding through streets, it’s gonna be harder for us to find you.” 

“Us?” You push the car through a light flashing red, pushing it even harder when the other car is stopped short by traffic. “What’s the plan here, Magalon?” 

“Just keep calm, we’re on our way.” 

“That’s the plan?” 

“That’s the only part that concerns you right now. Eyes on the road, don’t do anything stupid.” 

“Stellar advice, detective.”

You’re met with stony silence from the other hand. You swallow thickly. You can hear the crackle of walkie-talkies on their end, the odd comment passed between Magalon and whoever else is in the car. You manage to bite back your plea for him to keep talking, to reassure you that everything’s going to be alright. You just look between the mirror and the road every few seconds, squirming as the vehicle gets closer. 

Don’t do anything stupid, don’t do anything stupid—

“Shit, shit shit shit shit shit,” You hiss as they step on the gas, rear-ending you at a red light. You fight to keep the vehicle in control as you’re spun out into the intersection, cursing again as the car speeds into and side-swipes you, sending you spinning. 

“What the fuck was that?” Magalon spits through the phone. You swallow thickly, trying to gather your bearings. Does anything hurt? Can you still move your arms, your fingers, your neck? Are there any other cars incoming? You draw in a deep breath and push it out shakily, carefully steering your car to the other side of the intersection and shutting it off. 

“Are you still there?” Magalon tacks on, “We’re a block away.” 

“They’re gone,” You answer quietly. “Still headed east. I’m at the corner.” 

“Don’t move.” 

You aren’t going to. You’d snipe back as much, but you can’t bring yourself to. You’re certain you’re going to be sick. You swallow thickly, shutting your eyes and tipping your aching head back against the rest. You can hear sirens creeping closer and closer until they’re practically blaring in your ears. You pick your head up, wincing at the flashing of red and blue lights. You reach down, undoing the seatbelt with shaking, sweating hands. You step out of the car as one pulls up just behind you, screeching to a halt. You lean back against the door, peering at the asphalt. You don’t want to look back at the broken pieces of tail and headlights laying in the intersection; you don’t dare look at the back or opposite side of your car.

“Damn,” You hear behind you. It’s Henderson’s voice. It’s chased by the thudding of sneakers rounding your car, and sneakers are in your view for just a moment before two warm hands land on your shoulders. It makes your tense body melt, your shoulders relaxing under the warm, steady touch.

“Are you alright? Hey,” Magalon hardly waits for your answer before he’s dipping his head into your field of vision. You tip your chin up, clenching your quivering jaw and giving him a short nod. 

“‘M fine.”

It doesn’t sound very convincing, but the fact that you’re able to push the words out at all feels like a miracle. 

“Does anything hurt?” He adds. 

“No.” 

“You sure?” 

Your head does, but after everything that happened, you don’t so much as wanna flinch in front of the guy. 

“I’m sure,” You reiterate. “Shouldn’t you be going after them?” 

“Rest’a the team’s on it.” Magalon’s hands fall away from you. He walks around the car, taking in the damage done. 

“What happened?” He asks, rounding to you again. 

“I got caught at a red. They rear-ended me, then hit me again when they were leaving.” 

Magalon pushes a sigh out of his nose, glancing between you and his teammate as he comes around your car. 

“Tow truck’s on the way,” Henderson reports. “We need an ambulance?” 

“No,” You shake your head. 

“I think we should at least go to the hospital,” Magalon argues. 

“I’m fine,” You insist stubbornly. “My neck feels fine, my back feels fine, I didn’t hit my head on anything.” 

“Doesn’t mean you can’t have a concussion. If you’ve got something and we don’t head it off at the pass now, it’ll be worse tomorrow.”

“I don’t have time for it to be worse tomorrow. We have court tomorrow.” 

“All the more reason to get checked out now.”

You tip your head back, scrubbing your head over your face and squeezing your eyes shut, trying to push back frustrated tears. 

“Fine.” You straighten up, turning to open your door. 

“We’re not taking that car—” Magalon starts to argue. 

“I am getting my crap,” You pronounce primly, lowering yourself into the car. You pull your phone out of the holder before leaning over, taking your bag out of the passenger’s seat. 

“I’ll wait here for the tow,” Henderson offers. 

“C’mon. We’ll handle the report while we wait,” Magalon rests his hand between your shoulder blades, steering you to their car. You find yourself shivering at the thought of climbing up into the cab, but you do it regardless, leaning back and pulling your seatbelt across yourself. You slide down in the seat a little, pointedly ignoring the rubber-necking pedestrians and drivers. You keep your eyes set on the dashboard as Magalon gets into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and starting the car up. 

--  

“...You should’ve told me you were leaving.” 

You’re surprised it’s taken him so long to say so. Magalon’s chastisement is spoken with quiet control. He’s sitting in a seat beside your exam table. Your head is throbbing more viciously now, and your body is beginning to ache. You’ve been at the emergency room for almost an hour, in an exam room for nearly twenty minutes, and you still haven’t seen a single medical professional. 

You nod a little bit. 

“Thought I’d leave early, give you the night off,” You admit. 

“How’d that work out?” 

You think he’s trying to tease you, but it hits right where it hurts. You turn your head from him, jaw quivering again as tired tears rush to your eyes. You raise your head, scrubbing over them again and sniffling softly as you fail to pull in a steadying breath. It’s a moment before you hear the slight scrape of the chair, the soft pad of his sneakers rounding the bed to stop beside you. His hand curls warmly around your wrist, giving it a gentle tug back from your face. You let him, raising your other hand to take its place. 

“Look at me,” Magalon plies quietly. “You told me you were alright.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“If you’re fine, then you probably shouldn’t be here,” Someone chirps. You tip your head up as Magalon lets go of you. Your tear-flooded eyes swim and muddy whoever it is. You can just make out navy blue scrubs. 

“I shouldn’t be,” You agree. “But he’s a worry-wart, so.” 

“Really? How new for you, Ben.” The comment is too familiar a tease. You blink to clear your eyes, getting a better look at the woman. She’s a petite, slight woman, with bronze skin and fiery red hair. She has an almost smug smile affixed on her lips as she eyes the detective beside you. You look between her and Magalon, brows raising when you find his face a placid mask. 

“Angelique,” He greets with a nod. 

“So, what happened in here?” She plucks your chart up, scanning it. 

“Hit and run,” He answers. 

