#borracho magalon imagine

[tropes-and-tales]

If You Weren't You, Part Two

Day 1:  Hate sex (Benny Magalon x F!Reader)

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

CW:  Light angst, kinda; smut (PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count:  5618

AN:  This is a sequel to this, and it was requested for Kinktober by @thesandbeneathmytoes!)

The weekend passes uncomfortably for Benny Magalon.

He has the usual bullshit chores to catch up on.  He gets groceries, does his laundry.  He calls home, gets the updates on his family from his mom.  He goes through the pile of mail that accumulated on his table during the week.

Every idle moment, his mind drifts to you.  That moment with you, specifically.  The moment of insanity.

Nighttime is the worst.  He doesn’t fall asleep easily anyway, but Saturday night, Sunday night…it takes longer than usual to drift off.  He keeps replaying that moment.  In the darkness of his room, he swears he can exactly remember the weirdly tender way you touched him—your hand in his hair, the gentle way you kissed him. 

The way he made you laugh—really laugh—when he jokingly accused you of getting turned on by being mean to him.

The curiously hurt look on your face afterwards when he implied that fucking you was some bottom-of-the-barrel situation for him.  It was inexplicable, the hurt in your expression, because Benny hadn’t thought you were capable of feeling hurt.  You were too cool, too dispassionate…or so he thought.

Sunday night stretches out long and uncomfortable.  The minutes tick by slow, and he’s no closer to falling asleep.  In only a few hours he’ll have to get up, get dressed, and face you. 

“Goddammit,” he mutters in the darkness of his room, and he rolls over, punches his pillow into shape, and tries to push you out of his head.

-----

He doesn’t have to face you Monday morning.  Lobbin’ Bob is the one leading the morning debrief, and you are nowhere to be found. 

Benny finds out later that you are with the LAPD, plying your charm to get some case files they have on the suspect on a separate case.  Right now, though, he’s just relieved to not have to see you. 

He and Big Nick go outside after the debrief to head back to Major Crimes.  His boss looks awful—he hits those Friday parties hard and never seems to have enough time to recover.  Nick gestures to Benny to wait a moment, and he leans against his truck, slides a pack of smokes out of his coat pocket.  He lights a cigarette with a grumble, then tosses the pack and lighter to Benny.

They smoke together in silence for a beat.  God only knows what Big Nick is thinking. 

Benny?  He’s thinking he’s dodged a bullet, but that he’ll have to face you soon enough. 

Big Nick takes a deep drag of his cigarette.  “Sorry about Friday night,” he says.  “You drew the short straw.”

Benny flicks the ash off of his own cigarette.  “S’ fine.”

“You missed a good party.”  A beat.  “So how was she?  Lobbin’ Bob’s pet ice queen?”

He shrugs.  He refuses to tell his boss about that moment of madness in the backseat of your SUV, the weirdly tender moment that turned sour as soon as you both put your pants back on. 

“Same as always,” he replies.

Big Nick chuckles, shakes his head.  “You know, I’m all for women in law enforcement.  Equal rights and all that shit.  But I hate it when they get too high on themselves.  The way she marches around, acting like she’s better than everyone…there’s no room for ego in this game.”

Benny bites his tongue, doesn’t point out that Big Nick has the biggest ego of anyone.  How he insists on being the center of attention, the center of any moment.  The Sheriff’s department resident bad boy who get results at the cost of….well, everything.  At the cost of good procedures and policies, at the cost of his family, at the cost of his detectives’ personal lives…

“She needs taken down a notch or two,” Big Nick says.  “Think we should be the ones to do it.”

Benny has witnessed plenty of his boss’s pranks and mean-spirited jokes.  Big Nick plays rough.

He remembers the feeling of your fingers combing through his hair, the soft way you pulled him to you to kiss him.  The startling sound of your laughter.

“Nah, leave it,” he tells Big Nick, but he should know better—Nick does what Nick wants, and tough shit to anyone who doesn’t like it.

*****

You learned how to compartmentalize things when you were just a kid, and the knack for it serves you well in adulthood—in your personal life, but especially in your job.

When you make the terrible decision to fuck Detective Magalon, that decision straddles both your personal and professional life, which makes it harder to shove away in a box and forget it…but you’re a pro at sealing off unhappy moments, sliding them into some cobwebbed corner of your mind, so that’s exactly what you do.

You seal off that moment with Magalon, you push it away, you start to forget it.

Monday:  you spend the better part of the day with LAPD, sifting through evidence tangentially related to your case.

Tuesday:  you testify in an unrelated case, drive up to Sacramento and walk a judge and jury through your investigation from months ago.

Wednesday:  you return to the office and the case at hand.  The LAPD sent over all of their casework while you were in the state capitol, boxes of evidence, so you sigh and settle in for a day of combing through it all.  It’s a proverbial needle in a haystack, but you aren’t alone for long.

An hour into it, you’ve only just ordered the boxes and cracked open the first one.  There’s a knock at the door of your office, and Bob peeks his head in.

“Hey, the Sheriff’s Department sent over one of their detectives to help you sort through the evidence,” he said.  He shook his head, chuckled.  “I tried to tell O’Brien that we didn’t need any help, but he’s afraid of getting iced out.”

You roll your eyes and hope the gesture covers the way your stomach cramps and twists.  You know it’s going to be Magalon.  That shoved-away, boxed-up memory resurfaces—the gentle way he had cradled the top of your head in your SUV, the way he had smiled down at you…then how he had insulted you right after, and how hard that stung.

“It’s fine,” you lie to Bob.

“Good.”  He raps his fist against the doorjamb.  “He’s on his way up.  Play nice, but if you need me, just call.”

“Will do,” you reply, and you have only a handful of minutes to compose yourself:  to pull on a neutral face, to take some steadying breaths, and then Detective Magalon—Mr. Tall, Dark, and Stupid—is in your doorway with an inscrutable expression on his face.

*****

You’re quiet all day.  Through the morning, through lunch and into the afternoon—you say so little.  The sum total of your conversation is you asking him what he wants for lunch, then you calling out to an assistant to place the order.

You eat in silence.  You work in silence.  Benny goes outside to smoke a cigarette, and he finds his hands tremble to light it.  He lingers outside as long as he thinks he can, and he returns to your office slowly, drags his feet.

Your silence is unnerving.  It holds weight and takes up space, like a third entity in the room with the two of you.  Benny’s not used to women being so quiet when they’re pissed at him—and you must be pissed at him.  Women he’s done wrong, they usually yell at him, scream at him, come at him like wildcats.

You just sit there and page through wire-tap records, witness interviews, phone records.  You don’t avoid eye contact with him but you don’t stare him down.  You’re perfectly neutral, exactly down the middle of the line.

His weird guilt and unease shifts back to a more familiar feeling:  irritation.  Lobbin’ Bob’s goddamned pet ice princess.  Fussily perfect, completely boring.  You drink water all day to stay hydrated.  You brush and floss your teeth after lunch.  When you get a headache, you pull open a desk drawer—neatly organized—and shake out a single tablet of ibuprofen that you toss back with a practiced flick of the wrist.

You’re a goddamned robot, not even a real person, and Benny hates that you took up so much space in his head over the weekend.  He hates that he felt a burgeoning guilt over what he had said after your hookup; he hates that he felt nervous to see you again.  He hates that he lost a single moment of sleep over you.

The sun reaches its apex and starts its slide into the west.  The quiet murmur of office noise dies off on the other side of your door.  Benny’s concentration wanes too; the numbers on the phone logs he’s combing start to blur together.  His thoughts drift off to other things.  He starts to fiddle with his phone, restlessly scrolling through his email, his texts, the handful of bare-bones social media he has.

You glance up at him from your pile of paperwork when his phone chimes—a text from Big Nick—and Benny feels your eyes on him.  When he looks up from replying to Nick, he catches your studious look, your arched brow.

But you say nothing, so when you bend your head back to the task at hand, he goes ahead and breaks the onerous silence with a terse, “we gonna be much longer?”

“Big Nick got a line on some coke and hookers?”

There it is.  Finally.  He pushes a hard exhale through his nose and shakes his head.  “That wasn’t Big Nick.”  He doesn’t add more to the lie; he’s curious if you’ll think it’s a woman.  He’s curious if any glimmer of jealousy will cross your features.

He’s disappointed a beat later.  Instead of feeling jealous, you seem to see through his ruse but you play along.  Your lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. 

“Oh, a hot date, then?”  The smile widens, and you lift a hand towards your closed door.  “If you leave now, you won’t lose your deposit on her.”

Another huffed out breath, and his irritation rachets up a degree.  He hates your implications around him paying for women, but he hates even more how close to the mark you’ve hit.  He hasn’t paid for it, not in a long while…but there was a time when he had, back when he was freshly-divorced and smarting from it, licking his wounds at their big seedy parties each weekend. 

“Jealous?” he asks, and he hates how lame it sounds as a comeback, but he pairs it with a stony expression.

You nod, and a fake frown replaces your smile, a pouting moue that would be charming on anyone else but you. 

“I’m devastated,” you reply, dead-pan, but then you sigh and look back down at your paperwork.  “No, go ahead and go.”

He would leave if you’d leave, but you seem like you’re staying.  The sun is almost set now, and your office is darker, but you make no move to box up the remaining evidence.  You seem like you’re hunkering down until the job is done, and that needles at Benny even more.  You’ve always obliquely—and not so obliquely—implied that you are the better cop.  That he and the Major Crimes assholes are reckless tramplers of the law, and that you and Lobbin’ Bob are upstanding examples of law enforcement.

“You coming?” he asks.  He stands up but doesn’t move towards the door.

“No.”

“It’s late.”

You tilt your head but don’t look up at him.  “I’ve worked later than this.”

The implication, Benny hears, is that he’s never worked late before, and he bristles at your tone.  “There’s probably nothing here,” he replies, and he gestures at the boxes of evidence from the LAPD case.  “Leave it.”

You snort, and you finally lift your head.  You stare at him dead-on, no blinking.  “That’s excellent police work, Detective.  ‘There’s probably nothing here.’”  You repeat his words back to him in a startingly good impression of him, his lazy California accent and soft voice, and he bristles even more.

“This stuff was always a long shot,” he argues.

“Long shots pay off all the time.  Some cases are built on long shots.”

“So you’re gonna stay here and finish?”  He glanced over at the boxes you haven’t gotten to yet.  There’s three of them.  You’ll be here all night.  He feels that familiar sting of guilt, and then he feels pissed, like you’re manipulating him into staying longer, even though you’ve been beating him with your silence all day—

“Yup.  I am.”

“Well, I’m leaving.”  He takes a step towards your door but goes no further because that fucking guilt keeps him rooted in place.  The thought of you spending a lonely night with boxes of evidence, and he’s supposed to be your partner in this—

“C’mon, let’s just go,” he adds.  “We can hit it tomorrow fresh.”

“Tomorrow I have to hit something else,” you reply.  There’s tension in your voice, a tightness to your words.  You’re getting irritated with him now.  “And the next day there’s something else.  I have to get through this now or it won’t get done.”

“Shit, there’s nothing—”

“Christ, Magalon!”  You snap, sudden, and it makes him jolt where he stands.  You toss your pen aside and bring your fist down on your desktop like a hammer, and the display of anger makes him take a half step away from you.  You stand up, round around your desk, and you go to your door and yank it open.

“Go.”  You stand in the doorway and point out of it, and you actually fucking snap your fingers as you point, like he’s a recalcitrant dog caught chewing on the furniture.

“Jesus, calm down—”

The words slip out despite knowing that telling any woman to calm down always elicits the opposite reaction:  you actually stamp your foot on the floor, and it’d be cute as shit, how feisty you’re getting out of nowhere, but you’re you, and he’s been ready to leave for hours, exhausted by the boring work and the frustration to be paired with you again.

“Get out,” you tell him.  “I’ll finish it up myself.”

“I only—”

“I don’t need any excuses.  Seriously, Magalon.  Go home.  Go find O’Brien or your band of merry assholes.”

He should leave.  He wants to.  You’re back to being a bitch, a living cold front that leaves him chilled by your silence and your judgement.  He’s completely free to stalk away; he has no obligation to stay and suffer more.  Except…

…except you’ve been calling him by his name all day.  Calling him by his title.  Magalon.  Detective.  You’ve dropped the pretense of calling him the wrong name, the pretense of conflating him with his Major Crimes teammates—the message that they’re all the same, interchangeable, identical in their awfulness.

Does it mean you see him as himself now?  Did he lay you well enough to distinguish himself from the pack and earn that scant bit of respect—razor-thin, admittedly—that you use his last name now?

“Calm down,” he repeats, and this time it’s intentional.  He’s rewarded by more outrage:  you stamp your foot again (it is cute, he decides now, because you’re usually so collected).  You actually go so apoplectic that when you open your mouth to respond, nothing comes out.  You glare at him gape-mouthed, and nothing comes out, so he adds, “shit, you need laid again?  You already missing it after a few days?”

Your eyes go wider, and you huff out a breath so heavily that your nostrils flare at the effort.  “Shut up.”

It’s not a no.  Benny smirks at you, and your eyes narrow into slits at his expression.

“Just go,” you seethe, like you’re pushing the words out between your clenched jaw.  “Seriously, don’t leave whoever waiting.  Your date.  O’Brien.  Whoever.”

“I can spare you five minutes.”

You snort, roll your eyes.  “What’s that come to, four minutes of foreplay and a minute of action?”

This is cute too, he decides.  You talking shit about his game when you know better.  You acting like you don’t know how he is, like you don’t have the first-hand experience of him pretty effortlessly coaxing an orgasm from you—

“Aw, sweetheart.”  His smirk widens, and he reaches out to trace a fingertip down the curve of your face.  “You know that isn’t true.”

You swat away his hand and make a dismissive tsch sort of noise, but you don’t reply.  He lifts his hand again, traces his forefinger across the neckline of your blouse.  He doesn’t touch you, but he’s close, and when you go to swat him away again, he catches your hand in his.  Pulls you towards him, takes you off your balance until you sway closer to him.

“C’mon,” he says.  “Five minutes, then we leave, and hit those few boxes fresh in the morning.”

He sees that you’re tempted.  He sees the way your expression wavers, and he isn’t sure if you’re more tempted by him or the prospect of not spending the night in your office…but either way, he’s snaking his way around the wall you have up, and you’re wavering—

“C’mon.”  He drops his voice to a low rumble right by your ear, and he catches the way your breathing picks up, the rise and fall of your chest quickening.  “I know you’re already wet, sweetheart.  You’ve been mean to me all day.  You must be.”

It makes you laugh, and just like that night in your SUV, it startles him.  It’s such a rare sound, he guesses.  It’s throaty and low but loud, punched-out.  Just like before, he feels a thrill of pride to draw it out of you.  He bets it’s a rarer thing to make you laugh than to make you come, and he’s done both.

“I haven’t been mean to you at all,” you point out.  “I’ve barely talked.”

“Silent treatment can hurt.”

Another eye-roll.  “You complained the other day that I talk too much.  Now it’s not enough.”

A fair point:  he did snap at you that night, right before he kissed you.  He doesn’t want to rehash it at the moment.  His own arousal is awake, powering up, so he lifts his eyebrows at you and says, hopeful, “so?”

“So what?”

“Five minutes, then we go?”

“Fuck off.”  You move past him, out of the doorway and back into your office.  “You just want more ammo for your asshole buddies.  Tell ‘em all about hooking up with the ice princess or whatever.”

Benny shuts the door to your office, but he’s on the wrong side of it.  He takes the few steps to follow you and says, “I didn’t tell them.”

Another one of your bitter tsch sounds.  “Because it’s embarrassing.  Yeah, I know.  You already—”

“It isn’t their business.”  He cuts you off, and if he’s been teasing you before, he’s deadly serious now.  It isn’t their business.  Not Henderson, not Z, not Connors.  Certainly not Big Nick.  He chafes under their closeness sometimes, hates that they work and party together so much that it feels like he has no privacy.  But this thing—a one-time hook-up that maybe is burgeoning into more—belongs to the two of you.  You and Benny.  No one else.  He tells you so, in far fewer words.

You don’t believe him.  You finally turn and watch him, and the expression in your eyes is pure wariness.  Underneath it, though, he swears he sees a glint of something else, something not easily defined—

“Come on,” he says.  He sounds whiny but he doesn’t care.  “You keep scrapping with me, and we could already be fucking.”

It makes you smile.  It blossoms across your face like you can’t help it, and in the moment Benny just thinks got you, sweetheart, but afterwards he’ll think about how your smile, rare as it is, holds no artifice, not a single ounce of guile.  He’ll think, later on, how your smile transforms your entire face from one of a brittle sort of prettiness to something extraordinarily beautiful.

“Fine,” you answer him, and if you weren’t you, it’d be adorable how you act like you’re put out, like you’re doing him a favor.  “Lock the door then, Magalon.”

-----

The interlude in your SUV wasn’t romantic by any stretch, but you try to make this moment even less so.  At least that first time, it started with him kissing you, you kissing him back.  Now, you’re all business, and he stares for a beat as he watches you kick off your shoes, as you start to unbutton your pants.

“Damn, slow down,” he says.

“You have five minutes.”  You push your pants down, give a little shimmy to get them over your hips, over your ass.  You get them off but you shake them out and hang them over your chair, fussy as ever.

Benny closes the gap between you, and he manages to reach down and still your hands before you can get your panties off.  He clasps them and draws them up, presses them to his chest. 

“Slow down,” he repeats.  He says it softer, almost a whisper, and it makes you lift your gaze to find him.

The corner of your mouth quirks into a near-smile.  “Well, now you have four—”

He doesn’t let you finish.  He bends his head and cuts off your smart-ass mouth with a kiss, steals the words from you.  Your lips are just as soft as that night, and when he groans at the feel of them, he feels them curve into a smile.  A beat later, he feels the sharp line of your teeth nipping at him, not very hard, and then the tip of your tongue tracing along his lower lip.

