#pat O’Brien

[citizenscreen]

Pat O'Brien and Jean Harlow in Víctor Fleming’s BOMBSHELL (1933)

[johngarfieldtribute]

Julie doing “stuff” with famous people (20th post)

Lana Turner poses with Julie in a photo shoot to promote THE POSTMAN ALWAYS RINGS TWICE. Love that I.D. bracelet!

Behind the scenes of BODY AND SOUL with Hazel Brooks.

Getting wet with Ida Lupino in THE SEA WOLF.

In conversation with director, Anatole Litvak, and costar Eddie Albert on the set of OUT OF THE FOG.

A celebrity filled group poses for the premiere of DODGE CITY. Julie is flanked by Errol Flynn and Humphrey Bogart.

On the dock with Claude Rains in a scene from DAUGHTERS COURAGEOUS.

Posing in a scene from TORTILLA FLAT with Hedy Lamarr.

William Conrad is over Julie’s shoulder as they prepare to film a scene from BODY AND SOUL.

Posing with Rosemary Lane in a photo to promote BLACKWELL’S ISLAND.

Julie and Pat O’Brien play oil men and are shown in a photo from FLOWING GOLD.

[oldhollywoodholla]

Pat O’Brien (1931)

[eclecticpjf]

Now watching:

[stone-cold-groove]

Have fun. Pat O’Brien’s - New Orleans.

[hunterthecharmer]

Unexpected - Part 2

Sorry for the delay everyone. Here's part 2! Hope you all like it :)

Summary: You work for an events company and end up being assigned as a talent handler for a 2 week long convention. Your co-worker ends up assigned to Glen Powell, but you catch his eye. Can you remain professional and keep him from knowing you're actually a pretty big fan of his?

This is my inspiration for the outfit he’s wearing :)

Part 2

It’s the middle of the week, and every day has been spent coordinating with Dylan O’Brien’s team to get every piece of his schedule nailed down. He only had one assistant in the office currently which made your job a bit easier. Savannah, on the other hand was sipping her lattes with her feet kicked up in the corner of your office while you took your meetings each day as Glen’s assistant sent everything over via email or text, to not fill her day up with Zoom meetings.

“This probably means he’s a control freak.” Savannah muses, chewing on the end of her pen as she notates an email from his team. “Look, we both have our work cut out for us. Have you opened your package yet from his team?” You ask, waving your mailer in front of her with a grin. You already knew she was going to want to swap one of the items.

“Wait, what? No! What did they send?” She grins, tearing open the envelope to pull out a large autographed headshot of Glen. Some pens, a lanyard and a handwritten note from his assistant come tumbling out with it. Savannah pouts, immediately shifting her eyes to the one you’re holding. “C’mon, don’t make me beg! Let me see it!” She’s giddy as she shakes your arm, and you giggle as you dramatically remove it from its sleeve. “Trade ya?” You wink at her, before you both search the hall for some empty frames and get Jim from IT to help the two of you hang them up in your offices.

As soon as he’s finished, Savannah comes tapping on your door. “Thanks for trading. Dylan is my man! I hope he’s nice, I don’t know how I’ll feel if he’s rude..” her voice trails off, and you pat her on the shoulder. “He’ll be great. Don’t stress it! You’ll do a great job keeping him on track.” She smiles at your reassurance. “Sooo, are you going to pack your Longhorn hat?”

You gasp at her, crumpling a nearby scrap of paper and throwing it at her. “Listen, that hat is my only one that’s black, it goes with everything, and…yes, it may or may not have only been bought because of Glen. BUT, of course it’s coming. You never know what Tennessee weather will bring!” You smirk at her before flipping off the lights in your office, following Savannah down the hallway to the parking deck.

----

“Wow, it really is beautiful here.” You mutter to yourself as you climb into the shuttle taking you from the airport to the event location. The sky seemed a richer hue of blue, and the large trees shaded the vehicles the entire trip. You allowed yourself to breathe as you stepped into the large auditorium building. All the months of hard work and planning had finally paid off. Seeing it with your own eyes was a real treat that you rarely got to enjoy with this job. Hundreds of staff members were busily setting up chairs, tables and last minute details together before the talent would arrive that evening. The welcome party was going to be a blast - glow sticks, a DJ, boujee appetizers and twinkling lights. It would be the perfect way to welcome the talent and allow everyone on location to get ready for the weeks ahead.

After doing your makeup and spraying some texture spray in your hair, you take one last look in the mirror of your little cabin and smile. You felt confident in your all black outfit. Black levi jeans, an off the shoulder black long sleeve with some gold jewelry and some hoops. Your hair was curled, and the leather boots were keeping your feet warm from the winter chill outside. You plop down on the edge of your bed and take in your home away from home. Everyone had their own little log cabin, it was basically a studio set up with a queen sized bed in the middle of the room, chandelier above it and of course a bathroom and lounger with a big window. It was charming and cozy, and you couldn’t imagine how much nicer the talent’s must be if this was how lovely yours was.

One last spritz of texture spray to your hair and you were out the door, jumping on your personal golf cart to ride down to the warehouse.

“Over here! Over here!” You hear a high pitched squeal from across the gravel as you put the golf cart in park. You swivel your head to the left to find Savannah fastly approaching, one hand waving you down, the other holding her skirt from dragging across the ground. “Finally, you’re here!” She wraps an arm around you in a tight hug. You giggle as you steady your balance, hugging her back. You knew she had to be so nervous to meet the talent, because you weren’t the type to get starstruck and your own heart was hammering in your chest.

“We’ve got this! We aren’t the only ones meeting them for the first time tonight. Just remember that! I’m sure Glen will be lovely. I promise I will try to nonchalantly get Dylan to meet you tonight too. Deal?” You both pinky promise before heading inside towards the loud music.

