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russellsppttemplates · 2 years

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Dance with me (Charles Leclerc)

Although Ferrari's strategy is going somewhere, albeit all over the place, Charles and Y/N are quite sure about their feelings towards eachother

Note: english is not my first language. It took me a bit but I've managed to do a part 2 to Stomp your foot. Also @ ferrari, get your thoughts together so that, while the boys get the results they deserve, I can write about good things too, please and thank you. There is also a little Mariana Zapata reference, if you know you know 😏

Thank you so much to everyone who likes and reblogs, your feedback is appreciated 🤍 and I'm taking requests so if you have any ideas or concepts you want to share, feel free to do so as I'll try to get to them the best I can!

Tw: Ferrari's season, curse words, mentions of gender inequality

"Y/N is on her way here to spend the day with us", Charles reminded his family as they tidied the table from breakfast. He messaged you when you posted an Instagram story of the beach view from the room you were staying in Ibiza, asking if the meet up he proposed in Hungary was still up, the two of you finding a day to get together after your friend had gone home and before you left for Maranello. "So we're finally meeting the Y/N you're always talking about, I feel like I know her already", and Charles rolled his eyes at his brother Lorenzo's antics, "It's true, it's always Y/N this, Y/N that, oh Y/N likes that ice cream flavour too, and I stopped listening to you talk about her a long time ago", he finished as he headed upstairs, and Charles was about to bite back with a reply when he heard the doorbell, heading there to open to, he assumed, let you in.

You parked the rental car in front of the house Charles had sent you the address for, checking the door number on the message before ringing in, hearing footsteps on the garden path before Charles opened the small gate, "Hi Y/N, glad you could join us", he greeted with a kiss on each of your cheeks, "Hey Charles, thank you for the invite once again", you smiled as he stretched his arm so you entered the property, excusing yourself in through the open front door and taking in the house before Arthur's footsteps down the stairs caught her attention, making her turn her body to see the younger driver, "here's my favourite engineer, it's a shame Ferrari swooped you from the academy", Arthur said as he greeted you the same way his brother did. "You two know eachother?", Charles asked, the confusion clear by his expression, "I filled in for Prema Racing when one of their engineers was unable to attend for two races", you explained, "you're not the first Leclerc I'm ordering around", you giggled as Charles took the information in, "you never mentioned it when I talked about her", Charles said, and despite feeling like he might have outed himself, Arthur smirking as he saw his brother put his foot on his mouth, he simply shrugged, "there are many Y/N in the world, how could I know?", he teased as you walked into the outside area, "And here's another person who has ordered Leclercs about for a while, Y/N, this is my mother Pascale, mum, this is Y/N". "Hello, it's so nice to meet you. Thank you for welcoming me here", you said as she greeted you with a tight hug, "hi dear, it's so nice having you here, I'm the one who's glad you could join us. If you ever need tips on making them listen to you just let me know", she winked, "Charles isn't the problem, it's the other men that usually don't listen to what I say", you replied as you watched her head to the big window that led into the kitchen, "Can I offer you anything from the kitchen, darling? Maybe a drink...?". Taking the box from your tote bag, you explained its content "I'm good thank you! When my friend was here, we went to this shop that had these cakes with cookie ice cream in them and I thought I'd bring some for you", you offered as Pascale went to grab the box, thanking you before heading inside to place it in the fridge, "I told you you didn't need to bring anything", he said, "like I ever listen to you", you teased, "You really should, I have some great ideas and things to say", he said before his older brother made his presence known as he laughed, "you really don't sell yourself short, not at all. Hi, I'm Lorenzo, the older brother", he said as he greeted you.

You placed your tote bag on one of the sunloungers like Charles told you to before he grabbed a some beach rackets, "care to join us for a game? I promise we will go easy on you", he smiled as you stuck your tongue out at him, leaving your sandals as the four of you headed to the large grass area.

Lorenzo teamed up with Arthur while you and Charles made the other team as the net delimited the area for each pair. When Charles said they were very competitive between them, you'd never think it was like this. The balls were hit with great force, given that you were playing with athletes, but you dealt with athletes since you joined race early on, you knew competitiveness at a high level but this was beyond that, every now and again hearing muttered brotherly offenses between the brothers whenever one of them scored a point, Arthur and Lorenzo (only?) glaring at you when you scored the points as Charles highfived you. After playing for hours, you and Charles managed to win two out of the three games they had set to play after the first one ended with a one point difference between the duos, Charles hugging you while he lifted your body off the floor, "put me down", you squealed as he finally complied, "See? I know how to order you about", and little did you know he would probably do anything you asked him to if it meant you kept that beautiful smile that was now on your face forever.

"How about a swim now? I could use it to cool off", Lorenzo suggested as you grabbed the rackets and a ball to place them back in their bag that was next to the sunlounger you had placed your things on, seeing Pascale removing a cover up she was wearing so that she could join, "Why do I have the feeling that if I wasn't playing with them that would've been much uglier?", you said to her as you saw Arthur purposely throwing a ball he found at Charles and then pretending it was unintentional, "Oh definitely, yesterday Charles lost and he didn't speak to them for an hour, they take these games very seriously!", she chuckled as she made her way to get in the water. You rummaged your bag for a little pouch you had brought, reapplying the sun protection lotion on your face, Charles snickering at your white face, "what? At least I know how to behave in the sun and, as much as I like to work for Ferrari, I don't need to sport their colours all the time", you teased back as you rubbed the product in, checking your reflection in the window to see if you had done it properly, you hands moving to the button of your shorts so you could undo it and get ready to join the guys in the water, taking your flowy top off too.

You looked really good, Charles' eyes scanning your body as you folded your clothes neatly on the end of the lounger, the dark forest green of your swimsuit hugging your body complimenting your gorgeous figure, making the Formula 1 driver gulp, his brothers noticing his reaction and chuckling, the snickering between them going unnoticed by their middle brother as he watched your strong legs strut their wait into the steps, "Anyone seeing you would think you work for Aston Martin instead", he somehow broke the transe he was in, not wanting you to feel uncomfortable from his stare, "Seb is a good man, after all he was the one to teach me where the good coffee was at Maranello", you said and Charles looked at you, "Seb too? Really?", he mused, "I have been working in Ferrari longer than you have, I know many many people", you said once you submerged your head to wet your hair for a much needed dip, coming back up and smiling back at Charles as he shook his head. You were going to be the death of him, that much he was sure.

You were helping Pascale finish setting the table when Lorenzo handed you a tray with the bowl with the meat for the grill, "Can you bring this to Charles, please? And maybe stay in there with him and make sure he doesn't let it burn, we have everything under control here and you're our guest, too", he smiled as you excused yourself and made your way to a shirtless Charles that was lighting the fire in the grill, "the meat is here", you said simply as you watched him, "Shouldn't you put a t-shirt on? You could hurt yourself", you expressed your worry, not that you wanted him to cover his beautiful and well shaped torso, but safety came first. Smiling at you, "I think I can handle it", he said as he managed to get the fire to last for a little bit before it started to die down, "wait, there's salt here, let me just", you said grabbing the bowl from the tray and taking a bit on your hand before throwing it in the wood sticks, the flames livening up again, "You're a do it all, aren't you?", he smiled as he poked at the embers a bit, "in my case, you have to learn how to do it otherwise people will treat you like a child and assume you're a fluke, unfortunately", you reasoned while looking at what he was doing, not wanting to look at his face after you blurted that without thinking much first, but he picked up on it. Grabbing the the tongs to place the meat on the grill, "How come?", he wondered simply, "when you're the only woman in the middle of men, it can get quite intimidating until you find your ground and learn to stomp your foot. They're always assuming I need to be helped and that's the only way I'll get anywhere. And I haven't. I got into Ferrari with my hard work, my own blood, swear and tears, and I pushed through everything and every occupation to be able to become a strategist", you explained, the outskirts of what you had read after the Hungary GP about your position on the team taking a toll on you. You could only handle so much.

Checking the meat, Charles turned to you, tapping your arm so you could look at him, "I have been in the business for a good time too, and maybe you know a lot of people too", he tried to bring a smile to your face, succeeding as your lips curved upwards, "but trust me when I say that I never thought less of you because you're a woman, I actually think you fit really nicely in the team and there have been so many improvements that were all your doing", he said, the genuineness in his voice making the words sink into you easily, the butterflies on your belly dancing a melody of their own. "Thank you, that means a lot coming from you", you nudged his side, wanting nothing more than to hug him but refraining from doing so as you were still tiptoeing around your feelings for him, sometimes feeling like they were reciprocated but the nagging option of it affecting your job still present on your thoughts.

Pascale was looking at you as she placed the drinks on the table, noticing how her son's body language showed some hesitation to touch you and how you nudged him, seeming to want more out of it before resuming to laughing along to something Charles said, the smile on his face bigger than ever, "those two are taking their sweet time admiting what we all know", Lorenzo mentioned, Arthur humming in agreement as he placed the bread basket on the table.

"But why did it happen like that? That's my only question", your assertive tone was heard in the room, not rasing your voice to be heard as you knew that it was not how things worked out for the best, "we win as a team and loose as a team, we fail and conquer together. We all know that what happened out there today was not what we work for. Carlos deserves more. Charles deserves more. Ferrari deserves more. Tifosi deserve more. So much more. So I think we should really think about what we need to do to make it better. I've expressed my concerns and ideas and I hope you, too, think about it and bring them to the next meeting", you finished your intervention in the debrief meeting.

After a mixed feelings Dutch GP for the team, positive since Charles had managed to get on the podium but negative about the way things were handled for Carlos, everyone was quiet as they tidied things around the garage once you left that tense debrief, heading to the hospitality's balcony to get some fresh air and gather your thoughts. Hearing footsteps, you look over to see both Ferrari drivers, "Hey Y/N", Carlos said, "Hey guys", you replied, "Again, sorry we couldn't do anymore", you honestly said, upset at how the afternoon turned out despite a slight happiness that Charles was back on the podium, even though not in the spot you knew he wanted to be. "The guys, they were showing us the recording you have from what you discuss in the pitwall. And thank you", Carlos said looking at you and seeing in your eyes that you knew what he meant. When you noticed the rear tyre missing, you were pissed off, looking at the situation with your fingers rubbing circles on your head, the words just coming out of you as you defended Carlos and talked to his side of the pitwall, no one being able to tend to your questions and back to the pit stop area, groaning as you looked at that mess, your mumbled words after he managed to finally go caught by the system showing just how disappointed and frustrated you were about the decisions that were made, "Isa is downstairs, so I'll get going. See you guys later", the spanish driver said as he waved goodbye. Sitting next to you, Charles noticed your clear distress, "you're not the only person making the decisions, you shouldn't be taking all of this on your shoulders", he said, despite he himself feeling all the emotions about his own race, "fuck, this is just so hard, week after week, as you guys must feel it even worse, that we're failing you", you let out, taking Charles' honest silence as an (rightfully so) agreement, "we have Monza next week, and I'm going to make sure everyone in this garage knows what they're doing, I promise you", you said as Charles grabbed your hand in his as he squeezed them together, wanting to share some of your hope and resilience.

