#borracho magalon x reader

[thoroughlymodernminutia]

This Christmas - Prequel

Pairing: Benny "Borracho" Magalon x F!Reader

Word count: 8,219

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Even Nick. You seem surprised.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So this means you’re not mad at me?”

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

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

“Take care, Benny.”

—-

“You like that girl at the donut place?”

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever you say asshole.”

—-

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

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

—-

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

“Benny, hey. Do you have a second?”

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

“Did Connors’s card get declined again?”

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

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

“Yeah, of course. What’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t put that on yourself.”

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

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

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

—-

“What was that about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, again, for everything.”

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

—- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You too.” 

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

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

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

 Dinner on the 27th at 7 sounds great

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

Sounds good. And you meant Dec 27th right?

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

Just making sure 🙂

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you always want to be a detective?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See, I knew this was a scam.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I’d love that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[tropes-and-tales]

A Million Reasons

Day 20:  Mirror Sex (Benny “Borracho” Magalon x F!Reader)

(For the 2022 Kinktober event offered by @the-purity-pen​​.  The original post and calendar/list can be found here.  Literally a month late because I had other things I needed to do.)

CW:  Idiots in love; friends/coworkers to lovers; immature flirting; two people, one bed; smut (mirror sex; PiV, protected) 18+ only.

Word Count:  8837

Borracho gets along with you best because you’re so much like him:  cool, calm.  You let the chaos of Major Crimes and its blustering leader wash over you.  At the hotel parties, you’re both content to drink and watch whatever game is on the TV.  Neither of you get flustered when the guys are on their bullshit.

They make fun of Borracho?  He shrugs, remains unbothered.

They make fun of you?  You shrug, remain unbothered.

And while you are both diligent, careful detectives, you both are lax when it comes to maintaining your credentials.  Late for your annual physicals.  Last minute certifications on your firearms.  

You’ve both let your continuing education credits dwindle to the last minute.  Big Nick has to scramble to find a solution for the two of you unless he wants to bench two of his better detectives.  

There’s a conference in Vegas being led by Homeland Security, and now here you both are:  standing in a deluxe room at La Hacienda, an older hotel away from the glitz and slick glamor of the Strip.  La Hacienda doesn’t look like it’s been updated since the 1970’s, and that’s being generous.

You don’t seem flustered by the outdated décor.  You give a low whistle of appreciation as you drop your bag, then walk over to the bed.  You plop yourself down, test the mattress while looking around the room.  

It’s the only room left.

“You okay sharing?” Borracho asks.  The front desk clerk had been skeptical about there being a free room anywhere in Vegas at this point—the city was teeming with visitors—but he is willing to look if you are uncomfortable.  

You shrug.  “You can’t be any worse than Z.  We shared a room on our trip to Carson City to transport a suspect back to L.A.  He snores and kicks in his sleep.”  You glance at him.  “Are you okay sharing?”

“Do you snore and kick in your sleep?”

“I sure do,” you reply with a grin.

“I’ll survive.”

You grin at him a moment longer, then you toe off your shoes and stretch out on the bed.  It’s wide, covered in a ridiculous green coverlet.  You cross your ankles and put your arms behind your head and gaze up at the ceiling.

If there’s one way you and Borracho are different, it’s that you often speak without thinking.  You’re quiet like him, but your words sometimes slip out without the benefit of an extra second to realize what you are saying.  

It’s not all the time—just sometimes.

And if there’s another way the two of you are different (and how you are different from all of your coworkers in Major Crimes), it’s that your default is fairly wholesome.  Your mind doesn’t automatically drift to the dirty or salacious.  It always takes you a beat longer for your mind to sink to their level, which is approximately in the gutter.  

You’re not a saint by any stretch, and you’re not sheltered.  Your mind just doesn’t go there automatically.

So when you lie down and gaze up at the ceiling and see that the ceiling is mirrored, you crinkle your nose in confusion and ask Borracho—without an ounce of guile in your voice—why they would bother to put a mirror there.

And Borracho—as usual, like when an innuendo or dirty joke passes over your head or when you speak without really thinking—looks at you incredulously.

“Seriously?” he asks.

There’s a million little reasons why he adores you, and this is one of them:  how you spend your working hours around degenerates like your coworkers and the criminals you pursue, and how your default is still so innocent.  How none of the bad things you see day in and day out seem to penetrate the thick armor that protects you and keeps you as you.

He walks around to the other side of the bed and kicks off his own shoes.  He lies down beside you, folds his hands over his stomach and meets your eyes in the mirror.

“You can’t think of any reason a hotel in Vegas would mount a mirror on the ceiling?” he asks, never taking his eyes from yours.  “Over a bed?”

He adores this about you too, watching you realize something in real time.  The puzzlement that cedes to mild outrage, usually.  The faint embarrassment.  The squawk of indignation.

“Oh, gross.  You’re a pervert, Borracho.”

“I didn’t put the mirror up there.”  A beat.  “How many people do you think…”  He trails off, raises his eyebrows suggestively in the mirror, lets your wholesome brain latch onto what he’s implying.

You turn on your side and give the usual playful punch to his arm—it never hurts; it only ever makes him grin at the contact.  “That’s disgusting!”

He turns onto his side, tucks his hands under the side of his head.  “You’re gonna think about it tonight.  You won’t be able to sleep.  You’ll be—”

“Stop!”

“—thinking about that mirror—”

It earns him another playful punch, which he blocks easily.  He smiles when your disgust turns to laughter at his teasing, and he doesn’t release you until you’re laughing in earnest.

“Calm down, southpaw,” he says, and it makes you laugh again.

More than anything, Borracho adores this about you:  that you’re friendly with all of the guys, but you only ever playfully punch him.  

*****

You and Borracho are in Vegas for five full days.

You’ve shared rooms with guys before.  You’ve fallen asleep at the hotel parties, and you and Z shared a room once.  You are adaptable; you are never especially bothered by situations like this.  It is easy to sleep near a man and not fall on his dick.

With Borracho, the temptation is a bit higher.

The first day is fine.  You check in to the hotel.  You check in to the conference, gather up your information packets.  You grab dinner together, but when he asks if you want to hit some of the sights, you decline.

You offer to just get a car back to the hotel so he can go out on his own, but he waves you off.  He goes back to the hotel with you, and he lets you shower and clean up first.  It takes him all of five minutes to shower afterwards, and then he plops into bed beside you like it’s not a big deal at all.

Which to him, it probably isn’t.  Borracho is inscrutable.  He jokes around with you, maybe more than with the other guys.  You’ve always thought that was because you are the only woman on the team, and Borracho’s joking is his way of making you feel included.

“Mind if I watch some of the game?” he asks.

You shake your head at him.  “Go crazy.  I’m going to sleep.”

He glances over at you, his dark eyes unreadable as always.

“It won’t bother you?” he asks.

“Nope.  I sleep like a stone.”

“Good to know.”

It’s the truth—you fall asleep easily.  Usually.  Maybe tonight it takes a little longer because you’re lying next to Borracho.  Admittedly, you’re sharing a huge bed, but he’s still close enough that you can hear the steady cadence of his breathing as he watches the game.  You can smell the clean scent of his soap…

You take a deep breath and release it slowly.  Then you roll over, put your back to him, and finally nod off.

*****

The first night, Borracho is awake a long while before he finally falls asleep.  He watches the game, and he glances over at you from time to time.  You’re facing away from him, breathing deep and even.  You fell straight to sleep, just as you said you would.

He chuckles to himself when he remembers your outrage about the mirror over the bed.  At least it was him with you in Vegas and not one of the other guys.  They would have never let you live it down, would have brought the anecdote back to L.A. and teased you mercilessly like they do with your other faux pas.  

Borracho prefers to keep these moments between the two of you.  He likes to hold them close to the vest, because he cherishes them.

-----

Day two dawns early, and Borracho learns that you wake up fast and hard, no gentle easing out of sleep for you.  One minute, you’re out.  The next minute, you’re sitting up, looking around with wild bed head.  You finally glance down at him, and your face twists in embarrassment.

“Shit, forgot where I was,” you say.  You scrub your hands over your face and take a deep breath.

“You fall asleep in a lot of strange beds?”

“Asshole.”  You reach out, give him a playful punch, but it’s weaker than usual early in the morning.

“You hit like a girl.”  He sits up too, stretches.  

“Asshole and sexist.  Nice.”

He swings his legs off the side of the bed.  “No, I mean you hit like a specific girl,” he clarifies.  “My two year-old niece.”

“And a fucking comedian,” you grumble, but when he chances a look out of the corner of his eye, he sees you grinning…which is at least half of why he takes up this joking, teasing routine with you.  It’s a regression on his part, showing the girl he likes her by teasing her, like the two of you are kids on the playground.  

-----

The second night is a lot like the first:  you turning away from him in bed and dropping straight to sleep while he flips aimlessly through the television channels and bites back the urge to curl up around you, just to see how you might feel in his arms.

*****

Day three dawns bright and hot, and your conference leader is a push-through-the-material sort of guy, so your day ends early.

If you were here in Vegas with any of the other guys, they would have ditched you already.  It’s too good a city, literally Sin City, and the guys of Major Crimes love to sin.  Z and Henderson would have ditched you for the casinos; Connors would have ditched you for the women.  Big Nick would have ditched you for both.

Not Borracho.  He sticks right next to you, and you start to feel guilty about it.

“What’s the plan?” he asks as the two of you leave the convention center, and you shrug uncomfortably.

“Dinner, I guess?”

“Want to hit a casino afterwards?  Or Fremont Street?”

“We can split up, you know.  Do our own thing.”

You feel his eyes on you, but you don’t turn to look at him.  

“You wanna split up?” he finally asks, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say there was a hurt edge to his voice.  

“Don’t you?”

“Am I cramping your style or something?”

“No, but…”  You trail off, uncomfortable.  The guys had ribbed Borracho before the two of you left, made a big deal about him needing to finally get laid.  They had gone into an exhaustive inventory of the best strip clubs in Vegas, the best places to find companionship for the evening.  Big Nick gave him tips on how to find a good deal in the back pages ads.  

Borracho had chuckled and nodded at them, and at the time, you thought he was humoring them.  But now, here in Vegas….you wonder if you’re cramping his style.

“Talk to me,” he says.  “You wanna hit some male revue and don’t want a tag along?”

He’s always able to do that—make you smile.  

“I dunno, Borracho.  The guys were giving you a hard time about getting laid here.  Aren’t I getting in your way?”

He chuckles.  “I’m not taking advice from those assholes.  So let’s go get dinner and then get you in front of some oiled up shirtless dudes, yeah?”

You ignore the dip in your stomach when he admits to brushing off the guys’ advice, and you laugh.  You reach out, punch his arm lightly.  “Let’s just walk Fremont Street instead.  That okay?”

-----

You’ve seen Borracho drunk plenty of times.  He gets drunk at the hotel parties, at the bar get-togethers with you and the guys.  

He’s the same every time:  sits in the corner, sits back with glassy eyes and a expression that could be a faint smile from one angle, or a faint smirk from another.  When Borracho gets drunk, he goes even quieter—to the point where people don’t even notice he’s drunk until they look at him closer.

Not this time.  This time, Borracho drunk is something else entirely.

Maybe it’s Vegas.  Maybe it’s the fact that it’s just you and him; there’s no Big Nick there to change the vibe of the moment.  

You each have a few beers with dinner, but as you walk Fremont Street, he keeps drinking.  You dial your own libations back, because Borracho is suddenly living up to his nickname, and he’s so different this time.

He’s touchy.  He’s never touchy, not usually—he’ll dodge your playful hits, sometimes grab your hand out of midair, but he’s not a touchy guy.  Now, as you stroll down the bright neon-lined street, as you take in the bustling atmosphere, he’s touchy.

It starts with him just bumping into you, and at first you think it’s his balance shot from the booze.  But then you notice it happening more and more, and you realize it’s deliberate.  He bumps you with his elbow, with his hip, checks you lightly off your stride until you laugh.

Then, later, he’s winding his arm around your shoulders, around your waist, rests his hand comfortably on the swell of your hip as you walk with him.  He throws you off your balance, pulls you closer to him.  

It makes your stomach dip, makes it flutter.  It would be so easy to pretend you aren’t coworkers.  Easy to pretend you are on a date, easy to fall into the fantasy.

“You feeling okay there, buddy?” you ask at one point, and the man turns his head against yours, takes a deep, blatant inhale of your hair, and that’s answer enough, you suppose.

-----

He’s also chatty.  You realize it when you get him back to the hotel room and press a bottle of water onto him.

Borracho is typically a quiet guy, but you’ve noticed that he does talk to you more that he does the guys.  But this version of him is chatty as hell, talking about a million things and nothing at all, and it flusters you as you go to the bathroom and change into your pajamas, as you brush your teeth.

He’s perched on the edge of the bed, and you  stand in front of him, your hands on your hips.  You nod at the unopened bottle of water in his hands.

“You have to drink that,” you say.  “You’re gonna wake up feeling like shit otherwise.”

He offers you the goofiest grin; his smile transforms him from a ruggedly handsome stoic to a squint-eyed doofus.  Which…you love both versions of him, actually.  And you love the doofus more maybe, because you suspect you’re one of the few people who actually gets to see this version of him.

“Drink that,” you repeat.  “I’m serious.”

“I like when you’re bossy.”  He cracks the seal on the bottle, drinks half of it in one go.  He takes a gasping breath after he swallows, and a little water dribbles down the front of his shirt.

You laugh at him, gesture for him to drink the rest, which he does.  Then he looks up at you with that goofy smile, and it’d be so easy to fall into the fantasy.  

But you’re sober, and he’s far, far gone, and you’d never take advantage.

“How about you get changed for bed?” you suggest gently.  “We have an early morning tomorrow.  Last day of the conference.”

He grumbles but stands up, and he walks—a little unsteady—into the bathroom.  Shuts the door, and you hear the water running for so long that you turn off most of the lights and climb into bed.  

You sigh and catch your own gaze in the mirror over the bed.  You shake your head, watch your reflection shake its head too, a twin of your own expression of yearning and regret.

*****

The shower sobers him up a little, and when Borracho climbs under the covers, he can’t tell if you’re asleep or not.  Your back is to him, you’re curled on your side.  He sighs.

He didn’t mean to overdo it.  He meant to only loosen up, get a bit of liquid courage.  Especially after how sheepish you looked when you told him he could go off on his own and get laid.  He only meant to take the edge off of his nerves, but he hit up some of the drinks on Fremont—the alcoholic slushies that go down so smoothly.

Even now, after the coldest shower he can stand, the alcohol still sings in his blood.  Makes him feel warm and loose, makes his thoughts feel slippery.  He can’t seem to grasp a single coherent thought other than the one that’s been bouncing around his skull all night:  he gets to sleep beside you, and he wants nothing more than to hold you, to turn you in his arms, to show you how he feels.

He turns his head to look at you.  “You asleep?” he hisses, and you don’t answer.

“Hey,” he whispers, louder.  “You asleep?”

You groan, rustles against the pillow.  “Not anymore.”

“Sorry.”

A beat.  “What’s up?”

Even drunk, he goes dry-mouthed, tight-throated at the thought of being serious with you.  So he takes the usual teasing path.  “You been thinking about it?”

“About what?”

“The mirror.  Above the bed.”

“What about it?”

“I said you’d think about it.”

You snort, and he catches the curve of your cheek and guesses that he’s made you smile.  “I’m not answering that question.”  A beat.  “Aren’t you tired?”

“Drinking keys me up.”

Now you laugh.  “In the entire time I’ve known you, you’ve never been keyed up.  Drunk or sober.  You’re the most chill person I know.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you start to fall back asleep.  When he speaks again, he startles you awake, and he feels a sting of guilt, keeping you up when you’re clearly tired.  

“Can we cuddle?” he asks, and you laugh again, though is sounds incredulous this time.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, it’ll help me fall asleep.”

You turn your head, and he sees how you narrow your eyes as you study him.  “This feels like a trap,” you finally say.  “You gonna get handsy?  You’re still really drunk, Ben.”

He knows it’s serious because you’ve switched to his real name.  “I won’t get handsy.  Promise.”

“You sure?”

“Cross my heart.”

There a long moment when you study him, but then you nod.  “Alright.  C’mon over here.”

You don’t have to say it twice.  He scoots over to where you are.  You start to roll away from him, assuming he wants to spoon, but he puts his hand on your shoulder and stops you.  He’s gentle—or he hopes he is, his hands feel unwieldly and clumsy—when he pushes you onto your back.  Then he curls up beside you, wraps an arm around your waist and tucks his head against the curve where your neck meets your shoulder.

You stiffen in his hold, and then you huff out an incredulous laugh.  “Jesus, Ben.  Are you naked?”

“’m wearing boxers.”

“What happened to your pajamas?” you ask, and your voice is half an octave higher, breathless.

“Gets too warm.”

“Jesus,” you mutter, and it’s low, under your breath.  He barely catches it.

He doesn’t reply.  You don’t say anything else, and he settles against you with a content sigh.  This is better than he thought it would be; you’re warm and soft, and he can just make out the lingering scent of your shampoo.  Such a long moment passes in silence that he thinks you’ve fallen back asleep, but then you twitch in his arms.

“Can you move a little bit?” you ask, and your voice still has that slightly higher, slightly breathless quality that he can’t quite place with his thoughts being so slippery, so elusive.

“Too heavy?” he asks.

You turn your head—he can feel your jawline brush against the top of his head.

“You’re breathing on me.”

“You want me to stop breathing?”

You move against him, a shimmying move against his hold paired with a shiver, and he tightens his arm around your waist automatically.  He’s still too drunk for anything productive to happen southward, but if you keep wriggling again him, that might change.

“Ben, c’mon.”  It comes out a whine, and that is enough to make his cock jolt in interest.  “You’re breathing on my neck.”

“I brushed my teeth,” he replies, only a little defensive.

“No, asshole.  You’re panting against my bare neck, and I can’t sleep,” you clarify, and it takes his rum-sodden brain a long moment to catch your drift.

The moment it clicks, he replies with a drawn out ohhhhh, which makes you clench your jaw—which he hears because he’s right up against you, can hear the way your breathing has sped up, can hear the way your breath catches in your throat, almost too quiet to hear.

“You like that?” he adds, dropping his voice to a whisper.  He turns his face, rasps his stubble against the soft skin of your neck, and it pulls an honest-to-god whimper from you that doesn’t just make his cock twitch—it stirs to life.

But he can’t think of anything else to say—even his teasing flees him, and when he presses a gentle kiss to the warm spot that he just rubbed against your skin, you whimper again…but then you push him away and give him hell.

“You’re way too drunk, Magalon,” you say sternly, and he knows it’s extra-serious because you’re calling him Magalon now, which you never do.

He swallows hard, feels that too-tight feeling in his throat but pushes through it.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.  

He can feel you glaring at him in the darkness.  “This is why I said we should split up for the night,” you tell him.  “I knew you should go off and do your own thing.  Find a hook-up or whatever.”  

There’s an edge of anger in your voice that you’ve never had for him before.  It sobers him up better than any cold shower:  an icy wash of fear lances down his spine that he’s messed up badly.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.  

A long, uncomfortable stretch of silence, then you sigh and say it’s fine.  That he’s drunk, and you can’t stay mad because god knows the other guys have done dumb stuff while hammered and you forgave them…

The fact that you equate this moment with the dumb shit the guys have done…it makes Borracho sadder then he’s been in a long while.

“I’m so sorry.  I can…let me go see if there’s another room available…”  He starts to pull away, starts to climb out of the bed, and his face is hot with shame—that sick, post-drunk depression when he’s done something so stupid—

“Oh, it’s fine.  Really.”  You hook your hand around his wrist and stop him.  “It’s also one in the morning.”

“No, I can—”

“Ben, stop.”  This time it’s less charged, more plaintive.  “You’re fine.  I’m fine.  Lie back down.”

He does.  He stretches out away from you, rigid, afraid to overstep and accidentally touch you, but then he feels you patting the space between the two of you, and you whisper, “c’mon then.”

“What?”

“You said cuddling helps you sleep.”

He’s not sober enough to demur, so he moves back towards you.  Presses himself carefully to your side, presses his forehead against the apex of your shoulder, and after a moment, you shift.  You free your arm that was pinned between the two of you, and you lift it in invitation.  

“It’s okay,” you whisper.  “No hard feelings, okay?”

Borracho moves again, lies his head on your shoulder and upper chest, and after another moment, he feels your arm move, feels your hand on his head.  Gently carding through his hair, combing through the few tangles there, and he falls asleep in a jumble of paradoxical emotions:  confused and ashamed and hopeful and embarrassed.

For whatever reason—feeling your fingers in his hair, remembering all the times you playfully punched him, like you wanted an excuse to touch him—he settles on hope right before he slips off.  Hope, and maybe the slightest bit of courage.

*****

Day four arrives, but you are awake before it breaks.  You carefully extricate yourself from Borracho’s hold—he has a hand loosely gripping your wrist, and a leg thrown over yours as he snores in his deep sleep.  You get dressed quick and go out in the rosy dawn and take a walk before it gets too hot.

You have to pull yourself together.  You’re a goddamned mess; you barely slept, and you can still feel the warmth of him, still smell the rum-tinged scent of him no matter how quickly you walk.

Only one more night, you think.  The last day of the conference is today, and tomorrow you’ll drive back to L.A.  

He was drunk, you tell yourself.  And he was probably keyed up, thinking about what the guys told him.  He probably does need to get laid, and you were just the person who happened to be there.  It means nothing.

When you get back to the room, he’s already awake, showered, and dressed for the day.  He’s obviously hungover with bleary red eyes that watch you as you enter the room, but the asshole still manages to look good.

There’s tension in the room, but it lasts all of a moment.  He watches you carefully, studies you, then he takes a breath.

“Lived up to my nickname last night.  I’m sorry.”

“It’s all good.”  You go to step past him, to go to the bathroom to freshen up before you leave.  He stops you, lays a gentle hand on your elbow and tugs you carefully towards him.

“Just because I was drunk…” he murmurs.  “Doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it.”

You don’t dare look at him; you can feel his eyes on you, but you fix your gaze on the wall opposite you with its atrocious wallpaper.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  He shifts his hand from your elbow, smooths his palm along your upper arm.  “Last night in Vegas.  We should go out to celebrate.  If you want.”

“You gonna get wasted again?” you joke weakly, half-unwilling to believe the morning is going this way, that he’s being so direct.

“Not making that mistake again,” he replies, his voice serious.

This goddamned man.  You still can’t look at him, so you mutter yeah, okay, sounds good and then flee to the bathroom.  Your face is burning hot, and it takes you a long while to pull yourself together.

-----

You’d expect the day to drag, but it flies by.  At the end of it, you have your continuing education credits, but you can hardly care.  Your mind has been spinning since that morning, and sitting next to Borracho during the seminar is torture.

Then back to the hotel to clean up.  You put on the single dress you brought, back when you thought you’d be on your own in your own room and had toyed with the idea of your own hook-up situation with some anonymous dude in Vegas.  

Now you’re wearing it on a sorta date with Borracho.  You remember the feeling of him curled up against you, the rough stubble raising a burn against you, then his lips soothing it.  You feel that almost-painful clench, the sharp stab of arousal between your thighs, and you wonder how, exactly, you were going to keep your cool over dinner.

“Stay frosty,” you mutter to your reflection.  You will your shaky hand to calm, and it takes you two tries to get your lipstick on right.  “Just….for fucks sake, try to play it cool.”

*****

Borracho isn’t quite as clueless as the usual guy, so when he wakes and finds you gone, he can guess at what that means.

When you return and fail to gift him a playful punch, to tease him, his guess is confirmed.  

Connors got drunk at a party once, made an awkward pass at you, and you had rolled with it in such good humor.  It hadn’t embarrassed you at all, so the fact that Borracho made the same faux pas and you’re responding like this?

You can barely meet his eye, and that hopeful bit of courage he had last night flares up bright.

-----

He hasn’t taken a woman out on a proper date in eons, but during a smoke break during the seminar, he manages to make a reservation at a fancy steakhouse.  He plans out the entire evening on the sly—dinner, then a nearby club, and he’s surprised by how excited he is at the prospect of an actual date.  With you.  Even if he framed it as celebrating the last night in Vegas and not necessarily a date.

You look so goddamned gorgeous when you exit the hotel bathroom.  You’re always cute, he knows, cutely sexy in your jeans and button-down shirts at work, but this is something else  He’s never seen you in a dress, never seen your curves revealed and framed so perfectly.  And your mouth is a velvety deep red, highlighting how fucking kissable he imagines you to be.  

He realizes that he’s already a goner and has to just nut the fuck up and be honest with you.  He’s crossed some invisible threshold in his mind, and he catches the way you study him on the sly and he thinks maybe you have too.

-----

At dinner.  You wince at the prices—you know how much he makes, since you make a similar salary—but he tells you to order whatever you want.  He lives a pretty spartan life.  He can afford it.

His courage carries over into dinner.  

“I’m sorry about last night,” he tells you around bites of his steak.  “I didn’t mean to get wasted.”

“Those alcoholic slushies are deadly.  They’re like the jungle juice we used to make by the bucket in college.”

His mouth quirks into a small smile.  “I bet you were a handful in college.”

“I was a saint in college.  Designated driver on Saturday night, church services Sunday morning.”

He snorts and shakes his head, but after a few minutes pass in companionable silence, he continues.  He decides to shoot his shot.