Benny releases your hands.  He wraps one around the back of your neck to hold you to him.  He places the other on your waist, and he pushes his fingers under the hem of your shirt to revel in the feel of your skin—soft, and so warm that you feel almost feverish.

You?  You don’t romance it beyond kissing him, but you’re eager.  He can feel it shimmering off of you like heat on pavement on a summer’s day.  Your hands reach down on him; one fumbles at his belt and the button and fly of his jeans while the other cups him through the denim.  He inhales sharply at your touch, even through the layers of clothing.  He breaks the kiss a moment later when you snake your hand under his jeans and his boxers—the sudden feeling of your warm palm on his cock, coaxing him from half-hard to fully erect.

“Eager.  Knew you missed me,” he gloats.  He tries to catch your eye but you avoid him, shake your head.

“Shut up,” you mumble, and it’s defensive, and it could lead to you stopping this whole encounter and putting that wall up around you again, so he leaves it be and kisses you again.

Benny wonders what it would be like to take his time with you.  This is paltry; it’s a meager mouthful, barely enough to sate any appetite.  When he hoists you onto the edge of your desk and pushes into you—you’re already wet, just as he had guessed, so you must get turned on by scrapping with him—it feels just as amazing as before.  Your pussy is molten, velvety, gripping him like a fist until he grits his teeth so he doesn’t embarrass himself and come too soon…

…yet he wonders how much better it would be to take his time.  To have the luxury of time and space and privacy, to strip you completely naked and see what you really look like.  He’d love to edge you, he thinks.  He’d love to see you stretched out on a bed, back arching away from the mattress as he pushes you to the precipice of your orgasm only to deny you at the last moment.  He’d love to strip away every bit of ego you have, every bit of smugness that sets you higher than him in your own opinion.  He’d love to frustrate you completely in bed, would love to see your eyes leaking tears, that mean mouth of yours begging him so sweetly…

…because even like this, once he gets his cock in you, you turn so nice.  It gentles you, rounds off the sharp bits and edges of you.  Your face goes soft with wonder.  Your eyes go soft when you meet his gaze.  As he fucks you—sharp thrusts, steady pace—you tilt your face up to him, and you look so unlike yourself that he kisses you again.  You sigh into it, hold him tighter where your arms are wrapped around his shoulders to help hold yourself steady at the awkward angle.

Neither of you say much else.  He wraps an arm around your waist as he drives into you, and you mumble when you’re close but he already knows:  as inscrutable as you are, as placid as your face can be when you’re masking yourself around him, your body is an open book.  He feels like he’s tuned in perfectly to whatever wavelength you’re operating on.  He hears the way your breathing picks up, feels how your kisses get sloppier as you sink into the sensation of your approaching orgasm.  He feels how your cunt grips him tighter, how your arousal coats him and makes it easier to bottom out in you.

He tells you he’s close too, and that’s about the sum of your conversation for the rest of the night:  you come a beat later, with a keening whine that sets him off and gives him barely enough time to pull out before he’s painting your belly with his cum. 

You’re both quiet afterwards.  He resists the urge to kiss your forehead before he parts from you.  You might be resisting a similar urge, because you pat him awkwardly on his shoulder in a “way to go, sport” sort of way.  But neither of you say much as you clean up, dress, reassemble yourselves.  You’re both silent as you leave together, likely remembering how quickly shit turned mean the last time you fucked.

“Hit the rest of the evidence tomorrow morning?” he asks, and you meet his gaze and then nod. 

You turn towards where your SUV is parked, but you turn back a beat later, tell him to drive safely. 

*****

The case progresses slowly. 

You and Benny continue…well, whatever it is, you continue it.

It gives you whiplash.  The mean sniping with each other, the insults and barbs you trade.  He still follows the ice princess routine, the prissy, bland, clean-living routine.  He makes wild assumptions about your life—accuses you of loving beige, of being boring, of decorating your home in “live, laugh, love” décor.  His speculations about your sex life—as it exists outside of your hookups with him, that is—make you sound repressed and tedious.  You fuck white-collar men, he claims.  With the lights off.  Missionary.  Through a hole in the sheet.

All of that contrasted against how he’s kinda, sorta nice when you hook up.  He kisses you nicely, helps you clean up afterwards.  You tend to fuck in inconvenient places that test your flexibility, and Magalon is nice about it, considerate to take as much of the discomfort as he can rather than let you twist or strain to make it work.

Tall, Dark, and Stupid.  He is capable of being nice, you guess.  Who would have thought?

Only capable of it, though.  It’s not an innate character trait, you assume.  He’s still a mean asshole, snarky, and sometimes his words hit their target dead on and other times they only glance off of you.  You’re never sure when they’re going to hurt and when they’re going to make you laugh.

Once, you hook up in your office again, quiet because it’s the lunch hour and there’s twenty fellow FBI agents on the other side of your locked office door.  Magalon makes a crude joke afterwards about how you need to take a day off to meet up with your waxer, and your anger at the double standard—this dude who rolls around Los Angeles in a flannel with scruffy facial hair, judging you—washes through you immediately.  You open your mouth to argue because his judgement still stings, still makes you feel small and unworthy, but you catch him holding back a smile.  His stupid dimple gives him away, and he reaches down and smacks your ass lightly before he goes to leave.

“Save that feistiness for next time,” he tells you, and he drops you a wink, and you hate that he knows you will hold onto his comment, that you will likely visit your salon before you see him again.  You hate that he’ll see the results and smirk knowingly. 

You hate that he’ll know he is capable of getting to you.

Another time, he hurries you along.  It’s early evening, and he’s watched the clock all afternoon.  It’s distracting and keeps your orgasm frustratingly out of reach, like you can brush your fingertips against it but not get a firm grip.  You do what you always do, then:  you gasp beside his ear, you bear down.  You fake it.

You think he probably knows, because he peers at you through narrowed eyes right before he comes, and you hate that he’s savvy enough about your body to know the difference between the real thing and faking.

“Got somewhere to be,” he tells you as you clean up.  You hear the rustle of his jeans, the clink of his belt buckle. 

“Well, don’t let me hold you up.”

“Got a date,” he adds, and you catch the sidelong glance he gives you.  No dimples though.  You wonder if it’s true or if he’s riling you up.

“Lucky girl.”  You perch on the edge of your desk and pull your shoes back on.

“You sound jealous.”

“I’m not.”  You aren’t.  You’re relieved to find the thought of Magalon going on a date with someone else doesn’t spark any emotion at all.  You’ve done a lot of dumb things lately—chiefly the detective standing in your office, zipping up his pants—but at least catching feelings for said detective isn’t one of them.

“You sure?”  He peers at you again, and his face is back to its usual stoic stoniness.  Not a hint of smile, and you can’t read whatever is going on behind his dark eyes.

“Be sure to hold the door open for her,” you advise him.  “Women love basic politeness.”

“If you’re jealous…”

“I’m not.  Go.  Have fun.”  You shoo him away.  You sit down at your desk, not wanting to leave with him and go through this jealous-or-not-jealous routine in the parking lot too.  You see him out of the corner of your eye while he lingers in your doorway, and then he’s gone.

You don’t catch the faint hurt, the disappointment on his face when he leaves, like he was hoping you’d be jealous of the thought of him out with another woman, wining and dining her properly instead of just hate-fucking her. 

And he, of course, isn’t there later to see when the jealousy finally does hit you.  It’s just a small feeling; there’s no wild tears or tight chest.  You’re already home and walking your dog when it hits.  You imagine him out with a nameless woman, and you fill in all the features based on where you find yourself lacking:  this nameless woman has smaller, perkier tits, a better ass, a perfectly landscaped pussy.  She oozes warmth and openness.  No one has ever accused her of being an ice princess.  She has a complete, happy family:  parents who are still married and still very much in love, an older sister, a younger brother.  By the time you’re done walking the dog, you have written an entire history for this nameless woman, and the sting of jealousy needles deeper.

“It’s just fucking,” you remind yourself in bed that night, chiding yourself for getting so worked up over nothing.  “It’s just hate sex.”

Still, maybe this is the moment you need to end it.  It’s just a bad idea all around.  Magalon says he’s never told his buddies, but you can’t be sure and you certainly don’t trust him.  Hooking up isn’t against the rules, per se, but you’d hate the judgment that would spring up around the office.  It also distracts you when your attention should be elsewhere; the thought of prior hook-ups, the promise of more.  And now that you know he’s seeing other people outside of this thing you have, you’d have to make him wear a condom anyway.  No sense in putting yourself at risk.

“Easier to just end it,” you mumble as you roll over, tuck your hands under your pillow and try to make yourself comfortable.

Yes, that’s what you’ll do.  You’ll just end it.  Cold-turkey.  No need to make a scene about it.  The next time he reaches for you, you’ll just gently and firmly decline.  You’re not really the sort of woman to go for hate-fucking anyway, so breaking off your thing with Magalon is just you getting back to who you really are. 

A temporary break from sanity, but now you’re returning to who you are.

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

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Last Resort

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

Warnings: Cursing, angst, fluff, reader is a little drunk, Reader and Borracho are exes; bittersweet ending

Notes: Idk, my brain spit this out. Enjoy. Not beta-read.

Summary: You glanced over, taking in the familiar slopes of his profile. He looked good—he'd shaved pretty recently, and you were almost sure you spotted a new streak of grey by his temple. Goddamn. There was no way that he'd gone out of his way to look that good just for you, but you could pretend, right? In that precise moment, it felt like being delulu was indeed the solulu.

"I shouldn't have called."

It wasn't an apology, because you couldn't bring yourself to apologize, not just yet. You knew that you'd technically done the responsible thing, called someone to pick you up rather than trying to get home alone—but fuck, you could've gotten an uber, a lyft, fucking something. Being drunk was an excuse, not a reason. Dialing your ex should've been your last resort.

But there you were, sitting in the front seat of your ex-boyfriend's car.

If Borracho looked at you, you didn't see it—you were too busy staring out of the passenger side window and wishing yourself back to the crowded curb outside of the club. The cigarette and weed smoke would've been unbearable, but fuck—at least you wouldn't be so close to him, smelling his cologne, hearing the murmur of his favorite music.

"...S'alright."

It was about as much as you'd gotten out of him when you'd been together, so why did it sting so goddamn much?

"Did I wake you up?" You hedged, "Take you away from anything...?"

"You mean anyone?"

Damn, he'd sniffed that out fast. Maybe you'd forgotten how sharp he was; maybe you were more tipsy than you thought.

"Whatever," You shrugged. "Did I?"

"No."

"Thought you might be on duty."

"You called because you thought I might be on duty?"

"No, just—When I called, it occurred to me that you might be."

"What would you have done if I had been?"

"Get an uber or something, I don't know."

"Why didn't you do that anyway?"

He sounded more curious than accusatory, but the question still made you slide down in your seat a little, shrinking under the weight of your guilt.

"...I dunno."

Borracho let it hang there. You glanced over, taking in the familiar slopes of his profile. He looked good—he'd shaved pretty recently, and you were almost sure you spotted a new streak of grey by his temple. Goddamn. There was no way that he'd gone out of his way to look that good just for you, but you could pretend, right? In that precise moment, it felt like being delulu was indeed the solulu.

Who did it hurt to pretend that Borracho still wanted to look good for you? That he wanted to see you like this as much as you'd wanted to see him? That when you'd been at loose ends, the only one of your friends that hadn't found someone to go home with, you'd thought of him, and only him—

Well. That last bit wasn't really pretending. You'd found yourself searching for your ex in the face of every stranger since you'd parted ways.

"Is there anyone for me to have pulled you away from?" The question left you before you could even think to stop it.

"Nope."

You thrilled with vindication for a single moment before he added, "You don't have anyone, either."

"What?"

He pulled the car to a stop at a red, turning to get a better look at you. His gaze swept over you, lingering on the length of your exposed thighs where they peeked out of your miniskirt before he met your eyes again.

"You're dressed to go fishing."

Fishing?!

"Oh—Fuck you," You spluttered, reaching for your door handle, only to hear the subtle snick of Borracho locking the doors and clicking on the child lock. "Let me out!"

"At least let me pull out of traffic," He argued, flicking the turn signal on, "You stumble out into traffic and get hit by a truck, I gotta make the report."

You folded your arms petulantly across your chest, glaring through the windshield as he pulled into a vacant strip mall parking lot. He unlocked the doors, and you hurried to get out, half-stumbling as your foot got caught in the footwell. You wobbled, catching hold of yourself on the door before you pulled yourself upright, slamming the car door shut behind yourself. You stomped over to a car stop and ignored your ass stinging as you plopped onto it, pressing your knees tight together and drawing your phone out. You could just get an uber from...Wherever the fuck you were.

You ignored the car door closing and plaintive sigh, followed by Borracho's footsteps.

"You can leave," You snipped as he stopped beside you.

"I'll wait until you get an uber."

"You don't need to."

"I'll feel better if I do."

"Whatever."

You swiped through your apps—crap, you deleted uber for space, didn't you? Fuck, now you had to redownload it with Borracho watching—

"Get back in the car."

"I'm fine."

"I'll shut up. Just get back in the car." He sighed again, crouching beside you. "C'mon, I'm already here—and it'll be cheaper."

...Well, that was true. Your girls night club tab had not been cheap. You cast a wary gaze toward Borracho, who held his hands up in surrender.

"...Fine," You grumbled. Borracho straightened, holding his hand out to you. You stubbornly ignored it and pushed yourself up from the car stop, wobbling before striding back over to his car and climbing inside. You put your seat belt on, sliding down in your seat again as Borracho climbed into the driver's seat and started the car back up.

You managed to keep your mouth shut for a whole block and a half.

"Fishing," You grumbled, "Fuck you."

"I know."

"I can do whatever the fuck I want—"

"I know."

"I can, you can. Whatever." You reached up, yanking the sun visor down and pushing aside the mirror cover. Oh—Damn, when had your mascara run? And why didn't he say anything?

"Your makeup wipes are still in the glove compartment."

You cast him an irritated look as you blindly reached down, yanking open the glove and feeling around for the familiar packaging. You tugged one out, raising it to your eyes and swiping away the run liner.

"You could've said something," You grumbled, sliding it further down and scrubbing off your lip products.

"Didn't think you'd want to hear them."

"So what'd you think I'd feel when I got home and saw all of the run makeup?" You looked over to see Borracho fighting back a grin and shrugging a shoulder. You scoffed a laugh, balling up the used makeup wipe and tossing it at him. "Fuck you!"

"Alright, alright," He waved the wipe away. "Still driving here."

You shut the mirror and visor, leaning back in your seat.

"...You have a good time, at least?" Borracho asked after a few moments.

"I guess. It was fine."

"Just fine?"

"Yeah, I mean. Standard." You considered for a moment. "I didn't really wanna go."

"Why did you?"

"Haven't gone out much lately."

"Why not?"

Why not. Probably because you're mutual breakup hadn't been all that mutual. Probably because whenever you went out with a guy and he mentioned a work function, your mind immediately sprang to hotel rooms, too much beer, scantily clad women. Probably because when you needed to get off, you still heard Borracho's moans in your ear, remembered the heated press of his body against yours.

You felt Borracho turn to look at you, and realized that you had been quiet for too long. You just shrugged.

"Busy with work, I guess."

Borraacho grunted on the other side of the car, muttering, "I hear that."

You smiled a little at the gentle commiseration, and made the mistake of glancing over just in time to see him turning the wheel single-handed. God—damn, but you missed those hands. You swallowed thickly, drawing in a deep breath.

"Y'okay?" He asked.

"I need something to soak up the booze."

"You gonna puke?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes," You rolled your eyes. "I may piss you off, but I wouldn't throw up in your car on purpose. I know how much you love this thing."

Borracho didn't answer for a few moments, and when he did—

"Yucca fries?"

"Ugh, fuck yes."

--

"Quit hogging the chipotle mayo," You grumbled. Borracho grunted, holding out the little plastic container for you. You shoved your fry into it, scooping out a frankly ungodly amount, and ignoring that dollops that slipped onto his knuckles. You shoved the fry into your mouth, watching him raise his knuckles to his lips and sweep his tongue across the fallen sauce before he dropped the plastic into the to go back. You looked away hurriedly, stomach flipping at the sight. You took the bottle of water out of the cup holder and taking in a deep swig.

"Careful," Borracho grumbled. "You said you're not gonna be sick—"

"I'm not you fucking—" You shove the bottle back into the holder. "Anal-retentive shithead—"

"—Emphasis on the anal—"

"Shut the fuck up!" You spluttered a laugh, shoving your hand back into the to go bag.

"Okay," He muttered, "You good?"

"Yeah."

"Buckled up?"

"Mhm."

Borracho started the car back up, pulling out of the parking lot and steering the car toward the street. You reached into the bag, fishing past the little plastic container for the rest of the fries.

"Want another one?" You asked.

"Sure."

You held it out, keeping it steady as Borracho turned his head, biting off half of the fry. You popped the second half into your mouth, reaching into your bag for another one.

"You on shift at all tonight?" You asked.

"Tomorrow."

"Mm."

"That okay with you?"

You rolled your eyes. "None of my business what you do."

"No?"

"Not anymore."

"Why'd you ask, then?"

"Just trying to gauge how bad I'm fucking up your sleep schedule."

"I'll recover."

"Good for you."

"Early morning for you?"

"Yep."

"Better pound that water."

"I'll be fine."

"If you say so."

You reached down grudgingly, taking up the water again and drawing in another few gulps.

"Happy?" You asked.

"Whatever."

You shook your head, setting the near-empty bottle down in the cup holder. You felt oddly melancholy as Borracho turned down your street. You reached down, taking hold of your purse and undoing your seat belt as he pulled the car into the hydrant outside of your place. You began to gather up the trash, but he waved you off, urging,

"I've got it."

That was new. Still you nodded, looking at your lap. What else was there to do but get out of the car? Nothing—So why weren't you doing it?

"Everything okay?" Borracho asked softly, spurring you into embarrassed action.

"Mhm! Thanks, for the, uh—Thanks."