Monza really was a whole different atmosphere, the fans that gathered making it an unique race. You were putting on your yellow t-shirt for the celebration weekend when you noticed both drivers in their new suits that matched everyone else's tops, "you guys really look like minions, people on the Internet are right this time. I'm sorry, but that's the first thing I thought of", you said, "But we are handsome minions", Carlos said, noticing your eyes checking Charles out, "the handsomest", you replied, your eyes kept on the monégasque's face before you excused yourself and let them recover between the free practice sessions, Carlos speaking up as soon as you were out of earshot, "Honestly mate, if you don't make a move on her, I will make it for you. You guys are so into eachother it's actually insane", before he sipped on his water, Charles' eyes following you was you moved some pieces around.

Qualifying always got your nerves going, already being known in the paddock by how you could never sit for long during the three sessions, "Do you think we can get them both on the podium today?", Xavi said while you looked at the data, the beggining of Q3 approaching, "at this point I feel like if we can, Max is quick but maybe Charles could have an advantage, because looking here", you said as you pointed to some graphs and the notes you had scribbled down.

When Charles and Carlos were in the first two spots, you started feeling hopeful that, despite still having to work with penalties for the race the next day, the pace seemed to be there, your heart thumping on your chest as you tapped your foot nervously as Charles' data improved after the warm up lap, and when Xavi yelled "And P1!" into the radio, you did your happy dance, not having a care in the world about what others thought as you watched the Tifosi erupt in cheer.

Team dinner was going really well, everyone happy with how the day had gone and feeling hopeful for the race as they dug into their plates, the nights chill still not bringing the mood down. When nearly everyone decided to go inside for a liquor the owner of the restaurant offered, only Charles, Carlos, Isa, Xavi and you stayed behind, speaking until Isa noticed how you and Charles weren't particularly interested in whatever they were talking about and started having a conversation of your own, "I need to get something from the counter, amor, can you come with me?", she asked as her foot nudged Xavi's, the two men getting the hint as they left the table, you and Charles carrying on your conversation until one of your favourite songs rang through the outside speakers, "C'mon", you said, getting up, "dance with me, we need to celebrate today", you explained as you pulled Charles by his arm, your hand holding his as he spun you around, the both of you giggling like mad until Charles thought this was it, under the italian starry sky on an empty patio, his hand cupping your cheek as his forehead touched yours "tell me to stop and i'll stop, I promise", he whispered as his eyes flickered between your lips and eyes, your mouth pressing on his taking him by surprise for a second before he responded the affections, his other hand cupping your other cheek as your hands grabbed each of his wrists. Interrupting the kiss for air, Charles giggled as you hid your face in his neck, your lashes tickling him as his arms circled your waist, "it's going to be hard, but I promise, if you'll allow me, that I'll protect you and support your decisions at the same time. You are my equal, my partner and my teammate, and I want to navigate these feeling with you", he whispered in your ear as if he was telling you his deepest secret. Looking up at him, you smiled, "I want that too" before his lips latched on yours again, dancing together as the newfound addiction seeming hard to suppress.

#charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc fluff #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic

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tropes-and-tales · 7 months

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Just Be

Day 4: Sex Work (Benny Magalon x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Light angst (if you count sad thoughts); smut (erotic massage; sex work; PiV, protected); 18+ only.

Word Count: 3059

AN: This was requested by an anonymous person!

No one would ever accuse the men of Major Crimes of having their shit together.

Zapata and Connors both teeter into full-blown addiction, the two of them binge drinking on the weekends and days off to make up for the days they can’t drink. Henderson prefers party drugs and women, runs through both at an alarming rate. Everyone knows Big Nick’s disaster of a life, cheating on his wife and often missing major moments in his young daughters’ lives because he’s busy partying or playing at being the big man.

Borracho? Borracho dabbles with alcohol, with the tamer drugs—weed, mostly, but sometimes coke or molly. But his real vice is women.

Married twice. Divorced twice. A failed engagement in between. Countless girlfriends, and as many one-night stands and hookups as there are stars in the sky. He likes his women a little crazy, off-kilter enough to keep things interesting. It’s what always attracts him at the beginning, that scuffed-up angel with a tarnished halo thing. The type of woman who’s game to blow him in public, who will take his hand eagerly and fuck him in the dirty bathroom at a dive bar.

Unfortunately, those type of women are also the same type to slash his tires or show up at a crime scene to scream at him. The type to stalk him, follow him to a Major Crimes party and fight with him, then slip off with Big Nick as revenge for some perceived slight.

And maybe none of it mattered when he was young, but he’s creeping closer to middle age now. He finds the game exhausting now. He can’t muster up the energy to go out every night like he used to. The weekend meat market at the bars and clubs feels more like a chore than anything else. And he goes home alone more often than not: he’s bordering on creepy now, no longer young, and he sees the side-eye some of the women give him, the wide berth as they walk past the silent man with the salt and pepper facial hair and blurred neck tattoo.

At least he has you. For awhile now, he’s had you. The steadiest woman in his life. Sometimes—when he’s in the throes of a new divorce or curling up alone in his bed after a wasted night out—he’ll contemplate how sad it is that you’re his steadiest relationship.

You and Borracho, together all this time. You, the woman who gives erotic massages that lead to more. Him, the man who pays for your services.

-----

Benny would have never thought himself the type of man to pay for a rub and tug on the regular. Calling it a rub and tug, though, fails to capture what you really do.

What do you really do? Benny misunderstood, the first time he paid for your services. He thought of sex work as a monolith, considered all the sex workers he knew through work and Big Nick’s parties, and he blundered badly. He got a little rough with you that first time, called you a filthy whore, and you had shut it down immediately. You had gripped his jaw hard enough to hurt, and stared down at him with cold eyes.

“No,” you’d told him that first time. “There’s a million girls out here who will let you treat them like shit. I’m not one of them. You speak to me respectfully or I leave, understand?”

He did understand. He had nodded, gulped hard, apologized.

Everything between the two of you has been smooth ever since.

He calls you when he needs relief, and if he ever gets caught, that’s how he’ll explain it. It’s just relief, release, whatever. He’s just a man in need of a woman.

But deep down, he knows it is more. There are a million girls who will let him treat them terribly, but there’s only one you. Benny knows he keeps returning to you because you give relief, release, whatever…but you also give comfort. When he’s heartsore and exhausted to the marrow of his bones, you’re there for him.

Sometimes—like when he’s watching his brother and his young family living so happily together—he’ll contemplate how sad it is that he has married and dated absolute disasters but how he has to pay the sweetest, gentlest woman he’s ever known for her time and company.

-----

In the beginning, you met in neutral territory, hotel rooms, mostly. Then you started going to his apartment, leaving a ghostly trace of your perfume on his pillows that would linger for a day or two. For the last year or so, though, you’ve allowed him to come to your place—your home, where few clients are even afforded a glimpse—because you’ve known him so long and trust him.

You have a little bungalow in Silver Lake, and Benny wonders if your neighbors know what you do for a living. He knocks on your door, and he doesn’t wait long before you’re opening it and ushering him in.

“It’s been a while,” you say, and you have the same soft smile you always greet him with. You’re in your usual casual outfit, a wrap dress he knows has nothing underneath it. You bring him to your guest room—reserved for your work—and you offer him something to drink.

He declines. He’d been tipsy that first time with you when he badly erred, and he always remains sober since that night.

“This is for you,” he says, and he hands you your fee—an exorbitant amount plus tip, but worth every penny. He slips it in a greeting card each time, a flimsy pretense in case you get caught. But you never do.

You take it, thank him. You slip the card out of the envelope, but you don’t count the cash in front of him. He’s earned enough trust that you don’t verify his payment, but you do like to see which card he’s selected for each tryst. Sometimes it’s a birthday card, and sometimes it’s a different sentiment or holiday. Sometimes he looks for more obscure holidays, just to make you laugh.

Tonight’s card makes you laugh. It’s a genuine laugh; you throw your head back, open-mouthed, and laugh full from your belly.

“’For a wonderful pastor and wife’?” you read. “Seriously, Ben?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug, bites back a smile. “Found it in the ‘Clergy Appreciation’ section of the store.”

You laugh again, then you thank him. You tuck the card and money in a discreet drawer on the table that holds all of your various massage tools and implements, and you turn to face him. Your broad grin has been replaced by your soft smile again.

“Shall we?” you ask.

-----

If Benny Magalon had a therapist, they’d have a better handle on his psyche than he does. Benny doesn’t spend much time ruminating on what makes him tick, what his likes and dislikes and fears and hopes say about him. If asked, he’d say he’s a simple man, a guy’s guy who likes beer and women and sports, who is generally unphased by life.

A therapist would peel past all of that and declare it complete bullshit.

Benny is a child of a broken home who grew up to be a detective. He’s been shot at. He’s shot suspects. He has killed. He stands over the bodies of murdered people—men, women, children. He sinks down into the underworld on a regular basis, touches on the darkest parts of human nature. He unwinds with alcohol, drugs, and women, and his only real relationships are his Major Crimes brothers and his multitude of hot, crazy women.

His Major Crimes brothers don’t really know him. His multitude of women don’t either. Hell, Benny hardly even knows himself.

A therapist wouldn’t need much time to figure out what he gets out of this thing with you. What he gets from you, the lone woman standing amongst failed marriages, a failed engagement, and countless failed relationships. What no one else has ever given him.

Gentle touches. A care and attention to his body, the gnarled knots of muscles, the twinging nerves pinched from sitting in a car all day for a stake-out. Soft kisses on every part of him, your skilled hands stroking him, working him into a state of relaxation he’s never known anywhere else but with you. Soft music playing in the background, soft light illuminating the room. The soft scent of your perfume, your shampoo, your body wash.

Everything about you is so fucking soft, and you make him soft too, and if Benny ever bumps against that realization, he shoves it away, doesn’t examine it. But the fact remains: you are the one person who makes him soft, and you give him the safe space to be soft. Benny gets to leave it all behind—the sad childhood, the disappointing relationships, the loneliness, the unhealthy coping mechanisms, the filth and grit of his job. He gets to shed his tough-guy persona, the whole stiff-upper-lip thing. He doesn’t have to pretend to be okay, doesn’t have to bury his feelings deep for fear of having Big Nick call him a pussy or worse.

Benny gets to just be.

Tonight, you undress him slowly. You never hurry. He’s bought your time, and you never cheat him. You unbutton his shirt, push it off of his shoulders and arms. You undo his belt, unbutton his jeans, push them down over his hips. You push his boxers down too, and you drag your knuckles lightly over his half-hard cock but go no further. You drop sweet little kisses along the parts of him you expose, his chest and his shoulders, and once he’s naked, you gesture for him to lie down on the bed.

Benny knows the drill. He lies face-down on the bed, and already he feels more relaxed. More himself, whoever that may be. He sloughs off the past few months, the awful cases he’s worked, the failed dates and relationships that never left the ground. He’s not ruminating on the past and he’s not worried about the future. He’s just here, now, with you.