“She can tell me, she clearly didn’t lose the ability to speak in the accident.” 

Oh—damn this is awkward. You shift uncomfortably on the bed, glancing over as Magalon shoves his hands into his pockets. 

“Just what he said,” You agree, “I was rear-ended. And then, uh—Side-swiped.” 

“Mm,” Angelique sets your chart back down, rounding to the opposite side of the bed. “Are you feeling any pain? Soreness in your back or neck?” 

“I have a bit of a headache,” You admit. “But besides that, I’m okay.” 

You can see Magalon shifting in your periphery. Angelique hums sympathetically. You answer each of the questions she rattles off, moving this way and that as she checks your heart rate, your blood pressure. You wince a touch when she shines a penlight in your eye. God, it's bright.

But it's also the least uncomfortable part of being in the room with the two of them. 

-- 

“Alright,” Magalon shuts his car door, looking over at you. “Let’s get you home.” 

It sounds warm and fuzzy, and oddly close as he says it. You just grunt, leaning back in your seat and letting your eyes close. The sun is beginning to dip, the sky darkening. So much for getting home early. 

“...Are you hungry?” He plies. 

“A little,” You admit. “But I just…Wanna be in my space right now.��� 

Your body relaxes a little when he turns the car on this time. You hesitate before you pick your head up a touch, glancing down at your phone and opening a food delivery app. Maybe you can be smooth about this. “What do you wanna eat?” 

“Hm?” 

“You’ve been stuck with me all day. I may as well feed you.”

You can’t just ask him to stay. You already know that your empty, quiet apartment is going to make you twitchy and nervous. Magalon’s quiet for so long that you don’t think he’s going to answer. But—

“There any good chinese places near you?” He asks. 

You almost sigh with relief. You just nod, typing it into the search box. 

“Uh-huh. A couple.” 

--  “So how long did the two of you date for?” 

It's a hunch you've had for a couple of hours. You ask him while his mouth is full. He takes his damn time chewing, digging his fork into the container and stabbing at the remainder.

“...Couple months.” His muffled mumble of concession almost makes you laugh. 

“Seemed like a pretty cool reception for a couple of months. What happened?” 

“Nothing happened. We both have busy schedules. Just didn’t work out.” 

“You ghost her?” 

“...Yeah.”

“Got it,” You nod, taking up your beer. 

“Put that all together pretty quickly, counselor.” 

You smile for the first time in a few hours.

“It’s a tale as old as time, detective.”

You lean back in your seat, just managing to stave off a wince. Your body is beginning to ache a little, but it was as much as you’d been told to expect at the hospital. 

“What about you, huh?” He asks in turn, setting his food down. You frown. 

“What about me?” 

“Seeing anyone?” 

“No,” You scoff. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t have time. In fact, your team is right. This,” You wave a finger between the two of you. “Is the most committed relationship I’ve had in a few years.” 

Magalon’s smile widens, his eyes sparkling with something that you don’t recognize. 

“You oughta get out there, you know,” He offers. “Might find someone else to drive you home.” 

You roll your eyes. “You’re right, I should. Is Henderson single?” 

“No. And you’re not his type.” 

“Oh, well. Thanks for the warning.” 

“...Is he your type?” 

You consider for a moment before you shrug, shaking your head. “I guess not.” 

“What is?” 

It should be the perfect inane conversation—but with your current, nagging, budding crush on this man, it’s starting to feel a little stressful. 

“I don’t know that I have one,” You pass off. 

“Bullshit. Everyone has one.” 

“Well, what’s yours?” 

“We’re not talking about me.” 

“Maybe we should be.” 

Your insistence spurs a shiteating grin from Magalon, as he leans back in his seat. 

“Deflect, deflect, deflect,” He laughs. “That what makes you such a good lawyer?” 

“It can help sometimes,” You concede. “But it’s not the bulk of what I do.” 

He nods. “Well, that I believe.”

You smile, looking down at your table, hesitant. “Thank you,” You offer after a moment. “For…Hanging out. You didn’t have to.” 

“I don’t mind. Figured you might wanna go over my testimony again, anyway.” 

You shake your head. “No need. I trust you.” You meet his eyes as you insist. Something passes over Magalon’s face before he nods a little bit. You give a small smile before turning away again. You wave toward his beer, pushing yourself out of your seat.

“You want another one?” 

“...Nah. I should get going.”

You try not to feel so put out about it, but it makes sense. He's already been there long enough. You nod a little bit, and take your time trailing toward the door. You rest your hand on the doorknob and glance back, finding Magalon shifting his jacket on his shoulders. 

“You know,” You comment. “I think today’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone use your first name.” 

“That so?” He asks, adjusting his collar as he walks toward you. 

“Mhm. Think I’ve mostly heard ‘Magalon’. Or uh…What’d that guy call you at the office? ‘Borracho’?” 

He smiles a little, nodding. “Sounds about right.” He stops in front of you. “Haven’t heard you use it either.” 

You shrug a little. “Do you need me to?” 

“...Not need, no.” 

Before you can read into it, to ask the questions you have, Magalon adds: “I‘ve got one of the guys keeping an eye on the apartment. You don’t feel well, you feel weird, get a feeling that something’s up, you call me. Connor's'll get up here and I'll be by as soon as I can.” 

You nod, fingers flexing around the doorknob. 

“Okay.” 

“I’ll come pick you up for court tomorrow.” 

“Don’t be late.” 

“I won’t be.” 

You begin to turn the doorknob, expecting that to be Magalon’s parting shot, but he rests his hands on your shoulders again. It steadies you, centering your mind the way it did at the scene of the accident. He crowds a little closer, gaze skimming your face. 

“You gonna be okay tonight?” He asks softly. Your stomach flips at his voice, his closeness. You nod a little bit, swallowing thickly. 

“I’ll be fine,” You insist, tipping your chin up defiantly. He smiles a little, giving your shoulders a gentle squeeze before letting go of you. You open the door, stepping back to give him room to leave. 

“Night, Ben.” 

“...Goodnight, counselor.” 

--  

There’s an additional swell of nerves as you get ready for court the next morning. There’s usually a little bit of wariness on your part, but it’s bolstered by the previous day's events. Still, you’re resolved to put on a brave face, and not to let Webster or his crew see you flinch. If this gang of thugs is able to intimidate you, it could spell trouble for the remainder of your time at this job. You can’t just pack your life up again—you will not run from this.