You got out of the car, gingerly shutting the door behind yourself and hurrying up the steps and not daring to look back as you got inside.

--

The clamor of office was nothing new, but it wasn't helping your hangover. You winced behind your sunglasses as the florescent bulbs overhead seemed to pulse with your headache. You ignored the faux-scandalized ooos that chased you to your desk.

"Lookin' a rough there, mama," Henderson taunted.

"Yeah, cause you're a saint and a goddamn daisy," You snipped in turn. You ignored the surrounding mocking cat-yowls and laughter, the sound of the chair of the opposite yours being drawn out. You glanced doggedly toward your partner.

"Borracho."

He gave you small nod, a flat, "Detective," Before shifting his full focus to his computer. You drew in a deep breath, reaching for the file nearest you.

God, you hated Mondays.

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @recklessworry ; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @thesandbeneathmytoes

#Benny Borracho Magalon x Reader #Benny Borracho Magalon x You #Benny Borracho Magalon/Reader #Benny Borracho Magalon/You #Benny Borracho Magalon fic #Benny Borracho Magalon imagine #Last Resort

[kilojulietsierra]

Self Defense - (Benny 'Borracho' Magalon x OFC)

Watched Den of Thieves this weekend and this is what happened.

Borracho gets a call from his wife that no husband would ever want to receive and handles it exactly like you would expect.

Benny "Borracho" Magalon x wife!OFC

Warnings - 18+, Canon typical violence, attempted assault, murder-self defense, corrupt cop husband and his friends, brief mention of trauma anxiety/PTSD, little smutty at the end for fun

(Barely proofread or edited cuz it's late, I'm tired and I do what I want)

"Seriously, you're stopping here?"

"Yes! They have the cheapest gas." Jeni pulled into the 7/11 on the corner and whipped her jeep into the only functioning gas pump.

Her friend scoffed, "Okay, I'll be sure to tell the cops that when they're taking my statement."

"Quit being so dramatic, we grew up in a worse neighborhood than this." She put the jeep in park and grabbed her wallet to dig out a credit card.

"Yeah… then we got the fuck out…" She looked around at the garbage and graffit littering the lot. "If I get mugged because you're a cheap ass I am, literally, going to kill you."

Jeni laughed as she kicked her door open, "Okay, noted." She was still smiling as she ran her card and started gassing up.

"Hey, Marta wants to know if we want to meet up for lunch?"

Leaning back through the open door Jeni nodded, "Sure, where at?" Thas gas pumped tripped and she squeezed the handle twice more before removing it and slamming it back into the pump. Jeni climbed into the drivers seat and slid her credit card back into her wallet. "Ohh, you know what sounds good…"

Before she could finish her thought a hand ripped the passenger door open and drug her friend out by the ponytail.

"Get out of the fucking car!" behind her she felt another pair of hands grabbing at her neck, shoulder, arm, whatever he could reach.

On some sore of primal, fight or flight, response Jeni shoved against her attacker, struggling to get free. DIfficult in the cab of the jeep. FInally her left arm free she leaned away and had a split second to see the chrome of a pistol in his other hand, before she smashed her elbow into his face.

He staggered back a step, one hand clutching his bleeding nose and the other raising the pistol.

Faintly, over the adrenaline pounding in her ears, Jeni could hear her friend crying and cussing somewhere outside the jeep. Trying her best not to panic Jeni reached under the dash of the jeep where her husband had insisted on mounting a magnetic quickdraw mount for a handgun she never imagined she'd have to use. She hated it when he was right.

Hand shaking she took the pistol by the grip, pushed it forward simultaneously chambering a round and removing it from the mount. She aimed on instinct, swinging the muzzle of the pistol towards the carjackers midsection and squeezed the trigger. One, two. One, two. Just like her husband had taught her. She flinched with each shot, fighting to keep her eyes open, and then jumped in fear and pain as the carjackers own gun went off as he fell to the ground. A searing pain ripping through her leg.

Eyes burning, ears ringing and hand shaking she stumbled out of the car and yelled, "Carissa!". Tripping over the carjackers bleeding, moaning body she rounded the jeep to see her laying on the ground, hands over her head crying, and the other attacker running across the street to disappear around a corner.

Jeni's teeth were chattering, her whole body trembling as she grabbed her friends arm, "Hey, hey, look at me. Are you okay." She clinched her jaw against the pain and the clacking of her teeth. When her friend looked up, terrified, and nodded. Jeni forced in an attempt at a deep breath. Her eyes were watering, or she was about to cry, she couldn't tell which. "Hey, go inside… go inside right now and, and call someone. Call 911, okay, now, go right now."

As her friend ran for the front door of the gas station Jeni tried for another deep breath. "Ohhh shit!" She continued to mutter curses under breath as she fought against the shaking. Carefully, limping, she wakled around the back of the jeep again and peeked at the man that had tried to grab her.

He wasn't dead, but he wasn't a threat anymore either.