A moment later, and he hears the plastic snap of the bottle, the massage oil you warm between your palms before you climb on the bed and join him. You straddle his waist, and it’s a comforting weight on him. A moment after that, your hands on him: warm, slick, accompanied by the light scent of sandalwood. Stroking him from head to toe.

You start at his scalp. Your fingernails scratch him lightly, you tug at his short hair. Down to all the small muscles in his neck, the larger ones in his shoulder and back. You have a rhythm that makes him sink into the bed: light strokes that makes him spark to life, makes goosebumps prickle along his skin. Harder strokes, your fingertips seeking the knots and whorls and loosening them. Then your bent head, your lips light as air, like you’re sealing your massage work with a chaste kiss to push the magic deeper into him.

You scoot lower, straddle his thighs. You work his lower back, his ass, and you always give him a flirty little smack that makes him laugh after so much squirming, since he’s especially ticklish there.

Then lower. You massage his hamstrings, work out the stiffness there, then the knot in his calf that snarls up when he sleeps, always wakes him up with the pain. Then his feet, finally, and you sometimes joke about breaking out the belt sander to keep his hooves soft, but tonight you just hum and ask him to turn over.

He does, and Benny is never so happy to have this time to be soft as he is when he turns over. You always look so gorgeous in the soft candlelight, the sight of you straddling him in your dress and him naked, like you’re some sort of goddess coaxing him to life from the common clay of the earth.

He knows he pays for it, but this is nothing like his usual dalliances. It’s nothing like he had in his two disastrous marriages, his disastrous engagement. He can cede control to you and not feel like less of a man; he can let you soothe him, he can focus on the way he feels instead of endlessly worrying that he’s performing well, that he’s the biggest, that he lasts the longest out of any other man his partner has been with.

Besides, when he turns over, that’s when you kiss him in earnest. That’s when you snake a hand into some inner, hidden tie within your dress and loosen it, let the soft fabric pool around your shoulders and over the swell of your breasts before you toss it aside. That’s when you turn those clever hands of yours to more promising parts of him: his chest down to his belly, then down to where his cock strains for you.

But you don’t rush it. You give the front of him the same amount of attention, if not more. You pause more to return to his mouth, to kiss him, alternating playful pecks against more passionate ones where you seal your mouth over his, where you lick against him until he’s groaning and squirming underneath you.

You put your mouth to his chest, nipping against his pecs, laying the edge of your teeth lightly against his nipples before you lave his tender flesh with your tongue. Benny always thinks of it afterwards, this simplest of movements, but how you’re the only woman to ever put her mouth to his nipples, to explore this most obvious of erogenous zones on him.

Through all of it, praise. You tell him in your quiet voice how good he is, how perfect. You praise every bit of him—the muscles he works so hard to maintain in the gym, sure, but also the parts no one else ever notices. His eyes, his hands, his legs, his ass. You seem to genuinely like his hands, so when he reaches out to steady you against him, you don’t push him away.

Benny wonders sometimes if you’re like this with other clients or just him, but he never allows himself to get obsessive about it. He’s savvy enough to know that he’s not that far from jealousy, and it would be a fatal mistake to mix feelings with this relationship.

Okay, so he only allows himself to get a little jealous. Only sometimes.

You can always judge when he’s reached the limits of his patience. Benny gets squirmy, wriggles underneath you, but you always ask the same question, a paragon of consensual sex.

“You ready, handsome?” you ask.

His answer is always the same, and Benny can be corny with you, can run the stupidest of lines on you because he doesn’t have to play it cool at all.

“I was born ready, beautiful.”

Which always makes your soft smile widen, and then you reach past him to snag a condom. You tear the foil, and you roll the latex onto him, and this is the sole moment where Benny has regrets: he’s not against condoms, but he wishes he could fuck you raw.

He wishes he knew what it feels like to slide into you, to feel not just the warmth and tightness of you but also the slickness of your arousal. Some primal part of him—the jealous part, he guesses—wishes he could come inside you, mark you as his. He could convince you to retire, could have you for himself—

You cut him off, cut off his usual fantasy, by grasping his cock and lining it up with your entrance, then mounting him. Slowly. You always go slow. You take him inch by inch, gaze into his eyes as you impale yourself on his throbbing length. Benny tries to gaze back at you, wants to be fully in the moment, but you always feel so fucking good that he ends up squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw against the urge to thrust up into you and come immediately.

And you always do the same thing here, too. You reach down and grip his jaw—an echo of that first night together, but you’re gentle now. You hold him until he opens his eyes again, and you chide him softly. You run the tip of your thumb over his lower lip, the touch so featherlight he wants to weep.

“This is about you, Ben,” you remind him. “Don’t you dare hold back, okay?”

He doesn’t hold back, but he still manages to make you come nine out of ten times. He doesn’t hold back as his hips press up as you bounce on his cock, your tits gorgeous as they bounce too, your thighs strong and rounded as you work yourself on him. He doesn’t push away his orgasm as it approaches, but he shifts a hand to where you’re joined to him. He rubs against your clit, slick and swollen, and Benny knows you’re a pro, but he doesn’t think you’re faking it when your rhythm gets sloppy. He thinks it’s genuine, how you whine out his name, how your bracing hand on his chest spasms against his pec.

But he knows that you aren’t faking it when you come a beat later. There’s no way you could fake the way your cunt seizes up and grips his cock, the way your smooth muscles ripple against him like they want to pull him deeper inside of you.

He’s never far behind you. He’s grateful for the condom in this moment because it affords him those final few thrusts, his hips leaving the bed as he fucks up into you, before he comes too. The languid heat that has been pooling low in his belly all night finally spills over, molten hot as he comes harmlessly into the latex. The heat spreads outward from his belly to his limbs, up into his head, and Benny thinks, I could die right now and I’d die happy.

Perfectly safe in your cozy little cocoon of a room. Perfectly relaxed from your skilled hands and clever mouth and perfect pussy.

Perfectly just himself.

#benny magalon imagine #benny magalon x reader #benny magalon x reader #benny borracho magalon #benny magalon #borracho magalon #benny borracho magalon x reader #borracho magalon imagine #borracho magalon x reader #den of thieves #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

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santiago-cavazos · 1 month

Text

“Cat and mouse…it’s my favorite game to play. Especially since I’m always the cat.”

Thursday, February 15, 2024

“Do you think she’s caught on that you’ve been watching her, jefe?” asked Antonio Zapata, leaning back into his seat and glancing over at his lieutenant.

Santiago sneered, meeting Tony’s gaze lazily. “No, but she will tonight,” he explained, turning his attention back to the barbershop across the street.

For months, Santiago had been watching the blonde woman only days following the accidental death of her brother and she was none the wiser. Her schedule was committed to memory. He knew where she lived, where she worked, where her nephew went to daycare, the usual stores she shopped in, the restaurants she ordered from, and the people she spent the most time with.

Yes, Santiago knew practically everything about Beverly Williams.

“You think she has the money?” Tony asked.

Santiago waved a finger lazily at the building. “That’s hers,” he stated. “She can pay.”

Hours later, Santiago took a moment to text his wife.

I love you, ---.

Tony’s hand grabbed onto Santiago’s jacket, shaking him a bit. “Jefe, that’s all of them. Everyone left the shop. She’s alone,” Tony said, his eyes on the barbershop and not looking at his lieutenant that he just angered.

“You fuck,” Santiago said, swearing as the angry texts from his wife started pouring in.

Tony’s hit had made Santiago misspell baby, autocorrecting it to Abby.

I love you, Abby, the text read.

The phone continued to vibrate as her texts poured in though Santiago had no time to remedy the solution.

Sidestepping his anger, he stepped out of the vehicle and slid his handgun into the waistband of his jeans. “Don’t fucking leave the car,” he said, pointing a finger at Tony. He closed the driver’s side door and crossed the empty street.

Santiago stood in front of Locke Studios, hands in the pockets of his jacket. Watching her through the window, the blonde woman busied herself with shutting everything down alone. He didn’t say a word nor did he move, at least, not until she turned around to see him.

Ten seconds, she held his gaze. She didn’t move nor did he see the rise in her chest. She was holding her breath and he knew he had succeeded. The broom she had been holding in her hands clattered to the floor. Santiago gave her a nod, took a step back, then gave her a wink before heading back across the street.

Santiago climbed into the driver’s side and closed the door, pulling the handgun out of his waistband.

“What was that about?” asked Tony. “She saw you! You didn’t even get the money!”

In a split second, Santiago had the firearm pressed against the side of Tony’s temple. “Question me again. Go ahead,” he warned.

He allowed thirty seconds of silence to pass between them before he lowered the weapon and stowed it in the driver’s door.

“Today was just a scare. You know I like playing with my food before I kill it,” said Santiago, eyeing the shop as Beverly emerged.

“You’re going to kill her even if she gives you the money?” asked Tony.

Santiago’s jaw ticked. “You really are a dumb fuck, aren’t you? You don’t allow anyone to live. Ever. That’s you get fucking caught,” he warned. “Don’t fucking talk the rest of the way or I’ll put a bullet in your head too.”

Tony did as he was told, remaining silent and sinking into his seat like a scolded child as they drove away.

#[ El Diablo x 03 ]

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visceravalentines · 1 year

Text

solicitation

Murph Connors x AFAB!Reader

IT'S HERE BABES. AT LAST. this was so so far outside of my comfort zone but i'm finally happy with it I think. thank you for your patience and your love for this silly goofy guy. I just adore him and I hope you do too.

You go undercover as a sex worker, determined to nail the Major Crimes Unit for their casual disregard for the law. Unfortunately, the blonde one is...really cute.

5.1k words. Porn w/ plot. Everyone's a cop including reader. Drinking & drug use. Canon-typical douchebag behavior. Murph knows like ten words and nine of them are "fuck." Smut, fingering, very mild dirty talk. Murph is thicc iykwim. He's also a sub and reader is more dominant as a result. Creampie bc we DESERVE IT. Apologies in advance for all the side characters in this lol.

In theory, this had the potential to be a cut-and-dry operation.

The Major Crimes Unit wasn’t exactly shy about their complete and utter disregard for the law. All laws. Every law. The running joke was that the only difference between the MCU and the guys they took down was a badge. Unfortunately, they tended to pull results out of the smoldering wreckage left in their wake, and that had lent them a truly maddening amount of immunity.

No one had come at them from this angle, though. You were a pioneer of sorts. A pioneer with a wire taped between your boobs.

You didn’t probably need to be wearing actual lingerie. The dress was enough. But it was a mental thing, being undercover. Started from the ground up. So you looked stunning yet attainable, sweet and a little spicy. Fun. You looked fun. This was going to be fun.

Technically, when Detective Henderson had made the offer to you and a few of the regular corner girls to stop by suite 243 at the Haven on Vine, that had almost been enough. He had been deliberately vague about the nature of the invitation, but money had changed hands, and the implication hung in the air. You could get him for that, if you dug your nails in.

But you didn’t just want Henderson. You wanted all of them, but most of all, you wanted O’Brien. To see that smug sonofabitch slapped with a solicitation charge? You just might sell yourself for real to make that happen.