You squint your eyes at the glowing white orbs on each high top table, not a single chair in sight other than at the bar. The DJ had many of the guests up and dancing while others socialized amongst themselves. Everyone was dressed casually, probably changing minimally after their plane rides. You and the other workers were definitely dressed up a little more, which instantly put you at ease. Feeling more put together and confident, you lead Savannah to the sign in table. Glancing around as you wait in line, you watch the other girls and guys check over their packets, taking in who their responsibility will be for the next two weeks. Reading what their pick up and drop off schedule will be like, and all the other fast facts about their assigned celebrity; allergies, preferences, etc. As soon as your packet about Dylan is in your hands, you find an empty table and start reading over it. You nonchalantly do a sweep of the room, the different colored lights illuminating everyone’s faces. Some of your favorite actors are in this room, and you couldn’t believe it. After a few moments you spot Dylan at the bar, the lavender backdrop and blue lights behind the stools accentuating his all white outfit. He runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair, mid conversation with another actor you didn’t recognize. You quickly glance down at your paper, making notes with your pen. You get through about three pages before Savannah appears in front of you, slamming her lanyard down on the table. “Did you introduce yourself yet?” She whispers, rummaging around in her bag for her lipgloss. “No, I’m letting him finish his conversation first. How’s Glen?” You ask, smirking at her. “He’s a dream. He literally made a beeline for me through the crowd to introduce himself! I have to bring him his schedule, apparently no one had it in their rooms when they got here so that’s awkward. Strike one on us.” She bites her bottom lip. You feel your eyes widen. “What?! That was supposed to have been done days ago! The girls from scheduling said they had it under control..oh well. I guess it’s a nice ice breaker for us to approach them. Wait, did you say Glen came up to you? How’d he know you were his handler?” Savannah raises a hand to cover her mouth before moving around the table top to grasp your forearm. “Girl! You know how they sent us head shots of the talent? Apparently they received one of us too! Isn’t that wild?” She giggles, taking in your reaction. “So, that means Dylan already knows I’m here probably. Great..” You let your voice trail off before closing your folder and grabbing your lanyard to place around your neck.

“Let me go say hello, then!” You flash Savannah a nervous smile before heading to the bar, Dylan’s eyes immediately drifting from the man he’s talking to over to you. He places a hand on his shoulder and says what you assume to be a quick goodbye before turning on his heel toward you. “You’re the lucky lady who's stuck with me, yeah?” He grins, extending a hand to you. His brown eyes are friendly, twinkling beneath the lights dancing around the room. “I’m Dylan, so nice to meet you!” His handshake is firm, and you take note of how strong his cologne is. “I promise to get you everywhere on time these next few weeks. It’s great to meet you!” You return his smile, moving closer to him as a crowd of people brush past the two of you toward the buffet, the DJ announcing to everyone that dinner has been set out. Dylan leans down to your ear so you can hear him better. “I’m so stoked to be here, did you have a hand in all this?” He shouts above the music, gesturing around him to all the decor in the warehouse, fake pink and magenta flowers are strung up through the rafters, flameless candles were dispersed throughout the room, you were proud of the vibe in here for sure. It was kind of like a club but classier. “It took a village for sure, but I’m really happy with how it turned out! Oh, here’s your schedule by the way-” You continue to babble on to him about the whole event and the planning that went into it, and start going through Dylan’s schedule with him. He listens intently to you, his focus a hundred percent on what you’re showing him. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Savannah pointing you out to Glen, his eyes peering at you from beneath his black Texas Longhorns ballcap before he looks away. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as you tear your gaze away from him. You and Dylan exchange some more info, and decide to meet out front by the golf carts in another hour or so. You meander towards the back of the space, your stomach growling at the sight of all the warm food placed ahead of you. Before you can grab a plate, you hear Savannah call your name, “Hey, wait up!” You spin around, her arm locking with yours to pull you away from the buffet line. “Where are we going?” You whine, turning your head back towards the food. “The food is that way! I’m starving.” Savannah shoots you a sympathetic smile as she continues to drag you through the crowd until she sits you down at a round table in the corner of the room. “Unfortunately, that food’s not for us.” She frowns, before leaving you to disappear behind a door and reappear moments later with two foil covered plates, two large water bottles under her arm. “Savannah…what’s on those plates.” You wearily question, grabbing it from her. You both count to three together before ripping the foil cover off, revealing a hamburger, bag of chips and the tiniest cup of fruit you’d ever seen. “Guess they had to cut corners to save money somehow.” You pout, pushing the plate away from you as you grab the bag of Lays.

“Here we chose the best menus each night for them, thinking we too would get to enjoy them, but no. We have to eat like kids.” Savannah complains as she bites into her burger. “What, lost your appetite?” She frowns at your plate. “I don’t eat burgers. Actually, I can’t eat red meat at all.” You reply, shrugging your shoulders. You slump back into your chair, disappointed that you’re missing out on the all you can eat sushi bar the talent is currently enjoying right now.

Savannah inhales her food as the two of you chat about your schedules for tomorrow, trying to find overlaps. Your conversation is cut short at the sound of a male voice in front of you. “Excuse me, sorry to interrupt but, do you ladies happen to know where the restrooms are?” You both snap your gaze upward to see Glen standing in front of your table, the only celebrity in a 300 foot distance. You take in his outfit- his cap you noticed earlier, his dark black jeans, crisp white t-shirt and grey cardigan that fits him perfectly. He’s extremely handsome in person, even more so than on screen. You open your mouth to speak, but you realize nothing is coming out of your mouth. You quickly wet your lips with your tongue, eyes deferring to Savannah, since he probably came over here to ask her. She is his handler for the weekend, after all. Savannah’s mid chew on the last piece of her burger, looking at you expectantly. “Oh, uh, they’re behind the DJ’s set up, there’s a little hallway back there with the bathrooms.” You meet his gaze again, his green eyes locked onto yours before they drop to the plate in front of you. The sides of his mouth tugs up into a smirk. “Not hungry?” He points to your untouched hamburger, his watch catching the light. You take a mental note of your stomach doing backflips over this accessory, as watches have always been kind of a thing for you. A turn on, if you will. You shake your head and laugh, admitting that you can’t eat it. “I’ll be out of commission if I eat that.” Glen’s playful expression turns to one of confusion, pointing over his shoulder to the extensive spread of food behind you. “You want to trade? I didn’t see that as an option. Where’d you find that?” Savannah giggles, waving her hands in front of her as she finally speaks. “No, no, the burgers are just for us little people. You guys get to enjoy the good stuff.” She winks at him, and you nudge her beneath the table. Not exactly the best way to put it…