Trembling she stepped over him, and reached for her phone on the dash, her other hand still holding her pistol. She couldn't believe how bad her hands were shaking as she tried to make the call.

~~~~

"This shit… this is shit we need to delegate."

"You gonna tell Nick no?" Borracho looked sideways at his partner.

Tony rolled his eyes and mumbled under his breath, "Wish he'd get over this moody attitude shit. Gettin' real fuckin' old."

Borracho noded, staring out the windshield as he slouched back further in the driver seat. He fucking hated surveilance. He had just lit his second cigarette when his phone vibrated in his lap. Cigarette in his mouth he took his sunglasses off with one hand and picked up his phone with the other.

"Hey babe." He flicked the ash of his cigarette out the window.

"Benny. Benny I need you."

When he heard the way she sounded, Jeni's voice trembling and almost on the verge of tears, he jumped into action. He tossed the cigarette out the window and turned over the ignition on the SUV. "Where are you?" He had the transmission in drive before she even had the chance to respond.

Jeni was breathing heavy, he could tell something had her shaken up. She told him where she was. "I think I'm in trouble Benny. Hurry, please."

"I'm coming." He weaved through traffic, driving one handed and ignoring the confused look on Tony Z's face. "What happened?"

"I… I… I think I killed someone." It sounded like she was choking back a sob. "And, I'm hurt, like it hurts really bad."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He cussed under his breath as he ran a redlight, "Z, get dispatch to send units and rescue. 7/11 on Tullson and Amistad."

Z didn't question it, just hit the switch for the red and blue lights and called it in.

"Babe listen, how bad are you hurt?"

Her voice trembled again as she tried to breath, "I don't know, I don't know, I'm bleeding and it hurts B."

"I know. I'm coming, I'm coming. Listen close okay; units are on there way. I need you to do two things. Okay?"

"Mhmm."

"They're goin' to detain you, okay. So take the mag out of your gun, clear the chamber and set it on the ground okay."

"Okay…"

"Then keep pressure on the bleeding and don't do or say shit till I get there."

"Hurry B."

"I am."

"Local PD is already rolling." Tony cut in as he grabbed for the oh shit handle with the hand not holding the radio.

"Son of a bitch."

~

By the time Borracho got there two cruisers and an ambulance where on the scene. He slammed the SUV in park and jumped out. He saw Jeni's jeep still sitting by the pump, doors open, the puddle of blood on the asfault and a body bag being lifted onto a gurney.

Z was right behind him as they walked under the police tape. Borracho headed towards the patrol car that had obviously been the first on. He grabbed his wifes pistol off the hood, replaced the mag and shoved it into the back of his jeans next to where his service weapon was holstered. On the other side of the car Z grabbed Jeni and Carissas phones and a ziploc baggie full of spent casings which he shoved in his pocket.

Two officers approached them and Borracho pointed, "Handle that."

Z cut them off, "Boys, sorry but, this is now an LASD scene," He patted one of the officers on the chest, deftly swiping the girls IDs from where they were tucked in the LEO's vest and pocketing them. "Gonna need you all to stand down."

Meanwhile Borracho headed straight for the ambulance across the lot where he could see Jeni sitting in the back, hands cuffed and a bloody bandage wrapped around her left thigh.

"Yo, Magalon!" Another local LEO approached him, "What's your wife doin' with an unregistered Glock in her car?"

Borracho, without missing a beat, reached for the handcuff key in the officers vest and walked past him, "What was yours doin' at the neighbors house last night?"

His wife was clearly in shock and it took her a second to register his approach, not really seeing it was him until he was kneeling in front of her and unlocking the handcuffs on her wrist. "Hey mami, look at me." He gripped her uninjured thigh with one hand and tossed the cuffs aside with the other, "You good?"

Once her eyes focused on him fully she started to tear up, "Benny…"

"I know baby, I know." He stroked her thigh up and down in a strong, repetetive motion. "You're okay. I got you." He took her face in his other hand and tipped it from side to side. Evaluating the sight brusing a scattered scratches from the struggle.

She leaned forward awkwardly and wrapped her arms around his neck, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I didn't know what to do… and… I don't know, I panicked and…"

"The fuck you did." He squeezed her tight, kissing her temple, "You didn't panic, you did exactly what you were supposed to do."

"Benny, I killed somebody!" She sobbed it into the side of his neck, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

"Yeah, well fuck that motherfucker." Benny rubbed at her back trying to calm her down. "You did so good Baby, I'm so proud of you."

This time her sob was mixed with something of a laugh and Borracho took a deep breath. He was getting her back.

Her breath shuddered, and she sniffed loudly, "That's so messed up."

Borracho shrugged, giving her another tight squeeze before pulling back enough to look her in the eye, "It's the truth." He stared intently until she met his gaze fully, "Take a deep breath for me now, yeah?" He breathed deep and exhaled as she copied him, "Good girl." He stood up to his full height again and held his hands down to her, "Let's get you out of here."

He took her weight easily as she stood up and leaned into him, favoring her wounded leg. "I don't think I can walk."

The words were barely out of her mouth before he had one arm around her shoulders and the other scooping up her legs. He ignored the EMTs calling after him and strode right past the LEOs as he carried his wife, bridal style, back to their unmarked SUV. "Z, man, you got this?" Borracho called as he settled Jeni into the passenger seat. He shut the door and walked quickly around the front of the SUV.

Tony met him halfway, "Yeah bro, boys are on the way." He gestured vaguely to the scene behind him, "Shit never happened, we got this. Go take care of your girl."

Without another word they bumped fists and Borracho climbed back into the SUV, throwing it in reverse and tearing out of the parking lot, ignoring all safety laws as he sped to the closest, reliable hospital.

"Benny," Jenis voice was quiet and he barely heard it over the roar of the revving engine and the sirens.

"Hmm?" He kept his eyes on the rode but easily found her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm sorry." She took a deep breath and winced against a stab of pain.

"What you sorry for?" He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. Oddly calm as he sped through another red light.

When she didn't answer right away he glanced at her, relieved to find her eyes opening and with a small smile on her face.

"Sorry for… giving you a hard time, calling you paranoid."

He smiled as he swerved into oncoming traffic to pass a slow moving box truck. "Yeah?" He continued to rub his thumb over the back of her hand, relaxing them both. "That mean you gonna start doing what I say?"

Jeni laughed, "Not a chance."

Benny laughed with her, raised her hand to his lips and gave it a soft kiss, "Didn't think so."

~

Jeni's head was foggy when she woke up and it took a second for her eyes to focus. Though her vision never really cleared 100%.

"Hey mami,"

She smiled and blinked her eyes quickly, trying to clear the fog away. She felt a pressure on her right thigh and turned to that side, eyes settling on Benny.

"There she is. How you feel?" He was standing next to her bed, a hospital bed she realized, with a cup of coffee in his hand and his shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He still wore his gun and badge on his belt.

Jeni thought hard for a moment, harder than she thought necesarry, "Loopy… tired…."

Benny nodded as he sat down on the edge of her bed, still rubbing a comforting hand up an down her thigh through the cheap hospital blanket, "They put you on the good meds, knocked you out good."

"Hmm," Jeni let her eyes fall closed, enjoying the feel of his hand stroking back and forth, back and forth. She could feel the way his callouses caught against the material and it made her overworked nerves tingle. Fighting her eyes back open she chuckled to herself.

"What's so funny?" Borracho was smiling when he asked.

"Don't tell Nick," She laughed a little harder as she raised one tingly arm, "He'll confiscate them." She made airquotes with her fingers and chuckled again.

Borracho laughed, "I won't." He continued to stroke her leg, "You'll share with me though right?"

Jeni grinned, "Mhmmm." Her mind wandering to some less than descent thoughts.

She nodded and then flinched slightly, her eyes jumping a little wider, "Benny, where's Carissa? Is she okay?"

Borracho puased, gave her thigh another reassuring squeaze, "She's okay babe. Tony took her home. She's shook up but, she's okay."

Jeni nodded, gave a sigh of relief, then giggled again.

"Now what?" Borracho smiled as he straightened up.

"Z took her home?"

"Mhmm."

She giggled again, "She's going to jump. his. bones."

Borracho snorted out a laugh, "What're you talking about?"

"She's had the hots for him since, like, that BBQ we had last summer." Jeni continued to giggle, "They're totally gonna bang."

Her husband laughed again as he stood back up, "You really are loopy." He set his coffee down on the table and kissed her forehead, "I'll be right back, nurses told me to grab them when you woke up." Borracho was smoking a cigarette outside when Nicks truck pulled up. Nick, Gus and Murph approached, Gus with a brown paper bag in his hand. "Hey man, how's she doing?" "Out of surgery, took her down for some more x-rays about an hour ago." He took a long drag from his cigarette. "She's alright though. Considering." He took another drag, letting the smoke roll out of his nostrils, "We good?" Nick shrugged, "Who gives a shit about a gangbanger offin' another gangbanger right?" Borracho nodded, his phone ringing in his jeans pocket. He answered it and hung up shortly, "She's back, wanna come say hi?"

~

An hour later Benny was sitting on the bed with his feet crossed and Jeni laying back against his chest and the other three scattered around the room. Nick was spinning back and forth on the doctors stool, Gus was sitting in the chair with his feet kicked up on the end of the bed and Murph was leaning against the door finishing the last of the tacos Gus had smuggled in.

Nick was laughing at his own story when one of the nurses poked her head in, "Hey, it's technically past visiting hours, so could you guys just.. keep it down a little bit?"

Nick spun around in the chair, "Of course darlin', I'll get these knuckle heads to keep it quiet."

Jeni rolled her eyes. She had noticed there had been more and more nurses 'popping in' (to check her vitals, redo her bandage, ask if she needed anything) since the boys showed up with their tight shirts, and visible guns and badges.

Before they could get too rowdy again, there was another knock on the door. This time it was Tony, guiding Carissa in ahead of him. "I'm impressed you guys are stil here," He stepped in the room and shook hands with the guys, "Had to flash my badge half a dozen times just to get up here."

Carissa went straight to Jeni's side while Borracho and Tony shook hands. "Jen, oh my God, are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good. Leg hurts and I'm tired but, I'm good." She squeezed Benny's hand where he held it, arm wrapped around her shoulders. "How about you?"

"Scared shitless, but yeah. Tony took me home, stayed with me all afternoon."

Behind them Murph muttered, "I bet he did." and earned a round of chuckles from everyone except Tony who looked at the floor and Carissa who was trying not to blush.

Aside from the fact she had just had a bullet removed from her leg, Jeni was enjoying herself. It felt a little bit like the old days, before the darkness had really settled in over all of them. She felt Benny laughing, the sound vibrating through her and the feeling of his hand squeezing hers again snapped her out of her thoughts.

Benny held her tighter for a second and pressed his lips against her ear, "Want me to get rid of 'em?"

She shook her head imperceipibly and settled back, deeper into his embrace, happy to stay up all night as long as her pain meds kept working and everyone kept laughing.

~

It had been a month since she'd been released from the doctor mandated physical therapy but she had taken the advice of her doctor and her therapist and continued to exercise. So far that just meant long-ish walks and yoga, but she was walking without the cane most days now so she counted that as a win.

Today Carissa had joined her for an 8am class at her favorite studio and they had just finished up. They were walking out the front door, Jeni limping slightly after the workout but feeling pretty good, when her phone buzzed in her bag.

She smiled and answered, "Hey B."

"Hey," Borracho sounded tired, "Done with class?"

"Mhmm, right on time."

She smiled, "What're you up to?"

"Swinging by the house for a shower and change of clothes."

Jeni bit her lip, "How much time you have?"

"As long as it takes."

"See you in a bit." She was smiling when she hung up and Carissa was already shaking her head.

"Guess we'll get breakfast later?" She knew what the call and the look on her friends face meant.

"Tomorrow?"

"Sounds good." Carissa was already texting on her phone as the girls headed to their cars.

Jeni turned and yelled over her shoulder, "Tell Tony hi for me!"

Carissa turned around and gave her friend the finger, "Shut up!"

~

When she got home Benny's truck wasn't in the driveway and she didn't see any of the usual unmarked department vehicles around. She parked her jeep and headed inside.

She had just dumped her bag in the closet and kicked out of her shoes when she heard the front door open and close. Her heart raced for half a second, anxious that it may not be her husband. A symptom of what had happened to her. But then he heard his boots hit the floor and Benny call out, "You better not have taken those leggins off yet!"

Jeni bit her lip and smiled, her anxiety turning into something else now that she knew it was him. She looked over her shoulder as he came through the bedroom door. "Not yet. Wanna help?"

SHe turned to face him and watched him drop his gear bag by the door and jerk the holster and badge off his belt.

He didn't answer, just walked towards her with his hands out, reaching towards her hips.

As soon as he was within reach she wrapped her arms around his neck and sighed when he took hold of her waist and tugged her against him. His lips immediatly falling on the side of her neck. Kissing and nipping his way from her collarbone up to the sensitive spot behind her ear. "Missed you, beautiful." His hands fell lower, each grabbing a handul of her ass.

"Missed you too." She sighed, one hand digging into the hair at the back of his neck.

He groaned softly and pressed her tighter against him, "How's the leg?" HIs right hand slid down, ghosting over the spot on her thigh where she had been shot.

"Little sore." She scratched her nails over the back of his neck and angled her face to reach his lips.

"Think a hot shower would help?" He asked the question against her lips before he kissed her.

Jeni smiled into the kiss, pressing herself closer, "Probably."

His hands were already pealing her shirt off and groping her chest through her sports bra, before removing it as well.

"Long night papi?" Her fingers traveled from the back of his neck, over his shoulders and down the buttons of his shirt. Undoing them one by one until she was pushing it off his shoulders and reavealing the muscles underneath.

Benny sighed into her hair as he grabbed the waistband of her leggings and peeled them down, "Long fuckin' week." He grabbed her ass again, this time skin on skin, and held her tight as she shimmied them the rest the way off. "Feel like I haven't seen you at all."

"Trust me, I know." Jeni drug her fingers down his chest, over his stomach, briefly tracing over the ink there before settling on his belt buckle.

He stopped her hands with his own, his belt and fly hanging open, "C'mere." Benny stooped slightly and grabbed her by the back of her thighs, careful of her still sometimes tender scar, to pick her up.

It was so easy. For her to wrap her arms and legs around her husband and let him carry her across the room. When he laid them both down on the bed, settling over top her and kissing her mour thouroughly, Jeni questioned, "What about the shower?"

Borracho groaned as his wifes hands slid over his back and down to his sides, pushing at the waistband of his jeans. He dugs his fingers into her hip as he pulled her bottom lip into his mouth and bit it carefully. Still ignoring her question he kicked out of his jeans and settled himself between her legs. Her nails drug down his back before climbing back up where she clung to his shoulders. Kissing his way from her mouth to her ear he slid into her warm, welcoming center and groaned, "Fuck you first, then shower."

Jeni moaned as he bottomed out inside her and arched up off the bed as they began to move together. Borracho was careful with her leg but nothing else. She knew the way she was clawing at him and the way he was pounding into her she was going to be sore in more ways than one.

She also knew life was short and they made the most of their time together. Now more than ever, she understood.

~

#den of thieves #benny magalon #benny borracho magalon #benny magalon x ofc #borracho x ofc #maurice compte

[brandyllyn]

Adventurous

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

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

My Masterlist

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

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

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

"Monica what are we doing?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I don’t like where this is going."

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

"Guys? Pay? Mostly?"

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

"Monica."

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

"So you brought me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table had four guns on it.

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

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

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

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

"Kiki right?"

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

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

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

"Kiki? You seem… nervous."

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

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

"First time?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too pretty?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nah, they want us."

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

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

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

24 hour coverage, my ass, you thought idly.

"I gotta go."

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

"Give me your-"

"Borracho."

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, this was a really bad idea.

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, Borracho, your girl’s back."

His girl?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You wet?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is this for real?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mmhmm."

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

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

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

"Now you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You weren’t lying," he growled. His fingers slipped through your heat, tickling over the sensitive skin.

"About?" you gasped, trying to make sense of a world where his tongue was curling around your nipple and his fingers were stroking you just there.

"You’re wet."

"Every time I think about you," you admitted with a sigh.

His body arched over yours, his eyes searching your face. You didn’t shrink from him, just meet his gaze with your own, lips parted as you watch him. Whatever he was looking for he seemed to find it, his mouth swooping down and capturing yours in a long kiss. Suddenly he was gone, hands sliding your panties down your legs, rearranging your thighs over his shoulders - and then that hot wet mouth was on you again.

He ate you out like it was his only goal in life. Pressing his face into you so hard you wondered if he could even breathe. His hands held your hips to the bed, holding you still while he ravaged you with his tongue. Swirling it around your clit before he gently pulled it between his lips and sucked lightly.

"Benny!" you cried, back arching off the bed.

"That’s it," his low murmur vibrated through you, one of his fingers slowly sinking into your heat. "Say my name all you want gorgeous."

"Benny," you groaned and he added another finger, curling them deep inside you while he tongued against your aching clit. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time, you were so ready and needy for him that it was barely a few minutes before you were clenching your fingers tightly into his hair and panting his name softly over and over like a prayer. He moaned as your wetness flooded his mouth, your thighs trembled against his cheeks. His fingers searched and pressed and slid inside you until the world went white with your ecstasy.

He rose over you, all heat and muscle and golden skin. For a moment his cock nudged between your legs and then he was gone, striding across the room to the door. Where was he…?

He stopped near the door, rifling through his wallet and coming up with a foil packet. He ripped the foil with his teeth, walking towards you as he rolled the condom on. You met him at the edge of the bed, coming up on your knees so you could welcome him face to face. Open your arms to him and press your mouth to his while he lowered you down to the sheets.

He adjusted himself, shifting so he was pressed along your slit. Then he began to rock his hips, nudging your clit with every pass. You gasped out his name, heard him groan in return. A shift and he was pressing just there. Slipping just the head of him inside you.

His breathing was harsh, rushing across your cheek in soft pants. You pulled his mouth to yours, pushing on his shoulder until he rolled away from you, onto his back. You followed, straddling his hips and settling his cock against you again. Then you sat up, staring down at his flushed face, his parted lips, and watched every change of his expression as you sank down on him inch by slow inch.

"Son of a bitch," he groaned. His eyes were wide, a look of wonder on his face as you slowly settled against him.

"Does that feel good?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He leaned up on his elbows, eyes locked on where your bodies joined. "Does it feel good?"

You bit your lip and smiled, raising up just enough that he could see the slide of himself back inside of you when you lowered down. "Well, does it?"

He propped a hand behind him, the other going to your hip and urging you to do it again. "It feels fucking fantastic." You squeezed your muscles around him just to watch his jaw clench. Watch the way his eyes widened and then his hips snapped into yours. You made a small noise and his lips stretched into a grin.

"You like that?" He did it again, thrusting up into you and you braced a hand on his stomach. "You like when I fuck you?"

You cupped your free hand around his jaw, sighing when he turned his head and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your palm. His eyes bored into yours and you nodded, trying to help, trying to find a rhythm with him. It was awkward at first, his cock slipped out of you more than once. But he didn’t seem to mind, thrusting up and pressing to your clit again and again before he guided himself back inside.

"Dios mio. Look at you, you gorgeous thing."

His hand on your hip drifted down, his thumb brushing over your clit and you groaned, squeezing him inside. It only made him fuck you faster, press into you harder. His lips were parted as he watched you, his eyes narrowed on your face.

"Benny," it was a whine, a whimper, a plea.

He grunted and rolled his hips upwards. "You gonna come on me?" You nodded, breath shuddering out of you. "Then do it. Come on my cock, let me feel-"

You kissed him when you came, shoving him flat onto the bed, thrusting your tongue in his mouth and feeling his arm wrap tight around you. He rolled you over to your back, guiding your legs around his waist and shoving his cock into you hard and fast. Growling as your muscles clenched around him. You could hear the soft thumping of the frame against the wall, the squeak of the mattress springs, the grunts that fell from his lips. His hands cupped around your shoulders, holding you to him while he worked between your thighs.

"You got another one for me?" his voice was harsh, strained. You let go of your grip on his shoulders and slid your hand between your bodies, skimming down until you could lightly touch your clit.

"I don’t know," you whined and he sped up. You didn’t think it was possible but his cock was hitting just right inside you over and over and your fingers were rubbing just as fast and you screamed his name as you came so hard you saw stars.

You barely noticed the sweat dripping off of him, the way his jaw dropped open or the low noises he made as he followed soon after. What you did notice was the raucous cheering from the other room. A fist banging on the wall and a voice shouting, "Atta boy, Borracho!"

"Oh my God," you groaned, reaching up and dragging one of the pillows down to cover your face. He held himself over you, his low chuckle vibrating through your body. You felt him tug at the edge of the pillowcase but you resisted.

"Come on," he urged, "show me those beautiful eyes"