So you agreed, along with the rest of the girls, hitched a ride with a couple of them about an hour later. Only one of them knew you were a cop, the one who had tipped you off that the MCU went looking for party favors every Saturday night. You’d had her back a few times. She’d keep your secret to herself.

The cacophony of three pairs of pleasers clacking up the cinder block stairwell was deafening. You made your way down the hall to 243, watched your girl rap on the door with fingers tipped bright pink and glittering. When the door flung open wide, O’Brien was standing there with a beer in one hand and a blunt in the other, all bad tattoos and worse attitude.

“Ladies!” he boomed. “Come in, come in, please.” He stepped out of the way, ushered you in, grabbed your ass as you passed. You hid the grit of your teeth behind a silly smile, kept it pasted on as you surveyed the scene.

The gang was all here. Detectives Henderson and Connors were hunched over a poker game. The pool was a mixture of cash, drugs, and someone’s silver lighter. Detective Magalon had cards in one hand and a hooker in the other. Detective Zapata was snorting coke off the countertop with not one but two girls, bringing the grand total of dirty cops up to five, sex workers up to six, counting you, and crimes in progress up to twelve or so.

“Make yourselves at home,” O’Brien said. “Can I get you something, a drink, a smoke?”

The other girls opted for drugs. You needed your wits about you, weren’t supposed to drink undercover, and so you declined altogether. This was met with general disapproval.

“Come on,” Connors teased. He winked at you when you met his eye. He was cute, you thought. Kind of scruffy.

O’Brien levelled a stare at you from beneath his heavy brow. Much less cute. “What, you underage or something?”

You had to play the game to win. “What do you got?”

“Well, we’re fresh out of pina coladas. What kinda night you hoping for, honey?” O’Brien held up a bottle of vodka and a fifth of whiskey.

Vodka always hit you hard and fast. “I’ll take the whiskey.”

“Atta girl,” Henderson muttered.

“Your wish, sweetheart.” O’Brien poured you a generous serving into a glass and leered at you. Maybe the whiskey was a good idea after all. You batted your eyes at him and took a delicate sip, let it seep across your tongue until the burn turned to cinnamon and cloves. He grabbed your arm and kissed your cheek as he walked by. “Let’s fucking party, boys!”

Zapata cranked the volume on the speaker thumping R&B from an iPod – a genuine third-gen iPod Touch. The room was stifling, smelled of coconut body spray and weed. This job always took you to the nicest places, but you hadn’t expected to be blasted back to a shitty house party in 2009.

You sipped your whiskey sparingly and trailed O’Brien around the room like a lovesick teenager for a while, laughing at what passed for jokes, hanging on his arm every chance you got, making sure to get every one of the men’s voices on record. You danced with one of the girls for a song or two and listened to countless stories told by dirty cops, which all amounted to basically nothing. No details, no evidence, no incrimination. Apparently, you just had to be there.

The whiskey was warm in your hand by the time you decided to give it a rest. You were putting in work and getting nowhere fast, and you truly could not stand Nick O’Brien. You choked down one more sip before tipping it quietly down the drain. You’d had too much already.

Leaning against the countertop, you tracked your mark from across the room. He took a shot, punched Magalon in the arm, dropped to the couch beside Connors. You watched him lay a heavy hand on the blonde’s shoulder, lean in close, whisper something to him that you couldn’t make out. Connors’ gaze lingered on his cards, then floated across the room and up the length of your body before meeting your eyes.

“C’mere, princess,” he said, patting the space on the couch beside him.

You rounded the poker game, felt both detectives watching you. “My friend here needs some company,” O’Brien said, clapping Connors on the back.

You paused, regarding both men with doe-eyed interest. You were being pawned off, just like that. You weren’t sure whether to be relieved or offended. “What about you, baby?”

O’Brien smirked. “Flattered, honey, but I’m married.”

Zapata snorted. “Since when?”

O’Brien scowled at him. “You were in the wedding party, dipshit.”

“Uh-huh, so where’s your ring, Nick?” Henderson folded, set his hand on the table.

O’Brien shrugged. “Left it by the sink or some shit.” He stood up and maneuvered past you with his hand on your waist, nudging you toward the couch. “Sit down, honey, Murph don’t bite unless you ask him to.”

“That’s the truth,” Connors said as he folded too. “Borracho, you gonna show us your hand or what?”

Magalon withdrew his tongue from behind the teeth of the girl in his lap just long enough to say, “Fold.” He threw his cards down on the table. Henderson and Connors groaned.

“Man, you won that round,” Henderson grumbled. “You ain’t even playing.”

You sank down onto the couch beside Connors and tried not to feel like you were being handed a consolation prize. You reminded yourself that there was evidence aplenty tucked in your cleavage. With their luck and yours, it would probably amount to a month’s suspension. A goddamn paid vacation. Fuckingridiculous.

“One more round?” Henderson asked, shuffling cards.

“Nah.” Connors leaned back and put his arm around you, nudged you into his side. “Got better things to do.”

You rested your hand on his ribs, looked up at him through your lashes. The night was still young. You could play this right, maybe land an actual criminal charge on at least one of them. Of course it had to be the cute one. His thumb drew circles on the bare skin of your shoulder.

“Hey.” He smiled at you. He had killer eyes, you noticed. Sky fucking blue. “What’s your name, baby?”

“Selene.”

“Selene,” he repeated. You liked his voice. Had that been your real name, you’d have butterflies. “Name’s Murph.”

”Is that short for something?”

He chuckled. He’d probably been answering that question his whole life. “Nah. Just Murph.”

You examined him up close. He had a tattoo on his neck, the most basic compass rose you’d ever seen, black ink bleeding a little from age and sun exposure. You wondered if he’d been a sailor in a former life, maybe ex-Navy. His shirt was a size too small, clinging to him like a second skin, tight on his biceps.

“You work out, Murph?” you asked. Low-hanging fruit.

“Every day, baby.”

“That's about all Murph does,” Henderson said, shuffling the deck. “Can’t get rid of the double chin under that beard though.”

“What do you do, Henderson?” Murph shot back. “’Cause I never see you at the gym, skinny motherfucker.”

“C’mon man, you know if Gus ain't working he's praying,” Zapata offered from the kitchen.

“Look, I'm a man of faith,” Henderson said as he pulled the pot towards him with a glance at Magalon, who could not have cared less.

Zapata scoffed. “Name one book in the Bible, dude. One.”

Murph pulled you in closer to be heard over the sound of their bickering. His cologne was smokey and musky, made your nose tingle. “I don’t just work out.”

You cracked a smile at his defensive tone. “What else do you do?”

You felt his nose against your temple, his beard bristly on your cheek. “I surf, too. You like the beach?” His lips at your ear sent chills down your arms.

“I love the beach.” You hated the beach.

“You surf?”

“I’ve tried it once or twice.” An outright lie. “I’m not very good at it.”

“Bet you look hot as fuck in a bikini.”

“I do, actually.” This was true.

His gaze flicked to your mouth and back up. “What do you do for fun, princess?”

You cocked your head. “You mean, besides this?”

Murph laughed. “Yeah. Besides this.”

“I like to cook. I jog. Got a couple dogs, take them to the park on weekends.”

“You ever been to the dog park on 11th? Real nice, has a little obstacle course and shit.”

“How long does it take you to run through it, Murph?” Zapata interrupted.

“About the same amount of time as it takes to fuck your mother.” You snorted and he snickered in your ear, conspiratorial. “Got him.”

Morons, every one of them. You couldn’t keep from rolling your eyes.

Murph didn’t seem to notice. “C’mere, baby.”

He patted his knee and you slid into his lap, looped an arm around his neck. Your tits were nearly in his face and you had to sneak a surreptitious glance down the front of your dress to make sure that the mic wasn’t visible. His jeans were rough on the bare skin of your thighs. He held you against him with one big hand splayed on your waist, the other on your ass, and gave you a squeeze. “You’re fine as fuck, girl.”

You ran your hand over his stomach. Considerable muscle was tucked beneath the foundation of a beer gut. He probably looked good without a shirt, wet and sandy. Too bad you hated the beach.

“You wanna take this somewhere else?” you murmured. Risky. You were skirting the line. You couldn’t actually offer him anything, not even verbally. You had to be vague enough to leave space for a lawyer to argue it had been Murph’s idea to pay you for sex.

He looked at you with interest, almost made you wish these were better circumstances. His lashes were long and thick. You imagined, just for a moment, how it would feel to watch those pretty eyes roll back. How he sounded in bed. You had to cut that train of thought off quick as you felt it shoot straight to your pussy. You were working, for God’s sake.

For a second, you were sure he was going to proposition you right then and there. The promise of it hung in the meager air between you. But then his mouth twisted into a wry smile and he let you down easy with a kiss on your cheek. “Not yet, princess. Night’s still young.”

He looked away, threw an insult at Zapata, got sucked into a mind-numbing conversation about baseball statistics. You were relegated back to accessory status with his hand trailing aimlessly up and down your thigh.

With determination bordering on desperation, you kept working on him, keying him up a little at a time, making sure he didn’t forget about you. You ran your fingers through his hair, drew circles on his chest. For all he was barely paying you attention, you were terribly distracted by him, kept catching yourself admiring his profile. Your knee was nestled against his crotch and you found yourself thinking he probably had a gorgeous cock. He had just the right amount of swagger for it.

Christ. You dug your nails into your palm to snap yourself out of it. Goddamn whiskey was making you spacey. You were not, in fact, here to get laid. You were here to score something more than a slap on the wrist for bad behavior. A department transfer at least, jail time at best. Breaking up the boys’ club either way.

Across the coffee table, Magalon finally decided to stop dry humping his girl in full view of everyone. He untangled himself to escort her into one of the two bedrooms amidst a chorus of howls and ribbing, threw a theatrical wink over his shoulder before swinging the door shut behind him.

“Get it, my man,” Henderson said with a lazy salute.

“It was just gettin’ good,” O’Brien complained. “I got half a boner here.”

Spurred on by the knowledge there was one bedroom left and four girls looking to make an actual business transaction tonight, you figured it was time for desperate measures. You’d already lost O’Brien; you weren’t about to let the night end without a victory.

“Murph, baby,” you whined softly. You had his attention immediately. The expression on his face was so open and earnest that a fleeting thrum of guilt flitted through your chest.

You stroked his cheek and leaned in slow, giving him the opportunity to deflect you, but he didn’t. His lips were soft and he met your kiss with surprising gentleness. He tasted like weed smoke when you slipped your tongue over the threshold of his mouth. You felt his hands tighten their grip on you just a little bit, like he was looking to stabilize himself.

The room filled with hoots and exaggerated moans from your audience and it was enough, you had him, but you didn’t stop and neither did he. His cock twitched against your leg and you let out a small sound of satisfaction, forgetting for a minute that none of this was real. Your hand slid to his neck. His skin was hot under your fingers.

When he broke the kiss and leaned back, he regarded you with a look on his face like he’d underestimated you. His lip shone with your spit. You wanted to suck on it.

“Get outta here?” he mumbled. You nodded and rose unsteadily from his lap. He took your hand and picked his way past the coffee table, leading you to the other bedroom.

“Make good choices,” O’Brien called. “Use protection.”