Glen’s eyebrows furrow slightly, head tilting to the side. “That doesn’t seem fair. Tell you what, I’ll bring you back a plate of whatever you want if I can devour that burger on your plate.” He flashes you a grin, and you’re enthusiastically nodding before you can think twice about it. “Yes, please! I’ll literally take anything you can gr-” you begin, but Savannah cuts you off. “She loves sushi, Glen.” They exchange a smile as he points to her before wading through the crowd. You turn to your coworker, mouth open in disbelief. “Umm, is Glen Powell bringing me a plate of food right now?!” You let out a tiny squeal, hitting her on the knee. She props a hand on her cheek, “I know right? Isn’t he so nice? Where the heck is Dylan?” She responds, squeezing your shoulder. “It sucks we have to act like we don’t know them. Like, at all.” She huffs, crossing her arms across her chest. “He’s over by the dessert bar, why don’t you take a quick walk by? He won’t even notice! He’s quite the social butterfly tonight.” You wink at her encouragingly, and she actually stands from her chair. “You know what, you’re right. Be right back!” She’s giddy as she weaves through the crowd, and in her wake you see Glen reappear, a plate full of sushi in tow. He sticks out his tongue, clearly proud of his selection. “Here we go, I got a little bit of everything for ya.” He presents the plate to you dramatically, flicking his wrist to emulate a waiter as he drops it on the table. “You’ve outdone yourself.” You grin, placing a hand over your heart to match his energy. “And in return…” You reach for the plate, lifting the burger to his hands. He shakes his head, instantly grabbing the burger out of its sleeve and taking a huge bite out of it. “I’m Glen, by the way.” He mumbles, his mouth full. You swallow thickly, Savannah’s reminder echoing in your head as you introduce yourself, acting as casual as possible. You lift your chopsticks and dig into your food, not having realized that Glen’s attention is on you. The two of you continue to eat in silence, hunger clearly winning here. “Guess we were hungry.” You laugh, pushing your now empty plate away from you. Glen throws his head back with a chuckle, nodding in agreement. “Guess so. It was a long travel day.”

Suddenly, you remember why he approached your table in the first place - the bathroom. “Wait, did you ever find the restrooms?” Your tone has a hint of worry in it; what were you thinking, sending him off to get you a plate of food? You were sup[posed to be serving the talent, not the other way around. You suddenly felt embarrassed, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Glen’s mouth turns into a soft smile, his expression playful again. “Oh, I knew where the bathrooms were.” His words hang in the air as you process his tone, taking in his facial expression. Was he..flirting with you? There was no way. You were delusional. Before you can respond, he stacks his empty plate on top of yours and slides them back toward him, leaning over the table a bit to make sure you can hear him. “Nice doin’ business with you.” He shoots you a quick wink before he tosses the plates into the trash can and disappears into the crowd. You’re aware of the cheesy grin on your face that you can’t wipe off, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you fidget with your bracelets. Savannah soon returns, waving you toward her. “C’mon, let’s get to our carts and wait for the boys! We have an early morning tomorrow.” ANd with that, you grab both of your bags and follow her to the gravel lot outside, the exchange with Glen replaying over and over in your mind.

Dylan strides up to your golf cart right on time, his eyes glazed over. “Man, that was fun! You guys killed that. I’m dead tired though.” He raises his hand for a high five, and you happily oblige before driving him to his personal cabin. Agreeing on a wakeup time, you wait for him to get inside before driving off.

You snuggle into bed that night replaying how amazing the event space looked, relieved that Dylan was kind and, so far, not a diva. You were looking forward to getting to know him a little better and look out for him the next few weeks. And then there was Glen…you had to try and downplay tonight’s interaction. He was just being nice, his parents clearly raised him right. That’s all it was. Did he seriously wink at you? Maybe you dreamed that part. Maybe he isn’t as nice as he seems, and just a charmer. He could have a girlfriend for all you know!

“I need help.” You mutter to yourself.

You shake your head and sigh; you were here to work. You needed to be professional and short with all of the guests here. End of story. You let yourself fall asleep to the sound of the wind blowing outside your cabin window.

[hotvintagepoll]

Very very very upset about cagney not winning so I wanted to submit some propaganda as his number 1 shooter :( was he conventionally attractive? No… was he the scrungliest cutiest patootiest manlet ever? YES!!!

Some fun facts for you… his first onstage appearance was as a chorus girl (top row, second from left with the killer arms hehe.) He actually had such bad stage fright that he would get sick before going onstage :(( which is hard to believe given the confidence that he exuded onscreen! According to James himself, he didn’t even really have a passion for acting that landed him on Broadway, to him it was ‘just another job.’

Despite a genuinely rough upbringing which influenced a lot of his ‘hoodlum’ characters, he was the complete opposite of the characters he played, apart from definitely being a mama’s boy, much like many of his gangster roles hehe c: He loved animals, art, sailing (despite suffering from severe seasickness hhh) and gardening. He was nicknamed the ‘faraway fella’ by his dear friend Pat O’Brien because of his introverted nature. Here are some of his drawings and paintings. He actually attended Columbia to study art, but had to drop out when his father died in 1918.

He raised horses later in life on his land in Martha’s Vineyard, Verney Farm (a combination of Cagney and his wife’s maiden name, Vernon. He was married to his wife, affectionately nicknamed Billie, for 60+ years until his death.) He was so interested in farming that he was awarded an honorary degree in agriculture from Rollins College, and when accepting the degree, he submitted a paper on soil conservation… what a silly little guy.