You get a text from Borracho at 7:50 that he’s just parked, and to wait for him inside your apartment. You wait impatiently, shifting from foot to foot, and you're only a little startled when his cop-knock wraps against your door. You open the door, brows raising, chastisement ready on your lips. It goes quiet at the sight of him. You’re used to seeing him in casual button-downs, long- and short-sleeve shirts, sweaters. You know that he’s given testimony before, this is hardly his first rodeo—but you somehow didn’t expect him to look so damn good. 

His button-down and suit pants are well-fitted. His neck tattoo winks at you, half-shrouded by his collar. You force an unaffected expression, stepping into the hall and shutting your door behind yourself. 

“I can’t get from my apartment to the car alone now?” You ask. 

“Do you need to relearn yesterday’s lesson?” 

You purse your lips at his smiling tease, grumbling as he leads the way to the elevator.

“How are you feeling?” 

“I’m alright. A little sore,” You admit. “But nothing unmanageable.” 

“Sore where?” 

“My back.”

He hums sympathetically, nodding you into the elevator and jabbing the lobby button. You lean against the wall, eyeing the numbers as they tick down. 

“...No jacket or tie?” You ask. 

“They’re in the car.” 

“Mm.” 

“Good morning to you, too, by the way.” 

You glance over at Borracho, smiling a little. 

“Good morning, detective.” 

“That’s better, counselor.” 

The two of you step off of the elevator, and you try to ignore the butterflies that flutter in your belly as he rests his hand on your lower back, steering you through the front door.

--  

Any port in a storm, right? That’s what this feeling is. 

Borracho was there for you in a moment of crisis. He took care of you when you were hurt, stayed to make sure you were alright. He’s still ferrying you to and from court every day, even if that day has nothing to do with his testimony. The two of you talk in the car—really talk, like you're friends and not colleagues.

Sure, you like his smile. Sure, he’s unfairly attractive in a suit. Sure, his testimony was damn-near perfect, and you'd practically preened with pride as he held up under cross-examination. 

Your last couple of months have been absolute chaos, and despite your initial rocky start, Ben has been a constant. That’s why you’re nagging crush has blossomed into full-blown infatuation. That’s why you invite him up for a beer every night. 

Thing is, you don’t know why he always agrees. Is it out of politeness? His want to make nice for the case? Is it out of friendship? 

You don’t think he’d insist on bringing over a six pack every now and again if it was just politeness. 

You don’t think he’d make it a point to touch you on the arm or side or the thigh if he was just trying to make nice. 

You don’t think that your long good nights would get even longer if he was just being friendly. 

--  

“They better nail his dick to the wall.” 

You glance toward Ben as he grumbles, unable to help your smile. He’s staring moodily at the things on your shelves, eyeing the contents of the boxes that you’ve finally gotten around to unpacking. 

“Visceral,” You comment. Your eyes shift to the time on your laptop. It’s been about forty minutes since the judge gave the jury their final instructions.

“Would you settle down?” You add. “All of your,” You wave toward him. “You’re making me antsy.” 

“All of my what?” 

“Just, the way you’re looking around. You’re all frowny. Your bad energy is gonna kill my snake plant.” 

Borracho chuckles softly, rounding to sit opposite you at your desk. You’re a little surprised he’s hanging around—there must be other cases that he’s assigned to work, something that he could be following up on. 

“How long do you think they’ll take?” He asks. Before you can answer—before you can tell him not to get his hopes up, that it’ll probably be at least a few days—you get a knock on your door. One of the paralegals pokes her head inside, looking harassed. 

“They need you back in court. Jury has their verdict on the Webster case.”  

Your heart drops into your stomach.

“Already?” You ask, raising your brows. 

“Uh-huh.” 

You hurriedly stand, shoving your laptop shut and beginning to get your things together. 

“Is this good or bad?” Borracho asks. 

“Fuck, I don’t know. It hasn't even been an hour. Half an hour of this would’ve been filling out the paperwork.” 

--  

The jury looks resigned as they file in. None of them meet Webster’s eyes. It’s a good sign, one that bolsters you as the judge addresses the jury. 

It’s cut and dry: guilty of first degree murder. A bolt of vindication bursts through your body as you force a neutral expression. Guilty. Fucking guilty. Even without a confession—even with the odds stacked against you, even with months of intimidating you—guilty. You turn, eyes scanning the rows behind your table and landing on Borracho. He’s grinning, as if smiling extra-wide when you can’t. You give a small nod, your lips twitching with a smile regardless. You’re not sure if your glee is a result of the verdict, or the sight of him. 

--  

It feels frighteningly natural for Borracho to follow you off of the elevator and down the hall to your place. But—you’re celebrating, right? That’s why you feel so buoyant. That’s why you force your overthinking mind quiet as he crowds up against you, waiting for you to open your door. 

That’s why you wind up in bed together. 

…Right?

--  

“Don’t move.” 

You smile at the mumbled order, lifting your head a touch to get a better look at him. His eyes are closed, his head resting comfortably on your bare belly. You reach down, gently combing your fingers through his sex-ruffled hair. He groans softly as you massage his scalp, his head rising and following with your gentle giggles. He tips his chin up, smiling as he catches your eye. 

“What made you think I was gonna move?” You ask. 

“Felt your legs tensing.”

You hum. “Put that together pretty fast.” 

“That’s why they pay me.”

You watch as Borracho pushes himself up, bracing himself over you. You reach up, gently stroking his rough cheek, and steadying your hand there as he leans in for a kiss. You sigh, lips slipping against his. You smile, giggling again as he plants his knees against the mattress, lazily rolling his hips against yours. You’re still slick, still aching from him. You let your head tip back against the pillow again, blinking up at him and sliding the tip of your finger along his lower lip. Quick as a flash, his tongue pokes out, swiping against your skin. 

You smile, leaning up and pecking his lips. 

“Alright, get off of me,” You wave at his chest. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

“I wanna get some water. Is that alright with you, detective?” 

He grunts, rolling off of you and settling down on his back, yawning widely. 

“I’ll allow it, counselor.”

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ;  @paintballkid711 ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight; @recklessworry ; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @nolanell ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @thesandbeneathmytoes

[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

[brandyllyn]

Mysterious

Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x f!reader [no use of y/n]

Summary: Benny tries to follow-up up the next day. Words: 4.6k 

My Masterlist

Rating: Explicit. Warnings: language. smut. cannon typical violence, oral (m receiving), PIV.