Murph flipped him off before swinging the door shut behind you.

You turned and opened your mouth to back him into a corner, ask him just what he was hoping for, but his hands were on your waist and he was kissing you again before you got the chance to speak. You meant to push him off – of course you did – but you balled up his shirt in your fists instead, parted your lips for his tongue. He groaned low in his throat and you pressed yourself against him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, backing you toward the bed until your knees hit the mattress and you dropped to a seat.

“Murph –”

“You’re so fucking sexy.” He braced himself on the mattress and bent to kiss the skin below your ear.

“Murph, wait –”

“Tell me, how long have you been a cop?”

You froze. Had you heard him right? “…what?”

He lifted his head and met your eyes, a smug, reproving smile on his face. “Nick clocked you in the first fifteen minutes, baby. Told me to keep you busy. This ain’t our first rodeo.”

Your mouth dropped open in shock. You had no words.

Even in the wan yellow light filtering in through the blinds, you could tell he was enjoying himself. “What you wearing under that dress? A thong? A wire?”

“…both.”

Murph grinned. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said loudly, “let the record show she kissed me first. That’s entrapment, detective.”

You scowled. “Fuck you.”

“Now let’s talk about that,” he said. “You seem pretty committed to the bit, huh?”

You hesitated. “I…I don’t….”

“It’s okay. The thing is, I really want to fuck you too. Don’t pretend like you haven’t been thinking about it all night,” he said, cutting off your protest before it could materialize. “Bet that thong’s nice and wet, huh?”

You smacked his arm. “You’re an ass.”

“I know it.” He leaned back, gave you a little space. “Look at it this way. You absolutely can’t use that recording now, right? So this has been one hell of a waste of your time.”

“Looks like it,” you shot back.

“It doesn’t have to be.” There it was again, that sweet, sincere expression. “Let me make your night, princess. We’re two consenting adults.”

“No way.”

“Why not? I’ll even tell Nick he was wrong and you are just a whore.”

You scoffed. “What an offer.”

Murph chuckled. “Come on, baby doll. You know you want to.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, mind racing. He was right, any evidence you’d managed to collect had gone up in smoke the moment he’d outed you on tape. For all intents and purposes, after you left, you were never here. And if he could shield you from Nick O’Brien’s wrath….

He tucked his finger beneath your chin and leaned in. “Please?”

Your breath caught. You did want him. You let your eyes drift shut as his lips found yours. His kiss lacked any hint of malice, was all softness and sensuality. Your hands hovered to his face and you caved, kissing him back, kissing him harder, grabbing his shoulders to tug him on top of you.

To your surprise, he resisted. “Mm – hey.”

“Shut up.”

“Wait.” He pulled back. “Probably best we get that wire off, huh?”

You narrowed your eyes. “The wire, or the dress?”

Murph shrugged. “Both. I’ll get naked too, if it makes you feel better.”

He peeled his shirt off and you were right, he looked damn good without one. The hair on his chest was blonde and curly, the hair on his stomach a shade darker, disappearing into his boxers. He had a tattoo of a shark on his left hip. You shimmied out of your dress and there was the mic taped securely between your breasts, the wire running down your stomach to a small receiver at your hip.

“Fuck.” He reached out and peeled it off, the brush of his thumb sending goosebumps flaring across your skin. “You’re gorgeous, girl.”

You grabbed him by the beltloops. “Come here.”

“Whatever you say.”

He sprawled on top of you and you caught him on your lips, scrambling up the mattress and pulling him along with you. He scooped you into his arms and rolled onto his side, hitched your leg over his hip, grabbed at your ass. You palmed him through his jeans and he threw his head back and moaned.

“Pants are too fuckin’ tight,” he complained.

“Whose fault is that?”

“Yours.”

You undid his fly and slid your hand into his pants, feeling him up through his boxers. He was thick. He writhed as you stroked him purposefully, caught between working his jeans off and melting into your touch.

“What’s the matter?” you teased.

“Driving me fucking crazy. Hold on. Fuck.” He swatted your hand away and stripped off everything at once and you must’ve been on your game at least a little bit tonight because he did indeed have a gorgeous cock. You wrapped your hand around it before he could even settle back beside you and he groaned, collapsing onto his back.

“Jesus Christ, Murph.” Your fingers only just met around his girth. “You’re huge.”

“I know,” he grumbled. “We can take it slow, it’s – fuck – it’s okay.”

You didn’t expect him to be so considerate. “That’s awfully sweet of you.”

“It’s nothing, c’mere. Let me touch you.” He slipped his fingers past your panties and you sighed as he eased them along your slit. You could feel how wet you already were. So could he. “Goddamn…you want it bad, huh?”

“Been pressed up against you all night.”

When his thumb found your clit you jerked and gasped. “Take it easy, baby, I got you. Like that?” He worked you in soft, slow circles that had you bucking against his hand.

“Yeah. Like that.”

You were wound up and desperate for him by the time he pushed his fingers into you, cursing under his breath at the sound they made as he scissored them in and out. The man could multitask, rutting into your hand as he fucked you with his fingers. His kisses were sloppy, without pretense. When you squeezed his balls he moaned shamelessly into your mouth.

“You like that?” you asked him coyly.

“Yeah.”

“Feels good?”

“Feels so fucking good. Get on top of me, girl.”

You obliged, straddling his hips, holding his dick where you wanted so you could grind against him. His head lolled and he let out a vocal sigh, grabbing at the blanket, grabbing at your waist, arching his spine. You were torn between watching his face and watching his cock part your lips as you rocked back and forth. When you reached behind your back to tug at his balls again he whined.

“Need to be inside you, baby, please?”

“I don’t know if I’m ready yet.” You were absolutely ready.

He squeezed his eyes shut, furrowed his brow. “That’s fine, yeah. That’s okay.”

“I can try….” You lowered yourself onto him slowly, so slowly, easing just the head of his cock into you.

“God – fucking – “

“How’s that?”

“So good, baby, that’s so g – fuck.” He bit his lip hard as you sank a little further down. “It’s perfect, you’re perfect.”

You sighed in bliss. “You gonna cum already, Connors?”

“No way. I’m good. You good?”

“I’m great.”

You took him all the way at a glacial pace just to see him squirm, half an inch at a time until he filled you completely. His gaze was locked on your pussy, stretched snug around him, and when his eyes finally wandered up to meet yours his pupils were blown in the darkness.

“Fuck me?” he said breathlessly.

You rolled your hips slow and he groaned, gripping the flesh of your thighs. You rode him lazily, reveling in every little sound that escaped from his mouth, the way his lashes fluttered when you switched up the angle. When he fumbled for your clit in the meager light you took his hand and guided him to it, letting out a soft squeak when he found it. Your cunt clenched tight and he shuddered.

“Easy, tiger.” You slid your hands up his stomach, over his chest. When your thumbs brushed across his nipples he responded with a broken moan and a full-body flinch. “Oh, sweet boy.” He was done for.

You bent low over him and laved your tongue around his nipple, sucking greedily, worrying the other one between your fingers. He choked out a sound that was downright indecent, tangling his hand in your hair and grinding up into you, helpless and needy. The change in position pressed his cock to your g-spot and you rabbited your hips in short, quick thrusts until you were both frenzied and panting.

His beard was coarse as you combed your fingers through it, admiring his flushed and handsome face. “Pretty boy. You feel so good.”

“You’re hot as fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That pussy is – fuck.”

You smiled at him. He was sexy like this, so thoroughly dazed and disheveled, whimpering when you flexed around him. “What are you gonna give me if I let you cum inside?”

“A million dollars,” he said immediately. “Are you for real? Two million dollars.”

You laughed. “No way you have two million dollars.”

“I can get it.” He said it like he meant it.

You gripped his hair and kissed him, lapping at his tongue. His big hands were warm and gentle on your waist. “How about you let me finish first?”

“How about I let you finish first and I give you my number?”

“Is that for my benefit or yours?”

“Mutual benefit, baby doll.”

“Deal.”

His muscles flexed under your hands as he sat up and adjusted you in his lap, wrapping his arms around you, kissing you hungrily. He dug his nails into your back as your mouth wandered down his neck, licking the sweat from his skin, blazing a trail of love bites and kisses, sucking a sultry purple hickey into the center of his tattoo.

“I got work in the morning,” he protested weakly.

“Good,” you said. “They’re gonna love it.”

He offered you his thumb and you wrapped your lips around it, watching his expression turn desperate as you sucked a shade past innocence. He tugged it from your mouth with a pop, snaked his hand between your bodies and felt for your clit.

You made a soft, dreamy sound when he stroked you just right. He was damn good with his hands. “Let me make you feel good, baby,” he murmured. “Wanna make that pussy fucking drip.”

You let him work you up for a minute and then took up a gradual rhythm, eyes closed, grinding on him with intention. Wave after wave of steady-building sensation coursed through you, tightening the clutch of your body around him. You were so full, pulled tight, the friction addictive. You could feel it, that swing and pull like gravity, his body coaxing yours to the brink.

“That’s it, princess, let me see it.”

You pawed at his shoulders. “Murph….”

“You gonna cum for me?” he breathed.

“Yes – God –”

“Fuck, you better cum for me, I can’t –”

You felt the swell of your release in your core and cried out, burying your face in his shoulder and clawing at his biceps, riding him through it. Pleasure washed through your veins. Your cunt spasmed in staccato bursts, stretched to its limit.

Murph inhaled sharply, his whole body tense. You felt him quiver inside you. “Baby – baby – please –”

Hazy and gratified, you strung kisses along his jaw, snapped your hips until he started to come apart. “Come on, big boy, cum for me.”

With satisfaction, you watched his eyes roll back as he let go and it was better than you’d imagined, the way his lips parted and a strangled groan twisted free, the way he threw his head back like some feral animal under the moon. You gasped at the throb and pulse of him inside you, sending vestigial sparks spiraling off into your core.

He slumped forward with his forehead pressed to yours and let out a heavy sigh. “Fuck,” he mumbled.

“Fuck,” you agreed.

You moved to extricate yourself and he grunted, tightened his arms around you. “You got somewhere to be?”

“We should probably get back out there.” You had no idea how much time had passed. The music was still going strong in the next room; you couldn’t imagine anyone had called it a night.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “No way, baby.”

You laughed, smoothing his hair back from his brow. “We can’t stay in here.”

“We could,” he said. “We could sleep here.”

You shook your head. “O’Brien’s going to be pissed at you.”

“He’s always pissed. Don’t bring him up. This is a nice moment.”

With a laugh, you said, “You’re right. It is.”

You laid your head on his shoulder and listened to his heartbeat for a few minutes more before pulling away in spite of his protests. “You’re breaking my heart,” he complained.

“You’ll have to text me later so I can break it again.”

“Do you need a ride home?”

“No, I’ll call a cab.”

“You don’t want a police escort?”

“I’m a fucking cop, Murph.”

“Oh. Right.” He watched you dress. “What’s your name? Your real name.”

You told him, smiled when he repeated it to himself. “Do you really surf?”

“All the time. I love it.”

“I have a confession. I hate the beach.”

Murph gave you a crooked smile. “Bet I can change your mind.”