“I like you,” he says simply, and you pause when it he says it, your fork halfway between your plate and your mouth.  

“Since when?” you blurt out.

“Pretty much since you joined Major Crimes.”

“Seriously?”  You lower your fork, set it down and gaze at him.  “Are you being for real right now?”

“I am.  You’re cute.  You’re likeable.  You make me laugh, and you’re the smartest person in our squad even though there’s not much competition.”

You duck your head at his praise, embarrassed.  You don’t reply, and he takes a breath, rekindles his courage.

“The more I got to know you, the more I liked you.”  Another long moment of silence as he cuts a bite of steak and chews it.  He swallows and fixes you with his gaze.  “There’s something about you.  Pulls the eye.  Keeps my attention.”

You reach out and grab your glass, take a long drink of your water, then ask, “Why are you telling me this now?”

A shrug, but he’s just as blunt.  “Thought it was time to come clean.  It’s tough sleeping next to you and not saying anything.”

He doesn’t offer anything else, and the two of you eat in silence for long moments.  He wills his hammering heart to slow, to calm down.  He’s put all his cards out on the table.  Whatever happens now is up to you.  

“Well, I like you too.”  You watch him to see how your words land, and even though his heart lurches at your admission, he only nods and keeps working through his steak.

You and Borracho have always been so similar:  calm, largely unflappable.  There are no fireworks, no high tempers as you exchange these revelations.  It makes sense that you each would matter-of-factly admit your feelings for each other over dinner, though it hardly makes for a good story.

-----

At the club, you start to seem like your old self.  Your old self layered with the admissions that you like him, that he likes you.

But you’re you again, and you’re back to teasing him, and you’re back to your playful hooks and jabs, but now they have an extra layer, an extra dimension too.  

Like when you ask him to dance.

“You sure you even know how to dance?” he asks, dead-pan.  You give him that scoff of outrage, land a soft jab right to the center of his chest…but then you unclench your fist, lay the flat of your hand there, and it’s the first time you’ve touched him deliberately, if he didn’t count how you ran your fingers through his hair last night—

“C’mon, Magalon,” you tell him with a grin.  “Show me your moves.”

He likes the way you say his last name like that, how it sounds intimate coming out of your mouth, so he obliges you and leads you out onto the dance floor.

There’s no skill to this sort of dancing.  It’s not like he took you to a salsa club; it’s just darkness with pulsing lights paired with a pulsing bassline.  

He tries to be a gentleman at first, keeps his hands lightly on your waist, but he isn’t the only one who thinks you look gorgeous.  At least three other guys clock you as you dance, ogling you openly, so he slides one palm to the small of your back, tantalizingly close to the swell of your ass.  He pulls you closer to him, the length of you against him.  You hook your arms around his neck and suddenly are right there, so close to him he can see the bit of shimmer you’ve brushed onto your cheekbones.  Close enough that he can smell your shampoo, your delicate perfume, the warm, homey scent that seems to just be you.

One songs melts into another, and the two of you fit together so well as you dance.  He never would have guessed at how natural it feels.  There’s the softness of your breasts pressed lightly against him, and you must feel comfortable in the second song because you shift your hands against the back of his neck and push your fingertips into his hair.

Another song and then a drink, and the two of you stand along the parameter and watch the other people dance, and you lean against him as you sip your drinks.  He keeps one arm around your waist, possessive from the single guys circling like sharks.  He brushes his thumb in a circle against your hip, finds the sharp point of your hipbone under the softness.  Finds the slight ridge under your dress where the waistband of your panties lies.  He traces his thumb along it lightly, and he catches the way your breath hitches when he does, even under the loud music.

Another drink then back to the dance floor, and it all sings in his blood like a drug:  the bassline thrumming like a heartbeat, the handful of drinks, the feeling of your body against his own.  

You must feel the same because you put a little sway into your hips, press yourself so firmly against him on the downbeat that you’re in grinding territory.  His entire awareness collapses down to just the two of you, like you’re the only two people in the world, and when he dips his head to whisper something to you—ask how you’re doing, if you want another drink—you’re the one who kisses him first.  You shift a hand from the back of his neck to the side of his face, gently guiding him to you, those deep red lips on his, soft and sweet and eager, and it goes on for so long that a guy near you finally mutters, “get a fucking room, assholes.”

*****

You don’t even remember the damn mirror until you are on the bed.

It takes an eternity to get from the club back to the hotel, then another eternity from the parking lot to the room.  So many delays:  in the elevator, in the hallway, outside of the room—Borracho keeps reaching for you, pulling you to him.  He lays those big hands on you as he steers you gently into the wall, into the corner of the elevator and kisses you.

But you manage to get into the room.  He walks you backwards towards the bed, and you think he’ll just push you back onto it, but instead he sweeps you into his arms and takes the few steps to lay you down.  He stretches his broad body over yours, holds himself away like a fucking tease….but when you open your eyes to look at him and give him hell, you catch movement past his shoulder and catch your own gaze in the mirror above the bed.

“W-wait,” you tell him, and he stops immediately.  He misreads your words, the sweet man—his lust-heavy eyes clear, and he rears back to look down at you.  His brows are knit together in concern.

“You okay?” he asks, and you shake your head.  You smile and point up a the ceiling.

“We have to draw the blinds,” you tell him.  “And kill the lights.”

He must have forgotten about the mirror two because his expression twists into one of confusion.  He turns his head and looks up, then sees it and remembers.

When he looks back at you, the confusion is replaced by a smirk.

“Don’t even suggest it,” you warn.

“C’mon.  You know you want to.”

You laugh, chuck him in his shoulder.  “I want to watch myself?  God, no.”

“C’mon.”  He drops his head, kisses you lightly and grins when you try to chase his mouth as he breaks away.  “It’d be so hot.”

“I don’t even like watching myself brush my teeth!”

He drops his head again, kisses your cheek, the hinge of your jaw.  The spot under your ear.  “Just try it,” he whispers in your ear, and the bastard puts extra breath behind his words, chuckles quietly when you shiver at the sensation.  “Just watch yourself for a moment, yeah?”

And yes, he’s a bastard here too:  he gives you no time to come up with a compelling argument.  He lays a kiss against your pulse point, the softness of his lips contrasted against the rasp of his stubble, and then lower to the crest of your shoulder, your collarbones.  The press of his lips, the drag of the tip of his tongue, and he breathes against the wet line he lays.  You shiver again, squirm under him.  He takes the opportunity to lower himself more firmly onto you, and fuck does it feel good, being pressed into the bed by him.

You catch your own expression and its nothing but lust.  It’s not as embarrassing as you thought it might be, but the sight slightly lower is even better—Borracho’s dark head kissing the tops of your breasts where they peek out from the shaped bodice of your dress.

You are already wet—have been since the club—but watching him kiss you, move against you….it’s like watching an erotic movie that you’re also starring in, and your pussy clenches around the ache of desire, the pulse of wetness it looses.

“Can I take this off, sweetheart?” he asks.  He runs a finger under the edge of your bodice, tickling you.  

You tap his bicep and he rocks up to kneel over you.  You sit up under him and he helps.  You unzip the side as he pushes the straps down, and then he works the dress off of you as you shimmy on the bed, lift your hips.  You’re left in your lingerie and you feel exposed, so you reach up and tug at his shirt.

“You’re falling behind,” you tease, and it’s comical how quickly he shucks his shirt and his undershirt to throw them across the room.

Then he’s pushing you back again, following you down again, his mouth resuming its path on all the new skin exposed to him.  He braces himself on one hand but cups one breast with the other, molds it to the shape of his palm as he traces his tongue along the lace of your bra.  

He hooks a finger under the cup of it, pulls it away and frees you, and then his mouth is on you, suckling and nipping gently with his teeth.  You hiss out his name and he chuckles again, the vibrations going straight to your pussy.

He moves lower, and the sight of it in the mirror dials everything up to a hundred.  The broad spread of him over you, his head as he kisses his way down your body.  You’ve never had a view like this before, and with past lovers, you wouldn’t have wanted it, but with Borracho—

“Goddamnit,” you mutter quietly, but he hears you and pauses.  He raises his head and rests his chin on your belly, gazes up at you.

“You okay there?”

“Yeah, great.  Perfect.”  You glance down at him and add, “just thought I had already acquired all the kinks I’d ever have.  Thought that learning journey was over.”

Borracho smirks, and he runs his palm over your hip, rests it there.  “Told you so.”

You huff out a breath, and he lowers his head to kiss you, right above the waistband of your panties.  “So, what other kinks have you acquired?” he asks, and he attempts to be casual in his tone but there’s a thread of blatant lust in it.

“You ass.”  You reach down to swat him but he catches your hand and pins it beside you on the bed, which…that’s one of them.  Being pinned down by a broad fucking dude with big hands, being gently dominated.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.  “Tell me how you want me.”

So you do.  Any other man, the first time you hook up, you wouldn’t trust them—but it’s Borracho and you trust him with your life, so you do.

-----

How you want him:  on top of you.  He’s a broad fucking dude with big hands, after all.  And with the mirror over the bed, missionary—not your favorite position—suddenly seems a lot more appealing.

You only part long enough to finish stripping, and he slips away for a beat to rustle around in his bag for a condom.  

You feel a brief moment of uncertainty, a fear that you’re just a hookup and he’d been looking for one in Vegas anyway, but you remember his blunt confession at dinner.  Maybe he had packed the condoms with the hope of exactly this happening.  And why not?  Didn’t you have your own unopened box of condoms tucked into your suitcase, packed with the same nascent hope?

Then he’s back on the bed, crawling over you, and there must be some expression on your face because he peers at you closely, then nods his head encouragingly and says, “I meant what I said, earlier.”

You smile up at him.  “I know.  I meant what I said too.”

He drops his head and kisses you, parts your lips with his tongue and licks against your mouth until you feel lightheaded with how breathless you are.  He shifts himself, lowers himself onto you, and one hand slips down and grasps your inner thigh.  He pushes it out, spreads you open to make room for him, and you feel the first brush of his cock against your leg.

“Shit, Borracho—” you start to breathe out, but he fixes you with his dark eyes and shakes his head.

“Benny,” he says, stern.  He tightens his hand on your thigh, not hard but steady, spreads you open more, and you guess he’s leaning into the softly dominant side you asked for—

“Benny, please,” you amend, and he rewards you by shifting his hand to his cock, giving it a few pumps.  He notches it at your entrance, and you love this part:  the tease, the anticipation, the broad crown of him just breeching you—

And then his hand is taking one of yours, then the other, pinning them above your head as you had asked him too.  His hands are so big that both wrists fit into the span on one, and you glance up at your reflection to see—your arms flexing against his hold, your face so blatantly wanting that it makes you moan.

Borracho—Benny—watches you as you watch your own reflection, and when you break your own gaze to look him, his own expression is pure lust.  Pure desire.  

“Felt this pussy twitch the second you looked up,” he claims, and you’d duck your head in embarrassment but any pride you had fled the minute you started making out in the club.  “I bet you’d like making a movie.”

You don’t reply, but your body does, and he chuckles as he lowers his head, kisses the side of your neck.

“Would you like that, back in LA?” he growls against you.  “I don’t have a mirror over my bed, but I have a video camera.  We could film ourselves, watch it back together—”

“Getting ahead of yourself there, Magalon,” you say, and your voice is shaky.  “Maybe I don’t even want to do this back in—”

He cuts you off by pushing into you.  Smooth, one slow motion until he’s buried to the hilt.  The bastard is thick and hot and insistent, and you feel yourself stretching open to accommodate him.  

It’s too much, it’s almost too much, and your expression in the mirror is stunned, gape-mouthed, wide eyes.  Of course he’d be broad there too:  he’s a quiet guy but he takes up space in the precinct and the squad cars.  He has a presence that can’t be ignored and this is no different.  You know, if he does this right, you’ll feel him there tomorrow too, that he’ll raise an ache in your core and the thought makes you clench against him.

“Fuck, you’re already grabbing at my dick and I just got here,” he says.  You can hear the smile in his voice and you’d smack him but your hands are pinned so you only mumble that he needs to move, now.

“Look at you, acting like you’re in charge,” he replies, but he listens to you.  He moves.  

In your experience, the guys with the good dicks never know how to use them.  They pummel and hammer away with no finesse, but Benny knows what the fuck he’s doing.  He starts slow, sinks into you.  He warms you up to him.  He lets you feel every vein and ridge of his cock, even through the thin latex.  

It’s so fucking hot to see it from above too.  You hate that he was right.  Your eyes shift from your face in the mirror to the wider scene as he deals you harder, faster thrusts:  the way his back and shoulders move with the effort, the muscles bunching and smoothing as he drives into you.  The piston of his hips, the flex of his ass.  You wrap one leg around him, then the other, and it looks like a piece of art how the two of you intertwine.

“L-let me go,” you whisper, and you tug against his hold on your wrists.  He slows his thrusts, releases you.  He shifts his head from where it was tucked by the side of your own, and he looks at you in concern.

“I’m fine,” you say.  “Just…it’s just…”  You place one hand on the side of his face, cupping his stubbled cheek.  “Kiss me.  Please.”

He doesn’t, not yet.  He scans your face for some clue of how you’re feeling and guesses, “too much?”

“No,” you assure him.  You crane your neck to reach him as you guide him down, and you kiss him gently.  You slow the moment down for a second; you suck against his lower lip until he opens his mouth to you, and you slide your tongue in to taste him.  You can feel him twitching inside you at the kiss, and you grin against his mouth when you break away.

“It’s perfect,” you say.  “You’re perfect.  I just want to be able to touch you too.”

He returns your smile with his own.  “I love it when you sweet-talk me.”  A beat.  “Happens so rarely.”

You don’t smack him; the moment is too good to slide back into the immature flirting you used to do with each other, so you pull him back to you and kiss him instead.  Your other hand lands on his shoulder, then skates down the perfect planes of him to settle on his ass.  You pull him deeper into you with your hand—you sink your nails into him, making him hiss against you—and he deals you a punishing thrust in return.  Then another, and another.

The moment is too good and the scene above you is too good:  your legs wrapped around him, your arms wrapped around him now too as he fucks you into the mattress.  You try to memorize every thrust and flex of him, and a teasing little voice in the back of your head says yes, this would be so fucking hot to commit to film.  

Who would have thought that a week in Vegas for a boring law enforcement seminar would be when you unlocked so many new kinks?  

Even if you hadn’t, though, this is good.  Good with a capital G.  Not great, not yet, because you know there’s gonna be awkward stuff, learning stuff about each other, and the tiniest little fear that it won’t work out and how you’ll be in a world of shit then since you work together.  Coworkers fucking gets messy quick.  

But it’s good right now and could be great later, and Benny must be close because he changes the angle to give himself enough room to reach a hand down between you.  He swipes at your clit with a calloused finger, gathers up the messy slick between the two of you and rubs a tight circle against you, and it’s all you need to make the sharp coil of your impending orgasm snap.

You close your eyes as you come, so you miss it all the the mirror.  You close your eyes and see the golden sparks of pleasure crackling behind your eyelids, feel the syrupy warmth explode and seep outward to every cell of your body.  And you hear Benny when he drops his head near your ear, when he lets loose a pained groan and a muttered fuck, baby before he comes too.

*****

After so many nights of sleeping beside you, Borracho finally gets to hold you as you drift off to sleep.

It’s not bad at all.  He usually sleeps so much better alone, but this?  He thinks he could get used to this.

And if you drop to sleep pretty easily without sex, he learns that it takes you even less time once you come.  You take a few minutes to clean up in the bathroom, and you lie down beside him, and you literally fall asleep halfway through a teasing sentence.  You don’t even get all the words out before you trail off and start breathing deeper.

He pulls you closer to him.  You don’t wake up—you don’t even stir—so he tucks an arm under your shoulders and rolls you towards him, tucks you carefully against his side.  In the dim light of the room, he can just make out your reflections in the mirror on the ceiling.  

A more selfish man might be pissed that he didn’t get to watch the two of you fucking in the mirror, but it was worth it to Borracho.  The few times he glanced at your face, you had seemed stunned.  Hypnotized by whatever you saw.  It was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

And anyway, he has this moment.  He can see how well you fit together like this, just sleeping.  

He could get used to all of this.

[kilojulietsierra]

Working Late (Borracho x Fem!Reader)

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh really?"

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Papi please..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, that." You giggled.

Benny was done for, then and there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Borracho!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Which is?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't I know it."