You peeked out at him and he smiled. God, he really was handsome. Before you could do anything he ducked under the edge of the pillow and kissed you soundly. "Sorry about that," he muttered into your lips. "I should have taken you somewhere nice."

You dropped the pillow, blinking up at him. "What?"

One of his hands swept across your cheek. "I shouldn’t have done this here. Should have left. Taken you somewhere nice."

"Take me to a secondary location?" You scoffed, wrinkling your nose. "I’ve heard my fair share of true crime podcasts, buddy. No way."

He blinked at you and then a huge grin broke out across his face. "Smart girl." He nestled himself more firmly against you, settling your arms around his neck, holding you to his chest. "Adventurous girl." You moaned when his tongue thrust into your mouth, slow and sweet and sensual. He rocked against you and his cock was already half hard again.

"Come on Kiki," he murmured into your lips, "why don’t you show me how adventurous you can be."

.

.

Taglist

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Permanent Taglist

@killyspinacoladas , @im-like-reallythirsty , @wild-at-heart-kept-in-cage , @midnightamy, @floraandfrost , @astoryisaloveaffair , @pretty-brown-eyess , @fastandfeminist , @djarinsmorales , @hayley-the-comet , @ionaboner , @likes-good-reblogs-even-better , @cannedsoupsucks , @the-feckless-wonder , @jediknight122 , @borderlinedindjarin, @bestinbeskar, @mcueveryday, @who-would-want-a-broken-heart, @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics, @midnightartemis, @serini-ty, @sarahmilesbendrix, @danidrabbles, @thou-creature-of-the-deep, @christina-loves, @mswarriorbabe80, @gracie7209, @queen-sands, @casssiopeia, @glitzalia, @wyofabdoms, @chronic-nosebleed, @beskarprincessjenny, @ezrasbirdiealso, @evyiione, @sarahjkl82-blog, @freeshavocadoooo, @pedropascaldice, @magikfanatic,  @spanishmossmagnolia, @elegantduckturtle, @pintsizemama, @prostitute-robot-from-the-future, @flowersiinherhaiir, @elegantduckturtle, @captainjaspenor, @hrk-fic-recs , @thirddeadlysin, @randomness501 , @NikIsRioting , @lawfulgranola , @greeneyedblondie44  , @eri16, 

#Benny Borracho Magalon #Benny Borracho x Reader #den of thieves fanfiction #Benny Borracho Magalon imagine

[chemicalalice]

Down the Rabbit Hole - Part 2

Summary: A week before, Ray shows up on your doorstep.

Pairing: Ray Merrimen x female!Reader x Benny “Borracho” Magalon

Warnings: oral sex (f receiving), swearing, illusions to p in v sex. Please be mindful of yourself and do not read if this content bothers you. 18+ only!

Word count: 2,006

A/N: This part takes place before part 1. I really have no plan for this “series” at all. Just gonna write these three as it comes to me I guess! This part is more Merriman x Reader, where as the next part will be more Borracho X Reader

When your doorbell rang a week prior, the last thing you expected to find on the other side was Ray Merrimen. He stood there, and you just stared, mouth slightly agape.

He stood there like he was expected; like it was normal. Like it hadn’t been 3 years since you stopped writing to him when it finally sunk it that he was never going to write back. Like it hadn’t been over 6 years since you last saw him.

And what a last sight it had been. His face had been calm as you screamed at him, tears streaming down your own face while Benny stood helplessly in the background. The jail time you could have handled. The fact that it was for robbing banks was a bit harder to swallow, but you were sure that probably could have been worked through too. But no. It was the fact that apparently when he hadn’t been robbing banks he had been sleeping with another person (another women, and didn’t that just hit you so much harder than if it had been another man) that had you so worked up. So angry. So hurt. (You hadn’t even had the chance to ask Benny what his feelings were yet, but somehow you knew he would be less forgiving than you to find out their mutual lover had been a career criminal right under there noses. Benny had finally been promoted to Major Crimes the month before. You couldn’t imagine the betrayal that must be.)

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” And there was that same familiar, cocky, smirk.

“Ray…what the fuck!?” Your words were a hiss, astonishment finally giving way to anger. So much anger.

He stepped forward and the shear bulk of him, so familiar and so foreign causing you to step back in response. He shut the door behind him and then it was just you and him, alone in your front hallway and feeling like you could have been alone in the world, nothing else making sense or mattering besides his presence in front of you.

“Ray,” you started again and then stopped, taking another step back, your hands starting your tremble, your stomach rolling. You hated this man. Had cursed his name and the hurt he had caused you damn nearly daily for 6 fucking years. Tried to convince yourself you were glad he was gone. Because as much as you hated him, he was as much a part of your soul as Benny was. There was a part of your heart that would forever belong to him no matter how much you kicked and screamed and tried to deny it.

Maybe he saw that confusion, that anger and hatred and love all rolled up into one Gordian knot on your face, because when you opened your mouth for another attempted at speech, this time to tell him to fuck off, he surged forward and had you pressed up against the wall before you could utter a single sound.

His mouth was hot and heavy against your own, his tongue forcing itself past the seam of your lips as he cradled your face in his hands and the intensity of the kiss was like nothing you had experienced with him before. There had always been passion with Ray, but this…it felt more like he was trying to consume you than kiss you. Almost like he had missed you.

Every nerve in your body felt like it had been lit on fire as Ray’s lips moved from your lips, across your cheek, and down to your neck, all the while his hands had dropped down to squeeze your ass briefly before trailing to your thighs. He pulled on one leg, coaxing it up to wrap around him and your arms flew instinctively to his neck as you felt him pull at the other leg as well. It was surreal. Your mind struggled to keep up with what was happening but you felt lost. Lost in him. In his smell, in the feeling of his lips against your collarbone, in how weightless you felt as he carried you to the couch, in the familiar ache that throbbed deep within you as you felt his hardness grind into your core through your thin leggings, the wetness of your soaked cunt at his mere touch.

You gasped slightly as he practically dropped you on the couch, but didn’t have time to gather a thought before his lips were pressed to yours again and his hands worked, almost frantically, and your waist, pulling your leggings and underwear down in one go.

And then his mouth was on you and you practically screamed, your hands flying to his head; to pull him closer or push him away you had no idea.

He pulled your first orgasm out of you ridiculously fast and he let out a low groan as you gushed around his tongue. “Fuck! Ray!” You practically sobbed his name in pleasure as the fingers from his left hand joined his tongue, plunging even deeper inside you. And it wasn’t long after he brought his right hand up to thumb at your clit before you were coming again, your head thrown back as you moaned his name again and again as he worked on pulling a third orgasm for you.

He pulled away from you then, rubbing a hand down his mouth and chin to wipe away your release before leaning up and over you, planting one knee on the couch between your spread legs as his hands went to his belt. And that is when, just over his shoulder, you eyes happened to fall on the picture on the mantle. The picture of you and Benny, smiling. Happy. Together.

You sucked in a breath as the reality of the last half hour crashed down over you. Your world has skewed when you opened that door and saw him, feeling as if you had fallen into a dream (…or nightmare) but now everything was realigning and coming into focus. And what the fuck were you doing?!?!

You reached out and placed a hand on Ray’s stomach, right above where his own hands were working on pulling down his zipper, and you could feel his muscles jump at your touch. “Ray, no, no, stop. Please.” You begged, words laced with pain and regret and guilt. His motions had been frantic and jerky but they stilled instantly at your words. “I…Benny… I can’t, Ray. I can’t do this. What the fuck are we doing? I need you to go…” Your voice rose slowly in pitch and cracked embarrassingly at the end.

He must have heard the panic in your voice, heard the tears that were now gathering in your eyes, because his hands fell to his sides. He was quiet for a moment before leaning down and resting his forehead against your own, eyes slipping shut. Your tears did fall then, sliding quietly down your cheek before being brushed away by his thumb.

“It was stupid to just show up like this. I shouldn’t have ambushed you. This is on me.” His voice was low, full of his own regret, but he still didn’t move.

And despite your confusion and guilt and love and anger, you wanted to reach up and pull him down to you. To kiss him again and have him hold you, to seek out comfort in him like you used to. But this wasn’t then, this was now, with six years of separation and anger sitting between you. And with that knowledge came the realization that you were still sitting there with your leggings and underwear tangled around your ankles and your cunt, still slick with his spit and your spend, exposed. The feelings of shame and vulnerability came on quick and you pulled away abruptly to reach down and pull them up.

Things between the three of you… they had never really ended. Not properly. Not definitively. They couldn’t, because you never had had a proper, definitive beginning. You always had just been. The three of you. One for all and all for one.

But you had told Ray you hated him and never wanted to see him again and then he was in prison and not responding to the letters you kept sending (because you didn’t hate him. You never could and never had. You loved him too much, and he owned half your heart).

But here and now? With the way you had parted that final night? With the way that Benny had remained true and by your side? The way he had held you through your heartbreak over Ray, pushing his own aside to focus on yours? The way he held the other half of your heart and how you two built a life together on that love? Well, that made what just happened between you and Ray feel wrong; like a betrayal; like cheating.

Ray pulled back from you with a sigh as if reading your mind. He stood but then reached down and gripped your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “Stop that. You didn’t do anything wrong. Borracho isn’t going to blame you for anything that just happened.” He smirked. “Although with how quickly I was able to get you off I wonder if I need to have words with the man about the proper way of taking care of our girl.”

‘Our girl.’ The words cause a swoop of confused emotions in your stomach and you felt you eyes well up all over again.

Ray groaned and pulled you up off the couch and against his body. You didn’t resist as his arms wrapped around you and he tucked your head under his chin. “Baby, stop. Don’t cry.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and then, softer, said “I can’t stand it when you cry. Look, I know I shouldn’t have shown up here out of the blue; that was a big fuck up on my part. But I’m back, and we are going to figure shit out, ok? I just needed to see you, ok? Its been so long…”

You should have been angry then, angry that he thought it was ok to waltz in and turn your world upside down like nothing had happened because he wanted to see you. It was a joke. He didn’t want to see you when you had tried to visit it him in prison during his entire first year, and he certainly didn’t want to see you, or rather talk to you, when all your letters came back stamped with “return to sender” for the subsequent two years. But when you opened your mouth to tell him all this, the anger drained out of you as quickly as it had swelled. You always had given over to your hurt too easily. You should have held onto your anger more, like Ray had always told you. Ray. Ray. Instead you pulled away from him, turning so you were facing the window and not him. “You need to go Ray. Now.”

Ray was a smart man. He knew from the set of your shoulders that there wasn’t going to be any more conversation at this point. And he knew the situation was worth too much and was far to delicate to push the issues now.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “but this isn’t going to go away. I’ll be in touch.” And that was that. He didn’t attempt to reach out and touch you a final time or say anything else, just turned and let himself out. Typical Ray.

You wanted to scream at his parting words. I’ll be in touch. It was practically a command. It didn’t matter what you felt or wanted. Ray wanted to talk again, to see you again, so it would happen. As simple as that.

You wanted to scream. But instead you cried. Sank to the floor and sobbed in a confused misery.

You couldn’t even look at the couch.

#ali writes fic #den of thieves #ray merrimen x reader #ray merrimen x reader x benny borracho magalon #benny borracho magalon x reader #benny borracho magalon #fic

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Nocturnal-Milk-Dud’s Masterlist

Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales

Goodnight, Frankie

Morning Light

Someone To Take Care of You

Call Me

There’s No More Room In Hell (Frankie Morales and Dawn Of The Dead)

Somebody’s Got A Case Of The Mondays (Frankie Morales and Cooties)

Ray Merrimen

The Man in The Mask

It’s Lovely Down In The Woods Today, But Safer To Stay At Home (Ray Merrimen and Friday the 13th)

Our Business Is Life Itself (Ray Merrimen and Resident Evil)

Horacio Carrillo

Man Made of Stone

Desperate Measures

Tender Acts (A Horacio Carrillo Imagine)

What’s The Bad News (Horacio Carrillo and Dawn Of The Dead)

It’s Too Quiet In This Room (Vampire!Carrillo)

Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon

Unfinished Business

Black Lace and Wine

These Klowns, Honey, Gonna Make You Die (Benny Magalon and Killer Klowns From Outer Space)

Send In The Klowns (Benny Magalon and Killer Klowns From Outer Space)

Kevin 'KJ' Jimenez

How Good It Is

Ossie Mejía

After Tonight

Golden As They Come

Where Did My Lover Go? (Ossie Mejia Request)

Obispo 'Bishop' Losa

Let Me

Troubled Minds

Say It (part two to Troubled Minds)

One Last Time-Right?

His Name Is Trouble

Someone Could Lose A Heart Tonight (Bishop Losa and Near Dark)

Juice Ortiz

You're A Natural

Neron 'Creeper' Vargas

Playing Games

Walt Breslin

Don't Know How To Be Alone (A Walt Breslin Drabble)

William “Ironhead” Miller

Designated Driver

Operation NESTWRECKER (Will Miller and Resident Evil)

It’s Because I Love You Most Of All (Will Miller and Fear Street)

Hassan el-Shabbaz

Room For Two

Angel Reyes

There’s No Way He Has A License (Angel Reyes and Gremlins)

#fic masterlist #frankie morales x reader #ray merrimen x reader #horacio carrillo x reader #benny borracho x reader #pedro pascal #pablo schreiber #maurice compte #den of thieves fic #triple frontier fic #narcos fic #kevin jimenez x reader #kevin jimenez #ossie mejía x reader #ossie mejía #jero medina #narcos mexico fic #obispo bishop losa x reader #bishop losa x reader #bishop losa #michael irby #mayans mc fic #juice ortiz x reader #juice ortiz #theo rossi #neron creeper vargas x reader #creeper vargas #joseph raymond lucero #walt breslin x reader #walt breslin

[tropes-and-tales]

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

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Kinktober Day 20

Day Nineteen | 🌹Kinktober Masterlist🌹 | Day Twenty-One

Pairing: Benny Borracho Magalon x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Any minors interacting with ANY of these Kinktober prompts will be blocked

Notes: This is the toy that's described/used. I love mine. Use code Slut4fic to get 20% off—I'm kidding, that code won't work BUT it is a good toy. You know. If you're in the market. Anyway—

Warnings: Sex toys; fingering; blowjobs

A pair of socks. That was all you’d asked Borracho to do—grab you a pair of socks. 

“Top right drawer, please and thank yoooou.” 

You were already incredibly late to get drinks with his team. Borracho had turned up to your apartment almost an hour later than he was supposed to. On top of that, you’d gotten side tracked while getting your things together to go out. You hadn’t been able to find your bag, the outfit that you’d planned on wearing had shrunk in the dryer, and Borracho had gotten more than a little handsy when you were getting dressed. 

Socks. You had asked for socks. But when Borracho didn’t reappear for five minutes, you headed back to your bedroom. 

“How long does it take to find…Socks…” You slowed and stopped in your doorway when you spotted Borracho standing at your dresser with the drawer open, holding one of your sex toys.

You folded your arms across your chest, leaning against the frame as he clicked through the settings, then fished into the drawer for another one. 

“Borracho.”

“Hm?”

“Those are not socks.”

“You don’t say.”

He tossed you a smile over his shoulder before turning back to the array of toys. You groaned, pushing away from the door frame and walking deeper into your bedroom. 

“Babe, you know I hate being late.”

He ignored your plea in favor of holding up one of your favorite toys. “What’s this do?” 

“It’s for my clit. Can you just pass me some socks so we can go?” 

“How does it work?” He looked at the device, turning it over in his hands and thumbing the small silicone opening. You huffed softly, stepping close and taking it from his hands before pressing one of the buttons. The device hummed to life, and you hovered it over Borracho’s fingertip, allowing him to feel the suction. His eyes widened slightly before he took it back from you, pressing through the settings and feeling the suction increase, then strobe. 

“Why didn’t you tell me that you had these?” He asked, finally shutting it off. 

“I didn’t think it was the kind of thing you’d be interested in.” 

“Why not?” 

“I mean…” You shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d wanna know about them. Most of the other people that I’ve been out with found the fact that I had them kinda…Insulting.” 

“Why would they upset them” Borracho scoffed. “I know I can get you there, baby. Doesn’t mean we can’t have a little extra,” He turned the toy on again, smiling at its gentle hum, “Fun along the way.” 

You smiled, shaking your head a little. “You truly baffle me sometimes, Magalon.” 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He leaned in, pressing a warm kiss to your lips. You raised your hand, tenderly skating your fingers over his jaw. You drew back, giving his cheek a tap. 

“Put it away and let’s go.” You reached into the drawer, grabbing a pair of socks before heading out of your room again. 

-- 

You knew that you were in for a hell of a night when Borracho started getting handsy at the bar. He’d tucked his hand into your back pocket as you stood with the guys, but delighted in trying to make you squirm as he gave your cheek a little squeeze. You shot him warning looks every once in a while, but he mostly ignored them, making conversation with Connors or Henderson. Now and again he’d shift closer, pressing his lips against your temple. The two of you had never been over the top with PDA, especially in front of his team, but the frequency of the pecks was far more than you’d become accustomed to in the last few months. 

“You having fun?” He murmured in your ear as the conversation around you lulled. You nodded, turning your head to get a better look at him. 

“Are you?” You batted back. He smiled, giving your ass another cheeky squeeze. 

“Have even more fun later.” 

Your brows rose. “...What’s later?” You hedged.

--  

“Fuck, Ben, that feels so good,” You whined. Your thighs twitched around his head as he pistoned his fingers in and out of your slick pussy, his tongue lapping at your opening between strokes. Your hands were between your thighs, one gripping his hair, the other holding the toy as it sucked your clit in short, harsh bursts. You rolled your hips into the feeling, whimpering as he nudged the toy out of the way just long enough to lap across your clit and give it a sucking kiss.

You shivered as he replaced the toy, turning his head to nip at the tender meat of your thigh. You pouted as he drew away, shifting up the bed and kneeling beside you. You turned your head, grasping his cock and letting the toy between your thighs fall to the bed as you took him into your mouth. You hummed softly as Borracho groaned, thrusting into your mouth with short, even strokes. 

You felt him shift, the bed shifting slightly as he did. You jumped as the sucking sensation suddenly resumed on your clit. 

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” Borracho growled, shifting the head of the toy around, applying an inconsistent, tantalizing pressure that you ground down into. You bobbed your head, swirling your tongue around the head and fondling his sac. He hissed softly, watching you from beneath his lashes as you peered hazily up at him. 

“Can you cum like this?” He smoothed his hand over your cheek, tracing the bugle of his cock as he pressed between your lips. “Just from playing with your pussy while I use your mouth?” 

You moaned, tipping your head and taking more of his shaft between your lips. You gagged and pulled back a bit as his cock hit the back of your throat, and you drew a deep breath in through your nose before diving forward again, taking in as much as him between your lips as you could.

You grasped his wrist, forcing steady pressure over your clit as your hips drove down into it, feeling the familiar swell of pleasure as you grew closer and closer. You drew off of him just a little, tongue swiping across the leaking head of his cock as your hips jolted up into the sucking toy. You let your mouth fall open, jacking and twisting your hand around his shaft as your hips bounded up against the toy. 

You watched his thick chest rise and fall as his hand wrapped around yours, controlling the speed and direction of the strokes. It was only a few moments before you felt the first spurt of cum paint your chin. You tipped your head down to catch the following thrusts in your mouth, letting it sit on your tongue as you looked up at him. He groaned low, drawing his cock from between your lips as he lay down beside you. He reached up, gently swiping the stray drops from your chin and pressing his fingers between your lips. You laved along his fingertips, giving them a suck before swallowing and sticking your tongue back out. Borracho chuckled, glancing between your thighs and taking the toy up again to turn it off. 

“This thing is great. My jaw only hurts a little.” 

“Speak for yourself,” You muttered, raising your hand to massage the sore area. He snorted. 

“Maybe you need some more practice,” He waggled his brows. 

“Or maybe we need to get you some toys.” 

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#Benny Borracho Magalon x Reader #Benny Borracho Magalon x You #Benny Borracho Magalon/Reader #Benny Borracho Magalon/You #Benny Borracho Magalon imagine #Kinktober #Kinktober 2023

[tropes-and-tales]

I tried not to request more than one but I couldn’t help it 😅

Could I request “If you called just to get off on my voice, i’m hanging up” with Benny Magalon?

The dashboard clock reads 1:42 in the morning, and Benny Magalon is fried.  He’s on babysitting duties—not even a proper stakeout.  His only job is to watch a certain house in Pomona to make sure the inhabitant doesn’t step out.  The other guys are stationed elsewhere across the county as LAPD runs a raid.  It’s a joint effort, but Benny is alone in his unmarked car.  He’s exhausted but keyed-up, jittery from chain-smoking too many cigarettes.

He pulls out his phone and checks the time to make sure the car’s clock is right.  It’s off by two minutes.  It’s only 1:40 in the fucking morning.  

Benny sighs.

Checking the time turns into checking his email, which turns into scrolling social media.  

Which turns into scrolling through your page.  Which he’s done a hundred times.  There’s no new pictures, but he’s familiar with the ones there.  He thumbs the scrollbar until he finds his favorite one—taken at Zapata’s birthday party with an expanded group that included you.  Ben met you that night.  

It took him months to casually ask Z about you.  The man hadn’t provided much information, so it took Ben another few months to be more blunt, to ask is she single? and do you think she’d be interested? and can I have her fucking number, Jesus Christ, dude, get a fucking clue.

You were single.  You were interested.  Z finally coughed up your number, and Ben wasted another month working up the courage to text you.

He’ll be forever embarrassed that the best he could come up with as a first text was “hey.”

It’s all still early stages, but each day draws him a little further out of his depth, a little more into uncertain territory.  He likes you a lot.  He could fall for you.  He thinks he’s already more than halfway there.

It’s a Friday night, so that’s how he justifies tabbing through to your phone number and calling you.  You work a regular job, a Monday to Friday gig, so Ben pushes down any guilt at waking you up.  You can fall back asleep.  You can sleep in.  He just wants to hear your voice.

“’ello?”  Your voice is rough, froggy with sleep.  “Benny?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Are you okay?”  He hears the alertness come into your voice, the concern.  “Shit, what—”

“’m fine.  It’s fine.  Everything’s fine,” he rushes to say, cutting you off.  “I just missed you.”

“Oh.”  He hears rustling, and he can picture you nestling down into your usual bank of pillows and blankets.  “I missed you too.”

“Sorry to wake you up.”

“No worries.  What’re you up to?”

He gives you the broad strokes of the operation without getting mired down in it.  Then he urges you to talk about your day because his shit is tedious, but he misses you and wants to hear you talk.