He offered his arm to stabilize you as you stepped into your absurdly high heels, wound the wire around his hand neatly and gave it to you to hide away in your bra. He called after you as you made for the door. “Hey.”

You turned. He sat on the edge of the bed, hair mussed, light from the streetlamp out the window cutting lines across his bare chest.

“Kiss me goodnight?” he said without a hint of sarcasm.

Fuck, he was cute. You wobbled back across the carpet and took his face in your hands, kissed him long and sweet. “Goodnight, tiger.”

He took your hand as you pulled away and kissed your fingers, and then finally, reluctantly let you go. “’Night, princess.”

You slipped back into the main room, met the chorus of heckling with a beatific smile. You exchanged a few words with your girl from the corner, let her know you wouldn’t need a ride home. She gave you a look; you gave it right back; she gave you a subtle nod of approval.

On your way out you shot a glance at O’Brien. You couldn’t help it. He had a look on his face that could curdle milk, watching you like a hawk. You supposed it was alright you hadn’t managed to get very far with him, all things considered.

You gave him a delicate finger wave, blew him a kiss. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Get the fuck out.”

You winked at him as you ducked out the door. “Your wish, sweetheart.”

#murph connors #murph connors fanfiction #not tagging this den of thieves bc this fic is not for people who unironically enjoyed this movie let's be honest #my writing

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beyondthegame · 7 months

Text

I had a few anons mentioning that they’ve watched Blue Lock (an anime series) to prepare for Beyond The Game’s demo release.

So here are a few fun, football related stuff to get watch and read:

To watch:

Bend it Like Beckham — of courseee

Ted Lasso

All or Nothing series on Amazon Prime — They’re great if you want to see the behind the scenes of top football clubs. There are series for Manchester City, Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur.

Football Dreams: The Academy — a series about London based football team, Crystal Palace, and their football academy. It pretty much shows how brutal the academy system can be for kids from 8 to 18; it’s drilled into them that they need to become professional footballers and it’s a failure if you don’t. It’s an eye opener as to why N Tallon hates the mc.

England Lionesses: When Football Came Home — about the England women’s national team success because the men are let downs and haven’t won a trophy since 1966 so the women stepped up and proved they’re the shit.

To read:

You Don’t Have A Shot by Racquel Marie — queer, YA, romance, and it’s about rival football players.

From Lukov with Love by Mariana Zapata — not about football, but still a romance fiction book about professional athletes.

Kulti by Mariana Zapata — romance fiction football book with a soccer idol being the mmc (age gap is a trope in this book)

#rambles #recs

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tropicalscream · 9 months

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If anyone wants to even come close to understanding my brainrot and my love for Sergio Leone westerns I need you to at the very least watch Once Upon a Time in the West.

The Dollars Trilogy (Fistful of Dollars, A Few Dollars More, The Good The Bad & The Ugly) is fantastic but imo best if you can watch them one after the other (not necessarily back-to-back) but you gotta make sure you watch them in order throughout a month or week like you gotta make plans to see how Sergio's style evolves and the themes that are layered and added to each one

Duck, You Sucker! (aka Fistful of Dynamite or Once Upon a Time in the Revolution) arguably imo his best work? Don't even fuckin think about it before watching his previous. Its pure brain rot for me ots good and emotional and his final western and a love letter but also a hateful spit in the face of the Zapata Western genere while ironically being an amazing Zapata western itself.

But OUATIW? Its all those distilled into one movie. It has many of my fav aspects of each and Sergio's little touches (His use of silence scenes, the lowkey tension & horror of the West, Meals as a symbol for character relations, Eyes as the camera)

Its one you can pick up and put down.and walkway from without too bad brain rot (tho i guarantee you'll never hear harmonica in the same way again)

#trop at the movies #sergio leone #dollars trilogy #once upon a time in the west #duck you sucker #spaghetti Western

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rustbeltjessie · 1 year

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Is Death The Only Way to Get Attention?

(for Mia Zapata)

I tell my husband I can’t watch true crime anymore because I’ve been a crime scene

waiting to happen. the day they yanked me screaming outta my mom & said IT’S A

GIRL was the day my body chalk-outlined itself. any body that’s had girl hurled at it:

or the other words. the girlish slurs that stick to your skin, like some creeper dude

at the bar breathing hot-sick shit down your neck. girl they’ll kill you for existing

& there’s no avoiding it. they’ll kill you for your body. for being. too girl, body. not-girl-

enough body. wrong-girl. bodied wrong. is it any wonder we sometimes choose to come

undone. unbodied. to abandon our bodies like houses & squat somewhere else for a spell.

see: they’ll drape yellow tape across any girl-body. across the door of any house

on any side of any street. mansion or slum or suburban home is where the crime

scene is. some girls go mad with the grief of it. the grief of living inside a death-trap. they

skin their knees. stud themselves with gravel. hang chicken bones in their hair & blacken

both their eyes. get themselves electric guitars & scream their throats raw. raw like meat:

like a girl-body throwing itself to the dogs. of remorse. to the dogs of sorrow. they’ll rape

& kill you no matter what so why not. why not have a little fun with it. either way they’ll find

you the next day: face up. eyes open & blank. arms out in Christ-pose. christ, but they don’t

let girls be prophets or the progeny of gods. dead, they become warnings. maybe Jesus was

a woman. Girl Jesus drank too much wine & hung out with whores. Girl Jesus started a punk

band, said fuck the man, flipped tables in the temple. Girl Jesus was la revolucionaria & got

muerta for it. now she’s a warning. don’t step out of line or— I tell my husband I can’t watch

true crime anymore because no matter what I do: the crime scene of my body. my death:

my only escape. there’s no escape. they’ll kill me & say her whole life she was asking for it.

they’ll kill me & say if only. if only I hadn’t been in that dark alley. if only I hadn’t been

alone. if only I hadn’t smoked, snorted, swallowed: stepped outta line. then they’ll read this

poem & say how sad. they’ll call me prophet. the girl who, Jesus, threw the bones & foretold

her own demise. they’ll say I told you so.

—Jessie Lynn McMains (c. sometime between 2018-19)

#jessie lynn mcmains #poetry #rape #murder #violence #mia zapata #dead girls #misogyny #my writing

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 1 year

Note

Okay I have to do it! „small "shh' im here" when someone else is crying“ from the gentle prompt list with my Benny boy please and thank youuu💕

It's been a very, very bad week. You've had your car break down on you, your stove decided to stop working—and now, your apartment has been broken into.

You probably ought to call 911, but your trembling fingers tap to your boyfriend's contact. You've hardly had the chance to see him over the last few days, having been on opposite schedules. Now, you stare at your half-open door, taking a nervous step backward. You don't want to go inside; you don't know if whoever broke in is still there.

"Hey hon," Borracho sounds distracted. "What's up?"

"Can you come here?" You ask. "Someone broke into my apartment, and—"

"What?" Borracho snaps. You can hear the scrape of his chair as he pushes it back. "Were you inside when it happened?"

"No. I just got home and my door is open."

"Have you gone inside?"

"No, but—"

"Don't. Go sit out front and wait for me. I'll be right there, alright?"

"Okay."

You lower the phone, glancing down at the blinking screen before you turn, heading for the stairs and hurrying outside. You sit on the front steps, stomach twisting with nerves and jumping at every sound. When you hear approaching sirens, you don't think that it's for you, but it's just another moment before an LASD vehicle is pulling up in front of your building. Three people get out, and you watch as Henderson and Zapata head into the building. You push yourself off of the step as Borracho comes closer, leaning heavily into him and pressing your face into his shoulder as your panicked tears begin to slip down your cheeks. He curls his arms around you, resting a hand on the back of your neck as he presses a kiss to your temple.

"Ssh, It's alright," He murmurs, "I'm here."

You sniffle, pressing closer to him as he rocks you back and forth, soothing you. You draw back, swiping away your tears as he smooths his fingers along your cheek.

"I'm sorry," You mumble, "I shouldn't have—"

"Don't apologize," He shakes his head. "It's alright. I'm glad you called me." He glances over your shoulder before he steers you to sit, drawing you into his side. "We'll wait here for the guys to give the all-clear."

You nod, resting your head on your shoulder and closing your eyes, feeling some of the worry drain from your body as he smooths his hand over your shoulder.

#asks #replies #Benny Borracho Magalon x Reader #Benny Borracho Magalon x Reader x You #prompts

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impulseimpact · 5 months

Text

tapayastro and revoleon

based on the tapayatxin, also known as the roundtail horned lizard, horned lizards are small round and spiky lizards found in deserts in northern mexico and southern US, rountails are one the smallest horned lizard species and are indeed particularly round.

revoleon is based on larger horned lizard species and on a mexican revolucionario (person that fought during the mexican revolution) particularly those that fought with Emiliano Zapata. its named revoleon because some times people call horned lizards mountain chameleons (even tho they arent related) and the revo part is both in reference to the revolution and to a revolver, horned lizards are known to shoot blood from vessels close to the eyes as a way of defending themselves and i mixed this with the idea of it being an armed fighter an additional detail that i thought of halfway trough the design, the zapatista outfit is what was seen as the stereotypical mexican attire for a century, so its funny a lizard that lives so close to the frontier would look like this

[tapayatxin1] [tapayatxin2] [mountain chameleon] [zapatistas]

#my art #oc #oc art #creature design #fakemon #fakemon art #mesoma region #artists on tumblr #horned lizard #tapayatxin

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radioalpes · 4 months

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THE BEST SONGS OF 2023

NewJeans(뉴진스) - ETA

Lil Yachty - IVE OFFICIALLY LOST ViSiON!!!!

Jung Kook - 'Seven'

Slowthai - Feel Good

Billyrrom - "Solotrip"

BANSHEE - BIRTH OF VENUS

Shame - Six-Pack

Viratempo - TE QUIERO

Water From Your Eyes - Barley

Lolabúm ft. @MeninoGutto - Shorty 2

Anchietx - Zero a Cem

Tutto inutile - Fulminacci

Mandy, Indiana - Pinking Shears

Fred again.. & Obongjayar - adore u

Peso Pluma - Zapata

Nia Archives - Conveniency

파란노을 (Parannoul) - 우리는 밤이 되면 빛난다 (We Shine at Night)

Youv Dee - Feeling

YOASOBI「アイドル」(Idol)

Miso Extra - 50/50

Screaming Females - Brass Bell

PinkPantheress, Ice Spice - Boy’s a liar Pt. 2

NewJeans(뉴진스) - Super Shy

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mariamariquinha · 1 year

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I think I've seen this film before - ‘Bossa Nova’ Prequel

Summary: Benny point-of-view.

Word Count: 675.

Warnings: None.

Author’s Note: You know that type of random idea you have out of nowhere? It’s not even funny - probably super cringe. And super short.

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

Benny noticed everything, it was bad and good at the same time. It gave him advantages at work, in his love life, and definitely as a person in general.

The first thing he noticed was that you stopped wearing your wedding ring. Then, you started to sniff more from time to time, that you weren't always in your laboratory and once he even saw you coming out of the bathroom with a handkerchief dabbing the corner of your eyes.