The End

~~~~ 

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

was this ex-husband Benny Borracho Magalon second chance romance oneshot supposed to be short?

Yes.

Is it now at 3.8K?

Also yes.

[mariamariquinha]

Moodboard 3 - Bossa Nova

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

A/C: "Ah, so you're writing Bossa Nova?" Yes. We're making good progress here, so I hope we can experience more of these two.

Any guesses about what chapter 10 will be like?

Oh, and remember: in this story, everyone makes mistakes. 😉

*

No pressure tags:

@cheesybadgers @thoroughlymodernminutia @servenas-inner-fangirl @thesandbeneathmytoes @seaweeden @ecleticfashionbookszipper

[the-hinky-panda]

Day 17: Brambles

10/17: Brambles

Universe // Characters: Den of Thieves - IT Reader // Benny “Borracho” Magalon x IT Reader 

Rating: Explicit 

Benjamin “Borracho” Magalon is sharp. His slicked back hair, hawkish nose, goatee, tattoos. His eyes are sharp, attuned to pick out details around him, forget big picture bullshit. His words are sharp, when he decides to use them. When asked for information on a crime scene, he’s quick and concise with the facts. When asked a question by the brass, his answers are mostly one word. When getting busted on by the guys, his retorts are quick flicks of sarcasm and low blows.  

Everything about him is honed like a razor’s edge, safe if you rub your thumb over it one way but incredibly damaging if you don’t. He likes being this way. When you’re sharp, people are cautious of you, keeping you at arms length to keep themselves from being cut and hurt. Even the guys in Major Crimes handle him cautiously in the bullpen but not when they’re all out in the field. They use him like a knife: sheathed until needed then wielded with abandon. 

You apparently have missed the memo completely. 

He hears noise coming from the server room and goes to investigate because it’s a slow day and he’s tired of listening to guys share their conquest of the flavor of the week stories. As he gets closer, he hears a variety of beeps and then a muttered “fuck.” Peering into the room, he sees you sitting on the floor, a laptop balanced on one knee and a handheld device in your hand scanning for something. 

“Did you try turning it off and on again?” he quips. 

But then karma knocks him on his ass swiftly. You turn your head surprised at his sudden appearance, and you’ve got a small flashlight in your mouth. Your lips are wrapped around the cylinder and your cheeks hollow when you spit it out and drop it on the floor. All his blood rushes southward at the sight and the innocent, wide-eyed look you give him isn’t helping matters either. 

“Can I help you?” 

He glances around looking for the guys or video cameras. Surely he’s getting pranked. Or else he just walked on the set of a very poorly funded porno. This actually has Big Nick written all over it, he’s sure of it. Well, if he’s having a joke played on him, he’s going to take it as far as he can. 

“Maybe. I’m a little bigger than that flashlight though.” 

It takes you a minute to understand the innuendo but when you do, you roll your eyes. “Disgusting.” 

The realization that this isn’t a prank hits him like a cold bucket of water. Before he can apologize, you slam the door shut in his face before going back to your work. He shoves his hands in his pockets and heads back to the bullpen, trying to shrug the nagging feeling of guilt. 

He’s sharp and you got nicked. But there was sharpness to you and he got nicked as well.  Now you both know better for next time. 

***

“Internet is down.” 

“Again?” 

“Z, call IT.” 

“I ain’t calling down there again.” 

Henderson laughs. “Oh that’s right, that little girl boxed your ears last week.” 

Borracho lifts his head up and glances around at the guys. “What happened last week?” 

“Z tried to ask that cute little IT girl out on a date last week,” Henderson is overcome with laughter for a couple beats. “And what did she say to you, man? ‘Not if you were dipped in-” 

Tony Zappata is not used to being turned down by women and this is evident by the glare he’s giving Henderson. “I actually offered her a bite of my sub and she said no.” 

“Actually,” Connors chimes in, “She said ‘not if you skipped it to me across a pool of antiseptic.’” 

Seems like Borracho isn’t the only sharp one. He picks up the phone and calls down to the IT department. 

“Dan in IT.” 

“Magalon in Major Crimes. Internet is down up here.” 

He sighs. “I’ll send MIT back up.” 

Back up. It might be you so he heads over to the server room and sure enough, you turn the corner with your laptop and bag of equipment. You have white headphones wrapped around your neck with some kind of podcast playing through the speakers. You tap one side of the headphones and the talking stops. You glare at him as you approach the server room so Borracho holds up his hands. 

“I’m sorry about last time.” 

“Really?” 

“I thought the guys were setting me up. Playing a prank.” 

You open the door and prop it open. “What made you think that?” 

“Because you’re too cute to be a computer nerd.” 

You’re back to glaring at him but Borracho stands by what he said and holds your stare. You eventually sigh in defeat and turn towards the servers. 

“Why do they call you MIT?” 

You give him an incredulous look. “Because I graduated from MIT.” 

“Wow. That’s impressive.” 

You glance over your shoulder before opening your laptop and pulling up a diagnostic program. “So which one of the Major Crimes guys are you?” 

“Borracho.” 

“The drunk?” 

“You know Spanish?” 

“Born and raised in LA, yeah, I know Spanish.” You hit a couple of buttons. “I’m not going to call you a drunk, so what’s your real name?” 

He’s sharp but so are you. Iron sharpens iron. “Benny.” 

You reach behind one of the server boxes and snap a wire back into place. “There we go. Loose cable. Internet is back on for you guys.” 

He watches you close your laptop and stand up, dusting off your jeans. “So what’s your name.” 

You smile at him. “MIT works for now.” 

***

Borracho stops by the server room a couple days later and unplugs the cord that you had fixed. He goes to the bullpen but hears Henderson calling down to IT, apparently giving whoever is on the other end of the line some grief. Borracho turns on his heel and goes back to the server room. He’s propping open the door when you come around the corner. 

“Again, Benny?” 

He shrugs. “Looks that way. Was thinking I was going to try to fix it.” 

“Oh, you have a degree from MIT now?” 

“Yeah, course I do.” He grins and points to his neck. “That’s where I got this tat.” 

You laugh, a genuine soft sound, before going into the room. He has to remind himself that he’s sharp and needs to be careful with you. He’s not sure when it happened, but he likes you. You’re pretty, sweet, and smart. You’re sharp but only when you need to be. Genuinely, you’re soft. And his palms itch to find out just how soft you really are. He wants to kiss you, feel your perfect mouth against his. He wants to feel how you would fit in his arms, underneath him, staring down at him. 

But he doesn’t want to hurt you, get you caught in the brambles of who he is. You’ll only emerge with cuts and scrapes that will heal but will leave you scarred. He’s sharp and he doesn't want to leave his mark on you. 

“Benny?” 

He snaps out of his thoughts just in time to see your toe catch on your equipment bag and send you stumbling towards him. He instinctively reaches out and catches you as you crash against his chest. Details start gathering in his brain: the nervous flex of your fingers in his flannel shirt, the wild beating of your pulse in your neck, the nervous huff of a laugh that leaves your lips. Oh God, your lips. 

You’re going to hate him, hit him and never come back up to the server room but he can’t help it. He kisses you and knowing this is the only time he’s going to have with you, he holds nothing back. He kisses your top lip, scrapes his teeth against your bottom one, and even risks sweeping your mouth with his tongue. 

He feels you moan more than hears it, a vibration in your ribcage that his hands are holding. Your hands hold either side of his face and press him even closer to you. He feels your tongue slide against his and all his senses short out momentarily. Is this happening? Are you really kissing him back? Are you okay with this? 

A door slams down the hall and you both jump back away from each other. You end up staring at each for half a heartbeat before you grab your bag and laptop and dart out of the room. He stands there for another moment before pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

“Fuck!” 

***

Three days pass and Borracho can’t stop thinking of that kiss. He can still feel you under his hands, against his mouth. The guys are starting to notice he’s more surly than ever. He needs to get you out of his system. And if he can’t have you, then he’s going to have to find a replacement. Nick always gets more than enough girls for the post piss test party and maybe he’ll take advantage of that tomorrow. The door to the bullpen opens and there you are, eyes roving around the room. He can’t breathe.  

“I figure with all the issues you guys have been having with the internet, I may as well show you how to do basic troubleshooting.” You look around at them. “Who’s the most reliable?” 

Z stands up. “I am.” 

“Sit down, Subway boy,” you snap and your eyes land on Borracho. “You up for the job?” 

He’s sharp and he notices little details. He sees the minute smile that touches the corner of your mouth. You know exactly what you’ve just said and also know that you’re making him walk across the room to get out of the bullpen now that half his blood is on its way to his groin. 

He’s in love with you, he realizes, at that exact minute.  

He throws his pen down on the desk. “Yeah. Sure. Why not?” 

You make a hasty retreat towards the server room, your pace picking up the closer you get. He hears you giggle when you swing the door open and stumble through it while he grabs the doorknob and closes it behind him, locking it for good measure. You’re on each other immediately, lips crashing together, hands pulling at clothes. Did he still have a condom in his wallet? Please let there be a condom in his wallet. 

“Wait, wait a minute,” you whisper, pushing him away slightly. 

He tries to refocus, calm down, but he just wants and it’s been so long since he’s felt this way, desperate and…not sharp. Your hands run over his chest, his shoulders, around his back. You smooth your palms over the planes of his body and it doesn’t hurt you. It hurts him though. He feels vulnerable, like you’re the one with the razor blade, getting ready to nick and slice and cause him to bleed. As he stares down at your face, lit with the blinking lights of the servers, your eyes searching his face for what, he has no idea, he realizes he would cut his own throat and bleed out for you if you wished for it. 

But you’re too kind to ever wish that on him. You would sooner turn the blade on yourself than hurt him. He can see the apology you’re trying to muster, to offer for your abrupt departure the last time you were in here together. He knows the kind of person you are because he’s come across so many people that are your opposite. Criminals, party girls, girlfriends, ex-wife…coworkers, you are the antithesis of all of them. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally manage to say. “For running out last time. I…got scared.” 

He lets his hands drift down your arms, feeling the smooth skin against his fingertips. “I get it. I do.” 

“I don’t have the best track record when it comes to relationships.” 

He tries to not laugh at that. “You don’t have the best track record? I’d like to bet it’s better than mine, mamí. 

Your smile is one of pure relief. “You’re different from the other guys.” 

They’re grenades and he’s a dagger. They explode and cause as much damage as possible, not caring who gets caught in the explosion. He’s for up close and personal damage and does it well. That’s why he has to be more careful with you. 

“You’re kinder than they are.” 

He scoffs at that. “That’s not a word that’s usually used for me.” 

“That’s because people don’t take the time to notice you. Or you don’t let them get close enough.” You press yourself closer to him. “I’d like to get to know you better.” 

“Aren’t there any other boys closer to your age?” He doesn’t really know how old you are but you certainly look significantly younger than he is. 

You wrinkle your nose. “None worth the time getting to know.” 

Good enough for him. He leans down to kiss you again but stops. “How old are you?” 

“Thirty-one.” 

His heart almost stops. He’s forty-six. Fifteen years difference. That was definitely something to address. Later. Maybe this is all you want, a quickie in the server room. If he’s lucky, you’ll want a couple of them before you grow tired of the sullen, middle aged man and move on with a computer programmer who lives in the suburbs and telecommutes to Silicon Valley. 

“Benny?” 

He immediately refocuses back on you. “Yeah?” 

Your hands go back to kneading the soft fabric of his flannel shirt. “Is this…I mean, are you okay…we can-” 

He kisses you as sweetly as he can in the moment. He holds you gently, kisses you softly, and does everything in his power to keep from spinning you around and taking you against one of the single server boxes. He feels your lips curl into a smile against his and suddenly the game is back on for the two of you. 

As sweet as your mouth is, he wants to taste all of you. He breaks away from your lips, and starts nipping and sucking on the column of your throat. Your hands are just as busy as his mouth as you tug his flannel off his shoulders and then pull his t-shirt over his head. You lean back and trail a hand down his chest, a small, deep groan coming from your throat. As if he needed any more encouragement to keep going. 

He pulls your shirt off over your head before filling both his hands with your satin encased breasts. You were gorgeous. All soft skin, everywhere he touched was smooth, firm…young. He stops that train of thought by pulling your bra off and immediately drawing one of your nipples into his mouth. His tongue flicks over the hardening peak while you run your fingers through his hair and bite your lip to keep from making noise. He drops a hand to the button of your jeans and flicks it open, dragging the zipper down. You squirm just enough for him to get his hand inside your panties and his fingers slip easily through your folds. 

“Dios mio, mamí,” he presses his cheek to the swell of your breast, “you’re so wet.” 

You scrape your fingernails through his hair. “All for you. Can’t…can’t stop…” 

He slides a finger inside of you. “What was that?” 

The moan you give is full of sin. “Can’t stop thinking about you. About this.” 

Benny returns to your mouth, kisses you with zero gentleness as he slides a second inside of you. He swallows down your moan as you try to spread your legs further apart. Your hand slips below the waistband of his jeans and firmly runs over his length. You break away from the kiss and smile up at him, eyes almost black with lust. 

“You are a bit bigger than the flashlight.” 

“Fuckin’ tease,” he grumbles as he pulls your jeans and underwear off in one movement. 

You reach into his back pocket and pull out his wallet, slipping the black and gold foil packet out and tearing it open. 

“How did you know-” 

You shrug. “You seem like a guy who’s always prepared.” 

He pushes his pants and underwear down just low enough to roll the condom on before pulling you to the end of the server box and lining himself up. “You sure this is okay?” 

You hook one of your legs around his hip and plant your other foot on the floor. “Yes, please.” 

You keep eye contact with him as he pushes forward, easily sliding into you. He rests his forehead against yours as you both take a moment to adjust but the sounds you’re making, the quiet whimpers, almost send him over the edge right there. He either has to move or this is about to be over before it begins. But then you roll your hips and he takes that as his sign to move as well. You’re perfect. Your body fits perfectly against him, his hands molding perfectly to each curve and rise of you. You’re tight, but not uncomfortably so. He moves his head slightly so his lips brush your ear. 

“Feels so good, like you were made for me.” 

You don’t say anything but you shift, canting your hips at a different angle and then biting your lower lip hard enough to draw blood. 

“Does that feel good?” He’s murmuring nonsense, anything to stave off his orgasm and let this last for as long as possible. “You like feeling me inside of you?” 

“God, yes. Please,” you gasp and dig your fingernails into the meat of his shoulder blades, “Please don’t stop.” 

He couldn’t stop if he wanted to at this point. “You’re going to come for me, mamí?” 

You bury your face against his neck. 

“Let me feel you come. I want to feel you co-” And he does. He feels you clench down on him, hard, and then your entire body shakes with the force of your orgasm. He presses himself as deep as he can as he spills himself into the condom. In the back of his mind though, he wants to know what it feels like without that barrier, to come inside of you and watch it drip out. Maybe, if this continues to be more than just a once and done thing, you’ll let him. You’ll trust him enough to do that. 

He peppers kisses along your neck before pulling out. Both of you set about cleaning up and getting re-dressed. He ties off the condom and drops it in the trash can in the corner of the room, while you cover it with the tissues you used to clean yourself up. When you’re both dressed and look more or less presentable, you lean forward and kiss him. 

“Thank you.” 

He kisses you back. “Thank you.” 

“We should do this again sometime,” you smile up at him. 

“I think we’re going to have to, considering you didn’t show me anything about troubleshooting the internet.” 

You pick up your bag and laptop. “Then I guess I’ll just have to keep coming up here whenever there’s a problem.” 

Oh no. What a shame, he thinks to himself. He watches you unlock the door, give him one last smile, before leaving the room. He gives himself another moment, a chance to enjoy the dwindling lightening feeling under his skin before heading back into the bullpen. 

Benjamin “Borracho” Magalon is sharp, but you, despite your intermittent sharpness, are ultimately soft. He only hopes you’re soft enough to bend when the blade passes over you so you won’t be cut.

[beelicious-and-fictitious]

Maurice Compte Character Masterlist

Main Masterlist

This is a collection of my all of my fics written as pairings for Maurice Compte’s characters. All NSFW fics are marked as SMUT!

**all unfinished fics for Compte are on hiatus**

Original Character Fics

Garrote (unfinished series) | OC Jazmine Mann

Diego Jimenez X Jazmine Mann. Jazz has been forced to be a major part of a sting operation to take down a wanted man-- and she has to do it with the help of the mercurial drug dealers Hermanos Jimenez.

Benny “Borracho” Magalon X OC Robyn Banks (enemies to co-parents to lovers), Organized Chronologically

Dirty Water | 2.5k words | Robb is trying to leave her past behind her, but the group of dirty cops want her mafioso dad back in jail and she's his closest "ally"

More Than Words Can Say | 1.1k words | Benny knows Nick will murder him if he found out he was getting attached to the target...

Rooftop Rendezvous | 2.5k words 🔥SMUT🔥 | years (and a baby) later: Benny comes home and needs his girl to work his adrenaline out (without waking the baby)

Reader Insert Fics

Benny Borracho Megalon from Den of Thieves (2017)

The Laundromat | 3.3k words 🔥SMUT🔥 | while doing laundry for cheap at 3 am, you encounter a hot stranger and sex ensues

\\Return to Main Masterlist for more works by yours truly//

[chemicalalice]

Hello! I hope you’re having a good day! May I please request Benny Magalon coming home to his wife and kids after a long day of work, tucking the kids into bed and cuddling with his wife.. (your work is amazing btw) 🙂

Title: Homecoming

Summary: Benny at home after a bad day. A small, extremely fluffy, pretty angsty, slice-of-life, with soft!Benny

Pairing: Benny Magalon x female!Reader

Warnings: Pretty tame but mentions of child violence/death in regards to his job. Please be mindful of yourself and do not read if this content bothers you.

Word count: 1237

When Benny finally pulled his car in his driveway after a day from hell that included two dead kids, he found himself just sitting there. The engine ticking as it slowly cooled off in the night air was the only noise in the car besides his soft uneven breathing. He felt drained and couldn't even find the energy to push open the car door, let alone pull himself up and out and all the way to his front door.

Most days with this job were bad. But they were the kind of bad that years of seeing the worst of the worst had made him slightly immune too. Bad was relative now. It had to be. Otherwise there was no way someone could stay sane or survive in his line of work. He had seen it before. Burnout. Careers that crashed and and went up in flames, ruining families and lives with it. He didn't want that for himself. He didn't want to end up like Nick.

He looked up at his house. A light clicked on in the front window, joining the other lights already glowing in the second story and the kitchen. A small shadow raced by the window and the curtains moved slightly, followed shortly later by an even smaller shadow.

Benny smiled and though it was exhausted, it was genuine. This is what kept him strong, sane. This is what he worked so hard to come home to each night. What made life worth living.

He could picture what was going on inside perfectly. You would be standing over the stove, working on dinner while yelling for your son to slow down so his sister doesn't fall and hurt herself trying to keep up. You wouldn't really expect a reply besides more shrieks and giggles as the kids continued whatever game they were playing.

Benny's chest suddenly burned and he sucked in a breath, everything narrowing down to those glows of light and his intense desire to be in there with you, with his family. He shoved open the car door and practically ran to the front door, not caring if any of his neighbors saw and thought he was crazy. He wanted to be in that light with you, not alone in the dark outside, haunted by the experiences of the day.

The kids practically attacked him as he threw open the door, their shouts of "Daddy" filling him with warmth as they threw their little bodies at his legs. You emerged from the kitchen shortly after, and it was as in the breathe he had felt like he was holding since the car was punched from his body at the sight of you and how, in that moment, he didn't think he had ever seen anything more beautiful. You would have laughed if he had said it out loud. Your shirt had a splash of red sauce across it and you were wearing the sweat pants that had paint stains on them, your hair was messy and your makeup was slightly smeared from a long day, but you had the smile that was just for him. He wanted to kiss you then, properly, but with this kids hanging off him he settled for your quiet "I'm glad you're home" and a soft press of your lips to his cheek before you disappeared back into the kitchen.

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

Benny always insisted on being the one to get the kids ready for bed when he was home. His job caused him to keep odd hours so he wasn't always home for his family's nighttime ritual. He didn't want to wake up one day and realize his kids were all grown up and he missed out on being a part of it.

He idly listened to you wash the dishes from dinner, the faint strains of the music you were listening to drifting up, as the kids splashed in the bath and flooded the floor. He would have to clean it up before you got upstairs and yelled at him. He didn't care though. Seeing his kids happy was all that mattered to him.

He let them play until he heard the music shut off and then he was hustling them out of the bath and into their pajamas. His son was currently obsessed with Where the Wild Things Are so the three of them crowded into his son's bed and he dutifully pulled out the book. His daughter was sleep by the second read through, and his son was having trouble keeping his eyes open by the third.

He moved slowly as he lifted his daughter up and brought her to her own bed, making sure she was tucked in before return to his son placing a kiss on his head before shutting off the light.

You were waiting for him out in the hallway, already changed into your pajamas with hair damp from the shower you had taken. And as the events of the days bubbled up inside of him, the images of the two kids whose lives were ended so cruelly, so early, today he found he couldn't tear himself away from the spot in his kids' doorway, eyes fixated on every slow breath they took.

"Baby?" Your touch on his arm was soft, your voice even softer, worried. His eyes were wet as he turned to look at you. You pulled him to you without another word, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull his face down to nestle in the crook of yours. He never told you the details of his worst cases, and you understood. Saying it aloud was a form of reliving it. You were always there for him if he needed to talk, but some days, like now, he just needed comfort. Nearness. A reminder that he was safe. His family was safe. He was home.

You led him by the hand to the bedroom. He began stripping out of his clothes, not even having the energy for his own shower, and you we sitting on the bed, propped up against the pile of pillows you insisted the bed needed by the time he finished. He crawled up next to you and wrapped his arms around your middle, his head resting on your chest. Your arms wrapped around him as well, and it moments like these they felt like is own personal shield against the world as he shook silently.

The guys from work would rib on him if they saw him like this, had given him shit in the past when he passed on the drugs and the women at their little unsanctioned "office" parties, said what a "good boy" he was. But it didn't bother him. He had everything he wanted right here. And he knew, deep down, that they envied his life; his family; his stability; you. You were beautiful, you were the mother of his children, and you were his. You were there for him in the good times, and you stood by him in his low times, because lord know he wasn't perfect.

You were humming something, he realized. He was too sleepy to really pick up on the tune. Your fingers were running gently through his hair, slowly lulling him to sleep. Thank you, he thought. I love you. I wouldn't survive without you. He wasn't sure if he managed to say it out loud before he finally slipped away.

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

Tag List:

@buckybarneshairpullingkink

[brandyllyn]

Adventurous

Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x f!reader [no use of y/n]

Summary: Your friend drags you to an unconventional party. Words: 5.7k 

My Masterlist

Rating: Explicit Warnings: language. smut. lots of talk about consent. fingering. oral (f receiving). PiV.

A/N: This whole thing is @youvebeenlivingfictional​‘s fault. I read one (1) Borracho fic and the next thing I knew I’d read fourteen (14) and rented a truly terrible movie and written 5k+ words. All in about 24 hours.

If he looks familiar it’s because Maurice Compte also played Carillo on Narcos.

"Monica what are we doing?"

Your friend didn’t loosen her grip on your wrist as she dragged you down the hall. "I thought I told you to get dressed up?"

You looked down at your denim shorts and flats. "I put on a button up shirt?"

Monica sighed, stopping at one of the hotel doors. "You are impossible." She let you go finally, fluffing her hair and pulling out a compact to check her makeup. "At least you put on some lipstick."

"Monica…" your voice had an edge of warning and she finally turned to look at you.

"Okay, so you know how I told you I’ve been picking up some extra money on the side?"

"I don’t like where this is going."

"Well, these guys… I’ve been going to their parties. They pay well and mostly we’re just going to be there for show."

"Guys? Pay? Mostly?"

She flipped her hair over her shoulder, "They always get more girls than they need anyway."

"Monica."

She finally blushed. "Look, the girl I usually come with canceled last minute."

"So you brought me?"

"Just stay out of the way and look pretty." Her eyes scanned you and suddenly her hands were on your shirt, unbuttoning it and then tying it just under your breasts. In one movement she, for lack of a better word, fluffed you and then tilted her head. "It’ll have to do."

Before you could complain, before you could say anything, she knocked on the door and an older blonde man answered her with a smile. She brushed a kiss on his cheek and walked inside, dragging you behind her.

"This is my friend Kiki," she announced and the occupants of the room glanced up at you for a moment.

"Kiki?" You hissed once they looked away and she shrugged.

"You wanna use your real name?" And then she left you standing there.

If you thought you’d be out of place at the club… there were a half dozen girls in the room, each wearing outfits you were pretty sure you’d only seen on Barbies before. Both in style and size. Four men sat around a low glass table, conversing in low tones while girls perched on the edge of their chairs and the couch.

The table had four guns on it.

You could run. That was your first thought. You were closest to the door, no one was watching you. You could be out and down the hallway before anyone even noticed. You strongly considered it - even going so far as to edge towards the door. But a boisterous voice interrupted your plans, coming out of a doorway near the back and then followed by a huge, grizzled man with a beard and an angry expression on his face.

"I just passed my piss test and I’m ready to fucking unwind," he announced, dropping into one of the arm chairs. His eyes scanned the room and zeroed in on you. "Hey, new girl, get over here."

You shot Monica a panicked look and she smoothly slid into the man’s lap, pouting a little. "Nick, I thought you were going to be mine tonight?" She thrust her breasts right up under his nose and he was instantly distracted, burying his face into her cleavage.

You turned to the 'bar', a line of whiskey and tequila on a small table. Should you fix yourself something? It would give you something to do. But was drinking really a good idea? What if they had put something in them? You’d heard about that. About girls going to a party and getting dosed with something and-

"Kiki right?"

The gentle voice jerked you out of your spiral and you twisted your head to look at the owner. It was one of the men, not the bearded guy thankfully. This one was older than you, dark hair and a goatee, a line of concern on his forehead.

"Me?" Your voice came out as a squeak. You tried to swallow past the nervousness in your throat.

He moved closer to you and you fought the urge to step away. What would happen if you put up a fight? Right now everything seemed fine. Almost… normal. You didn’t want to change the atmosphere in the room. You got the impression things could go south with these guys really fast.

"Kiki? You seem… nervous."

You swallowed again, taking a deep breath. His cologne tickled your nose - rich and a little spicy. Ok, at least he smelled nice. Plus one in his favor. And he seemed genuinely concerned about you. Plus two.

"Yeah, I’m fine. Just…" you hesitated and he finished for you.

"First time?"

A laugh burst out of you and you saw the corner of his eyes crinkle, even though his lips barely moved. "Is it that obvious?"

He brought his hand up to rest on your waist. "It’s pretty obvious."

You froze under his touch, panic rioting through you. He noticed, of course he did. He was watching you with an intensity you’d never felt before. "You okay?" He asked in a low voice. You bit your lip, shaking your head slightly and his grip on your waist tightened before he slid it down to rest lightly at his side. "You can go you know. You don’t have to stay." He glanced around the room, "We won’t stop you."

You shook your head again. "Monica is my ride."

"I’ll drive you," he offered. When you hesitated he amended, "I’m a cop. I won’t try anything."

Finding out he was police did not make you feel better. A cop with several call girls in a hotel with guns and booze and you were pretty sure cocaine in lines on the table? Yeah, not the fine upstanding moral citizens of Andy Griffith reruns for sure.

"Or," he continued, "I can call you a cab."

He’d still have your address. You shook your head again, "No, I’ll just… wait. If that’s… if that’s okay?"

He nodded at you, slowly taking a step back. "Don’t worry about it. Sorry for the…"

"Hey Borracho," a voice called, "you done chatting up the new girl? Send her over here."

You didn’t look to see who said it, just felt the man gather you closer, turning you into his chest a little and nuzzling his nose under your ear. "Fuck off Zapata."

You were tense. God were you tense. His hands felt huge on your back. Your thigh. You had turned into his embrace automatically. He was nice and you felt safe with him for some reason.

"You sure you don’t want to just wait in the lobby?" he offered.

In a seedy downtown hotel this time of night? You’d take your chances with the dirty cops. You shook your head again and felt him shift slightly. "Then come on, you’re too pretty to go unnoticed. We’re gonna have to act like we mean it."

Too pretty?

You didn’t have time to question it, he sank down onto the couch, those large hands lifted and pulled until you were straddling his thigh, guiding your hands to brace against his shoulders. His face pressed to your neck, his lips just under the collar of your shirt. He was moving like he was kissing you, drifting back and forth, but he wasn’t touching you hardly at all. The rough hairs of his goatee occasionally brushed your skin and you shivered.

"Cold?" His arms wrapped around you a little tighter, his palm skating up and down your back. "Sorry about this. Guessing it wasn’t your plans for the night?"

"No," you whispered back, turning so it looked like you were kissing his ear. "I thought we were going to a club."

He paused and then pulled away, raising an eyebrow at you as he looked over your outfit. "A club?" One corner of his mouth quirked up and you suddenly realized he was quite handsome. You hadn’t really noticed that in your initial panic. "You look like Daisy Duke."

You huffed a little, rolling your eyes. "Well Monica made some changes."

One hand came around and lightly touched the knot of fabric on your chest. "This I presume?" You nodded and he tapped it, "Can I undo it? It’ll cover you more from them and hide what we’re… well what we’re not doing."

It wasn’t like you’d be naked. You were wearing a bra. Hell, it covered more than your bikini did. But the thought of being here, with him, your breasts so close to his face, was making you feel very very warm. "Yeah, okay."

He pulled at the fabric slowly, letting it slide through his fingers. He didn’t look at what he bared, just let the sides of the shirt drop down and gently opened it so it blocked most of the two of you from view. But his eyes stayed on your face. "Okay?"

You were having a hard time breathing. Adrenaline for sure, and what you were rapidly starting to pinpoint as desire. This was… shit this was so far outside your realm of experience you didn’t know what to do. There were other people right there. You weren’t an exhibitionist, surely not. But… were you? Because your skin felt like it was on fire and you were suddenly thinking about making what would definitely be some bad decisions. Surely he could see it on you. Your parted lips, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. But his eyes stayed on yours, warm and brown and reassuring.

"Guessing your name isn’t Kiki," he said conversationally. As though you weren’t partially undressed in his lap. You snorted a laugh and he smiled. "You wanna tell me your real name?" When you hesitated he shrugged, "No problem. I get it. I’m Benny."

"Look at this fucking romantic," a harsh voice cut in. "You don’t have to be all lovey dovey and shit about it, asshole."

You felt him shift, imagined him flipping whoever it was the bird while he bit off a string of insults in Spanish. Leaning forward, you mimicked his movements from earlier. Running your nose down his throat, pausing briefly in random places, then returning and nuzzling just behind his ear. His head tilted back and a highly believable moan fell from his lips.

"Leave him alone, when’s the last time he fucked one of the girls? Let him have his fun."

Benny’s hand came up and cupped the back of your neck, forcing you back slightly and his face dropped to press to your chest. You could feel the hot pants of his breath washing over your skin, the tops of your breasts. "Shit."

He pulled back slightly, urging you forward until your foreheads were pressed together. You were both breathing fast and you could just imagine the tight leash he had on his control. You wanted to say something, anything, to break the tension. But a sound from your right beat you to it.

It was soft, wet. Without thought, you both turned at the same moment, cheeks pressed together. One of the girls was on her knees, a man’s cock deep in her mouth while she slurped and sucked on him. You gasped, jerking in embarrassment and turning quickly away. Your lips brushed his cheek as you did and suddenly you felt him stand, his hands cupping under your ass.

"Come with me," he grunted and you did. Wrapping your arms around his neck and letting his steps guide yours. He went ten steps maybe, urging you up onto a desk near the floor to ceiling windows that looked out over a downtown overpass. His body blocked the room from your view, effectively shielding you from anyone else’s eyes. "Unbutton my shirt."

You didn’t think about it, just followed his command immediately, pushing it open and then almost pouting when you realized he was wearing a t-shirt under it. But the fall of plaid from his shoulders was wide, and suddenly it was as though the two of you were alone, safe in a little cocoon.

"It’s okay," his voice was soothing. "They can’t see."

He was rocking his hips, but he never crossed the distance to you. It was a pantomime. A show. His gaze dropped to your breasts, his lips parting, and then he jerked his eyes away. His scent was weaving inside of you, making you feel hot. There was something so… gorgeous about watching him strain over you. Watching him keep himself tightly in control. You could see the cords of his throat, how taut he was.

Without thinking you reached up, drawing your finger down his neck, lightly tracing the ridges. You wanted to taste him, lick the bead of sweat that was rolling over the ink on his skin. This all seemed like a dream, the world far away. Just you and him and something hot and needy blossoming between you. Looking up his eyes caught yours and you nearly melted at the deep yearning want in his.

"I’m…" his hips bucked and you could feel how hard he was. "Fuck I’m sorry. Shoulda made you leave."

"But I didn’t," you whispered back, reaching up with one hand and sliding your fingers into his hair. Tugging him down to press your foreheads together again. He shifted again and you squirmed, rubbing yourself against him. The groan he let out was music, filling you until you ached with it.

"It’s okay, I’m not going to fuck you." The words shot straight to your groin. Your body edited out the negative and a soft whimper escaped you. He cursed, rocking up into you again. "Shit, stop… stop making those noises."

You couldn’t help it. Your body was undulating under his, held up by the hands on your back that were clutching you close to him. Another small, needy whine and suddenly he was laying you down, one of his hands pressed to the desk by your head, his body hovering over yours.

"I’m not going to fuck you," he said again, his hips punctuating his words by grinding into you. "But you have to help me. You can’t keep, fuck, you can’t…"

His free hand dropped to your bare thigh, hitching it up higher around his waist. Despite his words he was practically fucking you already. Rolling his hips into the cradle of yours. His head dropped and he grunted, his hand curling into a fist by your head. You don’t know what possessed you to press a gentle kiss between his brows, to stroke your fingers through his hair but he groaned, lifting his head, and then he was kissing you.

It was all tongues. No gentle brush of his lips on yours, no seduction, just his tongue tangling deep inside your mouth. Coaxing yours to entwine with his. Rubbing, licking, sucking. Well, maybe it was just you that was doing the sucking but he seemed to like it. Deepening the kiss and suddenly his whole mouth was in play. Nipping at your lips, your jaw, your neck before he covered your mouth again.

You’d never been kissed like this. Never had someone consume you like this. He kissed you like there was nothing else in the world he wanted to be doing. Delving into your mouth like he might discover the secrets of the universe in there. You imagined what it might feel like in other places. What that tongue and those lips might do to you. You moaned, jerking up against his body, a flood of wetness between your thighs.