James was also a talented boxer—owing to his street fighting youth—and ballplayer. If he hadn’t been an actor, he may have made the major leagues!! Speaking of career changes, he was nicknamed ‘the great againster’ for his constant walkouts from Warner Bros. following contract disputes. On more than one occasion, he threatened to quit Hollywood to become a dentist or a doctor like his brother lolll. Most importantly, he was one of the founders of the Screen Actors Guild and fought hard for actors’ rights!! Here are some pics of him boxing/wrestling … I love when those strands of hair would fall out over his forehead :D

Anyway I have so much more I could say but this is getting long so I’ll stop here… I just love him so much!!! He was a sweetheart and a cool guy!!! As someone said, this is the verified short king lover website, so SHOW IT!! Vote cagney!!

[waitimcomingtoo]

hoax ~ p.p

chapter one: just a sweet, sweet fantasy

series masterlist

Despite the fact that Peter had been pining for you the last three years of college, he had never had a conversation last more than a few minutes with you. As hard as he tried, he always got flustered and ran out of things to say or just made the conversation awkward. You never noticed him the way he noticed you, even after you were paired up with Ned for a school project last semester and your friend groups merged in the process. Peter thought his luck will change now that he was running in your circle, but all it did was make it more evident to him that he didn’t have a shot with you. You only saw him as a friend, and even that was an exaggeration of your relationship.

“Hi.”

You jumped a little when you heard Peters voice and looked up from your phone. You hadn’t even noticed that he was already sitting at the table you agreed to meet your friends at. It was pretty common for you not to notice Peter, but that didn’t mean he’d ever stop trying to get your attention.

“Oh, hi Peter. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. How are you?” You asked politely.

“I’m good. You?”

“Good. Thanks for asking.” You replied. You then pulled your phone back out and started to text, making all conversation cease.

“I like your skirt.” He said after a long beat of silence. You looked up in surprise since you thought the conversation had ended.

“Aw, thanks. That’s so nice of you to say.” You smiled before going back to your phone. He sighed in defeat even though this was how your conversations, or lack there or, usually went.

“Yeah, no problem. It’s like jeans but…not.”

“Oh, yeah. I think it’s called denim.” You laughed awkwardly and didn’t know it was was socially acceptable to go back to texting.

“Right. Denim.” He nodded, and conversation ceased once again.

“I like that it’s pleated.” He said after a full minute of silence.

“What?” You asked and looked up from your phone again.

“Your skirt.” He explained while his face turned bright red. He knew he was beating the death out of the skirt topic and it was made even worse by you knowing the same thing.

“Right, my skirt. Thanks. So do I.” You smiled politely again and touched the skirt.

“Hey losers.” MJ said as she approached the table. Peter heard you sigh in relief over not having to be alone with him anymore, and he couldn’t even blame you.

“Hey. Sit with us.” You smiled and patted the table. MJ sat down and the awkward tension dissolved with the presence of a third person. Your other friends, Kate and Gwen, soon joined the table too and the dynamic of the friend group was restored. Much to his disappointment, you and Peter seemed to lie in opposite ends of the friend group. You were friendly with each other, but also couldn’t be left alone together without maximum awkwardness ensuing. You were the people that would laugh at each others jokes in a group setting but never be able to hold a one on one conversation.

“Did you do the trig homework?” MJ asked you.

“Oh yeah. You need it?” You asked and put your backpack on the table to get your homework out. Peter looked up and noticed a pin of Spider-Man’s mask on your backpack. He did a double table and looked at you in surprise to confirm the backpack belonged to you.

“Is that a Spiderman pin?” He asked you.

“Oh, yeah. You haven’t heard? He’s her latest obsession.” Gwen teased you.

“For the record, I’ve always liked him.” You insisted. “I’ve been a fan since day one. The obsession has just gotten worse as I’ve realized he’s the only man for me.”

“Wait, really? He is?” Peter asked with a surprise smile.

“Please don’t get her started.” Kate whined. You ignored her and leaned towards Peter to talk to him.

“You know when you have a celebrity you like and you just know that if you ever met, you’d be great friends?”

“Of course.” Peter shrugged. “Dylan O’Brien would be my best friend if we ever crossed paths.”

“Exactly. That’s how I feel about Spiderman. Except instead of friends, we’d be lovers.” You said simply. A blush painted Peters cheek to hear you talk about him like that.

“Sounds like you really like him.” He smiled shyly.

“I’m in love with him. I have so many videos of him saved on Tik Tok.” You laughed and pulled out your tik tok to show your friends your collection of saved videos.

“Girl. 407?” Gwen gasped. “You’ve saved 407 edits of Spiderman with sexy songs in the background?”

“Um, yeah. I watch them before I go to sleep.” You shrugged and pulled your phone back. Peter was stunned to silence to hear how deep your obsession ran.

“You need help.” MJ snorted. “You don’t even know him.”

“I feel like I do. Haven’t you ever felt that way about someone you haven’t met yet?”

“I have.” Peter spoke up, making you smile.

“See? I’m not crazy. Just a romantic.” You sighed. The conversation changed subjects and Peter was silent as he thought about what he had heard from you. After three years of being hopelessly in love with you, he may have just found his way in.

A few days later, your group agree to meet up in the library to do homework together. Ned was still out sick with the flu, so Peter didn’t have his crutch to lean on. You arrived early to the library and saw that Peter was the first one there. You gulped and braced yourself for the awkwardness that was about to happen and sat down across from him.

“Hey, Peter.” You said politely. He looked up at you and blushed before trying to think of something cool to say.

“Hey. How’s it going? How are you?” He asked.

“Pretty good. I’m a little stressed out over this stupid paper but Gwen said she’d help me today. How are you doing?”

“Really good. And you? How’s it going for you?” He asked before realized he already asked that.

“Uh, I think we covered that.” You joked.

“Right, right. You’re still good, I’m assuming. And, uh, nice shirt by the way.” He complimented you.

“Aw, thanks. It was my moms back in the 80s.” You smiled at him and then opened your laptop, ending the convo.

“I like your hair too. Did you change it?” He asked to try to resuscitate the conversation.

“No. I haven’t washed it in a few days. It’s just greasy.” You laughed awkwardly and ran your fingers through the it.