He had never asked about you other than your name, but that day, during a stakeout with Nick, he found the perfect opportunity.

“She’s different.”

The years of living together gave Nick the benefit of knowing what his partners tended to mean by simple words. Benny was so narrow-minded in his opinions of you or his personal life that O'Brien assumed this wasn't about some girlfriend but one of the few women who might be 'different' in their social circle.

What was most surprising, however, was the way in which the answer was ready.

“Divorce.”

“You think?”

“After Debbie, you can recognize a hurt woman from afar,” The certainty made Benny frown in slight confusion. “Besides, that husband of hers was an asshole. That would happen sooner or later.”

“You knew him?” Nick shrugged at the question, taking his eyes off the target to look at Magalon.

“The other day we were talking and he called her. Theodore something something something or whatever. I certainly wasn't the best of husbands, but they're young. Young people don't get divorced, especially when she’s like… You know what I mean.”

It was a pretty stupid analogy, coming from a place of too much certainty and too little optimism, but Benny took it as a truthful answer. Nick didn't notice things that weren't extremely helpful to him in some way, he knew that, and O’Brien certainly wouldn't have had much information about your condition if he hadn't been speculating - or trying to get inside your pants.

“Thinking of trying your luck?” The question caught Borracho by surprise. He looked at the guy, though, and that typical smirk was there.

“‘Course not, boss. We don’t even talk.”

“Right,” Nick scoffed. “Either way, if you're thinking she'd drop to the level of guys like us after her husband's experience, don't be fooled. The girl is tough as fucking iron.”

That Benny never doubted and so he snickered at the idea of you crushing Big Nick's flirting ego. Nobody brought it up again, but he jumped to the easy conclusions that you weren't doing so well.

When you bumped into each other again, Magalon had the conversation with Nick in his head. You used to go down to the Major Crimes floor to use the vending machine, another thing he'd noticed, whether it was to get you some candy or just leave frustrated that it didn't have what you wanted.

That day, he found out that you liked M&M's - he knew that because as soon as he turned his back carrying the last packet from the machine, Benny heard someone mutter a curse word and when he turned around, there was you.

“You can keep this one,” He gestured with the candy before you could leave. First, you frown, then your expression softened a little. There wasn’t pain or sadness there, but a third thing - tiredness.

“Nah, don’t worry, I can grab one at the store across the street.”

“If I told you I came to get this one for Zapata, would you accept it?”

Of course you would; that was exactly what you did, in fact, grabbing the thing with a mischievous smile. You didn't talk anymore and it wasn't even necessary; he went back to the office, listened to Z's complaint about the lack of chocolate, but thought the way you reacted was enough.

Tough as an iron, Nick said. Benny had seen that film before, in the way he began to follow you with his eyes more often and the lonely smiles he let slip while remembering your cunning answers to his friends, as well as the way you mastered crime scenes.

He knew that what he had told O'Brien was a bluff. Benny was, for sure, interested from then on.

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

No pressure tags:

@cheesybadgers

@thoroughlymodernminutia

@the-hinky-panda

@mysoulisasunflower

@seaweeden

@thesandbeneathmytoes

@nerdyreaderpapi

#benny borracho magalon #benny magalon x reader #benny magalon fic #den of thieves #den of thieves fic #maurice compte #female reader

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tropes-and-tales · 1 year

Text

Angels in Disguise, Part III

CW: Heavy angst; talk of serious injuries and death; talk of suicide, trauma, and PTSD. 18+ only to be safe.

Word Count: 1778

AN: Part of a miniseries. Other pieces can be found here.

It takes him so long to wake up. Benny has been seriously hurt, and after the surgeries to save his life, he stays in a coma for a while. One week, then a second.

He wakes, but he exists in a grey liminal space. He drifts in and out like the tide, but even when he’s awake, he’s not entirely there. Time passes in a flash. The sun zips across the sky in a single blink.

Blink, and it’s morning, the weak dawn light making his window rosy around the edges of the blinds.

Blink, and it’s the dead of night, the quiet hush of the ICU, the squeak of nurses’ sneakers on the tiled floor.

Blink, and he wakes with his mother dozing in the chair beside him, his hand held loosely in her own.

Blink, and he wakes up alone.

Everything is slippery: time, his thoughts. He forgets when he is, where he is. He only knows two things for certain—who he is, and the fact that he’s been terribly hurt. That he teetered so close to death that the black yawning nothingness when he falls asleep feels perilous.

But as the doctors dial down the pain medication, and as his senses roar back to life, he remembers a third certain thing.

He remembers the woman who saved him. The woman who eclipsed the sun as he lay bleeding out in the street. The woman who held his life in her hands, who held back the outgoing tide of his blood in the middle of a war zone.

He wakes one afternoon and remembers you. He turns his head and sees his mother sitting there, reading a paperback novel.

“Where is she?” he croaks, and his sudden words startle his mother.

“Who?” she asks. She sets her book down, pulls her chair closer. She smooths her hand over his forehead, and he feels like a little boy again—sick in bed, her cool hand soothing him.

“The woman,” he manages to say through his dry throat. “The woman who saved my life.”

-----

No one seems to know about you.

Benny’s family knows nothing about the woman who saved his life. Henderson and Z visit, and they know nothing either. They only know that he had been shot, but Henderson had pursued Merrimen with Big Nick that day. Zapata had been hit too, in the knee, and hadn’t been there for Benny’s rescue.

No one knows anything.

Recovery takes forever. His wounds heal slowly, then he needs PT to regain his strength, his stamina. He shifts from the ICU to the regular part of the hospital, then he’s released with orders to continue PT.

That’s just the physical side. Benny’s head is a mess.

He knows, theoretically, what PTSD is. He maybe even had it before that day: police work is miserable, and Major Crimes sees the worst sort of shit. He never slept all that well before, and he used alcohol and weed to cope.

This? This is something else entirely.

His sleep is thin and restless. He’s irritable. Loud noises make him jittery which…he lives in an apartment in Los Angeles. Loud noises are the norm.

Moments from that afternoon flash across his eyes, vivid memories that spark against his senses. The scent of spilled gasoline from a bullet-punctured gas tank. The scent of gunpowder. The iron scent of blood—his own.

The woman is in those vivid memories, and that is what keeps him semi-sane in the month after he is released from the hospital. For every flashback that leaves his mouth dry and his palms slick with sweat, there’s the memory of you: your beautiful face taut with worry, your steady hands keeping him alive.

-----

Benny uses up his sick time then is forced to take a medical retirement. His leg injury is significant, and no doctor will clear him to return to work. He gets half of his pension early, and that’s enough to live if he’s thrifty.

Benny Magalon has always been defined by his role as a detective. He never married or had kids. His friends are largely fellow cops. Without that, he drifts. He’s unmoored.

Another month passes. He’s basically a recluse. He skips his PT appointments, gets his groceries delivered. The wide blue sky feels perilous to him, so he only goes out at night if he has to.

He’s on a slippery slope. He knows it, but he seems powerless to stop it. Poor sleep, poor eating habits, too much drinking. He loses weight but gets the soft, rounded face of a regular drinker. His hands shake too much. His family checks in on him—his mother makes it a rule to stop by once a week with a home-cooked meal—but he’s mostly alone.

He knows better than most that this is what kills cops: not always a well-placed bullet from a bad guy, but the ugly mundaneness of everyday living after a tragedy. The whispering voice in the dark hours of early morning, asking him if it’d be easier to just end it. He turned in his service piece, but he still has his own gun. It’d be so easy to—

He pushes the thought aside. He remembers his last glimpse of you: kneeling in the street, covered in his blood. You suffered to save his life. He can’t make it be worth nothing now.

-----

It’s Connors that gets him back on track. He stops by one evening, unannounced, with a six-pack and a pizza.

And a thin folder that he slides across the table to Benny as they eat.

“I looked into your mystery woman,” he says as he swipes at his mouth with a napkin. “Honestly, I didn’t even think she existed. Thought you had some near-death hallucination of…shit, I dunno. Your grandma or something.”

Benny lifts his eyebrows. “What changed your mind?”

“Talked to one of the EMTs. He confirmed her existence.”

Benny feels his heart in his throat. He traces his finger around the edge of the folder. “And?”

“And, I did a little digging. Detective-work. Remember that? So, a lot of the cars in that traffic snarl were abandoned during the shoot-out. People got out and ran. The entire street was a crime scene, and as they cleared it, the cars were towed.”

“Okay…”

“Towed cars were taken to three different impound lots. Two of ‘em kept good records of who picked up the cars and when. No woman matching your description came through there looking for their missing red sedan.”

“And the third lot?”

Connors takes a sip of his beer. “Kept less than stellar records.” A beat, and Benny’s heart is thudding so heavy in his chest that he almost misses the next sentence out of Connors’s mouth.

“No woman came through there either, though. Because the red sedan is still there.” He reaches out and taps the folder. “She hasn’t claimed it yet. I got her information from her tags, and I went through the car too. She’s a vet, did you know?”

Benny nods. “Yeah. Well, I mean, I remember her wearing scrubs. I thought she might be a nurse.”

Connors takes another sip of beer. “It’s a good thing she got out of her car too. I looked it over. There was a pair of bullet holes right through the windshield. Driver’s side. Slugs are buried in the headrest. Woulda killed her, instant.”

So many emotions at once: your name is right inside the folder. Your address. Where you work. But….

“She hasn’t gotten her car back?” Benny asks, confused. “Why? It’s been months.”

“Good news, bad new, bubba,” Connors replies. “Good news is, I found her. She has family in L.A. I went and paid her parents a visit to see what was up.”

Benny swallows hard. “What’s the bad news?”

The man’s face twists into a wince. “Her parents said she kinda fell apart after that day. There’s no easy way to say it, but she tried to off herself a few weeks afterwards. Pills, I guess.”

“Fuck. Fuck. Are you serious?”

Connors nods.

Benny sits back in his chair. Slumps. Why didn’t he ever consider that as a possibility? In his mind, he thought the worst thing you’d experience was the shock of that moment. Maybe some lingering nightmares. Maybe a stronger startle reflex when a car backfires or a door slams.

Suicide, though?

He sorts back through his memories of that day. The memory of your face peering down at him, the memory of the feeling of your wrist when he managed to grab it and squeeze it. He lays this new fact of your suicide attempt over those memories, and suddenly it seems obvious, the dark shadow that has engulfed you.

Hasn’t it consumed him too? Hasn’t his tired, tortured mind drifted to the comforting weight of his gun? Hasn’t he been tempted by the thought of going to sleep and not waking up?

“Fuck,” he says softly.

“Good news, bad news, good news,” Connors amends from earlier. “Her parents said she’s in some in-patient program.”

“That is good.”

The other man nods. “Yeah. They said they’d be willing to talk to you, if you want. They thought she might be up for meeting you once she’s released. Thought it might do her some good. Help her recovery and all that.”

The feeling that washes over Benny…it’s an echo from that day. Madness, then, and madness now. He was dying that day, but he remembers the wild thought that you were the woman he’d been waiting for all his life. He’d felt an undeniable link to you, sudden and strong, and in the months since then, he chalked it up to whatever synapses had been wildly firing as his brain flailed against his dying body.