"Shit," he yanked himself away from you, his chest heaving. "Do you want to?"

You shook your head. "Yes." Fuck that wasn’t right. "I mean no. I mean…" You arched up to him again and whined, "I don’t know."

His hand cupped your jaw, his eyes soft even in a face locked in a rough look of need. "Want me to get you off?"

Oh fuck. Did he just…? You whined again, pulling his mouth back down to yours without answering. The hand on your thigh slipped upwards and in, gently probing at the material of your shorts, pushing past the denim and the soft cotton of your panties.

"Holy fuck," he whispered, his mouth stilled on yours. "You’re so fucking wet." His fingertips probed at you, sliding over your clit in jerky movements. Your shorts were too tight, there was no way for him to… he realized it the same time you did, jerking his hand away and fumbling at the button for a second before he froze.

"I’m gonna need a clear yes." His hand rested flat on your stomach, his palm warm on your skin. Your chest was heaving, the hard points of your nipples brushing him and sending jolts of electricity along your nerves even through the material of your bra. He had barely even touched you. Just the outside of your thigh, your cheek, and now…

"Shit we got a robbery with a 10-79."

You both stilled at the voice. Benny stayed arched over you, his head cocked to the side while he listened.

"We’re not fucking on duty - tell them we’ll take what’s left tomorrow."

"Nah, they want us."

"Fuck. Connors zip it up. Borracho get your cock outta that girl and get over here."

Heat washed over you. Had you really been about to… with all those people right there? What was wrong with you? And yet the only thing you could think about was how much you wanted him to ignore them. To slip his hand back under your clothes and…

You looked up at him and saw the same regret reflected in his eyes you knew must be in yours. He gently drew your shirt halves together, continuing to keep his body between you and the rest of the room. He had a smear of lipstick next to his mouth, a shade you recognized.

24 hour coverage, my ass, you thought idly.

"I gotta go."

"I got that." You gave him a hesitant smile.

"Give me your-"

"Borracho."

"Fuck you," he snapped, turning his head to the side. "I’m fucking coming."

"Well wipe your cum off her tits and be done with it."

You bit your lip, mortified. He lifted himself up, using one hand to gently touch your face. "You okay?" You nodded and he sighed, pushing himself away and crossing the room with a grunt. You sat up quickly, closing your legs and clutching your shirt shut. They were gathering things from the table, you saw Benny slip his gun into a holster on the back of his belt.

The boss, the big guy with the beard, dropped a kiss on Monica’s cheek. "Enjoy the party favors ladies."

You watched them file out, ribbing and mocking each other. Benny hesitated at the door, looking back at you. You saw his lips move, a brief expression flash over his face, and then he was gone.

Okay, this was a really bad idea.

You knew it was the moment it occurred to you. And every step you had taken to fulfill it only served to confirm what a bad idea it was.

"You sure about this?" Monica asked. She had called you when she got the invite, even loaned you the dress you were wearing. You didn’t own anything like it, a halter top with a skirt that barely hit mid-thigh. "I don’t even know if he’s gonna be there. Sometimes they’re all not."

You hadn’t thought about that, hesitating a moment before you shrugged. "If he’s not I’ll make an excuse to leave."

You’d come in separate cars this time. You weren’t making that mistake again.

"Well, okay then." Monica lifted her hand and knocked sharply on the door. There was barely a change in the noise on the other side, the door flying open to reveal the younger blonde from before. He smiled at Monica then grinned when he saw you.

"Hey, Borracho, your girl’s back."

His girl?

The blonde stepped back and you saw Benny stand up, start to take a step towards you then stop himself. You gave him a small smile and suddenly he was across the room - his hand on your hip and his mouth just inches from your own.

"Didn’t think I’d see you again." His nose nuzzled yours. When had he backed you into the wall? It didn’t matter, just meant that you had an excuse to arch your back and press your breasts to his chest. He growled and one of his hands cupped your neck tightly. "Started to think I’d imagined you."

"I wondered the same thing," you whispered shyly, lightly playing your fingers along his neck, tracing the dark lines of his tattoo. His stance shifted, his knee pressing between your legs.

"Fuck you know just the right thing to say." He hesitated and then admitted, "I tried to find you. After last time. Didn’t know how." A pause, "Not any legal way anyway."

Something warm unfurled in your chest and you leaned back so you could see his face better. "You did?"

"Yeah," his eyes were soft on yours. "You, uh, you made quite an impression."

The comment made you glow, your wide smile answered by his own. His lips captured yours, his tongue licking into your mouth. You wrapped your arms around his neck, squirming against his thigh and his fingers dipped under the edge of your skirt.

"You wet?"

"Yes."

His fingers slid further. "You want me to get you off?"

You chuckled, heard the soft exhale of his breath. "I was hoping for a bit more." You glanced around. "Somewhere more private?"

His hands clenched on your thighs and he turned, walking you backwards across the room with his hands on your waist. "Bedroom’s mine tonight," he growled to the other men.

"No fucking way, this is my-" the big guy with the beard stood up and you shied away from him.

Benny’s head whipped to the side, "I said it’s mine."

Time stood still, the two men staring at each other. Then the bearded man grinned and huffed a laugh. "Fine. Have fun. Don’t forget to wrap it up."

The door clicked closed behind you and you continued to step back, putting space between you as Benny leaned against the wall. His eyes scanned you more openly now, catching on the hem of your skirt, the visible bumps of your nipples.

"Is this for real?"

You nodded and he took a step towards you. Stopping, his hands clenched at his sides and he swallowed. "If we do this I’m going to want to do it again. Are you… is that something…"

Oh, oh. A smile bloomed on your face and you nodded again. A bit of tenseness eased off of him. He pulled his phone out immediately, handing it to you, and you didn’t hesitate to punch your number into it. He took it back, raising his eyebrow when he saw you’d put your name as 'Kiki'.

"Not going to tell me your real name?" He asked, dropping the phone on the table by the door. The contents of his pocket soon followed. Keys, wallet, gun.

You shook your head and he frowned. "I thought I was clear-"

Taking a step forward you wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning back so you could look him in the eye. "The real me, she doesn’t do this kind of thing," you explained. "The real me would be horrified I was here. I mean she likes you, and you should definitely call her tomorrow. But this…" you smiled at him. "Kiki is more adventurous."

The frown became a small smile, his hands settling on your waist. "Is that so?"

"Mmhmm."

"And just how adventurous," his head ducked down and his teeth nipped lightly at your jaw, "is Kiki?"

"Pretty," you gasped when his tongue tasted your skin, "adventurous."

His hum was thoughtful, his fingers playing with the hem of your skirt. He lifted it slowly, giving you time to protest. But you didn’t, instead raising your arms so he could pull the dress over your head and toss it to the ground. He’d seen almost as much of you last time, but judging from the look on his face this was better. His hands reached out but you took a step away.

"Now you."

If asked, you were pretty sure he set a record. His shirt falling to the floor next to your dress. Toeing off his shoes while he pulled his t-shirt over his head. Pushing his jeans and underwear to the floor. You’d asked, but you weren’t expecting him to be quite so naked quite so fast. His chest with its light dusting of hair. Strong thighs. His cock jutting from a nest of black curls.

He stepped toward you and you didn’t retreat, feeling his cock slide against your stomach. One hand went to the clasp of your bra and the other dropped down to slip under your panties and cup the globe of your ass.

With a flick of his fingers he had your bra undone and you slipped out of it, tossing it to the side. His chest hair tickled your nipples, his hands strong and sure as he guided you backwards. Suddenly, his arm shot past you, jerking at the comforter until it lay in a heap at the end of the bed. You gave him a questioning look and he shrugged. "They never wash those things."

Then he was laying you back on the crisp white sheets, urging you up towards the pillows while his mouth trailed down your neck. The hairs of his mustache tickled and you giggled softly as he mouthed at your breast. He shot you a quick grin, bracing himself with one hand and lowering his lips to your nipple.

Oh, you had been right. His mouth felt amazing on you. Swirling and sucking and nipping at you. His free hand cupped your other breast, fingers gently toying with the puckered flesh that crowned it. "Oh Benny," you moaned and he got rougher for just a moment. Sucking on you hard, his fingers pinching your other nipple.

He switched positions, skimming his newly freed hand down your stomach, over the edge of your hip. Then he lightly stroked the back of his fingers over the silky material that covered your mound. His lips wrapped around your nipple just as he slipped his hand beneath the fabric, both of you moaning at the contact.

"You weren’t lying," he growled. His fingers slipped through your heat, tickling over the sensitive skin.

"About?" you gasped, trying to make sense of a world where his tongue was curling around your nipple and his fingers were stroking you just there.

"You’re wet."

"Every time I think about you," you admitted with a sigh.

His body arched over yours, his eyes searching your face. You didn’t shrink from him, just meet his gaze with your own, lips parted as you watch him. Whatever he was looking for he seemed to find it, his mouth swooping down and capturing yours in a long kiss. Suddenly he was gone, hands sliding your panties down your legs, rearranging your thighs over his shoulders - and then that hot wet mouth was on you again.

He ate you out like it was his only goal in life. Pressing his face into you so hard you wondered if he could even breathe. His hands held your hips to the bed, holding you still while he ravaged you with his tongue. Swirling it around your clit before he gently pulled it between his lips and sucked lightly.

"Benny!" you cried, back arching off the bed.

"That’s it," his low murmur vibrated through you, one of his fingers slowly sinking into your heat. "Say my name all you want gorgeous."

"Benny," you groaned and he added another finger, curling them deep inside you while he tongued against your aching clit. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time, you were so ready and needy for him that it was barely a few minutes before you were clenching your fingers tightly into his hair and panting his name softly over and over like a prayer. He moaned as your wetness flooded his mouth, your thighs trembled against his cheeks. His fingers searched and pressed and slid inside you until the world went white with your ecstasy.

He rose over you, all heat and muscle and golden skin. For a moment his cock nudged between your legs and then he was gone, striding across the room to the door. Where was he…?

He stopped near the door, rifling through his wallet and coming up with a foil packet. He ripped the foil with his teeth, walking towards you as he rolled the condom on. You met him at the edge of the bed, coming up on your knees so you could welcome him face to face. Open your arms to him and press your mouth to his while he lowered you down to the sheets.

He adjusted himself, shifting so he was pressed along your slit. Then he began to rock his hips, nudging your clit with every pass. You gasped out his name, heard him groan in return. A shift and he was pressing just there. Slipping just the head of him inside you.

His breathing was harsh, rushing across your cheek in soft pants. You pulled his mouth to yours, pushing on his shoulder until he rolled away from you, onto his back. You followed, straddling his hips and settling his cock against you again. Then you sat up, staring down at his flushed face, his parted lips, and watched every change of his expression as you sank down on him inch by slow inch.

"Son of a bitch," he groaned. His eyes were wide, a look of wonder on his face as you slowly settled against him.

"Does that feel good?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He leaned up on his elbows, eyes locked on where your bodies joined. "Does it feel good?"

You bit your lip and smiled, raising up just enough that he could see the slide of himself back inside of you when you lowered down. "Well, does it?"

He propped a hand behind him, the other going to your hip and urging you to do it again. "It feels fucking fantastic." You squeezed your muscles around him just to watch his jaw clench. Watch the way his eyes widened and then his hips snapped into yours. You made a small noise and his lips stretched into a grin.

"You like that?" He did it again, thrusting up into you and you braced a hand on his stomach. "You like when I fuck you?"

You cupped your free hand around his jaw, sighing when he turned his head and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your palm. His eyes bored into yours and you nodded, trying to help, trying to find a rhythm with him. It was awkward at first, his cock slipped out of you more than once. But he didn’t seem to mind, thrusting up and pressing to your clit again and again before he guided himself back inside.

"Dios mio. Look at you, you gorgeous thing."

His hand on your hip drifted down, his thumb brushing over your clit and you groaned, squeezing him inside. It only made him fuck you faster, press into you harder. His lips were parted as he watched you, his eyes narrowed on your face.

"Benny," it was a whine, a whimper, a plea.

He grunted and rolled his hips upwards. "You gonna come on me?" You nodded, breath shuddering out of you. "Then do it. Come on my cock, let me feel-"

You kissed him when you came, shoving him flat onto the bed, thrusting your tongue in his mouth and feeling his arm wrap tight around you. He rolled you over to your back, guiding your legs around his waist and shoving his cock into you hard and fast. Growling as your muscles clenched around him. You could hear the soft thumping of the frame against the wall, the squeak of the mattress springs, the grunts that fell from his lips. His hands cupped around your shoulders, holding you to him while he worked between your thighs.

"You got another one for me?" his voice was harsh, strained. You let go of your grip on his shoulders and slid your hand between your bodies, skimming down until you could lightly touch your clit.

"I don’t know," you whined and he sped up. You didn’t think it was possible but his cock was hitting just right inside you over and over and your fingers were rubbing just as fast and you screamed his name as you came so hard you saw stars.

You barely noticed the sweat dripping off of him, the way his jaw dropped open or the low noises he made as he followed soon after. What you did notice was the raucous cheering from the other room. A fist banging on the wall and a voice shouting, "Atta boy, Borracho!"

"Oh my God," you groaned, reaching up and dragging one of the pillows down to cover your face. He held himself over you, his low chuckle vibrating through your body. You felt him tug at the edge of the pillowcase but you resisted.

"Come on," he urged, "show me those beautiful eyes"

You peeked out at him and he smiled. God, he really was handsome. Before you could do anything he ducked under the edge of the pillow and kissed you soundly. "Sorry about that," he muttered into your lips. "I should have taken you somewhere nice."

You dropped the pillow, blinking up at him. "What?"

One of his hands swept across your cheek. "I shouldn’t have done this here. Should have left. Taken you somewhere nice."

"Take me to a secondary location?" You scoffed, wrinkling your nose. "I’ve heard my fair share of true crime podcasts, buddy. No way."

He blinked at you and then a huge grin broke out across his face. "Smart girl." He nestled himself more firmly against you, settling your arms around his neck, holding you to his chest. "Adventurous girl." You moaned when his tongue thrust into your mouth, slow and sweet and sensual. He rocked against you and his cock was already half hard again.

"Come on Kiki," he murmured into your lips, "why don’t you show me how adventurous you can be."

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[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Anon with the Borracho x Killer Klowns ask, tumblr ate your ask, so I hope you find this. I decided to add some of the other LASD boys for flavor, I hope that's okay!

Send In The Klowns

Pairing: Benny "Borracho" Magalon x Reader

Warnings/notes: clowns are creepy; strongly implied death; implied sexy times; violence; language

Rating: R maybe

Word count: 961

The Major Crimes office is practically deserted. Nick has closed himself away in his office, the door shut tight and the blinds closed. 

“Probably fucking sleeping,” Henderson scoffs to himself, flipping a file closed on his desk. It’s been a long day that’s turning into a long night. Murph and Zapata are out getting dinner, and Borracho, well, who knows where the hell he fucked off to. 

You know. A text that said “Meet me” had pulled you away from your desk and into a supply closet. It will be a long night for you too, but at least you’ll have a good memory to get you through. 

The door to Major Crimes opens. Henderson doesn’t hear it until it closes, the blinds rattling against the glass. When he looks up he doesn’t see one of the other men. He doesn’t see anything, just the rattling blinds. Henderson leans back in his chair, taking a deep breath, thinking he must be going crazy. He looks over at Nick’s office, still shuttered off from the world. When he looks back, there’s a clown standing by Murph’s desk. Henderson jumps, pushing his chair away from him as he gets to his feet. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he demands. “How’d you get in here?” He wants to rest his hand on his gun, but it’s sitting in its holster on his desk. Henderson feels a little silly, being afraid of this four-foot guy caked in make-up, wearing a goofy outfit, but he never did like clowns. That’s when he settles a bit. 

“Somebody hired you huh?” Henderson asks. “Was it Murph? Fuckin’ had to be.” He shakes his head, knowing this is just the kind of shit Murphy would pull, and his breathing calms. The clown doesn’t say anything, just stares at him with big jaundiced eyes. 

“So what, did he pay you to leer at me all night?” he asks. The clown shuffles over to Henderson, who tries not to flinch noticeably, and pulls a brightly colored jelly bean can from the folds of his gold suit. He tries and fails to get the lid off and taps the can against the edge of the desk, playing up the fact that he can’t get it open. Finally, he holds it out to Henderson. 

“Oh, I get it. I open it and stuff flies out at me, okay,” he says, taking the can from the nodding, smiling clown. Henderson does get the can open, and things do fly out at him. Real things, living things, wriggling things. 

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” you say, stepping out into the hallway as Borracho closes the door to the closet behind him. 

“Ok, then how should we meet?” he asks, curling an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in for a kiss. You’re distracted though, squinting at something that looks like a cotton candy balloon sitting by the elevator. It wasn’t there earlier.

“What is that?” you ask. You watch as Borracho goes over to it. He tugs at the sticky floss, pulling it away to reveal a bloodied face frozen in a mask of horror and death. Borracho flinches away from it, realizing it’s Murph. 

“Not now,” Nick groans. He has his face buried in his hands and he’s ignoring the tapping at the door. But what he can’t ignore is the door opening. 

“What the fuck did I just say?” he demands. A clown in a purple and blue suit with a red ruffled collar and green tufts of hair waddles into the room. 

“Guess I have Bob to thank for this one,” Nick sighs. “Go on, get it over with, and then get the fuck out.” He doesn’t bother to hide the bored look on his face as he watches the clown go through his gags. The fake sneeze into a line of handkerchiefs that never ends and soon becomes strewn all over Nick’s desk, the small black pistol that when fired pops out a flag that says “Bang!”. The clown pulls out another gun, this time something that looks like a small laser out of a corny sci-fi film. 

“And what’s that gonna do?” Nick asks. The clown smiles and pulls the trigger.

“This has to be some kind of joke,” you say, knowing Borracho’s team too well. 

“Yeah, sure,” Borracho says, but he’s looking around and the hallway’s too quiet and it’s a weird fucking joke even for them. The door to Major Crimes opens and a tall clown in a purple and blue suit steps out. He’s dragging another cotton candy cocoon behind him. He looks at the two of you and waves. 

“This is ridiculous,” you say, looking at Borracho and then back at the clown. “You guys have serious work to be doing but instead you’re parading around in fucking clown costumes playing weird jokes.” You start walking toward the clown, thinking it’s probably Zapata or even Murph. Whoever it is, you plan to rip the silly mask right off their head. And you try. You really try, and that’s when you get scared. 

“Benny?” you ask, looking over your shoulder, and his eyes are wide, staring off to your right. You look and a clown in a painfully pink suit steps through the stairwell door. A third, shorter clown comes out of the Major Crimes office and you’re surrounded. The first clown hands the cotton candy sack off to the one in pink and you turn to run back to Borracho, but the clown grabs you and throws you over his shoulder. Borracho is running down the hall after you and there’s a honking sound as he punches a clown in the face.

“Benny!” you shout. You thrash against the clown as it carries you out into the stairwell, and down, down, down.   

[heresathreebee]

🐝 Master List 🐝

secret task find the third bee...

🎵 First thing’s first, I’m bi-racial 🎶 aright I'll stop but this is the reason I write with black/ black mixed readers and characters in mind. Obviously feel free to read if you aren't, it's mostly for me anyways. "Create the content you want to see in the world," and all 🎷 haha not a bee but you like Jazz? 

MASTERLIST 2.0: THE SEXIER AND COMPLETE ARCHIVE

I've done Kinktober 2021 if you'd like to check it out here! 🎃

Kinktober 2022 Masterlist

Eddie Munson (Stranger Things)-- Feels Like Heaven

GFS Drabble Masterlist March 2022 (Joel Kinnaman character fics by muktiple creators)

Diego Jimenez X OC (Starz Power) -- Garrote [13 Chapters] Masterlist

Benny "Borracho" Magalon X Reader (Den of Thieves) -- The Laundromat 🔥

Benny "Borracho" Magalon X OC (Den of Thieves) -- Dirty Water, More Than Words Can Say, Rooftop Rendezvous 🔥

Marcus Moreno X Reader -- A Halo of Holly Part 1 & Part 2

Stephen Holder X Reader -- Royal Flush 🔥, Can't Stay Mad At You 🔥, Just Ask 🔥, Every Little Step one, two, three, four, five, six, seven

Colonel Rick Flag X Reader -- French Lace and Silk Stockings 🔥, Safe Habor 🔥 Asked: Think You Can Handle That Much? 🔥

Colonel Rick Flag X OC -- Ruby Moon Sunflower Seeds Teaser Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Face Cast, Part 7, Part 8 🔥, Part 9, part 10, Think You Can Handle That?

Ava Starr X Reader (Marvel's Antman and the Wasp) -- Strawberry Soda, No Touching, A Real Date, Old Stomping Ground, next up Strange and Unusual

Koska Reeves X Reader (The Mandalorian) -- Sunset Sapphires, sequel eventually

Yelena Belova X Reader (Marvel Black Widow) -- The One Where She Got A Dog, next up The One Where You Tell Her The Truth

Rob Brooks X Reader (High Fidelity show) -- That G-D Ring of Yours, Part 2

SMILF Jesse X Reader (just Alex Brightman) -- The Morning Of and After 🔥, Bit Of A Bear 🔥

Dewey Finn X Reader (School of Rock) -- Mx. Honey & the Panic on Neptune 🔥, Wearing THAT Part 1 & Part 2 🔥 🐝

And Ralph Lamont X Reader (Blue Bloods) -- Bloody Mess 🔥 Brackish and Briny Waters Part 1 Part 2 🔥 Part 3 🔥 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

[thoroughlymodernminutia]

This Christmas

Pairing: Benny "Borracho" Magalon x Reader

Word Count: 4,755

Summary: Benny tries to create a Christmas Eve for you during a hard time in your life.

Warnings: Kind of fluffy, but talk of grief, guilt, parental loss. Some foul language. If I missed anything else let me know and I'll add it in.

A/N: This is the first fic I've finished in over 20+ years so...it's probably mediocre at best. A lot has changed in how fics were written in late 90s and I'm still trying to grasp that. Fair warning: I am not a good writer unless it's an email. Apologies in advance if my inability to understand sentence structure is obvious and if there are any typos.

I love stupid lifetime and hallmark Christmas movies, so there are probably hints of that in this. I chose Benny because he had like 4 lines in Den of Thieves and he seemed easy to work with. The story has some personal meaning to me, so if you hate it just keep it to yourself lol

I also want to give a shout out to @mariamariquinha @the-hinky-panda @cheesybadgers @mysoulisasunflower and @bullet-prooflove for the encouragement and kind words when I posted about my hesitation in sharing this.

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

The guys are sitting in their chairs, staring at Benny like he has three heads. He’d just spent the last 20 minutes explaining why he needs their help in a few days; on Christmas Eve. He wouldn’t be embarrassing himself like some love struck fool if he had any other choice.

“This is sick, Borracho. Really sick.” Zapata shakes his head as he breaks the silence.

“Didn’t realize you were so fucking romantic.” Henderson joins in.

Big Nick slaps his hand on Benny’s back as he passes him to go back to his office, “Count me out, shithead.” 

Benny groans and hangs head. He really should have just figured out a way to do this himself. Now he’ll never hear the end of it from these miserable fucks. And calling him a “romantic;" these idiots wouldn’t know romance if it punched them in their faces. It’s not even like he’s that romantic. They’re acting like it’s a crime to be thoughtful. 

He can’t help it if being a good detective makes him more attentive, more considerate in relationships. He’s always finding himself filing away little things that you mention–or don’t mention. He has a collection of these in his mind, some even from before you started dating. And now he wants to use all these bits and pieces of information to try to create the perfect Christmas Eve for you. Christmas Eve because he knows you love it more than the actual day itself. But the guys' blank stares and biting little remarks are not inspiring confidence. Benny runs his hands over his face and rolls his chair closer to the desk.

“Forget I said anything.”

“Look at this sad, sack of shit.” Connors is laughing and throws a paper clip at Benny. “You’re going to owe us big time, you know that right?”

Benny breathes a sigh of relief. The guys are definitely going to haunt him with this for as long as he lives, but it will be worth it.

“I know.”

—-

This is Benny’s first real Christmas with you. Although he secretly counts the morning of the previous Christmas Eve when he stopped by your donut shop Glazy For You. He wasn’t working and had no reason to be in the neighborhood. But he wanted to see you without all the other guys there. If they were all there, he wouldn’t have been able to work up the nerve to ask you out. They’d harass both of you to no end. When he stood in front of your counter and asked, he’ll never forget how you laughed. You questioned him if it was a ploy for a group of cops to get free donuts. Then you were quiet for a moment and he almost started talking to fill the silence. But then he heard you say yeah okay and it was like he had been struck by lightning. You wrote your number down on a business card and handed it to him. Benny struggled to play it cool while he was leaving only to break down and text immediately from his car. He thought if he waited even one second longer you’d change your mind. 

The first date was the week between Christmas and the New Year. That week is like a brief interlude in your life where anything can happen. Benny remembers that he must have been on that night because you stared intently whenever he spoke. He also remembers how beautiful you looked when you were talking about your work. The way you lit up when talking about Maple Bars made him laugh. He’d never met someone so in love with one type of donut. He could swear at one point when you were talking about them he saw your eyes actually sparkle. There was a familiarity throughout the date that made Benny feel immediately comfortable. The first date turned into a second date, and then a third. At some point when he was loading the dishwasher at your house, he realized he had stopped counting.

You both tried to keep the relationship quiet whenever the guys had stopped by to cure their hangovers with donuts and coffee. He knows how obnoxious they can be and he didn’t want them ruining anything. Ultimately, Benny ruins it for himself when he breaks the cardinal rule of never smiling while texting. When Connors had grabbed his phone and started showing how he has your contact name as Maple Bar—he knew there was no chance of keeping you to himself anymore.

Benny was right, of course. The next time they went, they practically dragged him in while shouting “Maple Bar” at you. You laughed as your face turned red, trying to play it off, but the secret was out. After the novelty of the relationship wore off for the guys, they started calling you “Benny’s girl”. Whenever he heard, he felt like the pit of his stomach was going to drop out. Things between you and the guys stayed largely the same—you joked around with them before and you joke around with them now. The only thing that’s different is Benny feels protective of you even though he knows you’re fine. That was another thing he filed away—that you were the first woman to actually appreciate his bond with the guys. You know they have his back and that’s what’s important to you. It’s just one of the reasons Benny’s love for you grows.

—-

Near the end of the summer your dad passed away suddenly. Benny was at work, but when he got your text, he called you asking where you were. He knew your family dynamics were difficult and he didn’t want you to be alone. He thinks maybe a different sort of man would have been scared by the rawness of the situation. That it would have been too much, too soon. But Benny doesn’t scare easily, so he sat with you on the floor, in the kitchen of your closed shop. He kept you close to him while you cried and listened as you told him how you felt stupid for crying because your relationship with your dad wasn’t the best. His chest tightened when you told him you felt like you didn’t deserve to feel sad. That sadness was reserved for a relationship that had been whole. Benny anchored you to him, afraid that if he let go, you might drift away.

Benny knows you tried to hide being sad after that. You sneak off to the bathroom to cry periodically and one time he follows you. Benny knows about stuffing feelings down—it’s part of his job—but he doesn’t want you doing the same. He gets you talking, you tell him you have this guilt for not attending the funeral. You couldn’t bring yourself to be in a room with his wife of only a few years making everything about herself. Especially after she wouldn’t let you come to their house to look through his things. He didn’t judge you for making that decision; he knows what it’s like to have to make choices not knowing if you are making the right one. Still, Benny’s heart would break when you would  refer to yourself as a horrible person, a horrible daughter. He knows he wasn’t a witness to many things in your life, but he also knows you’re not a bad person. He’s seen how you always step up to help people—giving your money or your time. You even kept Connors fed while he was on leave due to an injury. You give to others what you seem unable to give to yourself and it makes Benny’s heart ache

You seem okay until Thanksgiving with his parents. It was your first time meeting his family and in Benny’s eyes, it was a success. His parents loved you right away. His mom loved the extra help in the kitchen. His sister delighted in telling you the secrets of his childhood. His dad was impressed you owned your own business. But as you both sat in the car outside the house you broke down crying. You kept apologizing while telling him how wonderful his family is; how being around them reminded you that you’d never have another holiday with your dad. You explained how Christmas was his favorite holiday. That he would spend hours stringing up lights around the house before making spritz cookies with you. You took some shallow breaths trying to calm yourself down before listing all the Christmas Eve traditions your family had. That those memories somehow always eclipse the shittier parts of your childhood. Benny held your hand while you spoke. He knows what it’s like to lose people, in his line of work it’s inevitable. But he doesn’t know what it’s like to lose a parent so he stays quiet. When Benny feels you squeeze his hand it sparks something in him. He suddenly becomes very determined to make this Christmas Eve perfect for you.

—-

When December 24th finally arrives, Benny feels as excited as he did when he was a kid. He knew you would be working which gives him time to decorate your house. The only person that backs out from helping is Big Nick—but he never actually agreed so Benny can’t really hold it against him. He puts Connors and Henderson on Christmas lights duty. Benny takes the inside, he knows the guys well enough to not trust them to go through your things. 

Benny finds all of your Christmas decorations and another string of lights in the hallways closet. When he’s grabbing a box labeled ornaments off the shelf a box, wrapped in silver and red striped paper falls to the floor. When he picks it up to place it back on the shelf he catches a glimpse of the white tag on it—To: Benny. He can’t help but smile when he closes the door. 

While he is untangling the lights, Zapata comes in with a tree. Benny looks at it and laughs. It’s so sparse and wide he can see through it. 

“It’s the only one they had.” He shrugs as he props it up against the wall. 

Benny touches one of the branches. “It is a tree, so I guess you did what I asked.”

Zapata shakes his head. “Man, this is a crazy, fucking thing you’re doing.” 

Benny smiles to himself thinking that love will make you do crazy, fucking things.

“I know.”

Zapata leaves and he can hear him shouting up to Connors and Henderson on the roof. Benny can hear them talking about him using their standard terms of endearment: dickless, crazy asshole, and idiot. Benny doesn’t care, because Benny has you. 

It only takes a handful of hours for the guys to put the lights up outside and for Benny to finish decorating inside. The tree doesn’t look as bad once he wraps some lights around it and puts your ornaments up. He’s charmed by the fact you kept all these ornaments from when you were a kid–one for every year until you turned 18. He got some frosted glass spray and tries his best to make your windows look wintery. Finally, Benny wraps your gift in some plaid wrapping paper he found. He surprises himself by the fact that it doesn’t look like complete garbage.

—-

Your car is conveniently having its brakes repaired so Benny told you he would pick you up once you closed for the evening. You’d come back to his place for dinner and a movie and then call it a night. But Benny is sending Connors to pick you up instead. Benny is going to need the extra time to do something he hasn’t done since he was a kid—make cookies.

There’s a reason why Benny hasn’t made cookies in decades. He’s lost when it comes to anything more than standard kitchen fare. Spaghetti, grilling, he can do that just fine. But baking might as well be nuclear science. He’s grateful your kitchen is 90% baking supplies, it saves him from having to fumble around a store looking for all of it.

You have so many recipe books he doesn’t know where to begin. He tries looking through them, but gives up and resorts to googling one on his phone. He thinks maybe it’s cheating to look up the recipe online, but how many variants of this could there be? Somewhere between the 1st and 10th recipe he looks at he finally notices the jump to recipe feature; saving him from the life stories of food bloggers. He settles on one that has minimal backstory, thinking that means it’s an easier.

By the time Benny is done he has what seems like 10 dozen cookies and has made a mess of your entire kitchen. He doesn’t know how he used almost every single dish you have to make one kind of cookie. He tries one of them and he can’t tell if they are supposed to taste like that or if he fucked something up. For Benny, the most pathetic part of the whole thing was that he had to call his mother. A grown, adult man Face Timing his mother because he couldn’t figure out how to work a cookie press. He didn’t realize it would be more complicated than cleaning a gun. He knows he’ll never live this down.

—-

You’re waiting outside of your shop for Benny when you see Connors’ car pull up. Your stomach tightens automatically when you see him step out of the car. Your mind goes to the worst, that something’s happened to Benny.

“Hey Murph, is everything okay?” 

“Borracho got called into work. Asked me to take you home.” 

Once you know Benny is okay your mind goes to how much you hate his nickname. It’s so totally unrepresentative of the man you know.

“Oh, he should have texted. I could have just taken an Uber or something.” 

“You can pay me if it makes you feel better.” 

You laugh as you double check the lock on your security gate. 

“I know how you drive. If you get me home in one piece, then we can discuss your fee.” 

As you get in the car you can hear Connors go on and on about how excellent of a driver he is. You roll your eyes as you put your seatbelt on. 

You’re thankful for the mostly quiet car ride to your house. Connors fills you in on why Benny had to go into work. For whatever reason he seems to be laying it on a little thick—a string of toy store robberies makes it sound like he just watched Home Alone 2. At any moment you feel like he is going to mention a woman covered in pigeons. You don’t think you’ve ever said ‘uh huh’ so much in your life. 

On the drive you see so many houses lit up with Christmas lights and decorations in yards that it starts to make you sad. Sad that you didn’t even get a tree. Sad that you won’t be able to spend your first real Christmas together, together. The Christmas Eve when he asked you out probably only counts in your mind. It still feels strange—the fact that he asked you out. From the first time he came in you developed a little crush. Initially, you didn’t know he was a cop. If you had, it might have stifled your growing crush a bit. You liked that he stood out in that pack of loud voices by not being one. The first time he spoke to you, you wondered how a man with a neck tattoo could have a voice as soft as his. And he was so handsome on that first date in his dark green flannel. You loved the gray speckled in his facial hair; it gave you the impression he was a serious kind of guy, not prone to playing games.

You sigh loud enough that Connors gives you a weird look and you try to pretend like it was yawn. You look back out to the houses and think maybe being alone tonight is better. You’ve been a real fucking downer lately and why ruin a perfectly good Christmas Eve for someone else.

—-

Connors stops at the bottom of a driveway belonging to a house that’s not yours. It looks like your house—a small, one-story, dark blue house with white trim, a small porch, and a window looking out to the street. But you know your house does not have Christmas lights. And this house masquerading as yours, is all lit up.

“This is not my house.”

“Yeah it is.” Connors points and you see Benny standing on the porch, illuminated by the lights. 

“You’re such an asshole.” You blink back the tears that are on the edge of falling. 

He laughs, “Yeah, I know.” 

You thank Connors before getting out of the car. You have a feeling he did more than just give you a ride home. When you step out of his car and close the door behind you, you stand for a moment staring at your house. You don’t think you've ever seen it look so beautiful. It looks like a painting with Benny standing there looking so beautiful too in his dark green flannel buttoned all the way to the top. 

“I knew something was up when Murph was reciting the plot to Home Alone 2 as your work emergency.” 

You give a sly smile as you walk up your porch steps. You can hear Connors’ car idling until Benny waves and he drives off.