The long awaited sequel to Adventurous. Only took 3 years.

Benny’s phone was unmoving where it sat on his desk. Screen blank. He kept glancing at it, occasionally reaching over and lighting the screen up to see if he had new messages. Then he scrolled into his texts, pulling up 'Kiki' and staring at the single bubble sitting there.

Hey sexy.

It felt like a safe enough opening. Not too eager. He glanced at his watch and cursed, it hadn’t even been twelve hours since he’d seen you. Had draped his coat around your shoulders and walked you to your car. Pressing you against the cool metal and giving you a long deep kiss.

He could still taste you.

Fuck he could still feel you. The ghost of your skin on his fingertips. The clench of you around his cock. He grunted and adjusted himself, shifting in his chair slightly as the detective’s report swam in front of his eyes. He needed to get his shit together or some cholo was going to shoot his ass.

"Borracho." 

Benny whipped his head up at Nick’s voice. "Ya boss?"

"You got that ballistics report?"

Benny rifled through the papers on his desk, pulling the file and handing it off to Nick. His boss thumbed through the pages then tapped him on the shoulder with it. "Nice job last night."

His brow’s drew together and he gave Nick a confused look. "With what?"

"The-" Nick made a thrusting motion with his hips, his voice going high and mocking. "Oh Benny. Benny!" The larger man laughed and Benny rolled his eyes.

"Fuck off."

"I’m just saying, we had a bet going you couldn’t even get it up anymore.” Nick sniped as he walked away, “Cost me a hundred bucks."

"My man’s a stallion," Henderson shouted from across the room. "I knew you had it in you brother!"

See this? This was why he never did shit at the parties. These fucking assholes right here. Taking what was hands down one of the best nights of Benny’s life and putting bets on it. Bets they didn’t even have the decency to include him on.

And his phone remained dishearteningly blank.

“She give you a fake number?”

His eyes darted to Zapata but he tried not to react. “Who?”

“That girl, the one you been pining over for weeks.” It was his turn to turn on that mocking, high pitch voice, “Benny.”

“Just cause you can’t get a girl to scream your name…”

Zapata laughed, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “She give you her work number?”

Now that thought hadn’t occurred to him. Maybe he’d gotten lost in a sea of other men. Picking up the phone he looked at his message once more.

Hey sexy.

Not a damn thing to identify him - just one text in probably a mountain of others.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, thumbs already moving.

Hey sexy.

You’d been staring at the text all day, a flutter deep in your chest each time you opened your phone. This was the first time you’d had to really think about it, about how to respond. From the moment you went on shift it had been non-stop calls. Suddenly another bubble appeared.

Shit. It’s Benny. From the hotel.

You snorted into your mid afternoon coffee. As if you could forget. You gave a quick search for your crew, who must still be in line, before typing.

I assumed.

The reply was instantaneous. Never got your name.

You gonna run a background check on me?

No. His reply came through a minute later. Just wanna know whose name I should be groaning when I jerk off later.

Fuck, was it hot in here? It was hot in here. You felt warm suddenly, a thread of desire curling in your abdomen.

That okay?

You didn’t hesitate before sending back, Yeah but it’s gonna cost you. You waited about ten seconds before sending, Kidding.

At almost the same moment his response came through. K.

You laughed, tilting the phone away when your partner got back with his lunch. What a doof. Just for that you should make him pay for dinner. Or drinks. Or whatever you ended up doing between your busy shifts and whatever the fuck it was a moderately dirty cop got up to.

Mulling it over you swiped a french fry, ignoring your partner’s cry of outrage. Benny hadn’t seemed dirty - he seemed like a pretty nice guy. But the drugs in the room and the hired girls screamed that something hinky was going on there. And you definitely didn’t want anything to do with that.

But you really wanted something to do with Benny.

A conundrum.

The radio squawked and you answered it automatically, making note of the location and starting to make guesses on what you would need.

Before putting the phone away you typed one last message.

I get off at seven, want to meet up for coffee or something?

Coffee.

Benny could do coffee. It would almost be a date. Just you and him sitting at a café somewhere. Well, to be honest probably a Starbucks - but somewhere that wasn’t a bedroom where he might be able to get your real name out of you.

"Guy’s gonna bleed out," Henderson pointed out blandly, pulling Benny out of his musings.

"No he ain’t." Nick squatted down next to their suspect, the only guy left behind on a raid gone bad. "He’s not going to bleed out until I let him, are ya champ?"

The man groaned and Benny rolled his eyes, searching his pockets for a smoke. The second ambulance was pulling up, the first already on its way with the cop who’d gotten shot in it. Nick was pissed about that. Benny was too, to be fair, but he also thought the guy was an idiot to get shot the way he had.

Nick slapped the guy’s face lightly. "Stay with me buddy, where is the safe house? Where did your friends go?" An EMT went to push past and Nick held up a hand. "Not yet."

"Sir we have to-"

Nick whirled around, glaring daggers. "You can help him when I say you can help him. Now step back and let me do my fucking job."

The two EMTs gave each other worried glances then moved back with the stretcher. One of them turned and rushed to the ambulance, probably to call their supervisor. Even more fucking paperwork and there was no way in hell Nick was gonna do it. Benny met Zapata’s eyes and the other man raised an eyebrow before sighing and following after.

"Yeah that’s right buddy. Help is here. But I’m gonna pronounce you dead on scene real fucking quick if you don’t-"

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Someone shoved past Benny and he had just enough time to register the uniform and the voice before you squared up with Nick, arms akimbo. Benny’s cigarette dangled from his lips, unlit.

"I’m doing my fucking-" Nick started but you took a step closer, poking a finger into the center of his chest.

"No, you’re keeping me from doing mine. Dave, Jorge, get in there. Now."

The two men darted in, ignoring the glare from Nick. "You are interfering with an-"

You cut him off again and Benny imagined he could see steam coming out of Nick’s ears. "I swear to God if you finish that sentence I will have your badge." 

Nick glared. You glared. Benny had half a chub. The two EMTs lifted the suspect onto the stretcher. Finally Nick grunted, "Connors, go with them, see if you can get anything."

The man nodded and followed the EMTs. You nodded once, decisively, then turned on your heel. You looked taken aback to see Benny and he gave you a small smile when he saw how your face lit up at the sight of him.