You do.  You tell him about your day at work, about the Thai place you went to for dinner with your friends.  You tell him about the book you’re reading and how you fell asleep later because you kept reading just one more chapter—

“What are you wearing?” he cuts in, remembering that you’re lying in bed.

You miss his intention.  “Oh, just pajamas.  The blue ones with stars.”

Ben’s never seen any blue pajamas with stars.  He wonders if you’re still holding back, saving your sexiest sleepwear for when he’s over and your comfortable stuff for when he’s gone.

“Describe them,” he says.

He hears the confusion in your voice.  “They’re….blue.  With stars.  Yellow stars.”

“They comfortable?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“More comfortable than that black thing you wore the last time I was over?”

You laugh.  “Yeah, Ben.  That was a corset.  It has, like, boning in it.  Not very comfortable at all.”

He feels a touch of…guilt?  A sting of conscience that you’re still putting on your best face with him, still forcing yourself into uncomfortable lingerie for him.  Not that he’s complaining—he liked the view of that corset very much—but he wants you to be yourself.  And anyway, he’s never really been a man to care much about lingerie.  He’s always preferred his women naked in bed.  Lace or mesh or silk can’t ever quite top the sight of a naked woman.

Still half-asleep, you finally catch his intention.  He hears the intake of breath over the phone, then your light laughter.

“Wait, are you trying to have phone sex with me?” you ask.

“No.  Nope.”

“You’re a liar, Ben.  What do you care what I’m wearing in bed?”

“I care very much about what you wear to bed,” he argues, playful.  

“Bullshit.  You were trying to have phone sex.”

“Maybe a little.”  He glances at the dashboard clock.  It’s a few minutes past two.  Another hour, then the drive home.  Maybe he can stop by your place, just crawl into bed with you.  

“Just a little phone sex?”

“You have a nice voice,” he replies.  “Especially right when you wake up.  It’s sexy.”

Another light laugh.  “If you called just to get off on my voice, I’m hanging up.”

“I called to hear your voice.  Big difference.  If I happened to get off to it, then that’s just a happy coincidence.”

“You’re the worst, Ben.”  

He knows you well enough now to know that’s your quirk, using opposite words for what you mean.  Saying “I hate you” affectionately to really mean “I love you.”  Saying “you’re the worst” when you really mean “you’re the best.”

You’d done it to him right out of the gate, when the two of you started texting.  After you got past his embarrassing hey and you realized who he was.  You’d replied oh yeah the hideous dude from Tony’s party, by which you really meant that you thought Ben was good-looking and had noticed him and remembered him.

“I know it,” he plays along now.  “The absolute worst.”

“Be careful out there, okay?”  Your voice loses its teasing quality and turns serious.  “I worry about you.”

He’s already more than halfway to falling for you, and that takes him another step in that direction—the concern you have for him.  The fact that you think of him when he’s not around.

“I will,” he replies, just as serious.  “Sorry to wake you up.”

“Oh, it’s fine.  Always happy to hear from you.  And next time, just give a girl a little warning if you want phone sex.”

He smiles.  “I’ll let you know the next time I have a stakeout.”

He hears your laugh, then hears you say, “I hate you, Ben.  Goodbye.”

Then he hears the line go dead, but he feels a warm lightness in his chest.  Your little quirk.  I hate you, Ben.  

He knows what you really mean.  

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

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Points of Contact

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

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

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

Length: 11.4K

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

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

You turn up at a crime scene. 

“It’s a doozy.” 

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

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

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

Det. Benjamin C. Magalon

--  

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

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

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

You turn up at a crime scene. 

--

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

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

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

“Detective Magalon.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right now?” 

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

“So we’ve got time—”

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

“Could’a done that over email.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-- 

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

Your brows raise at the sound of his voice. 

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

“Did I?” 

“Yes, you did.” 

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

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

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

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

“Four’s not gonna work for me.” 

“Alright, then after four.” 

“I can’t tomorrow night.” 

“Do you have an alternative?” 

“...You busy now?” 

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

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

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

“Mine.” 

--  

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

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

“Yeah. You couldn’t tell?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We can’t just go over the basics?” 

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

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

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

“What are the terms?” 

“Alford, second degree. Thirty.” 

“He’d be out in ten.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...You want the pad?” You ask. 

“No.” 

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

“Are these your notes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are they in your handwriting?”

“They are.”

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

“Yes.” 

“Are they in pen or pencil?”

“You can see them, you tell me.” 

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

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

“Pen.” 

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

“No.” 

“Can you recall the events in question?” 

“Yes, I can.” 

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

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

“I do.” 

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

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

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

“You sure about that?” 

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

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

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

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

“Who is Jesse Briggs?” 

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

“What was the tip?” 

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

“What was the address?” 

“Mill and Industrial Street. Skid Row.” 

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

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

“Go on.” 

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

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

“Incredibly deceased.” 

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

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

“California.” 

“Detective.”

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

“How could you tell?” 

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

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

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

“Anything else?” 

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

“Were there any in the hall?” 

“No.” 

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

“Objection. Leading the witness.” 

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

“Allegedly.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t mind droppin’ ya.” 

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

“Sounds good.” 

“Thanks for coming in.” 

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

“Night.” 

--  

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

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

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

-- 

“He take it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Right—” 

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

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

“You squeamish, counselor?” 

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

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

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

“Alright. You callin’ him?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just tell me when, counselor.” 

You settle down in your chair behind your desk. 

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

“And a swab. Confirmed for bleach.” 

“Damn.” 

“I know. He’s not stupid.” 

“Bummer, huh?” 

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

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

“Alright. Keep me close on the ME?” 

“Sure thing.” 

“Thank you.” 

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

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

-- 

“Uh-oh.” 

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

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

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

“Did I miss an email?” He asks. 

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

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

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

“What are you doing here?” 

“I had a meeting.” 

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

“Something tells me you’ll recover.” 

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

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

“The tongue?” 

“...Of the shoe.”

“Right.” 

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

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

“Yep.”

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

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

“No more spring rolls?” 

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

“Thanks…Hey.”

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

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

“Not a thing.” 

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

--  

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

“What’s up?” 

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

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

“Your voice sounds strange.” 

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

“I got new notes from the ME.” 

“Oh, great! Can you drop them off?” 

“Your office?” 

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

“Sure.” 

“Okay. I’ll send you the address.” 

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

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

“I’ll be there in an hour.” 

“Please answer my question.” 

“One hour, counselor.” 

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

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

-- 

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

“Hi,” You greet. 

“Hey. Got the file for you.” 

“Great.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened to it?” 

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

“Want me to take a look at it?” 

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

“What are you doing?” You ask.

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

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

“You know that’s illegal in California?”

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

"Keep it up, counselor."

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

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

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

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

“We got a match?” 

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, he is.” 

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

“What’s, uh…What’s that?” You frown. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.” 

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

-- 

“You gonna eat that slice?” 

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

“...Can I ask you something?” 

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

“Sure,” You nod.

“How long you been doing this?” 

“Few years.” 

“You like it?” 

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

“Most of the time.” 

“When don’t you?”

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

“That’s the only time?” 

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

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

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

“Wasn’t aware that I did.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was unnecessary,” You add. 

“What was?” 

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

He chuckles. “You seen that a lot?” 

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

“Surprised it still works on you.” 

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

“It does not,” You insist. 

“Whatever you say, counselor.” 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. 

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

“Objection. Badgering.” 

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

--  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything else?” 

“This is serious.” 

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

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

“How kind of them.” 

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

“It’s none of your concern.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How effective is it against gunfire?” 

“I’ll keep you updated.”

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

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

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

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

--  

“Ready to go?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“You're kidding, right?"

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

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

“My car is parked near your apartment.” 

“How’d you get here?” 

“Connors drove me over.”

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

“Go on,” He insists. 

“Seatbelt.” 

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

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

“...A while.” 

“How long’s a while?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

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

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

“Shooting this morning.” 

“MO?”

“Seemed related to a stolen goods rap.” 

“Sounds like a dunker.”

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

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

“Occupational hazard.” 

Magalon grunts. 

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

“Someone else that lives there?” 

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

“Fresh?” 

“Piping hot, straight outta the oven.” 

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

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

“Long as I need to.” 

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

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

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

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

“Well that would just make my night.” 

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

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

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

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

-- 

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

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

…His night schtick. 

You could use his night sti—

Nope. No. Not going there. 

-- 

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

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

You’re comfortable—until you’re not. 

--  

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

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

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

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

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

“You miss me already, counselor?"

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

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

“Sure. Gimme a second.”

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

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

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

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

“Why?” 

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

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

“What?” 

“It’s following me.” 

“It’s what?” 

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

“Where are you?” He presses. 

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

“Do not do that.” 

“Why not?” 

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

You wince. He has a point. 

"I still have my wasp spray?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just keep calm, we’re on our way.” 

“That’s the plan?” 

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

“Stellar advice, detective.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t move.” 

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

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

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

“‘M fine.”

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

“Does anything hurt?” He adds. 

“No.” 

“You sure?” 

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

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

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

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

“I got caught at a red. They rear-ended me, then hit me again when they were leaving.” 

Magalon pushes a sigh out of his nose, glancing between you and his teammate as he comes around your car. 

“Tow truck’s on the way,” Henderson reports. “We need an ambulance?” 

“No,” You shake your head. 

“I think we should at least go to the hospital,” Magalon argues. 

“I’m fine,” You insist stubbornly. “My neck feels fine, my back feels fine, I didn’t hit my head on anything.” 

“Doesn’t mean you can’t have a concussion. If you’ve got something and we don’t head it off at the pass now, it’ll be worse tomorrow.”

“I don’t have time for it to be worse tomorrow. We have court tomorrow.” 

“All the more reason to get checked out now.”

You tip your head back, scrubbing your head over your face and squeezing your eyes shut, trying to push back frustrated tears. 

“Fine.” You straighten up, turning to open your door. 

“We’re not taking that car—” Magalon starts to argue. 

“I am getting my crap,” You pronounce primly, lowering yourself into the car. You pull your phone out of the holder before leaning over, taking your bag out of the passenger’s seat. 

“I’ll wait here for the tow,” Henderson offers. 

“C’mon. We’ll handle the report while we wait,” Magalon rests his hand between your shoulder blades, steering you to their car. You find yourself shivering at the thought of climbing up into the cab, but you do it regardless, leaning back and pulling your seatbelt across yourself. You slide down in the seat a little, pointedly ignoring the rubber-necking pedestrians and drivers. You keep your eyes set on the dashboard as Magalon gets into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and starting the car up. 

--  

“...You should’ve told me you were leaving.” 

You’re surprised it’s taken him so long to say so. Magalon’s chastisement is spoken with quiet control. He’s sitting in a seat beside your exam table. Your head is throbbing more viciously now, and your body is beginning to ache. You’ve been at the emergency room for almost an hour, in an exam room for nearly twenty minutes, and you still haven’t seen a single medical professional. 

You nod a little bit. 

“Thought I’d leave early, give you the night off,” You admit. 

“How’d that work out?” 

You think he’s trying to tease you, but it hits right where it hurts. You turn your head from him, jaw quivering again as tired tears rush to your eyes. You raise your head, scrubbing over them again and sniffling softly as you fail to pull in a steadying breath. It’s a moment before you hear the slight scrape of the chair, the soft pad of his sneakers rounding the bed to stop beside you. His hand curls warmly around your wrist, giving it a gentle tug back from your face. You let him, raising your other hand to take its place. 

“Look at me,” Magalon plies quietly. “You told me you were alright.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“If you’re fine, then you probably shouldn’t be here,” Someone chirps. You tip your head up as Magalon lets go of you. Your tear-flooded eyes swim and muddy whoever it is. You can just make out navy blue scrubs. 

“I shouldn’t be,” You agree. “But he’s a worry-wart, so.” 

“Really? How new for you, Ben.” The comment is too familiar a tease. You blink to clear your eyes, getting a better look at the woman. She’s a petite, slight woman, with bronze skin and fiery red hair. She has an almost smug smile affixed on her lips as she eyes the detective beside you. You look between her and Magalon, brows raising when you find his face a placid mask. 

“Angelique,” He greets with a nod. 

“So, what happened in here?” She plucks your chart up, scanning it. 

“Hit and run,” He answers. 

“She can tell me, she clearly didn’t lose the ability to speak in the accident.” 

Oh—damn this is awkward. You shift uncomfortably on the bed, glancing over as Magalon shoves his hands into his pockets. 

“Just what he said,” You agree, “I was rear-ended. And then, uh—Side-swiped.” 

“Mm,” Angelique sets your chart back down, rounding to the opposite side of the bed. “Are you feeling any pain? Soreness in your back or neck?” 

“I have a bit of a headache,” You admit. “But besides that, I’m okay.” 

You can see Magalon shifting in your periphery. Angelique hums sympathetically. You answer each of the questions she rattles off, moving this way and that as she checks your heart rate, your blood pressure. You wince a touch when she shines a penlight in your eye. God, it's bright.

But it's also the least uncomfortable part of being in the room with the two of them. 

-- 

“Alright,” Magalon shuts his car door, looking over at you. “Let’s get you home.” 

It sounds warm and fuzzy, and oddly close as he says it. You just grunt, leaning back in your seat and letting your eyes close. The sun is beginning to dip, the sky darkening. So much for getting home early. 

“...Are you hungry?” He plies. 

“A little,” You admit. “But I just…Wanna be in my space right now.” 

Your body relaxes a little when he turns the car on this time. You hesitate before you pick your head up a touch, glancing down at your phone and opening a food delivery app. Maybe you can be smooth about this. “What do you wanna eat?” 

“Hm?” 

“You’ve been stuck with me all day. I may as well feed you.”

You can’t just ask him to stay. You already know that your empty, quiet apartment is going to make you twitchy and nervous. Magalon’s quiet for so long that you don’t think he’s going to answer. But—

“There any good chinese places near you?” He asks. 

You almost sigh with relief. You just nod, typing it into the search box. 

“Uh-huh. A couple.” 

--  “So how long did the two of you date for?” 

It's a hunch you've had for a couple of hours. You ask him while his mouth is full. He takes his damn time chewing, digging his fork into the container and stabbing at the remainder.

“...Couple months.” His muffled mumble of concession almost makes you laugh. 

“Seemed like a pretty cool reception for a couple of months. What happened?” 

“Nothing happened. We both have busy schedules. Just didn’t work out.” 

“You ghost her?” 

“...Yeah.”

“Got it,” You nod, taking up your beer. 

“Put that all together pretty quickly, counselor.” 

You smile for the first time in a few hours.

“It’s a tale as old as time, detective.”

You lean back in your seat, just managing to stave off a wince. Your body is beginning to ache a little, but it was as much as you’d been told to expect at the hospital. 

“What about you, huh?” He asks in turn, setting his food down. You frown. 

“What about me?” 

“Seeing anyone?” 

“No,” You scoff. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t have time. In fact, your team is right. This,” You wave a finger between the two of you. “Is the most committed relationship I’ve had in a few years.” 

Magalon’s smile widens, his eyes sparkling with something that you don’t recognize. 

“You oughta get out there, you know,” He offers. “Might find someone else to drive you home.” 

You roll your eyes. “You’re right, I should. Is Henderson single?” 

“No. And you’re not his type.” 

“Oh, well. Thanks for the warning.” 

“...Is he your type?” 

You consider for a moment before you shrug, shaking your head. “I guess not.” 

“What is?” 

It should be the perfect inane conversation—but with your current, nagging, budding crush on this man, it’s starting to feel a little stressful. 

“I don’t know that I have one,” You pass off. 

“Bullshit. Everyone has one.” 

“Well, what’s yours?” 

“We’re not talking about me.” 

“Maybe we should be.” 

Your insistence spurs a shiteating grin from Magalon, as he leans back in his seat. 

“Deflect, deflect, deflect,” He laughs. “That what makes you such a good lawyer?” 

“It can help sometimes,” You concede. “But it’s not the bulk of what I do.” 

He nods. “Well, that I believe.”