“I knew I should’ve had Henderson pick you up.” 

You kiss Benny lightly and wrap your arms around his neck. 

“If I’d known you were breaking out the formal flannel, I would have dressed up.” 

Benny laughs as he takes one of your hands in his. He looks at you in your sugar and icing stained t-shirt and jeans. You look so pretty standing there he almost says what he’s been holding in for months, but stops himself.

“You look perfect.”

Benny squeezes your hand as he brings you into the house. 

—-

You’re overwhelmed when you see everything. You see the tree decorated with your ornaments. It’s so breathtaking, better than any tree you’ve ever seen in your life. But you know that even if it was just a branch tacked to your wall you’d feel the same way. Before you can turn around to tell Benny how much you love it, he’s next to you.

“It’s a little sparse, I know.“ 

You look at him looking at the tree.

“Benny,” you stop to choke down the sob that’s building in your throat, “it’s wonderful. This tree is perfect. It’s all perfect.” 

And everything is. The garland he’s hung around your house. The haphazard fake frostiness added to the windows. The cinnamon scented candles he’s lit all around your living room. It’s like being in a snow globe after everything has settled.

“A lot of sap in here! Looks great. A little full. A lot of sap.”

You didn’t even catch that the television was on, but when you hear it, you know exactly what it is. You turn around and see that Benny has Christmas Vacation playing. That’s the thing that finally pushes you over the edge. This movie that you watched every Christmas Eve since you can remember. The movie that perfectly encapsulates what Christmas meant to you as a kid. The sadness you’ve been feeling and now suddenly the joy you’re experiencing because of Benny finally all bubbles to the surface.

You bury your face in his neck and start to cry for everything that you know you’ll miss but also for what you have right now. His body acts as a solid mass you can lock yourself to. Benny is kissing the top of your head and you’d be embarrassed if it was anyone else witnessing this. But with Benny you know he won’t judge you. He will give you exactly what you need, even when you don’t know you need it.

You pull back and look at him. He cups your face in his hands and brushes the tears from your face with his thumb.

“I miss him, Benny.” 

“You’re allowed to miss him.” 

When Benny says it, you feel like a weight has been lifted off of you. The weight of the self-inflicted punishment for mourning something that wasn’t perfect. You take a step back from him and look around the room again. You want to remember this moment as it is.

“This means everything to me. I hope you know that.”

“I have something else. Stay here.” 

Benny can feel his heart vibrating in his chest as he goes to the kitchen to grab a plate of cookies. He holds it behind his back until he’s in front of you. When you look down at the plate he sees you smile as you grab a wreath shaped cookie off the plate.

“You made these?”

Before he can answer you, you take a bite. He can see your face changing from excitement to what can only be described as delighted horror. Benny’s chest tightens knowing he messed something up.

“Uh….what’s wrong?”

“I think you mixed up the salt and sugar measurements.”

You see Benny’s face fall and you feel so bad that you finish the cookie in your hand and grab another one.

“Don’t eat it!” 

He quickly knocks the cookie out of your hand. You grab another one and he does the same thing. He drops the plate on the floor and it’s all so magically bizarre that you start laughing and can’t stop. You try to say something but you end up in a fit of giggles that makes Benny start laughing. 

“It’s happened to me before. Don’t worry about it.” You manage to wheeze the words out as you wipe the tears–happy tears–from your eyes.

Benny gets serious for a moment, “I just wanted this whole night to be perfect.”

You step over the pile of cookies on the floor and kiss him gently on the lips. He rests his hand on your low back and sighs into you. 

You whisper against his lips, “I can’t imagine anything more perfect than what you’ve done for me.”

Benny rests his forehead against yours, “I have one more thing for you. I didn’t bake it, so don’t worry.”

You smile, “I have something for you too.” 

You break out of his hold and go to the hallway closet. Benny crouches down and gathers the cookies that dropped on the floor back onto the plate. He can’t believe he used so much salt and didn’t even notice. As he’s placing the plate on your coffee table he sees you by the tree holding the wrapped box he spotted earlier. You pick up a thin box wrapped in plaid paper. You walk over to the couch and hand Benny his gift.

“Open yours first.” Benny nods to the gift wrapped in plaid paper that you’re holding as he sits down.

Benny watches you sit down as you carefully undo the ribbon and slide your finger underneath the tape. He’s never seen someone unwrap a gift so carefully and it makes him smile.

“Oh Benny, you remembered.” 

Benny watches you run your hand over the open box containing The Polar Express book set with the silver bell and cassette tape. He remembered the time the movie came on and you complained how it could never compare to the book illustrations and the William Hurt narration. You told him that you always listened to it as a family before you got too old to think it was cool. When you said it he saw the look on your face and he did what he always does; he filed it away.

“Guess who learned about Etsy this year?” 

The face Benny makes, causes you to laugh. The thought of him making an account and searching for this is a gift in and of itself.

“I would have paid to see that.” You look back at the book, “This is the best gift. Thank you.” 

You lean across the small gap between the two of you and kiss him. It’s deeper this time and you can feel the little moan that comes out of Benny’s mouth making you smile. The scratch of his facial hair on your face is a reminder to you that even though Benny seems tough on the outside he’s the exact opposite with you.

You shift back to your seat and nod at the gift Benny is turning over in his hands. He holds it still for a moment before opening it. He takes an opposite approach in unwrapping; ripping the ribbon off, and tearing through the paper. When he opens the box he’s surprised to see a watch that looks exactly like the one he had lost while he was out working on a case. This was right around the time you two had started dating and he wasn’t even aware you had ever paid attention to it. It was a watch he had worn forever—his favorite watch. And when he couldn’t find an exact replacement, he settled on a lesser watch, a watch that never quite measured up. But this, this was it. This was his watch.

“How did you—“

“You’re not the only Etsy user around here.” 

Benny laughs as he takes off the watch he’s wearing to put this one on. You had planned on finding it for his birthday, but it took longer than expected. You can’t even remember how many places you went searching for a watch you could only describe from memory. It was a gift that you bought to hopefully express your love to him when you were afraid to say the words out loud.

Benny grabs your hand and yanks you on top of him. His arm wraps around your waist, his brown eyes looking into you, trying to determine if it’s something he should say now or if he should wait. He knows he could have—should have—said it months ago. Now, there’s something now about the way you’re cradling his face with your hands. Or how your eyes are locked on his own, that is making him loopy.

“I love you..” he stammers to correct himself, “I’ve loved you.” 

He blurts it out like a criminal breaking down and confessing a crime. You’re both still and Benny’s worried he’s made a mistake. But then you run your hand over his hair and back down to his cheek–it makes Benny twitch. You kiss the crown of his head, the side of his nose, his jaw, and then his lips. 

“I love you too, Benny.”

Benny’s skin prickles when you say his name. He shifts so he’s more upright, holding you in his lap. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He buries his face in your chest and squeezes you against him. “I love you so much.” 

You’re thinking of how Benny’s hold on you feels like you’re finally home when something catches your eye through the window.

“I think it’s snowing?”

You climb off of Benny and you both turn to look out of the window. There’s a flurry of white flakes all around your front yard. Benny sees you staring slack jawed through the window and starts to laugh.

“Come on.” He stands up from the couch and tilts his head towards the front door. 

You get up and follow him outside onto your porch. You see a layer of snow covering the grass in your yard and don’t understand how it’s snowing in Los Angeles when it’s 70 degrees out. You stick your hand out and feel the crisp flakes land and melt into your palm.

“How?” You look at Benny and he’s smiling. He points to a man in the corner of your yard with some kind of machine and you finally realize where it’s coming from.

“Compliments of Big Nick!” The man yells it across the yard.

Benny can’t believe that shithead Nick came through. He knows he’ll be paying him back for the rest of his life. But when he looks at you watching the snow like it's some kind of Christmas miracle it doesn’t matter, Benny would pay him back ten lifetimes over. He feels the sting of tears in his eyes and pulls you to him resting his head on top of yours.

“Merry Christmas, Maple Bar.”

“Merry Christmas, Benny.”

[tropes-and-tales]

If You Weren’t You

Day 12:  Hate/Angry Sex (Benny “Borracho” Magalon x F!Reader)

(For the 2022 Kinktober event offered by @the-purity-pen​​.  The original post and calendar/list can be found here.)

CW:  Rude and insulting language; misogynistic language; smut (angry sex but only kinda because most of the anger is pre-sex so maybe this is a poor entry for kinktober, I dunno, your girl is struggling here; PiV, unprotected; car sex).  18+ only.

Word Count:  5513

It’s Big Nick’s fault.

He sets the tone between Major Crimes and the FBI.  He talks poorly about the federal agents, saves the worst of it for Lobbin’ Bob and his perfectly parted hair and perfectly pressed suits.  Bob and his veganism, Bob and his good, clean living.  

Big Nick sets the tone, and his detectives follow suit.  Lobbin’ Bob responds accordingly…as do the agents who work under him.  

Borracho’s thing with you actually starts because of Henderson.  It’s a string of bank robberies; the suspects are a crew out of Bakersfield working around Los Angeles.  The FBI is called in.  When Lobbin’ Bob and his field agents walk past them to get to the crime scene, Henderson elbows Borracho and snickers.

“Looks like they got an ice princess on the feds now,” he says, nodding in your direction.  You look like you’re cut from the same cloth as Bob:  neat clothing, neat ponytail, stick-in-the-ass way of walking.

You walk past, already have your back to them, but you catch Henderson’s remark.  You stop and turn, look at them.  Your eyes, for whatever reason, settle on Borracho:  matches Henderson’s words to him.

“Asshole,” you say, eyes narrowed, and you turn away.

“Got me in trouble, you dick,” Borracho snorts, shaking his head at his fellow detective.  But to your retreating back, he glares from behind his shades and thinks, what a bitch.

-----

It doesn’t get any better.

You’re the only woman on Bob’s team, and Big Nick has nearly as many comments for you as he does for your leader.  Which marks you as fair game to the rest of the guys in Major Crimes.

Borracho, for his part, has never been a complete follower—not the way Henderson and Z and Connors are—but it is easy to get swept up in the piling-on that happens when Big Nick starts on you.

You have two main approaches to the crude comments Nick lobs at you:  utter silence and snarky retorts.  You typically employ the former:  Nick may say something incredibly rude—imply that your pussy is filled with icicles, imply that a hard fuck would loosen you right up—and you only respond with an unblinking stare.  

You stare so long that it makes them squirm, makes the entire moment turn from funny to something heavy and uncomfortable.

But the latter approach, the snarky retorts?  You employ those sparingly, and to devastating effect.  And you use them mostly on the guys, Borracho included.

Most of Borracho’s insults for you hew close to Henderson’s original ice princess remark, with his own observations around you being uptight, robotic, and obsessive about proper police procedures.  Your answering insults to him seem to cast him as a drooling moron.

Borracho calls you a frosty bitch.

You call him an idiotic asshole.

He calls you an uptight cunt.

You call him tall, dark, and stupid.

He says that any guy who might try to fuck you would have his dick fall off from severe frostbite.

You snort mirthlessly, tell him that’s funny, coming from a walking STD like him.

He implies that you and Lobbin’ Bob have a thing going on, two asshole feds having bland vanilla sex together.

You reply, completely monotone, that you’d rather fuck Bob than be Nick O’Brien’s little lap dog.

He tells you to shut the fuck up.

You reply that he too should shut the fuck up.

It doesn’t get any better.  It only gets worse.

-----

It gets worse when Major Crimes and the FBI work a case together.  

It involves other departments—LAPD, ATF—but the bulk of the work is done by your respective teams.  Big Nick, unable to stand planning a multi-agency case, passes off much of the work to Borracho.

Lobbin’ Bob is juggling too many cases and hands off the FBI’s side to you.

If you weren’t…well, you…Borracho would be impressed.  All the things he and the guys from Major Case harass you about…your work ethic is the flip-side of those things.

Your frostiness could be construed as consummate professionalism.

Your uptight, robotic nature could be read as a desire to solve a case quickly and with airtight evidence.

But you’re you.  You’re the woman that called him a lap dog and a walking STD (though he’s called you things just as bad, a fact he tacitly ignores), so Borracho doesn’t let any admirable feelings for you take root, and he only does what he must to solve the case and never work with you so closely again.

*****

Despite all the new technology, sometimes things have to be old-school, which is why you find yourself setting up a listening post in an apartment building in Marina del Rey.  It’s a high-end building, full of wealthy people, but the one you are targeting is on a top floor condo.

You work with building management to take over a utility room one floor down, right under the condo in question.  It’s a cramped space, but there’s enough room for the audio equipment and recording devices.

And enough room for two chairs and two people.

You try to plan it any other possible way.  You try to pull in an LAPD detective, but they are running their own piece of this case.  Same with ATF.  

You try to get another FBI agent to sit with you on the overnight shift, but Big Nick manages to speak up long enough to throw a fit—he accuses you of icing out his team, trying to steal all the credit when the case is solved.

So you try to get any other detective from Major Crimes.  Literally any other guy.

It ends up being Tall, Dark, and Stupid.

You know his name is Magalon, just the way you know he knows your name.  But he never uses your name, not a single time, and you do him the same courtesy.

-----

You’ve run a few listening posts.  It is never as exciting as it looks in the movies, because usually there’s nothing to do but wait for that one, single clue.

Late on a Friday night, sitting in a cramped utility closet with Magalon, you wait.

And wait.  And wait.

Your partner for the evening sighs early on, slides his dark glasses over his face, then leans back in his chair.  You can’t tell if he’s asleep, but he’s silent, and that’s something.  For once he isn’t calling you a bitch or a cunt or any charming variation on the same misogynistic theme.

It doesn’t bother you when he does.  You’ve worked in law enforcement your whole adult life, and Magalon is exactly the same as the majority of men in the field.  

You’ve run listening posts before.  You know the drill.  You set the equipment high enough to hear, low enough to not be heard through the utility room door.  And then you pull your book out of your bag and start reading.

You swear you hear Magalon snort, very softly.  You can imagine what he’s thinking.  In his world, reading a book probably translates to stuck-up or boring or whatever other untrue things he thinks about you.

So you tilt your chin a little higher.  Let him think whatever he wants.

*****

Borracho is bored and moreover, the guys had a piss test earlier in the day, which means he’s missing their usual party.

They drew names to see who had to run the listening post with Queen Frostine.  Of course his name was pulled.

And of course you sit there completely composed, paging through a book, engrossed in whatever you are reading.

He watches you from behind his dark glasses.  If you weren’t you, he’d think you were okay.  Too well put-together for his tastes; Borracho prefers his women a little messy.  Women with an edge.  You’re too polished, perfectly rounded off.  No edge to you.

But you are good-looking.  He tries to picture you dressed down and finds he can’t do it.  Even now—you’re in jeans and a button-down shirt tucked in—you’re too neat.  Your eyeliner is perfect.  Your lipstick is just a shade darker than your natural color.

He can’t picture you roughed up.  He can’t picture you with eye makeup a little smeared, lipstick blurred at the edges of your lips.  Hair tousled, clothes rumpled.  

You’re probably the type of woman who sleeps in formal pajamas.  The thought makes him snort, and it pulls your eyes from your book, your cool gaze settling on him.

“Something wrong, detective?”

He doesn’t answer you.  “What are you reading?”

You look back to your page, turn it.  “A book.”

“Funny.”  A beat.  “What’s it called?”

You turn the book so he can see it, tap the cover with your forefinger.  The Devil in the White City, it says.

“What’s it about?” he asks.

“Crime.”

“Sounds fun.”

You glance at him again.  “It’s about H.H. Holmes.  Some consider him to be the first modern serial killer.”

“Sounds extra fun.”

You turn back to your book.  “About as much fun as manning a listening post with an ice princess, I imagine.”

He snorts again, this time bitter.  “Or with a walking STD.”

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of your lips before you school your expression.  You don’t reply to him.

-----

An hour passes.  No—it crawls by.

You read.  He scrolls through social media, and it’s punctuated from time to time with messages from the guys.

Z sends a simple Miss you, bro.

Connors says It’s only 10 and Nick is already FUKKED up.

Henderson asks how’s it going with the bitch queen?

Borracho chuckles and replies Quiet.  Listening post is dead and shes reading.

It’s Friday night and he already has that Friday night restless energy thing going on.  He sighs and counts down the time remaining until the two of you are relieved by another FBI agent and a technician from the Sheriff’s department.

Twenty minutes later, Nick sends a text.  Well, less a text than a series of pics:  the bevy of women Nick has hired for the night.  What Borracho is missing out on.  

He sighs again, and you glance at him.  You correctly guess at what’s bothering him.

“You can leave, if you want,” you say.  

He’s tempted.  He knows you can handle it, and further—he doubts you have plans on a Friday night.  He doubts you’re missing anything fun.  You’d probably be reading that same book at home.

“Big Nick wants one of us here,” he replies.  

“I’d cover for you.”

“Bullshit,” he retorts.  “You’d throw me under the bus.”

You shrug.  “Yeah, probably.”

“Then why would you even offer to cover for me?”

Another shrug.  “I like mind games.  Most bitches do.”

He huffs out a breath, crosses his arms across his chest.  He leans back in his chair and stares at you.  “I wasn’t even the one who called you an ice princess that first time, you know.  That was Henderson.”

“I thought you were Henderson.”

“Asshole.  You know my name.”

You turn another page, and he almost misses the faint smile.  If you weren’t you, he’d think you were teasing him.  

“Honestly, all of you Major Crimes detectives look the same to me,” you say.  

“All you agents look the same.  Same stick-up-the-ass.”

“Better to have a stick up the ass than to be a thug with a badge and a gun.”

“You think I’m a bad cop?”  He tightens his jaw, feels his molars grinding against each other.

“I think you’re all bad cops,” you clarify.  “I think you care more about your parties.  O’Brien certainly cares more about being the bad boy of the sheriff’s department, and the rest of you fall in line like his little ducklings.”

It stings to hear you say it out loud, though Borracho has long suspected that you’d thought that about them.  You have a way of looking at them when they are joking around, a subtle way of shaking your head like a disappointed mother.

“It’s just letting off steam,” he replies, defensive.  “How the fuck do you unwind?”

You look at him, tilt your head.  “Spoiler alert, detective, but I unwind the same way.  I drink, I fuck.  I just keep it separate from the work.  I don’t let it affect my job.”

That stings too, you obliquely saying that you’re better than him.  That you have it more together, which (in a calmer moment) he’d probably admit.  Right now, he stews—the guys are off having fun, Nick sent the pics of the honeys at the party, and Borracho is stuck sitting with you, being told that you’re better than him.

“Yeah, I can just picture it,” he snaps, his voice laced with sarcasm.  “Half a glass of white wine, then you fuck some lame asshole in missionary with the lights off.  What a fucking badass.”

You keep your head tilted, and now you pair it with an infuriating smile.

“I don’t need to prove to you if I’m cool,” you say.  A beat, and then you add, “at least I don’t have to pay for it.”

“I don’t pay for it!”  He hates how defensive he sounds, the way his voice cracks on the word pay like he’s a fucking child.

“Oh, sorry.  O’Brien pays for it.  That’s so much better.”

“I don’t…partake in that stuff.”  Not anymore, anyway.  He had a few times right after his divorce when he was in a bad way and wallowing, but he hasn’t since then.  It always left him feeling cheap and a little scummy…but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy going to the parties and looking.

“Okay.”  Your tone is clear that you don’t believe him, and you turn back to your book.

“I don’t.”

“Sure, Henderson.”

He huffs in frustration.  “Christ, you are a cunt.”

“Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?  Cunts are a lot of fun.  Seems like a compliment, calling me one.”

It always goes like this.  Every single fucking time.  You always respond to his insults with these infuriating responses, deliver barbs and retorts back to him without being affected at all.  

And just like always, Borracho settles on his usual closing statement.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says.

“You first,” you reply.

*****

The bickering kills off the remaining time of your shift, and before you know it, there’s a knock on the door and your relief is there to spell you.

What surprises you is Magalon doesn’t stalk away the moment he can.  He keeps his steps measured to yours, falls in beside you as you go into the parking garage under the building.  

He doesn’t speak.  He just walks beside you, and you can feel the anger still radiating off of him.  Of all of them, Magalon falls on the quieter end of the spectrum.  O’Brien is Major Crimes’ chattiest asshole, and Magalon usually sits back and listens.  You think sometimes he talks the most to you, which is probably a shame since you constantly squabble.

In the parking garage, he grumbles, “this was a lot of fucking fun.  Great way to spend a Friday night.”

It stings, faintly.  You offered to cover.  He’s the one who stayed, in the end.  There wouldn’t have been any repercussions if he left, especially from his boss.  For fuck’s sake, O’Brien is the first to break the rules.  He’d never reprimand one of his detectives for leaving their post with an FBI agent.

“Hurry along then,” you retort.  “Maybe you can make it in time and get O’Brien’s sloppy seconds.”

You expect him to tell you to fuck off.  You expect him to call you a name.  You expect his usual weak finishing move of shut the fuck up.

Thing is, he does say shut the fuck up…he just says it as he turns and squares up to you, puffs his chest out and faces you, and you stupidly think he’s challenging you to a fight.  He’s only half a head taller than you, but he’s broad through the chest and arms, and you take a defensive step back…

“Don’t you ever shut the fuck up?” he repeats, and he shakes his head at his own question, frustration writ across his face.  “Why can’t you ever just…be fucking quiet?”

You open your mouth to answer (apparently you cannot ever shut the fuck up), but he takes another step to close the gap between you, and maybe Detective Magalon hates you, but something is driving him other than hatred at the moment.  He reaches out and wraps a hand around the back of your neck, holds you steady.  His eyes dip down to look at your mouth before they slide up and gaze into your own eyes.

Oh.  Oh, shit.

You only just grasp the situation when his mouth is on yours, hot and insistent, but not cruel.  His mouth slots over yours, his tongue pries your lips apart, and you hate that you open up to him so willingly.  You try to logic out the situation��Friday nights always key you up, and the guy you had a friends-with-benefits situation moved away months ago—but the cool, logical part of your brain is falling silent.

It’s giving over to the baser part of your brain that chases pleasure, that sparks up like fireworks at the feeling of Magalon’s rough kissing, the way his lips are just a bit chapped.  The way his facial hair tickles against your face.  The way he grips your neck—firm but not too hard, and the pad of his thumb strokes the side of your neck.

Well, shit.

*****

Borracho convinces himself that he’s just worked up.  He’s just confusing the nascent lust that bloomed from Big Nick’s pictures of the women with his ongoing irritation of you.  

That when you took the mean shot about sloppy seconds, he was going to place his hand over your mouth to shut you the fuck up…but you looked at him in surprise, your lips parting, and the motion drew his eyes, and his brain (tall, dark, and stupid after all) did the wrong thing.

What surprises him is that you still for a second, but then you kiss him back.  You open your mouth to him, allow him to sweep his tongue against yours.  You breathe out through your nose, and after a beat, you reach up to circle your fingers around his wrist, around the hand that has a firm hold on you.

You don’t pry his hand away.  You only hold him steady as he holds you steady.

It’s not love.  It’s not even lust.  It’s just months and months of irritation, finally bubbling over into this.

That’s what he tells himself.  As he walks you backwards, as he presses you against your SUV.  As he grinds against you, getting steadily harder against your thigh.  As you make these little noises, these quiet whimpers.  As you kiss him back, as your other hand hooks against his belt and holds him close to you.

This is just his irritation with you.  He’s letting off steam.  That is it.

He can’t fathom what you’re doing.  If he’s constantly angry with you, then you have to feel similarly.  

Maybe you’re unwinding too.  What did you say earlier?  You unwind the same way as him?  

I drink, I fuck, you said.

Your prospects for the latter must be bleak if you’re willing to fuck him, but he’s not going to complain.

You release your hold on his wrist, and you reach down into your pocket, fumble until you pull out your keys.  You hit the fob, and you unlock your SUV.  He steps away from you, releases you from where he has you trapped against the door.  You open the door to the back, and he starts to push you in, push you onto the back seat but you murmur, wait a second.  

You turn away from him, and it’s automatic how his hands go to your waist, hold you.  It’s like if he stops touching you, the insane spell will be broken, a current halted because of a break in the circuit.

There’s a protective cover on your backseat, and it takes you a moment to get it unhooked and tossed into the far back of the vehicle, and you turn back to him with a shrug.  “Dog hair,” you say simply, and Borracho lets the comment slide over him.  He is already pulling you back to him, kissing you again, pushing you into your SUV.

You hook your hands into his belt again and pull him in with you.

Car sex is always better in theory than reality.  It’s hot in the abstract but fraught in practice.  Borracho has a fair amount of experience—the sum total of his sexual history in high school was realized in the backseat of the shitty Acura Legend he inherited from his aunt.

At least your SUV is bigger.

It’s still awkward.  Difficult to get you out of your jeans and panties, difficult to get his own pants and boxers pushed down enough.  The backseat is too short for both of you, so it takes effort to arrange your legs.  You bend one, press it against the back of the seat, and the other plants on the floorboard.  Borracho kneels clumsily, shuffles to slot himself between your thighs.

It’s dim enough in the SUV that he can pretend you’re not you.  Because aside from you murmuring yes to answer his question is this okay with you?...you don’t talk.

The thought occurs to him that maybe you’re pretending he’s someone else too.

You are far touchier than he thought you would be.  You smooth your palms over his back, his shoulders, his arms.  It makes him feel a little big-headed; he thinks maybe you like his build, maybe you’ve been studying him on the sly and are finally getting to touch him.  You run your fingers through his hair, muss it up, and the strange intimacy of the gesture makes him shudder.

You still when he pushes into you.  He reaches down and lines himself up with you, then inches his hips forward.  He’s shocked to find you ready for him—wet and hot, and as he breeches your entrance, he can feel how your pussy is already twitching against him.

The first stupid thought that comes to his head is I’ll have to tell the guys that there’s no icicles in her pussy after all.

The second, better thought:  No, this is between me and her.  I’ll never say a word to the guys.

*****

Look:  Magalon and O’Brien and their merry band of assholes can say whatever they like about you.  They can call you a bitch or a cunt or whatever rude phrase they want, but you know you’re an ace at your job.  You are efficient.  You are smart.

Sometimes you aren’t quite as smart in your personal life.

Case in point, this moment.  Magalon half-naked, you half-naked underneath him.  In your SUV that smells faintly of salt water and wet dog from the weekend trip to the beach with your retriever.  You know this is a bad idea, your great big brain screams a million warnings, but sometimes you just do dumb things.

The dumb thing you are doing right now is Magalon.

You have no idea what is driving him.  He’ll probably go running straight to the dickhead brigade at Major Crimes and spill everything, but you don’t really care.  They already say terrible things about you.  This would just give them a new avenue to explore.

If he wasn’t Magalon, it’d be easier to fall into the fantasy.  The man is not repulsive looking.  He’s broad, and you run your hands over him, can feel how he’s built under his flannel shirt.  He’s a decent kisser too, not too rough, not too soft and precious about it.  An acceptable amount of tongue without trying to map the shape of your tonsils.  

His hands are nice too—you’ve noticed them before.  You can admit to yourself that you don’t hate the way they feel when they touch you, when they grip your waist or when they cup your hip as he settles against you.

When he pushes into you, it stuns you.  You freeze underneath him, breathe in deep and shut your eyes at the sensation.

The universe is often unfair, you’ve found.  Giving an asshole like Magalon that good dick, perfectly sized.  What a waste.

Not a complete waste, not now, at least.  Not when he’s sliding into you, and not when you give way to him.  It burns just a bit, the way he stretches you, but it’s that good pain that bumps up so close to pleasure that the two are undiscernible from each other.  He must feel his own version of it because he drops his head beside yours, breathes out a harsh fuck once his hips are flush against yours.

You know he hates you, but in this moment, he’s considerate.  Almost sweet, actually.  It’s awkward in your SUV; the door handle digs against the top of your head and he notices two thrusts in.  He mutters something you can’t make out, but then he reaches up and cups the back of your head, helps hold you steady.

And he deals you gentler thrusts to keep from hurting you.

You would have never guessed he could be nice.  Especially in a moment like this.  You know it won’t last.  It will end the minute this ends, but he’s being nice, so you’re nice too.  You wrap your arm around his neck.  You pull his face to yours and you kiss him, soft.  

It must surprise him because he huffs against your lips before he kisses you back.  Presses a second gentle peck to your mouth before he breaks away, drops his head beside yours again.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he mutters, and he sounds almost begrudging.  Like he thought you’d feel terrible and is mildly pissed to find himself wrong.

You have no witty retort.  You are stunned to near muteness as the feeling of him, the thick drag of his cock as he fucks you at a sedate pace.  You reply, lamely, “you too.”

“Your pussy is gripping me like crazy,” he adds, and his breath against the side of your neck makes you shiver underneath him.  “Fuck, what do you need?”

“Just keep going,” you say.  You raise your hips to meet his thrusts, plant one foot firmer on the floorboard and press up.  It changes the angle, changes the drag of him inside you.  He bumps against that spot inside you, and tilting your hips like makes the base of him settle against your clit each time he bottoms out.

“Close?”  He moves his head, whispers in your ear, and it shouldn’t be hot, him whispering in your goddamned ear.  As he fucks you.  In the backseat of your SUV.  

“I can feel it,” he continues.  “Feel you getting even wetter.  You like fighting with me?  It turn you on, being mean to me?”

You laugh—an actual, genuine laugh.  “Guess so.”

“S’okay.”  He’s getting out of breath; he starts to pant as he picks up the pace.  He lifts his head to gaze down at you, and he’s actually smiling.

You didn’t think he was capable of smiling.  It’s weird to see it on him.  Magalon has actual dimples, a winning smile, and you bite back the urge to tell him that he should smile more, that he should drop the tough-guy, stone-faced routine.  

“Guess it turns me on too,” he admits.  

You can feel yourself getting close, the licking flames of your orgasm growing in heat and intensity.  It shouldn’t be so fucking hot, but it is, and Magalon is too good and you kinda hate that you’re so close already.  That the feel of him, the sound of him, the heavy press of his cock as he splits you open over and over get you so close, so quickly.  

Even the smell of him—no obvious cologne, just the lingering scent of his soap or laundry detergent, the growing scent of his arousal paired with your own.  Your SUV reeks of sex, and you wonder how long it will take to dissipate.  Will it still be noticeable on Monday morning, when you drive into the office?

He drives into you faster, harder, but he keeps his hand on your head, shelters you from hurting yourself against the door.  You feel yourself cross that threshold, the point of no return, and the heat blooms outward, consumes you as you come.

“F-fuck, right there, Magalon,” you whimper.  “Don’t s-stop, oh fuck, don’t stop—”

“Jesus,” he breathes out, and he rears back to watch your face.  His own expression is tense, his lips pressed together in a thin line, and you realize that he’s trying to hold on, trying to delay his own pleasure….

He fails.  He deals you one, final punishing thrust, and then he pulls out with a curse.  Reaches down and pumps his length, and then you feel the hot ropes of his cum as he paints your belly with his release.

“Jesus,” he says again, this time a low mutter.  He drops his head on your shoulder, and you don’t know how to act now that the moment is over.  You reach out and pat him awkwardly on the back, and you stop yourself before you say, “great work, champ.”

It’s a long moment of silence, then he lifts himself off of you.  He doesn’t quite meet your gaze, but he asks, “do you have anything?”  Trails off uncomfortably, then gestures vaguely at the mess he made of you.

“Napkins in the center console.”  You sit up; he reaches past you and snags some napkins from between the front seats.  He hands them to you, and you clean yourself up as best you can.

Then he reaches down, hands you your discarded clothing.  You dress in silence except for the exasperated grunts as you each trying to shimmy back into clothing in the cramped back seat of a vehicle.

Then the two of you climb out of the backseat, and the moment gets so damned awkward and heavy, you try to break it with a joke.

“Now you can tell the guys that there’s no ice in my pussy,” you offer.  You keep your tone light.

He glances at you but doesn’t respond.

“Or tell O’Brien that you gave me a hard fucking, see if it loosened me up or not,” you try.

Magalon shakes his head.  He slides his phone out of his pocket, checks for new messages.  He slides it back into his pocket, then mutters, “wouldn’t do that.”

“You could.  I couldn’t stop you.”

Just like that, you’re back to bickering.  Only now there’s a new weight to it, since he just had his dick in you moments ago.  Since you just swabbed his cum off of you.

“I said I wouldn’t.  I’m not a complete asshole.”

“Since when?  Since five minutes ago?”

“I don’t kiss and tell.”  He crosses his arms and his face goes stony.  The smile, the dimples are long gone.

“Okay.”

He shakes his head.  “Don’t do that shit.”

“What shit?”

“Okay.”  He mimics you, meanly.  “Don’t agree with me in that tone that says you don’t believe me at all.”  

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then don’t.  I don’t give a shit.”

“You sound like you do,” you observe.  “You still pissed you missed your party?”

“That I missed Big Nick’s sloppy seconds?”  He snorts.  “Nah, had you instead.”

“Poor guy,” you reply.  “Had to settle for an ice princess.”

“Yeah, desperate fucking times call for desperate fucking measures,” he snaps.

For some reason, that stings.  That’s a direct blow, and you don’t know why.  Of all the things he’s said to you, all the things he’s called you…this actually hurts.  Maybe because he had been nice in your interlude, that hand cradling your head, that kiss that had been gentle.  It must have been an act—a convincing one—and now he’s back to being the real him.  The him that was apparently desperate enough to fuck you as a last resort.

No wonder he won’t tell the guys.  He’s ashamed to have fucked you.  He’s embarrassed.

You’re a smart woman but you make stupid choices sometimes.

“Well, it’s over.  You survived.”  He can probably hear the hurt in your voice, but you don’t care.  

You tend to deal with the consequences of your stupid choices by fleeing.  Which is what you do now—you turn away, fumble your keys.  Open the driver’s side door, and you catch the startled expression on his face, the surprised “hey” he says, but you ignore both.  

You only climb into your SUV, turn the ignition, and then leave.  And you send up a fervent prayer that the listening post yields something useful over the weekend, because Monday morning already looms like a bank of storm clouds.

[kilojulietsierra]

your last benny magalon fic really did something to me lol, could i pretty please request another one where benny comes home to his pregnant wife and helps her relax, cuddles, kisses and just fluff. our benny boy is amazing. (Ps i can just tell you’re an amazing Writer from all the work I’ve read from you) 🤍

As requested; a soft and fluffy little piece about Benny 'Borracho' Magalon and his pregnant wife!reader. To be honest, when I got this request I wasn't really sure what to do with it, but sitting in my truck outside the laundromat today I banged this out all in one go! Really like the way it turned out and hope you like it as well!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Call It A Night (Benny 'Borracho' Magalon x pregnant wife!reader)

"Dude c'mon, for real?" Tony turned in his chair, watching Borracho gather up his coat and gear bag.

"What?" Borracho barely even spared his partner a glance as he shoved his phone in his pocket and slapped his laptop shut.

"You know Nick is gonna be pissed if you skip another of his boys nights."

"Yep." Pushing his chair in Borracho smiled, barely noticeable, "Have fun without me." And without paying attention to the rest of the teams harassment he pulled the squad room door closed behind him and headed down to his truck, ready to be home.