“Oh.” He gulped. “Well, it looks good.”

“Thanks.” You smiled again just as the rest of the friend group joined you. You both seemed to relax now that everyone was there and you no longer had to limp through a conversation. Peter didn’t say much as the group talked about homework and weekend plans but snuck glances at you the entire time.

“Wait a minute. Why do you have a magazine? What year is this?” MJ laughed and pulled a magazine out of your open backpack. You gave her a playful look and snatched the magazine from her.

“Because. Look at this picture someone took of him yesterday.” You smiled cheekily and laid the magazine out for the table to show them a picture of Spiderman.

“Oh my God. Please. It’s too early for this.” Kate playfully whined and banged her textbook against her head.

“This is the most detailed photo I’ve seen of him yet. It’s so clear. I bet he’s so cute under the mask.” You sighed happily and looked at the picture again. Peter watched the way you stared at the picture in the way he’d been looking at you all these years and smiled to himself. He’d never been able to turn your head, but he was pleased to know Spiderman could.

“Or he’s 30 and has a greasy little rat face.” MJ grimaced.

“Stop it. Don’t ruin my fantasy.” You said and playfully smacked her arm. She laughed and wrapped an arm around you while you continued to stare at the picture.

“Fantasy?” Gwen smiled coyly. “Uh oh. Spill.”

“Okay, so I have this fantasy where he sees me walking home and drops down from the sky to walk me home. Just to make sure I get there safely.” You told the group with a dreamy smile.

“Oh. That’s a lot less erotic then I thought it would be.” Kate said in disappointment.

“Oh, trust me. I have plenty of those. But I’m not sharing any of them here.” You smiled coyly and drummed your fingers on the table. Peter gulped when he realized what you were talking about and turned bright red.

“What else do you fantasize about?” Gwen asked you.

“Mostly him saving me from danger. But low key danger. I don’t want to actually be in danger danger. Maybe just tripping on the sidewalk and he catches me. Or, you know, he stops a car from crushing me like in Twilight.”

“This little crush of yours is getting out of hand.” MJ laughed and shook her head. “You’re literally asking to be crushed by a car now?”

“But imagine how amazing it would be to be his girlfriend.” You gushed. “He could swing me around the city in his arms and kiss me on the top of the Brooklyn bridge. Or take me on dates on the top of the Empire State Building. I want it so bad.”

“So stand in the street until a car comes near you and wait for him to swing you to safety.” MJ said sarcastically.

“Don’t give her ideas.” Kate groaned.

“You don’t think I’ve considered that? I’d do anything for a date. Just one. I swear, I could get him to fall in love with me. I just need one chance.” You sighed and picked up your magazine to admire it.

“I bet he would.” Peter spoke up. You looked at him over the magazine and smiled.

“See? Peter supports me. At least someone’s on my side.” You said and gestured to Peter. You made eye contact with him again and this time, it didn’t feel awkward. You liked that he was being supportive, no matter how silly your argument was.

“I think you’d make a great couple.” Peter continued, making you smile once again.

“Thank you.” You told him. “Now I just need to find a way to talk to him.”

“Maybe leave a couple flies on your windowsill.” Peter suggested. All the girls looked at him in confusion and he felt embarrassed that his joke didn’t land.

“Because he’s a spider. And they eat flies.” He shamefully explained. You stared at him slack jawed for a moment before throwing you head back laughing.

“That was genius.” You laughed. “Although, I hope he doesn’t actually eat bugs. I don’t think I could kiss a guy who eats flies.”

“He doesn’t.” Peter said with such certainty that everyone looked at him in confusion again.

“I’m….I’m guessing.” He lied. You smiled at him again before going back to talking to your friends. The conversation faded to background noise as Peter constructed a plan in his head.

After class that day, Peter changed into his suit and hung out on top of a building to watch the people walking in and out of campus. If you wanted to talk to Spiderman that badly, he was gonna bring Spiderman to you. Finally, he spotted you walking to your dorm with your earbuds in as you typed away on your phone.

“Hey! How are you? I’m Spiderman!” He whispered to himself to practice what he would say to you.

“No. That’s stupid. She already knows it’s me.” He grumbled. “Hey! What’s up? It’s me, your friendly neighborhood giant fucking loser Jesus Christ this is so difficult. Okay. Just be normal. Just talk to her. Just…”

Peter trailed off when he heard the sound of an engine revving. A car was speeding down the street and heading right towards the blissfully unaware you. Peter immediately jumped down and landed between you and the car, putting his hand up to stop it right before it could hit you. The car bent against his hand and came to a halt as Peter held you close to his body. People on the street gasped and started to take picture while you gasped for air. You pulled your earbuds out and looked at Peter in disbelief.

“Hi.” He said through the mask.

“Oh my God. It’s you.” Your voice shook as you tightened your grip on him. You were shaking with adrenaline and fear so he tightened his grip around your body.

“It’s me.” He said weakly. He had almost seen you die but now had to pretend you were a stranger he had never met before.

“You just saved my life.” You told him as a smile crossed your face.

“It’s my job.” He said simply. Your smile grew and you threw your arms around him in a hug.

“Thank you.” You whispered into his ear. Peter blushed under the mask and hugged you back. People on the streets clapped and took videos, but you were unaware of any of it. The man driving the car got out just as the police arrived to take yours and Peters statements. Once you were all squared away with the police, Peter wrapped an arm around your waist.

“Let me get you somewhere safe.” Peter said before swinging you a few blocks away from the sight of the crash. You held on tight and let out a happy scream as he swung you since it was a dream of yours coming true. When he set you down, you smoothed your hair down and looked at him.

“Thank you so much for saving me. I’m such an idiot. I was so focused on my phone that I just mindlessly kept walking even when the walk sign wasn’t on.”

“You’re not the idiot. That driver was. He was going 60 miles an hour in a school zone. It wouldn’t have mattered if the wall sign was on or not. I’m just glad I could be here to stop the car.”