"Hey," you squeezed his arm as you went by. "Gotta go. Later right?"

He watched your ass as you jogged off, hopping into the front of the ambulance and expertly guiding it out of the assembled police vehicles. He waited until you were out of sight before turning back to his team.

"What?"

"That the hooker from last night?"

Benny sipped his coffee, eyebrow raised. "Don’t know what you’re talking about, I saw a stretcher jockey."

Nick turned quickly, "The hooker?"

Zapata was back, hands shoved in his pockets. "Tried to stop her boss, she threatened to fucking deck me."

"You let a little girl scare you?" Nick asked incredulously.

"Well she wasn’t about to fuck me."

Nick fumed, hands gesturing wildly. "What the fuck is going on?"

"The EMT," Zapata said before Benny could stop him. "The chick that came running here like a bat out of hell? Benny’s girl?"

Nick wasn’t dumb.  "Wait, that was the girl? The one screaming through the walls?" Benny didn’t confirm it, there was no need. The recognition was flowing over Nick’s face like a wave. "Find out who she is. Report her for conduct."

"Wait a fucking minute," Benny’s styrofoam cup hit the ground, his hand catching Nick’s elbow. "That’s not-"

"Did you see what she just did?" Nick rounded on him. "We may have just lost our only lead because of her. I want her reprimanded. I want her under review. I want her fucking mom to know how she pays her fucking rent."

Benny groaned, meeting Henderson’s eyes. Then he pulled out his phone and texted you back. 

Yeah, he needed to see you. Seven worked.

You were running late. 

A lot late.

You’d managed to send Benny a quick text to let him know, thankfully, but it meant that you were pulling into the parking lot for the little coffee shop more than a half hour late. Frantically, you leaned up to look at yourself in the rear view mirror, swiping some color on your lips and wishing that you’d thought of bringing more. You stripped your uniform shirt off and quickly emptied your pockets of anything too ridiculous.

It would have to do. 

Benny was already there, sitting outside and thumbing through his phone. You paused a moment and watched him, a smile tugging on your lips as you realized you’d never seen him in daylight. His hair wasn’t black, in the sun you could see the deep brown highlights in it. Jesus, he was handsome.

He stood when he saw you, rising to his feet and reaching to pull your chair out and you sank into it with a sigh and an apology already sprinting to your lips which he brushed off instantly.

"Don’t worry about it, I know as well as anyone how these shifts run over. Can I get you something?"

You gave him your order and busied yourself with your phone while he was gone, the early evening California sun finally cooling into something reasonable and not unbearably hot.

"Here ya go," he slid your cup over and you wrapped your fingers around the warm plastic. 

“I gotta warn ya,” he grimaced, “my boss isn’t too happy with how things went down today.”

“The big guy with the bad attitude?” you asked before snorting. “I don’t answer to him.”

“He’s gonna report you,” Benny continued.

“For saving a guy’s life?”

“For the other thing.” You must have looked confused and he made a vague gesture with his cup. “You know… the thing.”

“I do not know.”

“Last night.”

Brow furrowing, you raised one eyebrow at him. “He’s going to report me for the party with all the drugs? Your party?”

“Not my party,” he quickly demurred, “but… yeah. Probably not the drugs part but the other part.”

It clicked suddenly and your eyes widened. “You? He’s going to report… me and you?” His lips were a thin line and your heart sank. “You’re married.”

He blinked at you and then recoiled, “What? No.”

What else could it be, though? “Oh God, I slept with a married man. My mother is going to kill me.”

A hand grabbed at yours and he gripped you hard enough to draw your eyes to his. “I’m not married, sweetheart.”

“Then why would anyone care that we slept together?”

He worked his jaw, glancing around before leaning in closer. “The business part of it.”

Okay, you had no idea what was going on. “The hell are you talking about?”

“I know I didn’t pay you, but-”

“Pay me?” You burst out, “For-?”

Oh shit.

“You think I’m a hooker.”

It wasn’t a question and Benny’s eyes darted to the side before he answered. “I know you said you’d just started but-”

"I’m not," you swallowed, feeling your face heat up. "I’m not a… Jesus."

"Oh." He paused, staring over your shoulder. "Fuck."

“I mean I get it,” you rushed out, “I knew Monica got paid… I just thought. I mean, you and I, I thought we…” you trailed off as you looked at him. "I’m sorry… if that’s not what you wanted that’s okay. We can just forget-"

“Baby, when you said you don’t usually-”

“I said I don’t,” you corrected quickly.

“Do this sort of thing-” he trailed off suddenly, staring at you. “You telling me you really just stumbled into all that?”

Oh God, this was so fucking embarrassing. You looked anywhere but at him, trying to figure out how you could get out of the situation. “Yes.”

“Shit.”

This could not get any worse. “I should go.”

His hand was holding yours in an instant, his eyes intense, “Don’t do that. I fucked this up. Jesus… I really should have taken you somewhere nice."

A wide smile broke out on your face and you began to laugh. Benny’s eyes shot up to yours and after a moment you saw his lips pull into a smile as well. Then he was laughing too and you felt a bit of tension ease off of you.

"I should have guessed," you wheezed once you caught your breath. "I knew Monica was… an entrepreneur, I just thought you realized…”

"I shouldn’t have assumed," he butted in. 

"Benny," you replied with a scolding frown, but you could barely hold the expression from the laughter still bubbling past your lips. "How could you not?"

"Well," he took a sip of coffee and leaned back in his chair. "That outfit the first night should have been a dead giveaway."

You gasped dramatically. "How dare you, I looked great."

"You did," his eyes roamed over you for a moment and you felt suddenly warm. "You do."

Biting your lip you tried not to tug on your t-shirt. Or your cargo pants. Benny didn’t seem to notice, in fact he looked serious. More than that, he looked turned on. His tongue slowly licked along his lower lip, his eyes warm as they drifted down to your chest.

"Wait, if you weren’t there to make money, why’d you come back the second time?"

"I told you," you shrugged. "I went to find you."

Another one of those glances around - Benny seemed to always have an eye out on who might be watching - and then he slid into the chair closest to yours, a hand settling on your thigh. His face is so close you could see the flecks of amber in his eyes. 

“Keep saying things like that and I’ll start to think you like me.”