You smile, looking down at your table, hesitant. “Thank you,” You offer after a moment. “For…Hanging out. You didn’t have to.” 

“I don’t mind. Figured you might wanna go over my testimony again, anyway.” 

You shake your head. “No need. I trust you.” You meet his eyes as you insist. Something passes over Magalon’s face before he nods a little bit. You give a small smile before turning away again. You wave toward his beer, pushing yourself out of your seat.

“You want another one?” 

“...Nah. I should get going.”

You try not to feel so put out about it, but it makes sense. He's already been there long enough. You nod a little bit, and take your time trailing toward the door. You rest your hand on the doorknob and glance back, finding Magalon shifting his jacket on his shoulders. 

“You know,” You comment. “I think today’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone use your first name.” 

“That so?” He asks, adjusting his collar as he walks toward you. 

“Mhm. Think I’ve mostly heard ‘Magalon’. Or uh…What’d that guy call you at the office? ‘Borracho’?” 

He smiles a little, nodding. “Sounds about right.” He stops in front of you. “Haven’t heard you use it either.” 

You shrug a little. “Do you need me to?” 

“...Not need, no.” 

Before you can read into it, to ask the questions you have, Magalon adds: “I‘ve got one of the guys keeping an eye on the apartment. You don’t feel well, you feel weird, get a feeling that something’s up, you call me. Connor's'll get up here and I'll be by as soon as I can.” 

You nod, fingers flexing around the doorknob. 

“Okay.” 

“I’ll come pick you up for court tomorrow.” 

“Don’t be late.” 

“I won’t be.” 

You begin to turn the doorknob, expecting that to be Magalon’s parting shot, but he rests his hands on your shoulders again. It steadies you, centering your mind the way it did at the scene of the accident. He crowds a little closer, gaze skimming your face. 

“You gonna be okay tonight?” He asks softly. Your stomach flips at his voice, his closeness. You nod a little bit, swallowing thickly. 

“I’ll be fine,” You insist, tipping your chin up defiantly. He smiles a little, giving your shoulders a gentle squeeze before letting go of you. You open the door, stepping back to give him room to leave. 

“Night, Ben.” 

“...Goodnight, counselor.” 

--  

There’s an additional swell of nerves as you get ready for court the next morning. There’s usually a little bit of wariness on your part, but it’s bolstered by the previous day's events. Still, you’re resolved to put on a brave face, and not to let Webster or his crew see you flinch. If this gang of thugs is able to intimidate you, it could spell trouble for the remainder of your time at this job. You can’t just pack your life up again—you will not run from this.

You get a text from Borracho at 7:50 that he’s just parked, and to wait for him inside your apartment. You wait impatiently, shifting from foot to foot, and you're only a little startled when his cop-knock wraps against your door. You open the door, brows raising, chastisement ready on your lips. It goes quiet at the sight of him. You’re used to seeing him in casual button-downs, long- and short-sleeve shirts, sweaters. You know that he’s given testimony before, this is hardly his first rodeo—but you somehow didn’t expect him to look so damn good. 

His button-down and suit pants are well-fitted. His neck tattoo winks at you, half-shrouded by his collar. You force an unaffected expression, stepping into the hall and shutting your door behind yourself. 

“I can’t get from my apartment to the car alone now?” You ask. 

“Do you need to relearn yesterday’s lesson?” 

You purse your lips at his smiling tease, grumbling as he leads the way to the elevator.

“How are you feeling?” 

“I’m alright. A little sore,” You admit. “But nothing unmanageable.” 

“Sore where?” 

“My back.”

He hums sympathetically, nodding you into the elevator and jabbing the lobby button. You lean against the wall, eyeing the numbers as they tick down. 

“...No jacket or tie?” You ask. 

“They’re in the car.” 

“Mm.” 

“Good morning to you, too, by the way.” 

You glance over at Borracho, smiling a little. 

“Good morning, detective.” 

“That’s better, counselor.” 

The two of you step off of the elevator, and you try to ignore the butterflies that flutter in your belly as he rests his hand on your lower back, steering you through the front door.

--  

Any port in a storm, right? That’s what this feeling is. 

Borracho was there for you in a moment of crisis. He took care of you when you were hurt, stayed to make sure you were alright. He’s still ferrying you to and from court every day, even if that day has nothing to do with his testimony. The two of you talk in the car—really talk, like you're friends and not colleagues.

Sure, you like his smile. Sure, he’s unfairly attractive in a suit. Sure, his testimony was damn-near perfect, and you'd practically preened with pride as he held up under cross-examination. 

Your last couple of months have been absolute chaos, and despite your initial rocky start, Ben has been a constant. That’s why you’re nagging crush has blossomed into full-blown infatuation. That’s why you invite him up for a beer every night. 

Thing is, you don’t know why he always agrees. Is it out of politeness? His want to make nice for the case? Is it out of friendship? 

You don’t think he’d insist on bringing over a six pack every now and again if it was just politeness. 

You don’t think he’d make it a point to touch you on the arm or side or the thigh if he was just trying to make nice. 

You don’t think that your long good nights would get even longer if he was just being friendly. 

--  

“They better nail his dick to the wall.” 

You glance toward Ben as he grumbles, unable to help your smile. He’s staring moodily at the things on your shelves, eyeing the contents of the boxes that you’ve finally gotten around to unpacking. 

“Visceral,” You comment. Your eyes shift to the time on your laptop. It’s been about forty minutes since the judge gave the jury their final instructions.

“Would you settle down?” You add. “All of your,” You wave toward him. “You’re making me antsy.” 

“All of my what?” 

“Just, the way you’re looking around. You’re all frowny. Your bad energy is gonna kill my snake plant.” 

Borracho chuckles softly, rounding to sit opposite you at your desk. You’re a little surprised he’s hanging around—there must be other cases that he’s assigned to work, something that he could be following up on. 

“How long do you think they’ll take?” He asks. Before you can answer—before you can tell him not to get his hopes up, that it’ll probably be at least a few days—you get a knock on your door. One of the paralegals pokes her head inside, looking harassed. 

“They need you back in court. Jury has their verdict on the Webster case.”  

Your heart drops into your stomach.

“Already?” You ask, raising your brows. 

“Uh-huh.” 

You hurriedly stand, shoving your laptop shut and beginning to get your things together. 

“Is this good or bad?” Borracho asks. 

“Fuck, I don’t know. It hasn't even been an hour. Half an hour of this would’ve been filling out the paperwork.” 

--  

The jury looks resigned as they file in. None of them meet Webster’s eyes. It’s a good sign, one that bolsters you as the judge addresses the jury. 

It’s cut and dry: guilty of first degree murder. A bolt of vindication bursts through your body as you force a neutral expression. Guilty. Fucking guilty. Even without a confession—even with the odds stacked against you, even with months of intimidating you—guilty. You turn, eyes scanning the rows behind your table and landing on Borracho. He’s grinning, as if smiling extra-wide when you can’t. You give a small nod, your lips twitching with a smile regardless. You’re not sure if your glee is a result of the verdict, or the sight of him. 

--  

It feels frighteningly natural for Borracho to follow you off of the elevator and down the hall to your place. But—you’re celebrating, right? That’s why you feel so buoyant. That’s why you force your overthinking mind quiet as he crowds up against you, waiting for you to open your door. 

That’s why you wind up in bed together. 

…Right?

--  

“Don’t move.” 

You smile at the mumbled order, lifting your head a touch to get a better look at him. His eyes are closed, his head resting comfortably on your bare belly. You reach down, gently combing your fingers through his sex-ruffled hair. He groans softly as you massage his scalp, his head rising and following with your gentle giggles. He tips his chin up, smiling as he catches your eye. 

“What made you think I was gonna move?” You ask. 

“Felt your legs tensing.”

You hum. “Put that together pretty fast.” 

“That’s why they pay me.”

You watch as Borracho pushes himself up, bracing himself over you. You reach up, gently stroking his rough cheek, and steadying your hand there as he leans in for a kiss. You sigh, lips slipping against his. You smile, giggling again as he plants his knees against the mattress, lazily rolling his hips against yours. You’re still slick, still aching from him. You let your head tip back against the pillow again, blinking up at him and sliding the tip of your finger along his lower lip. Quick as a flash, his tongue pokes out, swiping against your skin. 

You smile, leaning up and pecking his lips. 

“Alright, get off of me,” You wave at his chest. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

“I wanna get some water. Is that alright with you, detective?” 

He grunts, rolling off of you and settling down on his back, yawning widely. 

“I’ll allow it, counselor.”

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#Benny Borracho Magalon x Reader #Benny Borracho Magalon x You #Benny Borracho Magalon/Reader #Benny Borracho Magalon/You #Benny Borracho Magalon fic #Benny Borracho Magalon Imagine #Points of Contact

[tropes-and-tales]

A Million Reasons

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

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

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

Word Count:  8837

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s the only room left.

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

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

“Do you snore and kick in your sleep?”

“I sure do,” you reply with a grin.

“I’ll survive.”

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

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

It’s not all the time—just sometimes.

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

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

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

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

“Seriously?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop!”

“—thinking about that mirror—”

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

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

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

*****

You and Borracho are in Vegas for five full days.

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

With Borracho, the temptation is a bit higher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It won’t bother you?” he asks.

“Nope.  I sleep like a stone.”

“Good to know.”

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

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

*****

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

“Asshole and sexist.  Nice.”

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

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

-----

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

*****

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

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

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

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

“Dinner, I guess?”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you?”

“Am I cramping your style or something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry.”

A beat.  “What’s up?”

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

“About what?”

“The mirror.  Above the bed.”

“What about it?”

“I said you’d think about it.”

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

“Drinking keys me up.”

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

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

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

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, it’ll help me fall asleep.”

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

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

“You sure?”

“Cross my heart.”

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

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

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

“’m wearing boxers.”

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

“Gets too warm.”

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

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

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

“Too heavy?” he asks.

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

“You’re breathing on me.”

“You want me to stop breathing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” he mumbles.  

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

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

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.  

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

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

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

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

“No, I can—”

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

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

“What?”

“You said cuddling helps you sleep.”

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

-----

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

His courage carries over into dinner.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Since when?” you blurt out.

“Pretty much since you joined Major Crimes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

Like when you ask him to dance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t even suggest it,” you warn.

“C’mon.  You know you want to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

He could get used to all of this.

#benny magalon #benny borracho magalon #benny magalon x reader #benny magalon imagine #benny magalon x reader #kinktober2022 #tropes-and-tales #Borracho Magalon x Reader #den of thieves

[tropes-and-tales]

FOREHEAD KISSES FOREHEAD KISSES FOREHEAD KISSES with Benny please, if these asks are still open!

The nurse warns them that you’re still out of it, still in that liminal space between anesthetized sleep and wakefulness. 

“You can go back and see her,” she tells them.  “But she’s still a little…loopy.”

Loopy hardly captures it.  You’re a lightweight, Borracho knows.  You never partake in the harder drugs at their parties, and you limit yourself to a single beer when you go out.  Hell, even an extra Coke in the afternoon is enough to set you bounding around, full of caffeinated energy.  

Anesthesia and then the good pain killers delivered intravenously?  Forget loopy.  You’re telegraphing from another dimension entirely.

Case in point?  He hears you before he sees you.  You’re singing “Hurts So Good,” but mostly mumbling it.  It’s loud enough to hear that you are just mumble-singing the chorus, but it’s enough to make Big Nick groan, “fuck, it’s karaoke hour, I guess.”

When Borracho and Nick enter your room, you look up.  Your face lights up to see them.  Given how shitty you looked just hours earlier, it makes Borracho’s stomach swoop in relief.

“Big Nick!” you exclaim.  “And Borracho.  Big Ben!”  You laugh at your own joke, wince and lay a bracing arm over your abdomen.  “Shit, why’ve we never called you Big Ben?  Thass a better nickname.”

He can’t help but grin at you.  “How you feeling, champ?”

“Good.”  You smile back at him, give him a thumbs up.  “How you feelin’?”

“Better.”  He pulls a chair over to the side of your bed and sits down.  “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Scared all of us,” Nick interjects.  He remains standing, leans against the doorway.  “Next time you want an ambulance ride, be a real cop and get shot.  Save this burst appendix shit for, fuck…I dunno…mall cops.”

You flip him the middle finger, and Borracho studies you closer.  Already you look better.  That morning you had rolled into work looking rough:  wan with a grey cast to your skin, a sheen of sweat on your forehead.  Now the color is back in your face.  The rictus of pain is gone, replaced by the goofy grin that curves your lips.

“I’m gonna head back,” Nick continues.  “Borracho, you good to stick around?”

He nods.  “Yeah, I’ll keep you updated.”

-----

There’s not much to update Nick on, and besides—Borracho wants to keep this moment private, between the two of you.  

He puts on a strong front, a neutral face, but you scared him shitless.  The way you slumped over at your desk, how hard you cried in pain as he called for the ambulance….of course, in retrospect, it was obviously a burst appendix, but in that moment, he had been terrified, confused.  There was no obvious injury, and he had felt helpless.  All he could do was grip your hand in his, tuck his flannel under your head and wait for the EMTs.

“You really scared me,” he tells you again, his voice soft.  You’ve calmed a little (no longer singing, no longer calling him “Big Ben”), and you turn your head on the pillow to fix him with a glassy look.

“I know.  I’m sorry.”

“Despite what Big Nick says, I’d prefer it if you don’t get shot either.  You know, going forward.”

You smile at him.  “’m not planning on it, Borracho.”

“Good.”  He reaches out, pats you gently on your shoulder.  “I’d hate to break in a new partner.”

You snort, then wince at the effort.  You roll your head back on the pillow and close your eyes.  “Who broke in who, huh?”

“I was in Major Crimes first.”

“Yeah, and you were as feral as the rest of ‘em.  I’m the one who housebroke you.”

He chuckles and sits back in his seat, crosses his arms over his chest.  “Make me sound like a stray dog.”

“Mmm,” you agree, and your voice is getting thick with impending sleep.  “A cute stray.”

His stomach swoops again at your words, and he studies you.  Your eyes are closed, and he can hear the way your breathing lengthens, stretches out.  You’re finally falling asleep, right after calling him cute and setting the butterflies aflutter in his stomach.  

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says softly, and there’s no response beyond your steady breathing.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline dump from the stress of your collapse in the office finally hitting him.  Maybe it’s that old cliché, the brush with death that reveals feelings.  Maybe it’s seeing you—unflappable, unstoppable you—so vulnerable in a hospital bed.

Borracho doesn’t know what it is, but something pushes him out of his chair until he’s standing over you.  He bends his head and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

When he pulls back and glances down at you, you’re staring right back at him.

That makes his stomach turn in anxiety, but you offer him a soft, drowsy smile and mumble, “you leaving?”

“Nah.”  He sits back down, plays it as cool as he can.  “I’ll stay until they kick me out.”

It’s not a big thing.  You’ll bring it up later, once you’re healed and back in the office, once you have him alone and can talk to him.  Right now, you just close your eyes again, smile again…but then you add, “thanks, Benny.”

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

[tropes-and-tales]

If You Weren’t You

Day 12:  Hate/Angry Sex (Benny “Borracho” Magalon x F!Reader)

(For the 2022 Kinktober event offered by @the-purity-pen​​.  The original post and calendar/list can be found here.)

CW:  Rude and insulting language; misogynistic language; smut (angry sex but only kinda because most of the anger is pre-sex so maybe this is a poor entry for kinktober, I dunno, your girl is struggling here; PiV, unprotected; car sex).  18+ only.

Word Count:  5513

It’s Big Nick’s fault.

He sets the tone between Major Crimes and the FBI.  He talks poorly about the federal agents, saves the worst of it for Lobbin’ Bob and his perfectly parted hair and perfectly pressed suits.  Bob and his veganism, Bob and his good, clean living.  

Big Nick sets the tone, and his detectives follow suit.  Lobbin’ Bob responds accordingly…as do the agents who work under him.  

Borracho’s thing with you actually starts because of Henderson.  It’s a string of bank robberies; the suspects are a crew out of Bakersfield working around Los Angeles.  The FBI is called in.  When Lobbin’ Bob and his field agents walk past them to get to the crime scene, Henderson elbows Borracho and snickers.

“Looks like they got an ice princess on the feds now,” he says, nodding in your direction.  You look like you’re cut from the same cloth as Bob:  neat clothing, neat ponytail, stick-in-the-ass way of walking.

You walk past, already have your back to them, but you catch Henderson’s remark.  You stop and turn, look at them.  Your eyes, for whatever reason, settle on Borracho:  matches Henderson’s words to him.

“Asshole,” you say, eyes narrowed, and you turn away.

“Got me in trouble, you dick,” Borracho snorts, shaking his head at his fellow detective.  But to your retreating back, he glares from behind his shades and thinks, what a bitch.

-----

It doesn’t get any better.

You’re the only woman on Bob’s team, and Big Nick has nearly as many comments for you as he does for your leader.  Which marks you as fair game to the rest of the guys in Major Crimes.

Borracho, for his part, has never been a complete follower—not the way Henderson and Z and Connors are—but it is easy to get swept up in the piling-on that happens when Big Nick starts on you.

You have two main approaches to the crude comments Nick lobs at you:  utter silence and snarky retorts.  You typically employ the former:  Nick may say something incredibly rude—imply that your pussy is filled with icicles, imply that a hard fuck would loosen you right up—and you only respond with an unblinking stare.  

You stare so long that it makes them squirm, makes the entire moment turn from funny to something heavy and uncomfortable.

But the latter approach, the snarky retorts?  You employ those sparingly, and to devastating effect.  And you use them mostly on the guys, Borracho included.

Most of Borracho’s insults for you hew close to Henderson’s original ice princess remark, with his own observations around you being uptight, robotic, and obsessive about proper police procedures.  Your answering insults to him seem to cast him as a drooling moron.

Borracho calls you a frosty bitch.

You call him an idiotic asshole.

He calls you an uptight cunt.

You call him tall, dark, and stupid.

He says that any guy who might try to fuck you would have his dick fall off from severe frostbite.

You snort mirthlessly, tell him that’s funny, coming from a walking STD like him.

He implies that you and Lobbin’ Bob have a thing going on, two asshole feds having bland vanilla sex together.

You reply, completely monotone, that you’d rather fuck Bob than be Nick O’Brien’s little lap dog.

He tells you to shut the fuck up.

You reply that he too should shut the fuck up.

It doesn’t get any better.  It only gets worse.

-----

It gets worse when Major Crimes and the FBI work a case together.  

It involves other departments—LAPD, ATF—but the bulk of the work is done by your respective teams.  Big Nick, unable to stand planning a multi-agency case, passes off much of the work to Borracho.

Lobbin’ Bob is juggling too many cases and hands off the FBI’s side to you.

If you weren’t…well, you…Borracho would be impressed.  All the things he and the guys from Major Case harass you about…your work ethic is the flip-side of those things.

Your frostiness could be construed as consummate professionalism.

Your uptight, robotic nature could be read as a desire to solve a case quickly and with airtight evidence.

But you’re you.  You’re the woman that called him a lap dog and a walking STD (though he’s called you things just as bad, a fact he tacitly ignores), so Borracho doesn’t let any admirable feelings for you take root, and he only does what he must to solve the case and never work with you so closely again.

*****

Despite all the new technology, sometimes things have to be old-school, which is why you find yourself setting up a listening post in an apartment building in Marina del Rey.  It’s a high-end building, full of wealthy people, but the one you are targeting is on a top floor condo.

You work with building management to take over a utility room one floor down, right under the condo in question.  It’s a cramped space, but there’s enough room for the audio equipment and recording devices.

And enough room for two chairs and two people.

You try to plan it any other possible way.  You try to pull in an LAPD detective, but they are running their own piece of this case.  Same with ATF.  

You try to get another FBI agent to sit with you on the overnight shift, but Big Nick manages to speak up long enough to throw a fit—he accuses you of icing out his team, trying to steal all the credit when the case is solved.

So you try to get any other detective from Major Crimes.  Literally any other guy.

It ends up being Tall, Dark, and Stupid.

You know his name is Magalon, just the way you know he knows your name.  But he never uses your name, not a single time, and you do him the same courtesy.

-----

You’ve run a few listening posts.  It is never as exciting as it looks in the movies, because usually there’s nothing to do but wait for that one, single clue.

Late on a Friday night, sitting in a cramped utility closet with Magalon, you wait.

And wait.  And wait.

Your partner for the evening sighs early on, slides his dark glasses over his face, then leans back in his chair.  You can’t tell if he’s asleep, but he’s silent, and that’s something.  For once he isn’t calling you a bitch or a cunt or any charming variation on the same misogynistic theme.