~~~

You were quartering tomatoes for spaghetti sauce, thoroughly lost in the storyline of one of your favorite true crime podcasts when you felt arms wrap around your middle and a firm form press against your back.

"I do not like it," a kiss pressed against the side of your neck, "When you leave the door unlocked this late." Another kiss further up. "Home by yourself."

Leaning back into your husband's grip you smiled, "I ain't scared." You teased, brandishing the large kitchen knife in your hand.

Benny chuckled against the back of your neck, kissing you behind your ear, as he plucked the knife from your grip and turned you around to face him. "Not the point." His hands settled on your hips as he leaned down to kiss you properly.

With a wide smile on your face you wrapped your arms around his neck and let out a long, content sigh. Melting into the moment. "I know." You whispered it against his lips, smiling when you caught him rolling his eyes.

Still shaking his head Benny crouched slightly and picked you up, turning you around to sit you on the kitchen island, "How are my girls?" His hands slid from your thighs, over your hips to settle on either side of your rapidly growing belly. He dropped a quick kiss against your lips before you could answer.

"Good." Arms still draped over his shoulders, you scrated your nails back and forth against the back of his neck, "Felt a lot better today actually. She's wiggling around more and more though, which is weird." You giggled a little at yourself but loved the look on your husbands face and the feel of his hands stroking over your pregnant belly.

Smiling slightly Benny gave you another quick kiss, "Sorry I couldn't come home earlier."

"You know we're okay." You leaned your forehead against his and moved your fingers up to thread through his hair over and over in that way that always had his eyes falling closed and his body relaxing. "Rough day?"

"It was okay."

The short and vague answer told you everything you needed to know. "Go take a shower. I'll finish dinner."

With a soft rush of air, meant to be a chuckle, Benny gave you a squeeze and a kiss on the forhead, "Yes ma'am."

~~~

"That is definitly not how that works."

"Babe, it's a movie."

"Yeah, well that dude would have had to reload twice by now." One hand gestured towards the flat screen and the other stroked idly back and forth over your thigh, "And there's no way that AK wouldn't have malfunctioned by now."

"Oh my god." You shifted slightly on the couch, a muscle in your back trying to spasm, "Please turn Sheriff Ben off or I'm going to switch to Bridgerton or something."

Benny visibly took a deep breath and slouched back into the couch, uncrossing and crossing his feet on the coffee table, his other hand landing back on your calf. His thumb rubbing back and forth in time with his hand still stroking your thigh.

He grumbled something under his breath, kept his thoughts to himself for the next few scenes. "What about Jessica?"

You nodded, "Simple, classic, easy to pronounce." Your eyes shifted from the TV to your husband at the end of the couch. "I think I still like Noemi more though."

"I do like that one. What does she think?" He turned to look at you, one hand moving to push the hem of your shirt up and stroke a thumb over the stretch marks he knew you struggled with.

Eyes a little watery you watched his movements, loving the contrast of the rough, tanned skin over your own.

"She hasn't kicked me in the bladder for awhile so either she approves of both or she's asleep."

Benny smiled and turned his wrist to look at his watch, "We should probably get Mama to bed too." He chuckled when you groaned, annoyed, "We both know she's gonna wake you up at 3, so c'mon." Benny picked your legs up off his lap and held his hands out to pull you to your feet.

Still groaning, wanting to finish the movie, you stood to your feet. "You have to go in tomorrow?" You were always scared to ask, knowing that weekdays and work days really meant nothing to the LASD.

"Not unless something exciting happens tonight." He turned off the TV and started leading you towards the bedroom, turning off lights as you went. "Besides I left my work phone on silent in the truck so..." he stopped outside the bedroom to wrap his arms around you and give you a long, promising kiss. "Nick will have to come find me if he needs me to come to work."

A shiver running down your spine you laughed, biting your lip, returning his kiss. When you pulled back you pressed your palms flat against the hardness of his chest, "In that case, please go double check both doors are locked. I wanna sleep in."

Laughing out loud, Benny squeezed your hand as you pulled away from him and backed towards the bed.

He did as he was told, going through his bedtime routine. Checking the doors, plugging in cell phones in the kitchen, turning off the rest of the lights, checking his service pistol was secured in the lockbox by the bed, before stripping his shirt off and crawling into bed next to you.

Eyes already heavy you scooted back against him, sighing when he turned on his side and wrapped his arms around you.

His voice was low and soft when he whispered, "Are you sure you want to sleep in?" Bennys hand slid from your hip, down your thigh and up to your chest as he mouthed a sloppy kiss against the back of your shoulder.

Pressing further back against him, you threaded your fingers through his and stopped his teasing, "You know how I feel about waking up early."

"Mhmm." He kissed the back of your shoulder again, "Only for good reason." Another kiss, "You know I'll make it worth waking up for." He chuckled, squeezing you tighter in his arms, muscles in his arms bulging because he knew that always drove you crazy.

You groaned again, in annoyance, no other reason, turning to face him over your shoulder, "Not before seven, at least."

With a smile on his face, his traced his lips over the back of your shoulder, his goatee scratching against the bare skin there, "I can wait at least that long."

"Good man. Give me a kiss."

He tipped your face closer to his and gave you a soft but thorough kiss, "Good night baby."

Unbelievably happy and comfortable, a miracle at this stage of your pregnancy, you settled back into the pillows and immediately fell asleep. Safe in Benny's arms, the feeling of his thumb rubbing back and forth over the side of your belly and his steady breathing ghosting over the back of your neck.

~~~

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Last Resort

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

Warnings: Cursing, angst, fluff, reader is a little drunk, Reader and Borracho are exes; bittersweet ending

Notes: Idk, my brain spit this out. Enjoy. Not beta-read.

Summary: You glanced over, taking in the familiar slopes of his profile. He looked good—he'd shaved pretty recently, and you were almost sure you spotted a new streak of grey by his temple. Goddamn. There was no way that he'd gone out of his way to look that good just for you, but you could pretend, right? In that precise moment, it felt like being delulu was indeed the solulu.

"I shouldn't have called."