It was so easy to lean forward, to cross the small distance and kiss him. It was short, sweet even, and you saw his eyelashes flutter as you slowly pulled back. “Benny I-”

It’s like lightning, how quick he moved, one hand jerking at your thigh and the other cupping the back of your neck. He’s devouring you, his tongue thrusting inside until you’re moaning and wrapping your fingers into the edges of his shirt.

“Ahem.”

The impolite cough came from over your shoulder and Benny broke the kiss to glare at whoever had done it. You’re too stunned to speak, lips parted and panting breaths making you dizzy. When his eyes met yours again he leaned forward slightly before stopping himself with a rueful smile.

“Stop looking at me like that or I’m going to fuck you on this table.”

“Please?”

It was not what you meant to say but then again, it was exactly what you wanted. There’s a sharp scrape of chair legs and suddenly Benny is standing next to you, holding a hand out. “You coming?”

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip. “Soon I hope.”

He growled and pulled you towards the parking lot, eyes scanning over the assembled vehicles. It was still broad daylight and you were curious if he really intended to take you in the backseat of some Prius.

Actually, there was no way Benny drove a Prius.

“I live about fifteen minutes away.” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it and making him look even hotter. “I know I should -”

You don’t let him finish the thought, squeezing his hand and fishing your phone out to the Maps app. “Where is it? I’ll follow.”

He rattled off the address quickly but seemed reluctant to let you go, cupping your cheek and giving you another one of those soul-stirring kisses before finally nodding and turning towards a beat up pickup.

Yeah, that made sense. And you may have made a mental note that it had a bench seat. It was just good information to keep track of.

His apartment was a shithole.

Benny had run at least two lights on his way back, eager to beat you and have some time to make the place presentable. A sweep of his arm got rid of an empty pizza box and assortment of beers into the trash. He alternately sorted clothes and junk into his hamper, shoving it into a closet just as there was a knock on the door. He glanced into the bathroom - putting the seat down - and then the bedroom which looked fine. 

It would have to do.

The door was only halfway open when you pushed your way inside and he had the presence of mind to shove it shut with one hand even as your lips found his. He had wondered if last night might have been a fluke - a little too much to drink and the sheer shock of seeing you again. But you were warm and soft and pliable beneath his palms even as you backed him up to his couch.

You settled into his lap, fingers drifting over his neck and he shuddered at the gentleness of it. Lips soft on his and he moaned, curling his fingers around your hips and tugging you closer. Your fingers were struggling with the buttons of his shirt and he let go of you just long enough to undo the bare minimum, pulling the cloth over his head and tossing it to the side. The next moment he had his t-shirt off too, shivering when your fingers sank into the whorls of hair on his chest.

“Benny,” you gasped and he snarled in return, gripping your neck so he could kiss you even deeper. Your t-shirt landed next to his and he undid your bra with a practiced flick of his fingers.

“Look at these tits,” he grunted, cupping them in his palms. With a low groan he dipped his head down, softly tonguing at the peaked flesh. You squeaked in return and he smiled, nibbling softly before moving to the other.

He almost missed your hands dipping between your bodies, pulling at his zipper and then those hot fingers were pressed to the cotton of his briefs. There was no fucking way he could miss that, and especially not when you stroked along his length until you found the slit you could slip inside and touch his bare skin.

“Take your pants off?”

He was nodding before you finished, setting you on your feet and toeing his boots off. You shimmied out of your own pants with a little hip wriggle that made the corners of his mouth turn up. Grey panties you probably got at Target. Nothing sexy about it at all, other than the fact that they were on you. They were the sexiest thing he’d ever seen there.

That was, the sexiest thing until you dropped to your knees between his thighs and put that hot little mouth on him.

“Fuck me,” he groaned, resisting the urge to grip at your hair. Lot of women didn’t like that and there was no way he was going to risk you stopping just yet. Your fingers tugged at his waistband and he lifted his hips to help out, hardly noticing they were still hanging on one ankle when you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his stomach.

“You made me feel so good last night,” you murmured and he felt a shiver crawl down his spine. “I’ve been thinking all day about returning the favor.”

His mouth was dry, his eyes wide. You glanced up at him through long lashes, flashing a quick smile before taking the head of his cock in your mouth.

“Ah fuck,” he groaned again. Everything was soft and wet and he could barely think straight. You made a little moan of pleasure and it shot straight to his balls.

Benny had had his fair share of blowjobs in his life. Not as many as he might have liked, but a fair few. There’d even been a girl back in his twenties who could deep throat like a champ. No gag reflex at all. She was batshit crazy too, but he’d cared less about that at the time.

He’d had women suck him like a hoover in the front seat of his truck. On their knees in the shower while he held wet hair back for them. Sprawled on his bed on a Sunday morning while he drifted between sleep and wakefulness.

But not one of them had enjoyed it this much. Not one had made such pleased little noises, nuzzling against him and humming not for his pleasure, but because they couldn’t seem to help it.

“You like doing that?” he asked, trying to keep the note of incredulity out of his voice.

You released him with a pop, giving him a wide smile before biting your lower lip. “Is it too much?”

“Fuck no.” He wrapped a cautious hand behind your neck, thumb stroking under your ear. “It’s just right, baby.”

You let him pull you forward, mouthing at the head of his cock before taking it deep once more. Your fingers stroked along his thighs, thumbs rubbing across the sensitive flesh so softly it made him squirm. He let his head fall back, jaw hanging slack, enjoying the feel of your tongue cradling him.

But he wasn’t young anymore, and he’d be damned before he passed up another chance to fuck you.

With one hand he eased you away from him, taking a moment to get himself under control. You blinked up at him with another one of those worried expressions and he quickly pulled you back into his lap, cupping his hands around your jaw and diving in to taste you.

His bed felt a million miles away but he had promised you something nicer and he was going to fucking deliver on that. A gentle nudge had you on your feet and he followed, pulling you in for a kiss and guiding you backwards towards his room. There was a moment where you hit your hip on a door frame and he ran a soothing palm over it even as he reached out to flip the light.

“Get on the bed.”

It was a growl, low and deep and full of every drop of his own want. But you did as he said without question, crawling onto the flannel bedspread and giving him a sultry look over your shoulder.

“You coming?”

He took his time, studying the arch of your back while he slid open his bedside drawer. He flicked the condom onto the bed and then set his knee next to it, sliding a hand along your flank.

Smack.

You let out a startled yelp and he rubbed his fingers over where it must have stung. “Couldn’t help myself.”