But even now, sitting in his kitchen across from Connors, he feels exactly the same. The same kinship that runs deeper than just two people who survived a traumatic event together. He feels that same link to you. He’s never been the sort of man to believe in any of that shit—coincidences happen all the time—but this still feels like fate.

Fate that you were there that day. Fate that he was shot and you were there to save him.

Fate that as he was waking up from his coma, as he was rejoining the world, you were trying to leave it.

Fate that he has been sitting in his apartment, struggling the exact same way as you have been struggling.

Fate that as you saved him that day, he wants to save you now.

#benny magalon #borracho magalon #benny magalon x reader #benny magalon imagine #borracho magalon imagine #borracho magalon x reader #den of thieves #tropes and tales

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ransomedrogue · 1 year

Text

hey blindspotters... it’s been awhile! I fell off the writing/fandom wagon for a bit there but then I just checked back in and the rewatch was on 3.20... and I wrote something? It’s a couple of extra scenes (to make the gunshot wound worse than it appeared of course :P). oh and it all came out quick and I didn’t actually watch the episode again so apologies for any inconsistencies.

3.20

Jane ran to Avery as soon as she dropped the weapon, wrapping her arms around her daughter in relief. Watching Avery point the gun at her godmother had been terrifying, especially knowing their shared DNA. Jane was sure that Remi at that age would have fired without remorse, despite the potential consequences.

Avery seemed to be in shock at what had almost happened; what she'd almost done. Her body was stiff in Jane's arms and her breathing started to become frantic so Jane guided her towards the couch, away from the action.

"Here, let's sit down," she said. "You did the right thing, everything's going to be okay."

Avery sat obediently, still shaky as Jane's hand settled between her shoulders.

"Okay great. Now let's breathe together for a bit."

Jane quietly encouraged Avery to inhale deeply before releasing her breath slowly, until a few silent minutes passed and Avery finally spoke.

"I almost killed her," she whispered, sounding almost in awe.

"I'm sorry."

Jane shook her head, fighting back an emotion she couldn't quite identify. It was part pride, part guilt, with a sprinkling of regret. Avery had made the right choice, despite everything she'd been through, all the things a parent should have protected her from.

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Jane replied. "You have every right to be angry, and you still made the right choice. I'm proud of you, and I'm sure your dad would be too."

Avery finally stopped staring blankly at the floor and looked up at Jane, with obvious uncertainty in her eyes.

"I don't know what to believe anymore," she said softly. "Everything's so messed up."

Jane sighed, her heart aching for her daughter. Learning the truth about her own parentage had been hard enough, even without memories of growing up with Shepherd. Avery had thought her family was completely normal until recently, and was still just a kid in so many ways. Of course it was a lot to wrap her mind around, and would involve a lot of mixed emotions.

"I know," Jane replied. "I'm sorry about all of this."

"It's not your fault," Avery said, shaking her head. "You saved my life today."

Of course she had, there hadn't been any other option. It wasn't something she expected her daughter to thank her for though; it was just a given. Avery was her kid, even if she rightfully didn't consider Jane her parent. And no one was going to hurt her kid.

Jane tried to figure out a way to deflect Avery's gratitude but her train of thought was interrupted by Kurt's voice, coming from behind them.

"Yeah, she does that," he commented, placing his hand on Jane's shoulder and squeezing lightly.

Jane looked up over her shoulder and rolled her eyes at him, but her smile belied any annoyance at his statement. Weller was always so proud of her that it was almost over the top. However, considering how broken their relationship had been just recently, it warmed her chest hearing his love for her come through in the tone of his voice.

"Paramedics are here to take you to the hospital," Weller said. "And I'll take Avery to the NYO to get her statement. Reade and Zapata can wrap things up here."

Avery flashed Jane a worried look and a surge of protectiveness washed over her.

"I don't need to go to the hospital, I'll come with you to the NYO," Jane protested. "I can get medical to look at it after Avery's done her statement."

"That tourniquet's been on for two hours now, it needs to be loosened soon," Kurt replied. "Let's go see what the paramedics say first."

"Kurt…"

"No arguing," he said, his voice stern though his thumb continued to rub soothing circles against her skin.

"Yeah. No arguing," Avery added, her tone equally serious.

Jane sighed in defeat, shaking her head as she stood up and let Kurt walk her towards the ambulance.

"Okay, let's get this over with," Jane said, sitting down on the gurney that the EMT pointed her towards.

The paramedic asked all the standard questions about her injury and frowned when she said how long the tourniquet had been on for.

"We need to get you to the hospital and get that off of your arm as soon as possible," he said. "Let's get you strapped onto the gurney and we'll get moving."

Jane immediately got off the stretcher at his words and started to walk away but Weller used his bigger size to press her back into a seated position.

"Kurt, it can wait," she protested.

"No it can't," he retorted. "You know permanent damage can happen if you have that tourniquet on for over two hours."

"Fine, then they can take it off here and bandage it," Jane said. "If that isn't enough to get the bleeding to stop then I'll go to the doctor after you get Avery's statement."

Weller sighed, giving the paramedic an exasperated look.

"Will that work?", he asked.

"We can try," the EMT said. "But it is not what I would recommend."

Jane shot the man a glare and he immediately stopped talking when he saw the daggers in her eyes. Silently, he proceeded to open up his first aid kit and began wrapping a pressure bandage tightly around the wound on Jane's arm.

Jane grunted as the sensation in her arm immediately went from muted ache to pulsing throb. Her eyes closed automatically and she shivered involuntarily as a wave of discomfort shot through her. But then she felt Kurt's hand slip into hers, gripping it firmly as she tried to breathe through the pain.

It took a few moments to gather herself and when Jane opened her eyes again, the bandage was on and the paramedic was beginning to undo the tourniquet. For a second, everything seemed fine after the strap came off. But then, almost immediately, the bandage was soaked in blood and Jane's head began to spin.

"What's happening?!" Avery asked, her voice full of panic.

Jane tried to say something to reassure her daughter but all her thoughts were slipping away with her blood. She could vaguely hear Weller freaking out at the EMT's, demanding to know what was happening. But by the time the answer came, her audio input was becoming spotty, and all she could hear was something about a tear in the artery.

That doesn't sound good, she thought dimly, while everyone began yelling all around her. Then something else was wrapped around her already throbbing arm, again intensifying the pain until darkness swept over her and she slumped forward into Kurt's panicked grip.

###

Normally, Weller would be totally losing his shit.

In the current circumstance, he was still losing his shit, but only internally. At least, Kurt hoped he was maintaining a relatively calm and rational exterior for Avery's sake.

Jane was going to be fine. They had gotten to the hospital in record time, with him leading the ambulance in the FBI SUV, lights blaring all the way. Even though she had regained consciousness almost immediately after passing out in his arms, Weller had driven unreasonably fast, until he realized he was scaring Avery and toned things down a bit.

And now, he was telling himself not to pace as his mind kept going back to the memory of her eyes rolling back as she slumped forward, almost falling off the gurney before he managed to wrap himself around her. Avery kept eyeing him anxiously but Weller had offered all the reassuring words he could muster up in the haze of his own worry.

It felt like an eternity, but in reality the surgeon was out to talk to them barely an hour after Jane had been whisked away into an operating room. She offered Kurt a tired smile as he rushed up to talk to her, clearly seeing his poorly hidden desperation.

"Your wife is fine, Agent Weller," the doctor said. "She was lucky, the bullet was just deep enough to nick the deep brachial artery, but not enough to slice it through. The repair was relatively simple and she should have full function of the arm again shortly. I would still like to keep her overnight for observation, but barring any complications, she should be ready to go home in the morning."

Weller winced internally, recognizing a future battle that both he and the doctor were sure to lose.

"When can we see her?," he asked.

"She's in recovery now and will be in a regular room soon after she's awake," the doctor replied. "I'll make sure someone lets you know as soon as that happens."

Kurt thanked the surgeon and then exhaled a lungful of worry as he turned to face Avery.

"See, I told you she'd be fine," he said.

Avery smirked a little as she shook her head at him.

"You were so freaking out," she replied.

Weller sighed, accepting the obvious fact that he could be irrational when it came to Jane's well-being.

"Yeah, okay. Maybe I was," he admitted. "But I also knew she would be okay. She's been through a lot worse, she's tough as nails. Where do you think you get it from?"

At least that got a grin out of the kid.

"I mean, the same thing basically happened on our first case together and she still came back for more," he continued.

Avery looked confused for a second as she registered his words.

"You mean she got shot on her first day with you?"

"Yup," Weller replied with a grin. "And that was after she beat the crap out of two guys in a knife fight."

Avery grinned, nodding her approval.

"Jane's pretty hardcore," she said.

"She's not going to want to stay overnight, is she?"

Kurt laughed, loosening up for the first time since Jane had passed out that afternoon.

"Nope, she sure isn't."

###

She woke up in a fuzz, with fire blazing in her bicep. Trying to blink away the bleariness, Jane realized she wasn't in the recovery room anymore, even though she didn't remember falling asleep again after waking up post op. But now instead of the recovery room nurse, she was being intently observed by a pair of familiar blue eyes, etched deep with both worry and relief.

"Hey," Kurt breathed, as if full volume might overwhelm her somehow.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Jane replied, without really thinking about the question. It was what he needed to hear, and how she needed to be.

Weller smiled, a knowing sparkle in his eye as he looked her over intently.

"How's the arm? Do you need painkillers?"

"I'm fine, Kurt," she sighed. She felt blurry enough without more meds, even if her arm was pulsating. Jane didn't want to be on hospital grade drugs, especially with Avery there. She had already felt bad worrying her daughter earlier that day, and felt rather chagrined at having ended up admitted to the hospital for a graze to her arm.

"Did you guys do Avery's statement yet?"

Weller and Avery exchanged a glance before Kurt looked back at Jane.

"No, he was too busy losing it in the waiting room," Avery said, matter of factly. "I mean, he was pretending he wasn't. But it was pretty obvious."

Weller winced visibly and Jane laughed at the mix of mock and real dismay in his expression. Getting called out by a teenager was something they would both have to get used to.

"Kurt, it was a graze," she sighed.

"A graze doesn't take surgery and a bag of blood," Weller replied. "I should have known it was worse than it looked when you told me things weren't great."

"The doctor wants you to stay overnight," he added. "Just for observation."

Jane sighed, steeling herself for a battle.

"Kurt…"

"I know. You're fine, and you don't want to stay," Weller said, flashing Avery another look.

But his tone more bemused than upset, and when he glanced back at Jane, she could see affection glittering in his eyes.

"Will you at least wait for the doctor to come take a look? Then you can tell him you're leaving and we can all go to the NYO after."

It was an easy compromise, especially since she was still a little groggy from the anaesthetic. Jane grinned at her husband, glad to have avoided an argument.

"And then we'll go get my favourite burritos?," Jane added suddenly inspired by a growl in her stomach.

Kurt laughed, nodding in pretend defeat.

"Yes dear, then we'll go get your favourite burritos."

#blindspot #blindspot fanfic #blindspot rewatch 2023

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