It wasn't an apology, because you couldn't bring yourself to apologize, not just yet. You knew that you'd technically done the responsible thing, called someone to pick you up rather than trying to get home alone—but fuck, you could've gotten an uber, a lyft, fucking something. Being drunk was an excuse, not a reason. Dialing your ex should've been your last resort.

But there you were, sitting in the front seat of your ex-boyfriend's car.

If Borracho looked at you, you didn't see it—you were too busy staring out of the passenger side window and wishing yourself back to the crowded curb outside of the club. The cigarette and weed smoke would've been unbearable, but fuck—at least you wouldn't be so close to him, smelling his cologne, hearing the murmur of his favorite music.

"...S'alright."

It was about as much as you'd gotten out of him when you'd been together, so why did it sting so goddamn much?

"Did I wake you up?" You hedged, "Take you away from anything...?"

"You mean anyone?"

Damn, he'd sniffed that out fast. Maybe you'd forgotten how sharp he was; maybe you were more tipsy than you thought.

"Whatever," You shrugged. "Did I?"

"No."

"Thought you might be on duty."

"You called because you thought I might be on duty?"

"No, just—When I called, it occurred to me that you might be."

"What would you have done if I had been?"

"Get an uber or something, I don't know."

"Why didn't you do that anyway?"

He sounded more curious than accusatory, but the question still made you slide down in your seat a little, shrinking under the weight of your guilt.

"...I dunno."

Borracho let it hang there. You glanced over, taking in the familiar slopes of his profile. He looked good—he'd shaved pretty recently, and you were almost sure you spotted a new streak of grey by his temple. Goddamn. There was no way that he'd gone out of his way to look that good just for you, but you could pretend, right? In that precise moment, it felt like being delulu was indeed the solulu.

Who did it hurt to pretend that Borracho still wanted to look good for you? That he wanted to see you like this as much as you'd wanted to see him? That when you'd been at loose ends, the only one of your friends that hadn't found someone to go home with, you'd thought of him, and only him—

Well. That last bit wasn't really pretending. You'd found yourself searching for your ex in the face of every stranger since you'd parted ways.

"Is there anyone for me to have pulled you away from?" The question left you before you could even think to stop it.

"Nope."

You thrilled with vindication for a single moment before he added, "You don't have anyone, either."

"What?"

He pulled the car to a stop at a red, turning to get a better look at you. His gaze swept over you, lingering on the length of your exposed thighs where they peeked out of your miniskirt before he met your eyes again.

"You're dressed to go fishing."

Fishing?!

"Oh—Fuck you," You spluttered, reaching for your door handle, only to hear the subtle snick of Borracho locking the doors and clicking on the child lock. "Let me out!"

"At least let me pull out of traffic," He argued, flicking the turn signal on, "You stumble out into traffic and get hit by a truck, I gotta make the report."

You folded your arms petulantly across your chest, glaring through the windshield as he pulled into a vacant strip mall parking lot. He unlocked the doors, and you hurried to get out, half-stumbling as your foot got caught in the footwell. You wobbled, catching hold of yourself on the door before you pulled yourself upright, slamming the car door shut behind yourself. You stomped over to a car stop and ignored your ass stinging as you plopped onto it, pressing your knees tight together and drawing your phone out. You could just get an uber from...Wherever the fuck you were.

You ignored the car door closing and plaintive sigh, followed by Borracho's footsteps.

"You can leave," You snipped as he stopped beside you.

"I'll wait until you get an uber."

"You don't need to."

"I'll feel better if I do."

"Whatever."

You swiped through your apps—crap, you deleted uber for space, didn't you? Fuck, now you had to redownload it with Borracho watching—

"Get back in the car."

"I'm fine."

"I'll shut up. Just get back in the car." He sighed again, crouching beside you. "C'mon, I'm already here—and it'll be cheaper."

...Well, that was true. Your girls night club tab had not been cheap. You cast a wary gaze toward Borracho, who held his hands up in surrender.

"...Fine," You grumbled. Borracho straightened, holding his hand out to you. You stubbornly ignored it and pushed yourself up from the car stop, wobbling before striding back over to his car and climbing inside. You put your seat belt on, sliding down in your seat again as Borracho climbed into the driver's seat and started the car back up.

You managed to keep your mouth shut for a whole block and a half.

"Fishing," You grumbled, "Fuck you."

"I know."

"I can do whatever the fuck I want—"

"I know."

"I can, you can. Whatever." You reached up, yanking the sun visor down and pushing aside the mirror cover. Oh—Damn, when had your mascara run? And why didn't he say anything?

"Your makeup wipes are still in the glove compartment."

You cast him an irritated look as you blindly reached down, yanking open the glove and feeling around for the familiar packaging. You tugged one out, raising it to your eyes and swiping away the run liner.

"You could've said something," You grumbled, sliding it further down and scrubbing off your lip products.

"Didn't think you'd want to hear them."

"So what'd you think I'd feel when I got home and saw all of the run makeup?" You looked over to see Borracho fighting back a grin and shrugging a shoulder. You scoffed a laugh, balling up the used makeup wipe and tossing it at him. "Fuck you!"

"Alright, alright," He waved the wipe away. "Still driving here."

You shut the mirror and visor, leaning back in your seat.

"...You have a good time, at least?" Borracho asked after a few moments.

"I guess. It was fine."

"Just fine?"

"Yeah, I mean. Standard." You considered for a moment. "I didn't really wanna go."

"Why did you?"

"Haven't gone out much lately."

"Why not?"

Why not. Probably because you're mutual breakup hadn't been all that mutual. Probably because whenever you went out with a guy and he mentioned a work function, your mind immediately sprang to hotel rooms, too much beer, scantily clad women. Probably because when you needed to get off, you still heard Borracho's moans in your ear, remembered the heated press of his body against yours.

You felt Borracho turn to look at you, and realized that you had been quiet for too long. You just shrugged.

"Busy with work, I guess."

Borraacho grunted on the other side of the car, muttering, "I hear that."

You smiled a little at the gentle commiseration, and made the mistake of glancing over just in time to see him turning the wheel single-handed. God—damn, but you missed those hands. You swallowed thickly, drawing in a deep breath.

"Y'okay?" He asked.

"I need something to soak up the booze."

"You gonna puke?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes," You rolled your eyes. "I may piss you off, but I wouldn't throw up in your car on purpose. I know how much you love this thing."

Borracho didn't answer for a few moments, and when he did—

"Yucca fries?"

"Ugh, fuck yes."

--

"Quit hogging the chipotle mayo," You grumbled. Borracho grunted, holding out the little plastic container for you. You shoved your fry into it, scooping out a frankly ungodly amount, and ignoring that dollops that slipped onto his knuckles. You shoved the fry into your mouth, watching him raise his knuckles to his lips and sweep his tongue across the fallen sauce before he dropped the plastic into the to go back. You looked away hurriedly, stomach flipping at the sight. You took the bottle of water out of the cup holder and taking in a deep swig.

"Careful," Borracho grumbled. "You said you're not gonna be sick—"

"I'm not you fucking—" You shove the bottle back into the holder. "Anal-retentive shithead—"

"—Emphasis on the anal—"

"Shut the fuck up!" You spluttered a laugh, shoving your hand back into the to go bag.

"Okay," He muttered, "You good?"

"Yeah."

"Buckled up?"

"Mhm."

Borracho started the car back up, pulling out of the parking lot and steering the car toward the street. You reached into the bag, fishing past the little plastic container for the rest of the fries.

"Want another one?" You asked.

"Sure."

You held it out, keeping it steady as Borracho turned his head, biting off half of the fry. You popped the second half into your mouth, reaching into your bag for another one.

"You on shift at all tonight?" You asked.

"Tomorrow."

"Mm."

"That okay with you?"

You rolled your eyes. "None of my business what you do."

"No?"

"Not anymore."

"Why'd you ask, then?"

"Just trying to gauge how bad I'm fucking up your sleep schedule."

"I'll recover."

"Good for you."

"Early morning for you?"

"Yep."

"Better pound that water."

"I'll be fine."

"If you say so."

You reached down grudgingly, taking up the water again and drawing in another few gulps.

"Happy?" You asked.

"Whatever."

You shook your head, setting the near-empty bottle down in the cup holder. You felt oddly melancholy as Borracho turned down your street. You reached down, taking hold of your purse and undoing your seat belt as he pulled the car into the hydrant outside of your place. You began to gather up the trash, but he waved you off, urging,

"I've got it."

That was new. Still you nodded, looking at your lap. What else was there to do but get out of the car? Nothing—So why weren't you doing it?

"Everything okay?" Borracho asked softly, spurring you into embarrassed action.

"Mhm! Thanks, for the, uh—Thanks."

You got out of the car, gingerly shutting the door behind yourself and hurrying up the steps and not daring to look back as you got inside.

--

The clamor of office was nothing new, but it wasn't helping your hangover. You winced behind your sunglasses as the florescent bulbs overhead seemed to pulse with your headache. You ignored the faux-scandalized ooos that chased you to your desk.

"Lookin' a rough there, mama," Henderson taunted.

"Yeah, cause you're a saint and a goddamn daisy," You snipped in turn. You ignored the surrounding mocking cat-yowls and laughter, the sound of the chair of the opposite yours being drawn out. You glanced doggedly toward your partner.

"Borracho."

He gave you small nod, a flat, "Detective," Before shifting his full focus to his computer. You drew in a deep breath, reaching for the file nearest you.

God, you hated Mondays.

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @recklessworry ; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @thesandbeneathmytoes

[mariamariquinha]

Bossa Nova (Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x f!reader) - Nine

Eight

Summary: The LASD couldn't sustain its reputation as an honest police officer if it tried hard. In that case, no one tried.

Word count: 9.1k

Warnings: Bad words, talks about corruption, talks about sexism and racism, mentions of oral sex, mention of drug crimes, violence and other things related, strip clubs, sex workers, use of weed and... did I say sexism?

Author’s Note: I think this got a lot more personal than I thought, so I'm sorry if anyone has family members within the LASD who aren't corrupt - this isn't about them. This chapter doesn't have much romance, I'll warn you right away, but it's an important progression in the main characters' relationship. Give it a try!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

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

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

You were in the business a little while ago; a few years, nothing that still didn't stop you from getting suspicious looks or incessant questions to make sure your work was well done. Emma, ​​at least, who was the one who mattered at the moment, trusted your instincts and your ability; at best, she said you had good directions.

At worst, that you were very witty. The moment she called you into her office, you were sure this was the version of you she was hoping to meet.

“What did you do over the weekend?”

On Saturday, after finishing the initial report on the Ballard case, you realized you'd only slept for 4 hours when your brother made a ridiculous phone call to a tennis match with probably very wealthy friends. You went. After a scraped knee and sore thighs, you found that it was enough for his office to get a big case of something you didn't pay attention to. Then you enjoyed what felt like an uncomfortable sea spray from your air conditioner, which ended up going out for good and you had to walk in shame to Target to buy a fan. You had seen what looked like a seepage in your bathroom while you were brushing your teeth and that was the last clear vision in your memory of how your weekend went.

But maybe that wasn't what she wanted to know - no, it certainly wasn't that. And you treated the situation as such: deliberate disinterest to speculate.

“... Nothing special.” You shrugged, averting her gaze since she wasn’t even giving you the satisfaction of looking at your face. From the time being, Emma was always busy. You being there didn’t make sense. 

“Not making good use of the day offs?”

“My phone keeps on like I'm with the President himself,” Your tone wasn’t soft, nor polite. That grabbed her attention, enough to turn her eyes to you over her glasses, eyebrows raised. “Occupational hazard.”

“Mm.”

And she went back to her computer, typing and clicking and watching the screen as if you weren’t there. That made you scoff. Irrationally, you felt a twinge of disappointment and frustration with her.

“I won't tell you about what happened.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Thinking of ordering?”

“When you haven't used your authority for a long time, it becomes rusty. It's never a good idea in this line of work. Learned that from my mentor when I started.”

“And of course you thought you'd start this with me.”

“You are my main concern right now,” Emma made a scene to turn to you again, impatient and bothered by your behavior. “At first I thought you were fraternizing with the enemy too much, but then I'm pretty sure I lost you along the way. I don’t like this.”

In fact, you had gotten relatively invasive as the case progressed. Nick was never easy, that was a fact, nothing surprising or expected. The recent developments with Isla had left you in a position of naivete, as if you were as new to the business as an intern, deluded by TV advertisements and oblivious to what was really going on in the Department. If you got there and said everything, Emma would take you off the case. Maybe O'Brien even hinted at it, which could have led to that conversation, but the truth was that far from it or not, they both seemed to have a hard-on putting you in situations where they treated you like an avatar of personal control.

You noticed that your reports were right there on her desk - that she read them. Still, you shifted in your chair uncomfortably and looked away again, a grim expression crossing your face as you heard her sigh.

“You should have taken the days off I told you to.” The comment grabbed your attention after a beat of silence. 

No, don’t you dare-

“... I'll pretend you're not implying what I think you are.”

“It happens, you know? Maybe we did you wrong for not bringing the subject up for so long.”

“Don’t bring Theodore into this.”

“I’m trying to understand what’s happening!”

“What's going on is you've got a fucking cop on the verge of corruption taking the pomp and shitting rules around here,” You snapped, your voice quick and full of venom as you leaned in to make yourself heard. “What's happening is there's a girl who almost died because she was helping Nick and now she has a huge target on her back. The biggest problem is that these things happen around here as if they were routine and when a fucking person gets shot in the face, you have the indecency to call it a side effect when everything was nothing but irresponsibility.” 

There were things in your life that were untouchable, things that Theodore had done or that circumstances had only presented - things cruel or subtle, but things either way. That was from your father's side, people said, of being reactive to the unfair. He's always been on that part of the spectrum, even if the cops with questionable ethics and ambiguous behavior were in his basement collections.

You had chosen that career for the sake of the right thing and your cynicism carried you far enough to pass certain contexts in silence. Emma never got it out of your mouth that you knew what Nick and the guys did at the weekend parties or how the cocaine bust counts never rallied because someone ended up taking some for themselves. That even happened in the DEA as far as you knew. And you let all that go, because in the end that would be your job and there would always be a smaller percentage of subversion than of solution. O'Brien still caught the bad guys. Circumstantially, Mathias too. But one of the two always had a bit of powder in their nostrils or their cock inside an addicted whore. 

“Don't tell me it's the job. I’m aware.” Emma shut her mouth as soon as you said that, one hand raised to stop her. “But you and him make it all seem like a game of who's going to budge some kind of boundary you set. I’m not obligated to go through this.”

“What do you want me to do?”

The sigh that left your mouth was tired, suffocating. 

“Stick to my reports if you can. And if you're taking suggestions, don't try to be my friend. You're not very good at this.” 

When you got up to leave the room, Emma didn't stop you, but you didn't have any sense that you were winning anything. There was no relief. Your face was hot and your steps erratic.

Certain reputations had to come from somewhere, after all.

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

“My husband was a member of the group.”

Isla had a calm voice despite the context in which she was inserted. There were no handcuffs on her wrists or a guard inside the room; everything was done very smoothly. There was, however, a palpable tension in the air, as if a black cloud of violence or distortion hung within that interrogation room.

Really, you shouldn't even be there, watching. Henderson was sitting to one side as he watched through the glass the conversation Zapata and Gina were having with the woman, and that should be enough for them. Even so, it was Gina who suggested that you participate indirectly, presumably to find out details about the photography issue as she had a curious background in the business. She was good, you could tell. Depressed too.

According to the file, Isla was of Albanian origin. The parents were immigrants and ran a small textile business in Coney Island, but they weren’t anything but a fast topic of conversation. The features of her face, such as the more rounded nose and the full face, were half erased by the bruises. One eye was swollen with purple and yellow hues, her jaw was bruised and her lips were dry. One of her arms had been broken, as well as the shoulder on the same side had also been dislocated. You didn't see her coming, but you guessed that she walked with difficulty because of the wound in her left calf. It was the only shot she took, grazed but painful.

Looking at it that way, she didn't look so much like Debbie. Maybe their comparison was in the look: the two seemed equally taken by a feeling that hovered only in Nick. One that you didn't know what it was and that maybe nobody could put their finger on.

She spoke of everything. Kosovo, her relationship with a man named Oliver Clark, her marriage and children - Selim, with 5, and Dafina, with 9. 

You just noticed that Nick entered the room when you smelled his cologne. Bad smell, as always, enough to break any serious moment with that fragrance. You couldn’t help but make a face, pinching your nostrils once and clearing your throat. He ignored you, of course. Benny appeared right behind him with two cups of coffee - you two shared a brief look.

“We have the search warrant,” He said to everyone in the room, eyeing the scene in front of you with a stern face. “I also got WPP.”  

A little late for that, you thought but decided not to say anything.

“Anything important?” Took you time to understand that the question was directed to you. When the silence became too much, you turned to him and saw everyone staring. 

“... Nothing I didn't already imagine. I'll have better luck when I have the equipment,” You leaned over the table, just a touch, and read the notes you’d taken. “Leica M6 35mm, Pentax K1000 and… Nikon 35 Ti. Analog. This Leica is a rarity, I think it was the one she used for her first Homicide case.”

“Couldn't it have been someone else?” Henderson asked. 

“Is that just a stupid question or do you want to make sure we've tested all options?”

“Both. So?” Nick pressed, arms crossed and nothing but harshness on his tone. 

You observed him for a beat, considered your chances there. 

“... The Leica is from the beginning of the last century, like, the 30's to the 50's. At least this model she said she has. In addition to being rare, not everyone nowadays can handle it because the resources are basically mechanical. It would be an absurd coincidence, which is not quite the case.”

“We've dealt with coincidences before.”

“Are you fucking with me right now?”

O’Brien didn’t answer. You rolled your eyes, going back to the notes before giving Isla another look. 

“How long has she been doing this?” The question was kind of thrown up in the air, as no one dared to answer. You glared at them, specifically at Nick, who huffed in annoyance before saying something.

“One year.”

“And the case landed in your lap…” You said. “It seems that you really work with coincidences.”  

Again, no answer. Feeling like you couldn't get from point A to B with anyone there, you jotted down some more information on paper and stretched your back, rolling your shoulders.

“It will be manual stuff then. They’ll have to look at each negative.”

“If it can be done then I don't see a problem.”

“Of course not,” You conceded, voice contained to prevent any progression there. It was like swallowing a fucking lamp. 

Everyone was quiet when they heard Isla speak again, attentive as they watched every detail of the story that should no longer be news to Nick's ears. You were so concentrated that the noises of chairs dragging on the floor didn't even call your attention. Someone said something, the door opened and closed, and suddenly there was a cup of coffee right next to you.

Benny tapped the lid twice.

“Decaf,” He mouthed discreetly, just for you to understand, before retrieving his proximity and leaving the room. 

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

Benny didn't have a very organized routine, but he could count how many times he thought about you after that shitty lunch: two.

1. That coffee wasn't for you, but he thought of you when he noticed that the Starbucks server had made the wrong order. It was kind of spontaneous. Suddenly you were there, at the front of his mind, like you were hovering around and ready to just emerge. He put it there, left the cup as if saying ‘you can have it if you want, but if you don’t it’s fine’. No one brought the subject up.

2. Nick had gone to the store to meet an informant and someone, probably Connors, saw a familiar figure at the register when they entered. Benny knew it was Murph who commented, but he saw Zapata turn his head to look at the guy.

“Do you know who he is?”

“Who?” Benny frowned, unaware of the commotion. He turned his head, saw the dude standing there staring at his phone - like a normal person. 

“This is Theodore Park, our trouble girl's ex.”  

There was only one person Connors called 'problem girl' and it wasn't usually the kind of comment that came from beyond the grave. However he recognized the guy, whether it was a run-in at office parties that Benny barely attended or some private investigation that bordered on a stalker personality from Murph’s part, it seemed to be true. When Magalon looked back again, Theodore Park was gone.

The second time, then, he discovered who your ex-husband was while listening to what seemed like irrelevant information to the investigation. In the midst of Nick's reticence and failures, Theodore Park was the object of his interest. 

He was tall; compared to the 5'7 that Benny was. Maybe 6'2, compared to O'Brien. There were some university articles about him (three paragraphs at Berkeley, two large PDFs at CSULB that he didn't read, and good references at Caltech) and he seemed successful with an information systems company or something. Benny could never speak properly about these things because he was never interested; as long as he had a phone that worked, he knew how to use the most intuitive social media and that was it. But not Theodore, no. The guy was a successful man indeed in that aspect, indeed. A rich guy on the way. Without much effort, Benny would see this dude doing TED Talks and making Forbes in a few years.

Which had nothing to do with him, or what seemed like your type of guy. If Theodore was on one side of the spectrum, Benny was on the other in every way.

Well, that was distracting. Still, Magalon didn't do much with this information. There wasn't much he could do with it anyway.

It was only later - days later - when they had agreed to go to a 'club' to 'decompress', that he found himself thinking about you for the third time. 

Earlier that day, he saw you talking to Lennon over what seemed like conventional pleasantries between friends. You were wearing jeans, both hands in your back pockets as you paid attention to something that was being said. Your usual lab coat was gone, probably because Benny could clearly see that your shirt was tighter, had a wider bust and the position of your arms gave a subtle view of your breasts. Nothing indiscreet, because you weren't indiscreet. That outfit, however, made Benny have a sudden indiscreet thought, and it stayed in his head all day. 

He hadn't looked for you anymore - he hadn't had the chance to do that. Things escalated and suddenly there he was talking about how similar he was to Nick, pushing you away with the worst of comparisons. You didn't even react, which he understood as full acceptance of the fact that he was an asshole, as if that was the one thing that Benny and a technology nerd like Theodore had in common: being a scoundrel. You treated him as always, even though what had already happened between you should have been enough for that 'always' to change.

The girl standing next to him was called Lindsay. She sat down, started a conversation; they talked very little. Lindsay was wasted, not even bothering to clean the traces of cocaine from her lips or the way her eyes were dark; Benny asked if she wanted to go home and another friend, named Tracy (or Tara), who was visibly lucid, said she would take her. He paid for the taxi, made sure they got into the car safely, and discreetly showed the driver his badge. Like any other night.

He watched the taxi disappear down the street, then, on the other side, the movement of cars on that side of the city. It was late summer and the breeze of the change of season was a sure sign of the arrival of autumn, so he felt the wind hit his face. 

Benny didn't go back up to the hotel room with the guys. He handed the parking pass to the usual guy, got in the car and headed home.

No, not like any other night. That time, Benny felt another wave of what someone once said was a ‘midlife crisis’.

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

You weren't a fan of bathtubs. Well, you had one, but it was that kind of thing... borrowed into your life, shoved down your throat because it wasn't so bad after all. Just like the coffee table. And the kitchen window. And the kind of lamp that lasted so little but, look, it was chic. So like all things, which seemed to be the biggest provocation that accompanied a 'gift' from a big son of a bitch, or a reminder of how there was a sense of ease in making your life miserable, you enjoyed it.

Something like that. 

You had plans to get rid of each of these things soon, because all in all, the financial part of your life was also… complicated. A visit to the bank, a mortgage proposal, expenses for the large yard and the last remnants of your student fund. You looked through apartment websites for sale and just that idea left you incredibly depressed because, on top of everything else, you were a crybaby who lost the comfort of a husband who paid most of the household bills. And not to mention the job, because… damn, the fucking job. It had been days since you closed your eyes and saw Nick, Isla, Emma, ​​Ballard, Mathias; what kind of fucking burnout was that?

So that night, when your heels were swollen and your back was sore, you allowed yourself a few minutes of privilege. Bath salts, then the heat of refreshing water and, among other things you haven't done in a long time, you felt a little sorry for yourself. 

Connors had posted a photo with the guys on Instagram - you saw it by chance, one hand resting your head on the edge of the bathtub and the other scrolling through your phone. ‘bday party w/ the fella 🔥🔥🔥’, with Benny below his arm in what looked like a half drunk pose, in what also looked like a strip club in the background. You stared at it for a moment. Then another. Then another. There were easy smiles, joyfulness, even happiness; like it was just a standard day, as if the world was okay as soon as the first beer landed on their tables. 

There was never a question with them, a doubt. It was as if, arbitrarily, the main characteristic of a cop wasn���t useful for them to become the ideal professionals that everyone thought they were. There is no need for moral duty, responsibility and care, as proof that the world, in itself, was also not moral, responsible and careful. 

That was it. It was this pain, this itch, that disturbed you, because you knew that no questions were directed at Theodore when things ended. He, above the law, with money in his pocket and a successful career ahead of him, didn’t receive any dirty looks for having cheated on his own wife, who in turn would, in fact, receive condescending comments, pats on the shoulder of comfort and an unfair response from a boss, who attributed your problems to the great evil of having lost an idiot husband. That was what you always hated the most. 

You abandoned the phone at the closed toilet seat. 

“Alexa, turn up the music!” You said after a moment, listening to ‘Life on Mars’ in full volume and with your eyes closed. 

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

The first sip of coffee was distracted. When the taste hit your tongue, you immediately grimaced and threw the drink back into the cup, staring at the totally undrinkable dark thing.

Great. No good coffee as well. 

You wiped the corners of your mouth with your fingers and left the cup on the table, a little unsure whether you should throw it away or not. Just… Ugh. You threw it in the trash can, massaging your eyes with the heels of your hands before taking a long breath. 

The break room was naturally busy in the morning, with people on double shifts taking a break and those who were arriving, like you, in and out of the tiredness of the end of the day with the beginning of another. Everyone was chatting amongst themselves, exchanging details about cases they were working on or the new bar that had opened nearby, so it was a bit strange that as soon as you rolled your shoulders to ease the tension, everyone turned their attention to a Lennon out of breath who entered the room with an urgent voice.