You started to turn, sitting up, but he slid behind you - gripping your waist with one hand and reaching up to cup the base of your neck with the other. His cock nudged against your panties and even through the thin cotton he could feel how slick you were.

“You ready?” he asked with a low groan, watching as you arched your back and folded in front of him, head resting on your arms. 

“Fuck me Benny.”

No need to tell him twice. He ripped the foil open with his teeth, rolling the condom on and then slipping your panties down. You helped him shimmy them off, resettling your knees wider as he pulled you back to him. He gave short, shallow thrusts against your heat. Not trying to slip inside, just feeling you coat him. On one he pressed up against your asshole and heard you squeak.

It was goddamn adorable.

“Maybe next time,” he murmured with a smirk, holding the base of his cock and lining himself up. You might’ve tried to answer but whatever it was turned into a long moan as he slid inside. 

It was sheer bliss, feeling you clench around him. He could feel every shuddering exhale from your body, every quiver. His head rolled back on his shoulders and he gripped at your waist as he fell into a rocking rhythm.

But it felt too impersonal, too distant. This position might be good for another time but he was still getting to know you, still learning all of the things that made you moan and squirm. He couldn’t tell from here, couldn’t see your face, couldn’t see how you reacted as he searched for what was going to make you come.

“C’mere,” he grunted, pulling at your shoulder and sitting back, settling you on his lap. From here he could rub his lips on your neck, tilt your head to the side and study your face while he fucked up inside of you.

“Benny,” you moaned, reaching one hand back and sinking it into his hair. He cupped your tits in his hands, thumbing at your nipples and watching as you bit into your lip hard enough to leave a mark.

“You gonna come like this?”

“I think-” you panted and he slid a hand down, delving between your thighs and finding your swollen clit. The sound you made went straight to his cock, thighs shaking and fingers tightening in his hair until it almost hurt.

“That’s it, sweetheart, chase it.”

You called his name when you came and he had to admit, he liked that part. Had liked it last night and even more tonight. He sank his teeth into your shoulder, pumping his hips and filling the condom with cum he’d much rather see dripping out of you.

Panting breaths came from you both, chests almost in sync. He nuzzled against your neck, tilting his head slightly until you finally loosened your grip on his hair.

“Good?” he asked, hiding a smile when you snorted in return.

“Passable, maybe we should give it another shot.”

With a grin he collapsed onto the bed next to you, pulling at your shoulders until you fell into his arms. He needed to get up, tie off the condom and see if he had a clean washcloth to offer you. But that could wait for later. Right now he had one itching mystery he hadn’t yet solved.

“I still don’t know your fucking name.”

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[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.”

[mrsbjimenez]

Just a girl from out of town...

(18+) (Explicit) (Dirty) (F word) (Oral)

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

You're all excited for this well deserved break out of your small home town… You'll be visiting your uncle and his family for a few weeks… As you get to the city in which your uncle lives, he asked that you be dropped off by the taxi at his friend's auto body shop where he'll later pick you up on his way from work… After a few hours on a bus and taxi drive, you're quite tired, everything's new but you're excited to be here, luggage in the hand and handbag over the shoulder you head straight inside the auto body shop… Not all too sure where you're supposed to go, you walk up to the office where you see a man busy eating his lunch, you don't wanna bother but before you could knock on his door, the man calls out "Heyyy, you must be the girl from out of town?"… A little suprised but you answer "yeah, that's me"… The man puts down his lunch, gets up from his chair, takes a sip of his soda from the take out cup, looks at you from top to bottom… You're a little intimidated by him but you reach out your hand, introduce yourself and he introduces himself too - "Nice to meet you, I'm Rosco"… Thank you so much, likewise, you answered…

You take a seat, you're feeling a little shy to really talk much but you do admire the view of this rough exterior, tattooed, masculine man in his ripped white vest in front of you… You confidently ask him, "so, this is all yours, your shop and hard work?"… He answers with a smile, "yeah, many years of hard work, blood, sweat and almost tears, today it's mine"… You look at him with a big smile and say, "impressive, you can be proud"… He appreciates your kind words and just looks at you with a smile and eyes that looks straight into your soul…

Your uncle arrives, you get up, pick up your luggage and handbag, you look to Rosco and say "seems like my visit is over but I'll have to come visit again to hear more on your success story"… He smirks and then starts laughing "it's gonna have to be a longer visit next time because it's a long story"… You're smiling ear to ear - "Great, can't wait"… You walk out of his office and head on out to your uncle's car…

A few days into the visit, you feel it's nice seeing and spending time with your uncle and his family but being left alone at their home each day whilst they're at work, is starting to get boring and you feel quite neglected by your family… You decide to call a local cab and head on over to the auto body shop… Rosco is standing outside, suprised to see it's you getting out of the cab and calls out from a distance asking, "the family already making you feel like the third wheel?"… You're relieved he already understands, "yeah, is it that obvious hey and I can no longer wait to hear more about your success story"… He looks at you with that deep serious look and forehead full of frowns and a slight smile, knowing that you can't be that interested in auto body shop and car stories… The two of you head inside, he makes you both a cup of coffee and you guys just hit it off, hours pass of endless talking, laughing, the sun is starting to set but neither of you have a worry in the world…

You get back to your uncle's home past midnight, suprised to see the kitchen light is still on, you quietly go inside to find your uncle awaiting you by the kitchen table, he looks at you furiously, asks where have you been and before giving you a chance to answer he says you should pack your bags and leave in the morning because they can't have this irresponsibility in their house… You're absolutely shocked and tells him you're a grown adult woman that's allowed to go out and that can take care of herself, but you're fine with it as they don't really care whether you're there or not… So the next morning you're all packed, say your greetings to the family and off you go in the cab, no idea where to now exactly but you ask the cab driver to drop you off at the auto body shop… You're upset about the fight and leaving the family but excited to see the one and only person that's made you feel welcome… Rosco makes you a cup of coffee and strokes you on your back, "it's gonna be okay, I'm glad you came here, we can always talk gearboxes and tyres to cheer you up"… You just laugh and says "sounds like a plan"… After a long day, you've booked yourself in at the motel closest to the shop where you'll be staying now…