“Just like Twilight.” You whispered to yourself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Sorry. I’m just a little starstruck.” You admitted with a shy smile.

“Don’t be.” He shrugged. “I’m just your friendly neighborhood Spiderman.”

“I know. But I’m kinda your biggest fan.”

“Well, I’m flattered. It’s nice to have a fan.” He chuckled through the mask. For the first time, Peter actually found it easy to talk to you. Conversation was flowing and he didn’t even have to try.

“I’m seriously obsessed with you. I’ve been following you since you first started, back when I was in high school. I think what you do is amazing. And now that you stopped me from becoming street meat, I’ll love you forever.” You told him before you knew what you were saying. You felt embarrassed to be freaking out so much over him, but he didn’t seem to think it was weird.

“I’m happy to hear that.” He smiled shyly at the sound of you promising to love him forever.

“Good. And I promise, I’ll never look at my phone while walking again. I’ll be super careful from now on.”

“What were you so focused on anyway?” He wondered.

“Oh, um…” You trailed off and just showed him your phone instead of trying to explain. It turned out the thing that had distracted you so much that you almost got hit by a car was a Tik Tok of footage of Spiderman edited to the song Deep Throat by Cupcakke. You smiled in embarrassment while Peter burst out laughing.

“That’s…intense.” He said once he regained his composure.

“I’m sorry. I tried to warn you. I said I was a fan.” You laughed and relaxed a little. You felt like you were being so weird, but he seemed to enjoy it.

“Can I walk you home?” He offered, making you light up.

“Really? I mean, yeah, sure.”

Peter put a gloved hand on your back and started walking with you back to your dorm. Conversation flowed easier than it ever had before and Peter felt like you were meeting each other for the first time. Talking to you as Spiderman was the antitheses of talking to you as Peter. His jokes didn’t fall flat, there was no awkward silence, and you were the one constantly complimented him.

“You know, I’ve fantasized about this very moment a million times.” You admitted to him as you neared your dorm.

“Have you?” He smiled coyly.

“Yeah. I just didn’t think it was actually gonna happen.”

“I don’t mind walking a pretty girl home. Maybe it can happen more often.” He timidly suggested. You stopped walking and looked at him to see if he was serious.

“I would like that.” You grinned.

“Cool. I’m smiling back at you, by the way. Sorry, I know it’s hard to tell under this.” He joked and gestured to the mask.

“It’s okay. I actually could tell.” You told him. Peter smiled only again and felt his heart swoon for you. You got to your dorm all too soon, meaning this conversation had come to an end.

“This is me.” You smiled sadly and pointed to your building. “Can I ask you something? Before you go?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“How old are you?” You said, close to a whisper.

“21.”

“Really?” You gasped. “Me too. You have no idea how relived I am to hear that.”

“Relieved? Why?”

“Because now I know my crush is age appropriate. So I can fully indulge in the fantasy. And because now I get to laugh in my friends faces who thought you were 30 or something.”

“It’s not really a fantasy if it’s really happening, is it?” Peter said as he stepped closer to you. Your breath caught in your throat and you broke into a dreamy smile.

“Trust me. It’s definitely a fantasy.” You sighed happily.

“Well, have a good night.” Peter said and squeezed your arm.

“You too.” You replied as you touched where his gloved hand had just been. Peter looked over his shoulder to wave at you before swinging away. Once you thought he was out of earshot, you let out a happy scream and jumped up and down. But you were never out of ear shot when it came to Peter, and he heard the whole thing with a grin on his face.

🖤🕸️🖤

chapter two is out now!

comment if you want to be on the taglist

Tag List 🏷️

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@tom-hollands-wifey

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@imyourliquor-youremypoison @andreasworlsboring101

@letsloveimagines @peterparkoure

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@sovereignparker @every-marveler-ever @undiadeestos @eridanuswave​ ​

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@thehappygrungelife @saysomethingspiderman @smilexcaptainx @quaksonhehe

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@unbelievableholland @yourtypicalhotmess @horanxholland @thesuitelifeofafangirl

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@maybemona

@alexxcorona113 @lethal-wisdom

@pandaxnienke  @thestylestour

 @officialsimppage

[billboard-hotties-tourney]

Okay, folks, the mini-tourney is inching closer to the finals, so I'm going to give a list of the competitors in the Miss Billboard Tourney in order to give everyone a chance to submit more propaganda. The nominees are:

Lale Andersen

Marian Anderson

Signe Toly Anderson

Julie Andrews

LaVerne Andrews

Maxene Andrews

Patty Andrews

Ann-Margret

Joan Armatrading

Dorothy Ashby

Joan Baez

Pearl Bailey

Belle Baker

Josephine Baker

LaVern Baker

Florence Ballard

Brigitte Bardot

Eileen Barton

Fontella Bass

Shirley Bassey

Maggie Bell

Lola Beltran

Ivy Benson

Gladys Bentley

Jane Birkin

Cilla Black

Ronee Blakley

Teresa Brewer

Anne Briggs

Ruth Brown

Joyce Bryant

Vashti Bunyan

Kate Bush

Montserrat Caballe

Maria Callas

Blanche Calloway

Wendy Carlos

Cathy Carr

Raffaella Carra

Diahann Carroll

Karen Carpenter

June Carter Cash

Charo

Cher

Meg Christian

Gigliola Cinquetti

Petula Clark

Merry Clayton

Patsy Cline

Rosemary Clooney

Natalie Cole

Judy Collins

Alice Coltrane

Betty Comden

Barbara Cook

Rita Coolidge

Gal Costa

Ida Cox

Karen Dalton

Marie-Louise Damien

Betty Davis

Jinx Dawson

Doris Day

Blossom Dearie

Kiki Dee

Lucienne Delyle

Sandy Denny

Jackie DeShannon

Gwen Dickey

Marlene Dietrich

Marie-France Dufour

Julie Driscoll

Yvonne Elliman

Cass Elliot

Maureen Evans

Agnetha Faeltskog

Marianne Faithfull

Mimi Farina

Max Feldman

Gracie Fields

Ella Fitzgerald

Roberta Flack

Lita Ford

Connie Francis

Aretha Franklin

France Gall

Judy Garland

Crystal Gayle

Gloria Gaynor

Bobbie Gentry

Astrud Gilberto

Donna Jean Godchaux

Lesley Gore

Eydie Gorme

Margo Guryan

Sheila Guyse

Nina Hagen

Francoise Hardy

Emmylou Harris

Debbie Harry

Annie Haslam

Billie Holiday

Mary Hopkin

Lena Horne

Helen Humes

Betty Hutton

Janis Ian

Mahalia Jackson

Wanda Jackson

Etta James

Joan Jett

Bessie Jones

Etta Jones

Gloria Jones

Grace Jones

Shirley Jones

Tamiko Jones

Janis Joplin

Barbara Keith

Carole King

Eartha Kitt

Chaka Khan

Hildegard Knef

Gladys Knight

Sonja Kristina

Patti Labelle

Cleo Laine

Nicolette Larson

Daliah Lavi

Vicky Leandros

Peggy Lee

Rita Lee

Alis Lesley

Barbara Lewis

Abbey Lincoln

Melba Liston

Julie London

Darlene Love

Lulu

Anni-Frid Lyngstad

Barbara Lynn

Loretta Lynn

Vera Lynn

Siw Malmkvist

Lata Mangeshkar

Linda McCartney

Kate McGarrigle

Christie McVie

Bette Midler

Jean Millington

June Millington

Liza Minnelli

Carmen Miranda

Joni Mitchell

Liz Mitchell

Marion Montgomery

Lee Morse

Nana Mouskouri

Anne Murray

Wenche Myhre

Holly Near

Olivia Newton-John

Stevie Nicks

Nico

Laura Nyro

Virginia O’Brien

Odetta

Yoko Ono

Shirley Owens

Patti Page

Dolly Parton

Freda Payne

Michelle Phillips

Edith Piaf

Ruth Pointer

Leontyne Price

Suzi Quatro

Gertrude Rainey

Bonnie Raitt

Carline Ray

Helen Reddy

Della Reese

Martha Reeves

June Richmond

Jeannie C. Riley

Minnie Riperton

Jean Ritchie

Chita Rivera

Clara Rockmore

Linda Ronstadt

Marianne Rosenberg

Diana Ross

Anna Russell

Melanie Safka

Buffy Sainte-Marie

Samantha Sang

Pattie Santos

Hazel Scott

Doreen Shaffer

Jackie Shane

Marlena Shaw

Sandie Shaw

Dinah Shore

Judee Sill

Carly Simon

Nina Simone

Nancy Sinatra

Siouxsie Sioux

Grace Slick

Bessie Smith

Mamie Smith

Patti Smith

Ethel Smyth

Mercedes Sosa

Ronnie Spector

Dusty Springfield

Mavis Staples

Candi Staton

Barbra Streisand

Poly Styrene

Maxine Sullivan

Donna Summer

Pat Suzuki

Norma Tanega

Tammi Terrell

Sister Rosetta Tharpe

Big Mama Thornton

Mary Travers

Moe Tucker

Tina Turner

Twiggy

Bonnie Tyler

Sylvia Tyson

Sarah Vaughan

Sylvie Vartan

Mariska Veres

Akiko Wada

Claire Waldoff

Jennifer Warnes

Dee Dee Warwick

Dionne Warwick

Dinah Washington

Ethel Waters

Elisabeth Welch

Kitty Wells

Mary Wells

Juliane Werding

Tina Weymouth

Cris Williamson

Ann Wilson

Mary Wilson

Nancy Wilson

Anna Mae Winburn

Syreeta Wright

Tammy Wynette

Nan Wynn

Those in italics have five or more pieces of usable visual, written, or audio propaganda already. If you have any visuals like photos or videos, or if you have something to say in words, submit it to this blog before round one begins on June 25th!

If you don't see a name you submitted here, it's because most or all of their career was as a child/they were too young for the cutoff, their career was almost entirely after 1979, or music was something they only dabbled in and are hardly known for. There are quite a few ladies on the list whose primary career wasn't "recording artist" or "live musician," but released several albums or were in musical theater, so they've been accepted.

[citizenscreen]

Lana Turner, Pat O'Brien, and Rita Hayworth salute the U.S. Military during a 1941 radio tribute.

[mvacts]

SENTENCE STARTERS

BARRIO FRANCÉS: Aquí puedes visitar sitios como la famosísima calle Bourbon, célebre por sus establecimientos de bebida. Existen bares icónicos como la Old Absinthe House, el Pat O’Brien’s bar, conocido por inventar un cóctel rojo llamado Huracán. También está el Mercado Francés, donde se encuentra desde comida fresca hasta un mercado de pulgas. ¡No olvides dar una vuelta en carruaje por las rues del barrio!

“Toda esta música me pone de buen humor”

“Creo que voy a pasear en carruaje, ¿quieres acompañarme?”

“Me dijeron que este es el cóctel más famoso de Nueva Orlean, pero puaj, es demasiado dulce”

“¡Hay tantas cosas hermosas aquí! No sé qué podría llevar como souvenir de vuelta a casa”

“Hm, esa camiseta es un tanto… particular. ¿Te la vas a llevar?”

TRANVÍA ST. CHARLES: En funcionamiento desde 1835, es la línea de tranvía en funcionamiento continuo más antigua del mundo y la mejor forma de ver la ciudad. Su recorrido comienza en las avenidas South Carrollton y South Claiborne, y termina al borde del Barrio Francés.

“¿Tranvía St. Charles? ¿Y dónde está el que se llama Deseo?”

“Muy lindo todo, pero podría ir más rápido, ¿no?”

“Nunca más me subiré a esa cosa”

“Bueno, esa fue una experiencia… Interesante”

MUSEO DE ARTE DE NUEVA ORLEANS: El Museo de Arte de Nueva Orleans (NOMA) tiene una de las colecciones de arte más grandes del sur de Estados Unidos, con una impresionante selección de arte francés, japonés, estadounidense y africano, así como el Jardín de Esculturas Besthoff. Los visitantes pasean por los jardines, exploran la colección permanente y asisten a muchas de las interesantes exposiciones temporales.