“Did you know?” That's all he said, then turning on the TV and stopping in the middle of the tables to pay attention. You, who were further in front and close to the coffee machine, had to lift your head a little more to understand what was happening.

“Recognized for the successful work carried out on the Merrimen case, Los Angeles County Major Crimes, coincidentally on the day of the closure of one of the most intense operations carried out in the city and credited in its name, hands over the most recent drug trafficking case to the Drug Enforcement Administration, the DEA…” 

You could hear some gasps from your colleagues, murmurs and shushings, so that they remained quiet and could listen carefully to what was there as if it wasn't obvious. After that, you just stared at the screen in disbelief, your brow furrowed and your hands outstretched at your sides. When they cut to the scene of the press conference in the building's press room, which appeared to have taken place not long before you arrived, you could only see Nick standing next to the sheriff, Walsh's team, and Mathias himself at the lectern making the announcement. 

Mathias's voice was a background sound, almost like an irritating noise in the silence of that room that seemed huge. No commotion, no direct press releases, just a 'peaceful transition' (Walsh's words) to 'a more prepared and complete team' (also Walsh’s words), which indirectly could mean more than cutting spending by the County government but rather a nudge coward of someone who didn't have the balls to chest someone basically… male.

You felt a little bad about that. 

But, heavens, everyone thought that. And when Gina, of all those present, said mid Walsh's phony speech right after he highlighted the inefficiency of the forensic team (a part you only realized when he used the terms 'difficulty communicating with experts' and 'inadequacy expert with the magnitude of the case'), you blinked and saw her standing for herself, arms crossed and ready to fight.

“Yeah, but you're not in front of the fucking San Francisco Chronicle, Walsh. For someone who always speaks your mind, you're putting on a bad act.” She said to the TV. 

Look, the system was a curious thing, clearly presumptuous and obviously selective. It has always been like this, world to be world, human beings to be human beings. And perhaps that was what generated discontent that soon disguised itself as responsibilities and survival, at least on the part of people like you, Gina and Emma, ​​in the sense of gender, and in Henderson or Lennon in the sense of race, for example. It was like a constant obstacle, often exposed like a ghost that could lie dormant until it struck again.

No one there got caught up in it because they didn't have time, but everyone recognized the mechanisms and adapted to them. Neither you nor Gina whined much when the sheriff organized annual running competitions and didn't stay to reward the winning women; from what little you knew of Henderson, you didn't see him complaining, for example, about the fact that Nick always put him in for questioning black suspects, tapping him twice on the shoulder and saying 'you know what to do', but heavy in a condescending tone. Hell, you always saw the same ridiculous type of episode happening with Lennon as well. 

Taken back to reality by the commotion bubbling between your colleagues, you noticed Emma standing in the doorway as if she had sneakily appeared to observe the reactions and the two of you exchanged very tense silent looks. She didn’t look defeated, but averted your gaze as soon as it became just a staring contest. 

You turned to the TV - to the takes of Nick and the guys during the Merrimen case, then at their faces during the press conference. 

Huh. 

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

The atmosphere was burial-like, to say the least. You had spent the day in the laboratory, like a forced routine return, and it was as if no one had the balls to open their mouth and speak verbally about the subject. There were official emails from the DEA requesting evidence that had already been collected, reminders from Emma about other cases you were working on in parallel, one thing or another from Ballard (who didn't know how to create an email conversation and ended up answering each of your responses with a new email). There was a sepulchral silence from Major Crimes, but not the kind that left them untainted in the precinct's dome of recognition and social hierarchy; it was a shameful silence.

If you could bet on a collective concern, perhaps everyone was tense at the idea of ​​having been publicly exposed as incompetent, and if even the best team of detectives in the county had failed, there was no certainty of the stability of the Department's resources. This would not only make the LASD incompetent (or corrupt), but also incomplete.

You have a new text! Your phone said, right when you were in the middle of a photo digital treatment of a license plate from a robbery case, even if your mind were wandering. In one of the browser tabs, Zillow was open with apartments in the central area of ​​the city and, in another, your aunt's Facebook because your mother said she had done a hair atrocity (she had dyed her hair egg yellow, which could be an atrocity indeed). You looked at the phone screen lazily, already expecting another question from Ballard about anything that was already written on your reports, and when you saw who it really was, you were surprised.

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

“Is this a bat cave or something?” 

In fact it didn’t even look like a cave, it was just the rooftop of the building. From afar, you could see the maintenance guys working in the electrical system on the top floor (which was where the Department's technology section was located), so if O'Brien and the others were trying to create some kind of reflective scene after a defeat like Zack Snyder, you could only read how pathetic and improvised the attempt was. It almost made you laugh. Almost. 

“Was that supposed to be funny?” Zapata asked with a scowl, to which made you raise your eyebrows at the animosity.  

“I think so, but if you're offended I think I'm on the right track.” 

“You really are a bitch.”

“Tony-” Benny intervened. 

“Yo, there’s no need to-” Connors said.

“Yeah, Zapata, watch your fucking mouth,” Biting back wasn’t exactly the best idea, because you knew the spirits were agitated, but it was obvious that the context didn’t allow for that type of behavior against you. Everyone there knew that that reaction was the remnant of misdirected anger. 

You two shared a silent glare. Tony considered your face for a moment and you did the same; when Magalon pushed him to avert the attention, Zapata waved him off and walked away - you and Benny shared a small glance, one he soon ended to look at Nick, who watched the scene while lighting a cigarette. 

“We done?” He asked. 

“Don’t know, Nick, are we?” You sighed in defeat, sitting on a concrete support and looking anywhere but him. Again, you did what seemed like a copying mechanism: brushed your hands over your face, leaned over your knees and just… accepted. “How?”

“He used Isla.”

And so, being a somewhat literate person in the context of dealing with police officers, you could see the pattern and tone of the conversation that had just begun: it was almost an interrogation. Everyone there, kind of around him, looking for the person who would go to the guillotine. It took a while, between the silence that followed, the way everyone (except Benny) was staring at you and Zapata's reaction so spontaneously explosive, but when you lifted your head and looked at that scene, connecting the dots, you frowned and felt truly offended. 

“Wow.”

“We need to be sure.”

“And who do you think you are to act like that? A fucking Corleone?” That made you scoff, giggling in disbelief. You adjusted your stance, arms crossed and erect back. “Believe me, O’Brien, if I had anything to do with this shitty show, you would know it by my own mouth.” 

“You reacted to Isla.”

“Because I’m a human being, Nick, the fuck.” 

No one said a word. There was this soft breeze flowing around, given the time of the year and the area where you were, one that you noticed that made their hairs flow and you shiver a little. If you paid close attention, you would see frustration and rage and that regular disappointment of a kid when they have lost a toy they like or are denied a candy. The loss, whatever it was, hurt for them but not for professional reasons but for honor. A very uncompensated and arbitrary honor, but an honor nonetheless. And it was always easier to blame someone else. You knew it was easy to make a calculation that would work for you because there would always be the feeling that you were impulsive, stubborn, even cruel - because men hurt you, because you still resent things in your personal life.

“I think it's common sense that almost no one here likes you very much,” You said in a low tone. “And we can agree that ethics and professionalism aren’t exactly the main pillars of what we do.”

Nobody said anything, because you were right. It was actually impressive that you managed to maintain a calm, almost soothing tone right after being basically accused of something so serious. Deep down, you felt that, at least, Nick didn't put much faith in this hypothesis, that this was a demonstration of power in front of others because his hands were tied and this was truly new to him. 

And you didn't ask what the plan was, what they were going to do next. You didn't care about that. No one needed to cry because they lost the case, it was obvious that it wasn't the first time this had happened - it certainly wasn't the last either.

Nick puffed some smoke out of his chest, eyeing you for a moment. Then, with a ‘tsk’, he walked closer and crouched down in front of you, eye to eye, making you realize how much he hadn't been getting a good night's sleep.

“He promised exclusive protection. For her children, for her… Even for the fucking cats she has,” He said, but you knew it was a personal talking, something the others knew but didn’t quite understood. “I can't offer that.”

“It became personal.”

“... Yeah.”

“And do you like her?”

No answer. Nick looked at you for a moment, then averted his gaze to the floor. You saw Benny there, watching, expecting, and you didn’t know why that made you sigh in some kind of compassion. 

“You’re tired,” Not a question, but a statement. One you did calmly, almost whispered just so he could hear. 

You two looked at each other. Nick was clenching his jaw, holding words in his mouth and turning them around enough so they could come back in a dry swallow. When he looked away first, looking at the floor, blinking a few times, it was the first time you really saw genuine frustration, a moment of weakness that maybe, one day, Debbie had seen, or that the co-workers who were around you at the moment also witnessed in a rare way. 

Your brow was furrowed and you were truly confused by this gap. Looking around, above O'Brien's head, you saw Zapata looking at the city around him with an annoyed look, his back to the two of you; Murph kept his hands in his hoodie pockets, Henderson had his arms crossed. Benny watched you, then looked at the ground, shaking his head. 

No, this wasn't about you, nor was it your fault. In that context, you were just a part of the realization of something you hadn't touched until you saw every defeated feature on that terrace. 

“... Are you sure?” You asked, blinking a few times with a shaky voice. 

Nick shook his head. 

“And you expect me to do something about it?”

“No,” He said with a firm tone, getting up on his feet. “No one here is sure.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” It was directed to Tony, who just tsked and averted his gaze. 

When everyone kept quiet, not daring to admit their mistake or even apologize, you were the one getting up, still not sure how to react and uncertain of how to end that conversation. 

“Never do that to me again, don’t-” You collected your voice, clearing your throat. “If you're disappointed with how things ended, don't expect me to help put out your fires.” 

“I didn’t ask you that.”

“So what are you asking? Mm? Because I know you don't want me to pat you on the head and tell you everything is going to be okay,” There was harshness in your tone, almost a fury. And surprisingly, he didn’t answer that equally. “Share the weight of your conscience with those who are really at fault. And, I don't know, investigate, prove, don't do anything. You're Nick O'Brien, Big Nick, the badass. From what I see, everyone here has the right to doubt, so if it's worth the advice, start asking questions in the right place.” 

“Maybe you won't like it if I start doing that.”

“Oh, is it a threat?” With raised eyebrows, you walked a few steps closer, staring at him in the eye. 

“It wouldn't be the first time you tried to harm my team with your shit. You were the first to point the finger at me because of Isla, but you didn't hesitate to make a scene with Walsh and put Benny in the middle of whatever it is you have with the guy.”

“Listen now-”

“Excuse me?” You frowned, not even letting Magalon finish the interruption he was doing while getting closer. “I didn't ask anyone here to defend me! If this fucking case went wrong, try to consider your incompetence or the fact that no one asked you to fuck a suspect.”

When he kept quiet again, you scoffed, shaking your head. 

“It’s so easy, isn’t it? Walk around like you rule every place, do whatever the fuck you want, put the blame on everyone to feel better… I've always seen Walsh that way, but he's not an exception, he's a rule. You come here, accuse me, then insinuate something so…” 

“So what?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then I was wrong. You’re dumb and naive enough to not see that. Or a coward.”

You nodded. 

“You always had all the tricks in hand and let a widowed single mother almost get killed by a gang. Who really is the coward here, Nick?” 

Turning your back, you walked away from him, already opening the door to leave the terrace. Before you could, though, you eyed him one more time. 

“Whatever your plan is, when and if they ask me, I'll be sincere. About you and about her. Because I can do that.” 

“You would never say anything against Emma.”

“And I don't blame you for not believing that. It’s clear that it's been a while since you've been able to understand honesty.”

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

“You called her a bitch.”

Hearing Benny's voice break the silence was strange, so everyone was confused before understanding what he was saying. When they understood, he saw Zapata shift uncomfortably on the couch, looking at the coffee table.

“I didn't think straight at the moment.”

“It seems like no one here has done that.”

“You want to say something?” Nick pressed with a rough tone, as if ready to snap at the detective right away. Benny measured him, shrugged. 

“I told you it was a bad idea.”

“We needed to be sure. This shit is going to get ugly soon.”

“And you pushed away one of the few people who could keep us from getting screwed over too.” 

The intimacy created that kind of unexpected conversation, even though everyone there saw Nick as an older brother or a symbol of leadership. When they exchanged glances after Benny's response, there was a silent consensus that the disagreements were slowly getting bigger, something that had been surrounding the group long before you showed up or the case.

Everyone continued smoking in silence and the tense atmosphere didn’t dissipate. Things weren't going well.

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

Who were you to point the finger? To define people by a standard of behavior? To say 'you’re good' or 'you’re bad'?

You knew Nick could and did play dirty. You would imagine, given recent events, that Emma had learned to play this game from the position she had. This left you in a spiral of personal conflicts because, in the end, you felt like a hypocrite for wanting so much for things to be as per the booklet. Hell, you knew what you were getting into when you started your career there - you always did. And at the same time, after all that, you felt a hint of disappointment, of suffocation, as if you didn't have a shred of rationality. 

It was an explosion of things, of sensations; you didn’t know how to deal with anything and you couldn’t tell anyone. Maybe you were a little paranoid too. Sometimes you were watching Emma, ​​waiting for something, as if at some point she let out a more strategic and 'selfish' nature.

The marijuana stash (that's what your brother called it) was in the drawer next to the bed. When you were with Theodore, he also used it, although he didn't really like it because he had headaches, so it was a common thing in the house. 

You were on your third or fourth drink, staring at the ceiling and releasing smoke into the air. There was no music, just the low light in the room and the brightness of Kojak's aquarium. Someone had been trying to call for half an hour, but you didn't answer, keeping your eyes distracted on the ceiling - There were some stains from the beginning of an infiltration near the window. You would have to fix this too before considering selling the house. The idea made you grunt and grimace.

Before you could put the cigarette back in your mouth, someone knocked on the door. The doorbell had stopped working a while ago and that was another thing that had to be fixed. 

“Who’s it?” You asked in a high voice, not moving from your spot. 

No one answered. That made you frown, then sit - which gave you a small discomfort. Seconds later, your phone had gone off. 

“... Hello?” 

“It’s me. Lemme in?”

Everything was screaming for you to say no, to hang up and leave him waiting outside until he gave up and disappeared. It would be very convenient for him to be there, ready to convince you of something, to change sides or be more malleable; it made sense. Still, you were a little out of orbit from the weed, slightly sluggish and relaxed, so you calmly got up, abandoned your phone on the couch and walked over, opening it but not waiting too long to see him enter. 

You took slow steps into the room. There was the sound of the door closing, then being locked, and then his footsteps coming behind, but keeping his distance. 

“Weed?” He asked. 

“Are you going to arrest me?”

“I could,” That answer made you snort. “But it’s Cali. And you’re literally my teenage wet dream right now, so I can let it pass.”

Teasing or not, you looked at yourself and noticed your clothes (or lack thereof): panties, a long t-shirt. When you turned to him, standing in the middle of the room, Benny was staring at your legs, but he wasn't smiling.

“You're like a broken record, you know that?” You raised your eyebrows, hands on your hips. “All you say is that I'm in your dreams. This is cheesy as fuck.” 

“You didn't complain about that when you were riding me.”

“Oh, so this is my fault?”

“Well, you’re being quite hypocritical.”

“Fuck off.”

“Stop it.”

“What do you want?”

“You didn't answer my calls.”

“That doesn't answer my question, so I guess we're even.”

He was tense, stressed. You could tell. Benny wouldn't talk to you like that if he wasn't angry about something, maybe even frustrated because you weren't 'clear-headed' to talk at all. 

For a few seconds, he considered you while licking his lips, as if the gears were turning in his head. Yours was also moving, but more gradually, slowly, which left you a little unresponsive when you saw him take off his jacket.

“This must be good, you didn't even hear me.”

“Mm?” You blinked, taking in the sight of his forearms while he lifted his shirt sleeves. That made him crack a giggle. 

“Can I have some?” 

Oh. Oh. The weed. He was already walking closer to the coffee table to grab the joint between two fingers, so you watched in awe as he put the cig on his lips and took a long drag, eyeing the burning tip with curiosity. Benny hummed and nodded while puffing the smoke.

“Shit’s really good. How did you get it?” 

“... My brother,” And before he could take another drag, you pick the joint from his hands. “Smoke, hold and pass. That's the rule, smartass.” 

“Are we in college or somethin’?”

“Shut up and sit down.”

That's what you two did (or at least he did). You took another drag, handed over the cigarette and lay down on the floor again, next to his feet, and faced the ceiling again. 

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

It was a very silent few minutes, almost making you forget that Benny was there. When the effect of marijuana hit him, he was already lying on the sofa, without his shoes or his top shirt, limiting himself to showing his arms in a white tank top. This gave you a period of lucidity, very brief, and soon there was no more marijuana to smoke, despite the joint not being finished.

All your caution was being thrown out the window, you knew, but it wasn't like it was going to make any difference. 

“Hey,” You called him in a low tone. 

“Mm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

Benny stayed quiet for a moment or two, as if gathering his thoughts, then you listened to him squirming on the couch, getting on his side to look at you. Sensing the attention, you did the same. 

“Shoot it.”

“What happened with Walsh wasn’t on purpose.”

Silence. For a beat, you even thought that he didn’t hear you, given the fact he was already zoning out a little. You started to feel embarrassed - weird. Well, you were high, which could lead to a version of you who would babble about a lot of nonsense and shit, but that was something that came from your lucid mind, probably a thing you wouldn’t say so softly without the weed. 

“It wasn’t a question,” He teased in a calm voice, smiling at you. 

“... I know,” You smiled back, but it turned into a bunch of stupid giggling while you hid part of your face in the carpet. 

It cooled down soon. 

“I didn’t see it this way, you know. Walsh is a stupid motherfucker.”

“Jackass.”

“Dickhead.”

“Yeah… His head looks like a dick. An ugly one.”

“And there’s any pretty dicks somewhere?”

“Just as there’s pretty pussies.” 

“Have you ever seen others?”

You looked at each other, a small smile playing on your lips. When realization started to slowly creep on him, he opened his mouth in shock. 

“It was in college-”

“Always in college,” He rolled his eyes, grinning like an idiot. 

“I had this friend, Kennedy. We were roommates, I was single at the time, you know… It happened. But now we’re just good friends.”

“Mm.”

“I’m serious!” You laughed. 

“So you’re telling me that if this Kennedy comes up here tonight, ask to go down on you or whatever, you would say no?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Fuck, I would. I’m not cold blooded, gatita.”

A series of laughs filled the living room again. 

“We’re going out of the question here, yeah? Having a serious conversation.”

“You were the one talking about dicks here!”

“Because you called Walsh a dickhead!”

“Okay,” He sighed, adjusting his body to lean over his arm and have a better look at you. Little by little, Benny started to frown, as if thinking hard on something. You would be lying if you said it wasn’t a beautiful sight. 

“So?” 

“I know you didn’t do it on purpose,” His voice was soft, calm, even if a little concerned. “Plus, you had just signed a divorce and Walsh was there talking about it, humiliating you. That wasn't right.” 

You considered his words calmly, blinking heavily but still paying attention. 

“Nick wasn’t in his right mind when he said that.”

“You think?”

“Mm-hm. And Zapata too. He acted like a fucking animal when he called you a bitch.”

“You’re not just saying that, are you?” The question was serious, probably the first serious question you said since he came to your house out of nowhere. 

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re with them. Like… you know. With them.”

Benny nodded, taking in your words carefully. 

“Fair enough.” 

But he didn’t push the topic, nor tried to apologize or something. He let you have your doubts, probably because he himself couldn’t help but agree that maybe, if it was the other way around, there would be uncertainty on his part as well. You sighed, then, returning your eyes to the carpet and poking it every now and then, as if looking for something on it with false concentration.

“Hey.”

“Mm?”

“Come here.”

“What?”

“‘Wanna feel you,” He almost whined, extending one of his arms to grab you. 

“That’s why you came? To feel me?”

“Are you fucking mocking me, woman?”

“I am,” You sat up carefully, smirking at him lazily. “Looked like you just waited for the best opportunity to come back here and fuck me.” 

“But I don’t wanna fuck you, I wanna feel you.”

“What’s the difference?” 

The position you stayed couldn’t be more convenient: him, starting to sit as well, legs spread while you rose on your knees, ready to get up. It gave him some time to stare at you with a lazy grin. 

“Saying I wanna fuck would imply that I just came here for it,” He explained. “Feeling you could lead to sex, but with some warm up.”

“Both times we had sex had some warm up,” You argued, hands gripping his thighs lightly. 

“And it was so good, wasn’t it?” Benny asked when you rose just a little to get closer to his face. 

You observed his face for a moment before pecking his lips lightly. When he just sighed, melting into it, you smiled and gave him another kiss, this time a little longer, wetter - enough to, when you part ways, it made a muah. The fabric of your shirt was worn out, old enough to make it more thin and give you a better feel when you gently brushed your chest on his. It made you sigh against his lips, doing it again when he groaned a little, unable to move a muscle but reacting in slow breaths. 

Both of you, silly high adults, brushing your noses, kissing soundly and ready to fuck each other’s brains out as if the world wasn’t basically on fire. 

“I didn’t come here for this.”

This made you move your face, just a little, and the look on your eyes scrunched up in confusion. It felt like a spontaneous burst of lucidity, almost like a punch, and when he turned his face to the side, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, you felt brutally rejected. You moved your hands away from his legs. Suddenly, the carpet was hurting your knees and you stood up, muttering a 'sorry' as you sat on the edge of the sofa, a little away from him. 

“Did you come to defend Nick or something?” 

“This has nothing to do with Nick.”

“So why are you here?”

He considered your face for a moment, still taking in the effects of the weed - even if you both started to feel more buzzed then properly high. 

“You don't want to go to war with him.”

“Oh,” You raised your eyebrows, scoffing a sarcastic giggle. “So you came to be a gentleman and defend me from the evils of disagreeing with Nicholas O'Brien? I thought you made it clear that you didn't have much chivalry in your personality.”  

“I don’t.”

“Mm.”

“But that has nothing to do with chivalry. You’re not being rational.”

“About…?” 

Benny sighed.

“We both know it was Emma.” 

“That shit again…” You groaned, getting up brusquely from your seat and wobbling a little before starting to walk away to the kitchen. 

“What happened was-”

“A mistake. A fucking mistake.” 

When you turned, Benny was up too, standing a few feet closer to the kitchen entrance with his arms hanging loosely on his sides. The lack of answer made you shake your head, grabbing a glass bottle of water from the fridge and drinking a good amount. 

“I'm not naive to think she couldn't have been involved in this, but I'm not naive or stupid to absolve Nick of the shit he should be responsible for,” You noticed his dry lips, the way he just blinked at you with a stern expression. With a tsk, you caught hold of a cup in the sink for him and poured some water in it, not daring to give, but letting it rest closer. 

He came, grabbed the cup. 

You could feel the effects of the marijuana, which were already weaker before, start to leave your system. You were sick, you made a face, but you swallowed your discomfort with more water. 

“I'm not Isla.”

It slipped out of your mouth like a slim and unstable thought, one that made him just nod, sipping on the water calmly while leaning on the sink beside you, eyeing the other side of the room. 

“Didn’t think you were.” 

“No?”

“Nn-nn.”

“But it would be easy to pretend that I am, wouldn't it? I’m alone, recently divorced, dedicated enough to work but very reticent about my boss.” 

You knew you had offended him the moment you said it, but Benny didn't show any anger. He stayed quiet, sipped the rest of the water and stood in front of you, face to face, in such a firm way that you almost backed away if you weren't so irritated.

“If I were as much of a son of a bitch as you think I am, I would have let you finish what you started on that couch,” That made you avert your gaze, but he gently pushed your chin, bringing you to eye his face again. “I'm not Nick.”

“I'm sorry if you made it clear otherwise. I'm not very good at reading between the lines of someone who literally said they’re just like him.” 

“With other people. I never crossed the line with you, did I?” 

“Because I never expected anything from you. I don't expect anything from you, actually, but I get a little offended if you show up at my house and say things like that.”

Before he could answer, you kept going. 

“She's just a bargaining chip, Benny. She always was. And despite our visibly very different lives, I know what it's like to be used and then discarded as if you’re nothing, as if every promise was nothing more than a lie to achieve something very personal, something that never had to do with you,” You said. “I don't want you to come here and expect me to point fingers or accuse people. If it was Emma, ​​if it was Walsh, it doesn't make any difference if the person primarily responsible for this doesn't take the real blame.” 

“You know the world isn’t a fairytale, don't you?”

“I do. And Isla knows it too, better than anyone. This has nothing to do with an imaginary, but with commitment. When was the last time Nick used his badge for anything other than taking it out of his pocket while a whore gave him a blowjob?”

Nothing. Just silence. For a long, perceptive, heavy moment - silence. 

“Emma received a letter of recommendation from the DEA forensic department,” He said in a low tone, catching you completely by surprise. That felt like a test, the way he observed your reaction with care, looking for an answer. When he found it, Benny nodded. “That's why I came here.”

“... What? I don’t understand.”

“I can't remember the last time I had five minutes of conversation with someone who had nothing to do with this shit.” 

You could barely process the information, what that implied, because you had every right to disbelieve and have your doubts. There was a suspicious look on your face, he knew that because you didn't hide it, but he didn't take offense this time.

“Stay away. Things are going to get fucked up.” 

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

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