And so two weeks pass by with you being at the auto body shop everyday, you've started helping Rosco out at the shop - dealing with customers, packing new stock, meeting his mom, book keeping, stock taking, accounting and cleaning out his office and adding a few nice new touches… His mom phoned to asked whether it'll be possible for the two of you to stop by her house the one day, you guys go over to her place and she's just an absolute angel, welcoming you as her own daughter… She asks if it'll be possible if you could help her the one day with baking for the church and you're thrilled she asked you and you answer with much excitement and say, "of course auntie, I'd love to help, thank you so much"… On your way out, you walk ahead of Rosco, his mom grabs him by the arm and says softly - "son, I want grandbabies you know"… Rosco looks shocked by his mama's suggestion and says, "mama!! It's not like that, she's quite a few years younger than I am"… "Fantastic", his mom says - "more grandbabies then"… Rosco just looks at her, smiles and kisses her on her forehead and says, "see you in the morning ma, love you"…

After a busy day of baking at mama's house and a busy day for Rosco alone at the shop, after picking you up, he asks you, "would you like to go to the greatest Cuban joint in the city?"… You answered very excited, "Heck yeah!!!! I'd absolutely love that, let's go!"… You guys get to the Cuban restaurant which is more of a get together, dancing, cocktails and very lively spot - Mi Gente from Havana Son playing loudly, Cuban flags hanging and waving everywhere, the atmosphere and energy is like walking into Havana itself… You guys enjoy and eat a lot of Cuban cuisine, meet great people, laugh till your bellies hurt and although neither one of you can dance, you invite Rosco to the dance floor, you both just enjoy the vibe and enjoying the Cuban music, you're in each other's arms, not saying a word, standing very closely together with Rosco's hand firmly on your back, finally your eyes are just set on each other as though you're the only two people on the planet… After a few hours of just being in each other's arms with intense eye contact, Rosco pulls you even closer into him and whispers in your ear, "I want you in my arms all night tonight away from the dance floor"… You pull back a little and whisper into his ear, "so take me there"… After greeting everyone at the party, you guys head on home - Rosco's home… Still sitting in his truck outside, you thank him for taking you to the Cuban place, it was the most fun and coolest experience you've ever had…

You get to the door and after Rosco unlocks the door, you place your hand on his hand and your eyes just lock, he looks at you with those big brown eyes and grabs you with his hands wrapped around your face and passionately kisses you, your arms wrapping around his neck… You both find your way through the door, undressing each other vigorously, kissing non stop, he tightens his hands beneath your ass and picks you up, your legs wrap around him and your hands are tightly grabbing his face… You get to his bedroom, he lays you down on his bed, he kisses you in your neck, his moustache and goatee tickling and slightly scratching you, which just intensifies your arousal, he interlocks his hands into yours as he holds your hands back… He works his way down to your breasts, looks at them with pure appreciation and starts kissing and sucking on one and soon moves over to the next… Your breathing starts deepening as the pleasure floods through your veins… He tightens his lips and clamps your nipple between them, gently moving slightly up and down for more stimulation, he pulls up softly until your nipple releases from his lips firm grip, the intensity from the release sends you over the edge, your body literally jumps with pleasure, your back arched and your moans increases significantly… He makes sure to give equal attention to both your breasts… He kisses, nibbles, bites, touches, and licks on all the right places, you couldn't ask for more, he does everything right - this man is the king of foreplay… He knows exactly what your body craves… He pulls down your panties and continues his work of magic on your dripping wet pussy for him… Eating you out like this was his life long goal, his strokes are gentle where wanted and hard where needed… "Oh Rosco"!! You cried out from immense pleasure… He gets up, standing next to the bed and unbuckles his jeans and belt… You look at him as he pulls his pants down and reveal his gorgeous, hard erection and breathtakingly big dick, you bite your lower lip for the delight displayed in front of you, you sit up and move to the edge of the bed closer to him, you stroke his dick and looks at him with so much appreciation, to show your appreciation you start kissing him, softly licking him and eventually taking him in your mouth - he's a bit big so only his head's front part can be taken inside your mouth, you suck him as hard as you possibly can, Rosco's hands grabs your head with his fingers gliding through your hair, pulling you closer into his dick, he soon pulls away as he doesn't want to cum yet, he kisses you hard whilst your neck bends backwards with his hands grabbing your face… He grabs you by your thighs, lifts you up and moves you upwards on the bed… Positioning himself onto you, holding your hands back, he looks deep into your eyes and you spread your legs as wide as possible for him, he lowers himself onto you and starts entering you… Your pussy pulses for him… The sensations are exhilarating… As he pushes himself deeper into you, you're experiencing the 'ring of fire' sensation from his big dick entering your pelvic floor… It hurts a little but it's much more pleasurable than painful… He's gentle but passionate… Your moans are consistent now, your nails dig into his broad shoulders and he slips into you, your body completely flushed with the intensifying pleasures… He knows that hurt a bit for you and whispers in your ear, "are you okay baby?"… You can hardly speak but you answer, "yesss baby, please don't stop"… He kisses you in your neck and keeps moving his pelvis forward and backwards as he thrusts himself inside you… You sing his name through every moan…

His thrusts continue with harder and faster motions now… Your super tight pussy clench him tighter after every thrust… Your legs are wrapped around him, your foot stroking his buttocks and thighs… With every thrust your pleasure accelerates, you never knew feelings like this and pleasure of this magnitude exists… He's fucking your brains out… Your arms and hands are wrapped around the top of his head with your fingers firmly in his smoothly, gelled back, black hair… Your toes start to curl, you heart races, your body is shaking, Rosco thrusts harder and faster, fucking you wildly, knowing you're both about to cum together, your moans are shifting to screams, you grip tighter on Rosco as you come to climax, screaming, shaking and completely overwhelmingly wowed with the greatest, most amazing, incredibly electrifying and earth shattering orgasm and sex you've ever had and could ever have… Rosco also completely overwhelmed, barely able to speak, he murmurs, "that was fucking incredible"… He slowly pulls his still throbbing dick from your tight clenching, pulsing pussy… Your foreheads lean against each other and you manage a passionate kiss, when he slides out of you, you can only gasp on air with a deep breathless moan… He collapses next to you, breathless and overwhelmed with the pleasure of his powerful orgasm, he pulls you closer where you turn to your side laying in his arms with your head resting on his chest, he wraps you in his arms, your fingers slowly trace his tattoos, he kisses you on your head and says to you, "Please don't ever go"… You tilt your head up and look him straight in the eye and answers, "I'm not going anywhere"…

♡♡ The End ♡♡

[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)