“Encuentro ese cuadro muy bonito aunque no sé nada de arte”

“Nunca entendí el punto de los museos…”

“Iba a sentarme aquí, pero esa estatua me perturba. ¿Me acompañas a buscar otro lugar donde descansar?”

“Este jardín es muy bonito para hacer un picnic… ¿Y adivina qué? ¡Traje provisiones!”

BUQUE DE VAPOR NATCHEZ (puerto del río Mississippi): Barco de vapor antiguo en el que se realizan paseos, con buffet, brunch y música jazz.

“¡Qué hermosa vista! Me encantaría vivir en este atardecer por siempre”

“Ya era hora de tener un poco de paz, ¿no crees?”

“La música jazz es tan relajante…”

“Nada mejor para despejar la mente de los problemas en Arcadia Bay que con un buen trago y una vista incluso mejor”

ACUARIO AUDUBON: Mostrando la riqueza de la vida marina que se encuentra en América del Norte y del Sur, el Acuario Audubon de las Américas es un destino de visita obligada para los amantes de la naturaleza. Desde el colorido arrecife caribeño recreado hasta una colonia de pingüinos, hay mucho para entretener a todos los grupos de edad.

“Qué bonita es esa nutria…”

“¿Crees que los animales entiendan por qué están encerrados?”

“No me gusta ese lagarto… Siento que en cualquier momento golpea el vidrio y sale para comerme”

“¿Me acompañas a la tienda de recuerdos? Quiero llevarme un peluche de pingüino”

MARDI GRAS WORLD: Recorrido de un almacén de trabajo donde se fabrican las carrozas para los desfiles de Mardi Gras en Nueva Orleans. Mardi Gras es una expresión francesa para denominar al carnaval.  El llamado “Martes de grasa” se refiere a que era el último día para disfrutar de los placeres tanto culinarios como carnales antes de la época de abstinencia que marca el inicio de la Cuaresma y Semana Santa.

“¡Oye! ¿Me tomas una foto aquí?”

“No sé si soy yo, pero algunas de las carrozas son bastante perturbadoras…”

“Los arlequines de la entrada me parecieron muy turbios, ¿no te pasó?”

“¡Mira! Una carroza del Hombre Araña. Esta sí que me gusta”

“Hay de todo aquí dentro. No pensé que se podían hacer tantas carrozas distintas”

¡Pueden hacer visitas interactivas a los sitios listados arriba en este link: https://www.xplorit.com/new-orleans/! Cualquier duda sobre cómo usar la página, no teman en acercarse a preguntarnos y nosotres les guiaremos.

[adventuressclubamericas]

New Orleans Cocktail of the Month �� Hurricane

No discussion of New Orleans cocktails would be complete without the Hurricane. This sweet concoction of rum, sugar and fruit juices – named for the glass, not the storm – was invented at Pat O’Brien’s during World War II. These days, you can still get a Hurricane at Pat O’s, or pretty much anywhere in the French Quarter. A favorite of Big Easy tourists, and a drink that goes down real easy, maybe give one (or more) a try while you’re in town for Miss Fisher Con!

Information provided for entertainment and educational puposes only. Please drink responsibly. Photo credit: NOLAskip

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

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 district 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

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Billy Two Rivers, Rockin' Randy Rhodes, Charlie Norris, Ed Cheslock, Dan Masters, Howard Brody, Chica Ye-Ye, La Arpia, Carlos Elizondo, La Tigresa Del Norte, Jay Briscoe, Kenny Jay, El Justiciero, Benny Galant, The Rose, Robocop, El Rostro, Indio Vitela, Millonario.

[mexicoantiguo]

Imágenes del Hotel Agua Caliente, Tijuana, B.C.. Ca. de 1930. Para los años 30, acaudalados estadounidenses llegaban a Tijuana desde Los Ángeles y Nueva York con el único objetivo de vacacionar (y divertirse) en el hotel, y en 1935 era ya tan popular, que Dolores del Río y Pat O’Brien protagonizaron In Caliente, una musical de Warner Bros que se desarrollaba en el ya legendario centro vacacional. En 1935, el presidente Lázaro Cárdenas cerró el casino y años después, luego de intentar su reapertura, expropió el terreno y lo convirtió en un centro escolar. Con el paso de los años, ante la indiferencia del gobierno y la ciudadanía por el valor arquitectónico y cultural, saquearon y destruyeron lo que quedó del casino, sumado a una serie de incendios que terminaron por demoler el lugar.

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

For word Wednesday: care, anyone, call, and/or send

Care from thought i wanted love (‘til you showed me what it was):

“Will do love, you rest up,” the nurse said, gently patting his knee. “Let that father of yours take care of you.”

That’s what Jamie was worried about.

Anyone from here for a reason but you don’t know why aka false confidence:

All free kicks will be taken by Zava.

All penalties will be taken by Zava.

All corners, anyone to Zava.

That’s who Jamie Tartt was now, anyone. He never thought he’d miss being a reality television starlet. At least then, he was someone. Now, he was just another player trotting around. Now, he was nothing.

Call also from here for a reason but you don’t know why aka false confidence:

“Docs here, thanks Doc, I’ll uh, call you later,” Ted lied.

He hung up the phone, focusing on his breath. It was a bad idea to call Doctor Sharon. He latched onto her like a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean, but the lifeboat made you reexamine your feelings before you were allowed on board and Ted couldn’t handle that right now with an unconscious Jamie lying a few feet away. Ted didn’t have time to work through his trauma in time to show up late to Rebecca’s father’s funeral. Jamie needed him now.

Send from the untitled Jamie hides an injury because the team is out of substitutions fic.

Dani eyed him but didn’t comment further. Zoreaux wasn’t going to be able to stay in the match, not when they were already calling for the stretcher. Thank God he still wore the protective mask. Roy would have to send in O’Brien and use their last substitution.