It doesn’t bother you when he does.  You’ve worked in law enforcement your whole adult life, and Magalon is exactly the same as the majority of men in the field.  

You’ve run listening posts before.  You know the drill.  You set the equipment high enough to hear, low enough to not be heard through the utility room door.  And then you pull your book out of your bag and start reading.

You swear you hear Magalon snort, very softly.  You can imagine what he’s thinking.  In his world, reading a book probably translates to stuck-up or boring or whatever other untrue things he thinks about you.

So you tilt your chin a little higher.  Let him think whatever he wants.

*****

Borracho is bored and moreover, the guys had a piss test earlier in the day, which means he’s missing their usual party.

They drew names to see who had to run the listening post with Queen Frostine.  Of course his name was pulled.

And of course you sit there completely composed, paging through a book, engrossed in whatever you are reading.

He watches you from behind his dark glasses.  If you weren’t you, he’d think you were okay.  Too well put-together for his tastes; Borracho prefers his women a little messy.  Women with an edge.  You’re too polished, perfectly rounded off.  No edge to you.

But you are good-looking.  He tries to picture you dressed down and finds he can’t do it.  Even now—you’re in jeans and a button-down shirt tucked in—you’re too neat.  Your eyeliner is perfect.  Your lipstick is just a shade darker than your natural color.

He can’t picture you roughed up.  He can’t picture you with eye makeup a little smeared, lipstick blurred at the edges of your lips.  Hair tousled, clothes rumpled.  

You’re probably the type of woman who sleeps in formal pajamas.  The thought makes him snort, and it pulls your eyes from your book, your cool gaze settling on him.

“Something wrong, detective?”

He doesn’t answer you.  “What are you reading?”

You look back to your page, turn it.  “A book.”

“Funny.”  A beat.  “What’s it called?”

You turn the book so he can see it, tap the cover with your forefinger.  The Devil in the White City, it says.

“What’s it about?” he asks.

“Crime.”

“Sounds fun.”

You glance at him again.  “It’s about H.H. Holmes.  Some consider him to be the first modern serial killer.”

“Sounds extra fun.”

You turn back to your book.  “About as much fun as manning a listening post with an ice princess, I imagine.”

He snorts again, this time bitter.  “Or with a walking STD.”

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of your lips before you school your expression.  You don’t reply to him.

-----

An hour passes.  No—it crawls by.

You read.  He scrolls through social media, and it’s punctuated from time to time with messages from the guys.

Z sends a simple Miss you, bro.

Connors says It’s only 10 and Nick is already FUKKED up.

Henderson asks how’s it going with the bitch queen?

Borracho chuckles and replies Quiet.  Listening post is dead and shes reading.

It’s Friday night and he already has that Friday night restless energy thing going on.  He sighs and counts down the time remaining until the two of you are relieved by another FBI agent and a technician from the Sheriff’s department.

Twenty minutes later, Nick sends a text.  Well, less a text than a series of pics:  the bevy of women Nick has hired for the night.  What Borracho is missing out on.  

He sighs again, and you glance at him.  You correctly guess at what’s bothering him.

“You can leave, if you want,” you say.  

He’s tempted.  He knows you can handle it, and further—he doubts you have plans on a Friday night.  He doubts you’re missing anything fun.  You’d probably be reading that same book at home.

“Big Nick wants one of us here,” he replies.  

“I’d cover for you.”

“Bullshit,” he retorts.  “You’d throw me under the bus.”

You shrug.  “Yeah, probably.”

“Then why would you even offer to cover for me?”

Another shrug.  “I like mind games.  Most bitches do.”

He huffs out a breath, crosses his arms across his chest.  He leans back in his chair and stares at you.  “I wasn’t even the one who called you an ice princess that first time, you know.  That was Henderson.”

“I thought you were Henderson.”

“Asshole.  You know my name.”

You turn another page, and he almost misses the faint smile.  If you weren’t you, he’d think you were teasing him.  

“Honestly, all of you Major Crimes detectives look the same to me,” you say.  

“All you agents look the same.  Same stick-up-the-ass.”

“Better to have a stick up the ass than to be a thug with a badge and a gun.”

“You think I’m a bad cop?”  He tightens his jaw, feels his molars grinding against each other.

“I think you’re all bad cops,” you clarify.  “I think you care more about your parties.  O’Brien certainly cares more about being the bad boy of the sheriff’s department, and the rest of you fall in line like his little ducklings.”

It stings to hear you say it out loud, though Borracho has long suspected that you’d thought that about them.  You have a way of looking at them when they are joking around, a subtle way of shaking your head like a disappointed mother.

“It’s just letting off steam,” he replies, defensive.  “How the fuck do you unwind?”

You look at him, tilt your head.  “Spoiler alert, detective, but I unwind the same way.  I drink, I fuck.  I just keep it separate from the work.  I don’t let it affect my job.”

That stings too, you obliquely saying that you’re better than him.  That you have it more together, which (in a calmer moment) he’d probably admit.  Right now, he stews—the guys are off having fun, Nick sent the pics of the honeys at the party, and Borracho is stuck sitting with you, being told that you’re better than him.

“Yeah, I can just picture it,” he snaps, his voice laced with sarcasm.  “Half a glass of white wine, then you fuck some lame asshole in missionary with the lights off.  What a fucking badass.”

You keep your head tilted, and now you pair it with an infuriating smile.

“I don’t need to prove to you if I’m cool,” you say.  A beat, and then you add, “at least I don’t have to pay for it.”

“I don’t pay for it!”  He hates how defensive he sounds, the way his voice cracks on the word pay like he’s a fucking child.

“Oh, sorry.  O’Brien pays for it.  That’s so much better.”

“I don’t…partake in that stuff.”  Not anymore, anyway.  He had a few times right after his divorce when he was in a bad way and wallowing, but he hasn’t since then.  It always left him feeling cheap and a little scummy…but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy going to the parties and looking.

“Okay.”  Your tone is clear that you don’t believe him, and you turn back to your book.

“I don’t.”

“Sure, Henderson.”

He huffs in frustration.  “Christ, you are a cunt.”

“Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?  Cunts are a lot of fun.  Seems like a compliment, calling me one.”

It always goes like this.  Every single fucking time.  You always respond to his insults with these infuriating responses, deliver barbs and retorts back to him without being affected at all.  

And just like always, Borracho settles on his usual closing statement.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says.

“You first,” you reply.

*****

The bickering kills off the remaining time of your shift, and before you know it, there’s a knock on the door and your relief is there to spell you.

What surprises you is Magalon doesn’t stalk away the moment he can.  He keeps his steps measured to yours, falls in beside you as you go into the parking garage under the building.  

He doesn’t speak.  He just walks beside you, and you can feel the anger still radiating off of him.  Of all of them, Magalon falls on the quieter end of the spectrum.  O’Brien is Major Crimes’ chattiest asshole, and Magalon usually sits back and listens.  You think sometimes he talks the most to you, which is probably a shame since you constantly squabble.

In the parking garage, he grumbles, “this was a lot of fucking fun.  Great way to spend a Friday night.”

It stings, faintly.  You offered to cover.  He’s the one who stayed, in the end.  There wouldn’t have been any repercussions if he left, especially from his boss.  For fuck’s sake, O’Brien is the first to break the rules.  He’d never reprimand one of his detectives for leaving their post with an FBI agent.

“Hurry along then,” you retort.  “Maybe you can make it in time and get O’Brien’s sloppy seconds.”

You expect him to tell you to fuck off.  You expect him to call you a name.  You expect his usual weak finishing move of shut the fuck up.

Thing is, he does say shut the fuck up…he just says it as he turns and squares up to you, puffs his chest out and faces you, and you stupidly think he’s challenging you to a fight.  He’s only half a head taller than you, but he’s broad through the chest and arms, and you take a defensive step back…

“Don’t you ever shut the fuck up?” he repeats, and he shakes his head at his own question, frustration writ across his face.  “Why can’t you ever just…be fucking quiet?”

You open your mouth to answer (apparently you cannot ever shut the fuck up), but he takes another step to close the gap between you, and maybe Detective Magalon hates you, but something is driving him other than hatred at the moment.  He reaches out and wraps a hand around the back of your neck, holds you steady.  His eyes dip down to look at your mouth before they slide up and gaze into your own eyes.

Oh.  Oh, shit.

You only just grasp the situation when his mouth is on yours, hot and insistent, but not cruel.  His mouth slots over yours, his tongue pries your lips apart, and you hate that you open up to him so willingly.  You try to logic out the situation—Friday nights always key you up, and the guy you had a friends-with-benefits situation moved away months ago—but the cool, logical part of your brain is falling silent.

It’s giving over to the baser part of your brain that chases pleasure, that sparks up like fireworks at the feeling of Magalon’s rough kissing, the way his lips are just a bit chapped.  The way his facial hair tickles against your face.  The way he grips your neck—firm but not too hard, and the pad of his thumb strokes the side of your neck.

Well, shit.

*****

Borracho convinces himself that he’s just worked up.  He’s just confusing the nascent lust that bloomed from Big Nick’s pictures of the women with his ongoing irritation of you.  

That when you took the mean shot about sloppy seconds, he was going to place his hand over your mouth to shut you the fuck up…but you looked at him in surprise, your lips parting, and the motion drew his eyes, and his brain (tall, dark, and stupid after all) did the wrong thing.

What surprises him is that you still for a second, but then you kiss him back.  You open your mouth to him, allow him to sweep his tongue against yours.  You breathe out through your nose, and after a beat, you reach up to circle your fingers around his wrist, around the hand that has a firm hold on you.

You don’t pry his hand away.  You only hold him steady as he holds you steady.

It’s not love.  It’s not even lust.  It’s just months and months of irritation, finally bubbling over into this.

That’s what he tells himself.  As he walks you backwards, as he presses you against your SUV.  As he grinds against you, getting steadily harder against your thigh.  As you make these little noises, these quiet whimpers.  As you kiss him back, as your other hand hooks against his belt and holds him close to you.

This is just his irritation with you.  He’s letting off steam.  That is it.

He can’t fathom what you’re doing.  If he’s constantly angry with you, then you have to feel similarly.  

Maybe you’re unwinding too.  What did you say earlier?  You unwind the same way as him?  

I drink, I fuck, you said.

Your prospects for the latter must be bleak if you’re willing to fuck him, but he’s not going to complain.

You release your hold on his wrist, and you reach down into your pocket, fumble until you pull out your keys.  You hit the fob, and you unlock your SUV.  He steps away from you, releases you from where he has you trapped against the door.  You open the door to the back, and he starts to push you in, push you onto the back seat but you murmur, wait a second.  

You turn away from him, and it’s automatic how his hands go to your waist, hold you.  It’s like if he stops touching you, the insane spell will be broken, a current halted because of a break in the circuit.

There’s a protective cover on your backseat, and it takes you a moment to get it unhooked and tossed into the far back of the vehicle, and you turn back to him with a shrug.  “Dog hair,” you say simply, and Borracho lets the comment slide over him.  He is already pulling you back to him, kissing you again, pushing you into your SUV.

You hook your hands into his belt again and pull him in with you.

Car sex is always better in theory than reality.  It’s hot in the abstract but fraught in practice.  Borracho has a fair amount of experience—the sum total of his sexual history in high school was realized in the backseat of the shitty Acura Legend he inherited from his aunt.

At least your SUV is bigger.

It’s still awkward.  Difficult to get you out of your jeans and panties, difficult to get his own pants and boxers pushed down enough.  The backseat is too short for both of you, so it takes effort to arrange your legs.  You bend one, press it against the back of the seat, and the other plants on the floorboard.  Borracho kneels clumsily, shuffles to slot himself between your thighs.

It’s dim enough in the SUV that he can pretend you’re not you.  Because aside from you murmuring yes to answer his question is this okay with you?...you don’t talk.

The thought occurs to him that maybe you’re pretending he’s someone else too.

You are far touchier than he thought you would be.  You smooth your palms over his back, his shoulders, his arms.  It makes him feel a little big-headed; he thinks maybe you like his build, maybe you’ve been studying him on the sly and are finally getting to touch him.  You run your fingers through his hair, muss it up, and the strange intimacy of the gesture makes him shudder.

You still when he pushes into you.  He reaches down and lines himself up with you, then inches his hips forward.  He’s shocked to find you ready for him—wet and hot, and as he breeches your entrance, he can feel how your pussy is already twitching against him.

The first stupid thought that comes to his head is I’ll have to tell the guys that there’s no icicles in her pussy after all.

The second, better thought:  No, this is between me and her.  I’ll never say a word to the guys.

*****

Look:  Magalon and O’Brien and their merry band of assholes can say whatever they like about you.  They can call you a bitch or a cunt or whatever rude phrase they want, but you know you’re an ace at your job.  You are efficient.  You are smart.

Sometimes you aren’t quite as smart in your personal life.

Case in point, this moment.  Magalon half-naked, you half-naked underneath him.  In your SUV that smells faintly of salt water and wet dog from the weekend trip to the beach with your retriever.  You know this is a bad idea, your great big brain screams a million warnings, but sometimes you just do dumb things.

The dumb thing you are doing right now is Magalon.

You have no idea what is driving him.  He’ll probably go running straight to the dickhead brigade at Major Crimes and spill everything, but you don’t really care.  They already say terrible things about you.  This would just give them a new avenue to explore.

If he wasn’t Magalon, it’d be easier to fall into the fantasy.  The man is not repulsive looking.  He’s broad, and you run your hands over him, can feel how he’s built under his flannel shirt.  He’s a decent kisser too, not too rough, not too soft and precious about it.  An acceptable amount of tongue without trying to map the shape of your tonsils.  

His hands are nice too—you’ve noticed them before.  You can admit to yourself that you don’t hate the way they feel when they touch you, when they grip your waist or when they cup your hip as he settles against you.

When he pushes into you, it stuns you.  You freeze underneath him, breathe in deep and shut your eyes at the sensation.

The universe is often unfair, you’ve found.  Giving an asshole like Magalon that good dick, perfectly sized.  What a waste.

Not a complete waste, not now, at least.  Not when he’s sliding into you, and not when you give way to him.  It burns just a bit, the way he stretches you, but it’s that good pain that bumps up so close to pleasure that the two are undiscernible from each other.  He must feel his own version of it because he drops his head beside yours, breathes out a harsh fuck once his hips are flush against yours.

You know he hates you, but in this moment, he’s considerate.  Almost sweet, actually.  It’s awkward in your SUV; the door handle digs against the top of your head and he notices two thrusts in.  He mutters something you can’t make out, but then he reaches up and cups the back of your head, helps hold you steady.

And he deals you gentler thrusts to keep from hurting you.

You would have never guessed he could be nice.  Especially in a moment like this.  You know it won’t last.  It will end the minute this ends, but he’s being nice, so you’re nice too.  You wrap your arm around his neck.  You pull his face to yours and you kiss him, soft.  

It must surprise him because he huffs against your lips before he kisses you back.  Presses a second gentle peck to your mouth before he breaks away, drops his head beside yours again.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he mutters, and he sounds almost begrudging.  Like he thought you’d feel terrible and is mildly pissed to find himself wrong.

You have no witty retort.  You are stunned to near muteness as the feeling of him, the thick drag of his cock as he fucks you at a sedate pace.  You reply, lamely, “you too.”

“Your pussy is gripping me like crazy,” he adds, and his breath against the side of your neck makes you shiver underneath him.  “Fuck, what do you need?”

“Just keep going,” you say.  You raise your hips to meet his thrusts, plant one foot firmer on the floorboard and press up.  It changes the angle, changes the drag of him inside you.  He bumps against that spot inside you, and tilting your hips like makes the base of him settle against your clit each time he bottoms out.

“Close?”  He moves his head, whispers in your ear, and it shouldn’t be hot, him whispering in your goddamned ear.  As he fucks you.  In the backseat of your SUV.  

“I can feel it,” he continues.  “Feel you getting even wetter.  You like fighting with me?  It turn you on, being mean to me?”

You laugh—an actual, genuine laugh.  “Guess so.”

“S’okay.”  He’s getting out of breath; he starts to pant as he picks up the pace.  He lifts his head to gaze down at you, and he’s actually smiling.

You didn’t think he was capable of smiling.  It’s weird to see it on him.  Magalon has actual dimples, a winning smile, and you bite back the urge to tell him that he should smile more, that he should drop the tough-guy, stone-faced routine.  

“Guess it turns me on too,” he admits.  

You can feel yourself getting close, the licking flames of your orgasm growing in heat and intensity.  It shouldn’t be so fucking hot, but it is, and Magalon is too good and you kinda hate that you’re so close already.  That the feel of him, the sound of him, the heavy press of his cock as he splits you open over and over get you so close, so quickly.  

Even the smell of him—no obvious cologne, just the lingering scent of his soap or laundry detergent, the growing scent of his arousal paired with your own.  Your SUV reeks of sex, and you wonder how long it will take to dissipate.  Will it still be noticeable on Monday morning, when you drive into the office?

He drives into you faster, harder, but he keeps his hand on your head, shelters you from hurting yourself against the door.  You feel yourself cross that threshold, the point of no return, and the heat blooms outward, consumes you as you come.

“F-fuck, right there, Magalon,” you whimper.  “Don’t s-stop, oh fuck, don’t stop—”

“Jesus,” he breathes out, and he rears back to watch your face.  His own expression is tense, his lips pressed together in a thin line, and you realize that he’s trying to hold on, trying to delay his own pleasure….

He fails.  He deals you one, final punishing thrust, and then he pulls out with a curse.  Reaches down and pumps his length, and then you feel the hot ropes of his cum as he paints your belly with his release.

“Jesus,” he says again, this time a low mutter.  He drops his head on your shoulder, and you don’t know how to act now that the moment is over.  You reach out and pat him awkwardly on the back, and you stop yourself before you say, “great work, champ.”

It’s a long moment of silence, then he lifts himself off of you.  He doesn’t quite meet your gaze, but he asks, “do you have anything?”  Trails off uncomfortably, then gestures vaguely at the mess he made of you.

“Napkins in the center console.”  You sit up; he reaches past you and snags some napkins from between the front seats.  He hands them to you, and you clean yourself up as best you can.

Then he reaches down, hands you your discarded clothing.  You dress in silence except for the exasperated grunts as you each trying to shimmy back into clothing in the cramped back seat of a vehicle.

Then the two of you climb out of the backseat, and the moment gets so damned awkward and heavy, you try to break it with a joke.

“Now you can tell the guys that there’s no ice in my pussy,” you offer.  You keep your tone light.

He glances at you but doesn’t respond.

“Or tell O’Brien that you gave me a hard fucking, see if it loosened me up or not,” you try.

Magalon shakes his head.  He slides his phone out of his pocket, checks for new messages.  He slides it back into his pocket, then mutters, “wouldn’t do that.”

“You could.  I couldn’t stop you.”

Just like that, you’re back to bickering.  Only now there’s a new weight to it, since he just had his dick in you moments ago.  Since you just swabbed his cum off of you.

“I said I wouldn’t.  I’m not a complete asshole.”

“Since when?  Since five minutes ago?”

“I don’t kiss and tell.”  He crosses his arms and his face goes stony.  The smile, the dimples are long gone.

“Okay.”

He shakes his head.  “Don’t do that shit.”

“What shit?”

“Okay.”  He mimics you, meanly.  “Don’t agree with me in that tone that says you don’t believe me at all.”  

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then don’t.  I don’t give a shit.”

“You sound like you do,” you observe.  “You still pissed you missed your party?”

“That I missed Big Nick’s sloppy seconds?”  He snorts.  “Nah, had you instead.”

“Poor guy,” you reply.  “Had to settle for an ice princess.”

“Yeah, desperate fucking times call for desperate fucking measures,” he snaps.

For some reason, that stings.  That’s a direct blow, and you don’t know why.  Of all the things he’s said to you, all the things he’s called you…this actually hurts.  Maybe because he had been nice in your interlude, that hand cradling your head, that kiss that had been gentle.  It must have been an act—a convincing one—and now he’s back to being the real him.  The him that was apparently desperate enough to fuck you as a last resort.

No wonder he won’t tell the guys.  He’s ashamed to have fucked you.  He’s embarrassed.

You’re a smart woman but you make stupid choices sometimes.

“Well, it’s over.  You survived.”  He can probably hear the hurt in your voice, but you don’t care.  

You tend to deal with the consequences of your stupid choices by fleeing.  Which is what you do now—you turn away, fumble your keys.  Open the driver’s side door, and you catch the startled expression on his face, the surprised “hey” he says, but you ignore both.  

You only climb into your SUV, turn the ignition, and then leave.  And you send up a fervent prayer that the listening post yields something useful over the weekend, because Monday morning already looms like a bank of storm clouds.

#tropes-and-tales #tppkinktober2022 #benny magalon #benny magalon imagine #benny borracho magalon #benny magalon x reader #benny magalon x reader #Borracho Magalon x Reader #borracho magalon #Benny Borracho Magalon Imagine #den of thieves

[tropes-and-tales]

Drunk dancing with Benny Magalon please 🥺

AN: I'm sorry in advance, bebe. 🥲

You knew you’d see him tonight.  It’s your mutual friends who are marrying, and hell—you can’t avoid the man forever.  L.A. isn’t that big, really.

He sidles up to you at the bar, and you don’t even have to look to know it’s him.  He smells the same, even a year later:  the same smoky, musky scent shot through with faint cigarette smoke.  You hate how your body still responds to him despite the time that’s passed.  You can feel your heart rate picking up, heat flooding your cheeks. 

He doesn’t say the trite shit.  He doesn’t say that it’s good to see you, doesn’t ask how you are.  Instead, he surprises you, especially given the last words he spoke to you before tonight.

“Dance with me?” he asks in his soft voice, and you smell the whiskey on his breath.  You know you shouldn’t, but weddings make you stupid and sentimental, so you finally look at your ex-boyfriend.

You nod.  “Sure, Ben.”

-----

You’re stiff in his arms for a moment, but on the dark dance floor of the wedding reception, it’s easy to fall back into old habits.  Everything about him is familiar—the smell of him, the feel of his arms, the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

“Was hoping you’d be here,” he says against your ear, and he’s not slurring his words, but he’s annunciating them crisp and clear—a sure sign he’s drunk and he knows it and he’s trying to hide it.

“Well, here I am,” you reply lamely.

He hums, and you hear him draw a breath like he’s about to say something…but he doesn’t.  He spreads his hand wider on your lower back, splays out his fingers as if he’s trying to grasp more of you.  And you should hate the dull ache it raises in you, the ache of missing him, of wanting him, but you can’t care at the moment.

The song starts its final verse when he finally mumbles, “missed you.”

You huff, irritated.  “Okay.”

“I did.  I do.”

“Okay, well…”  You trail off, unsure what to say.  You’ve never been that quick on your feet in uncomfortable conversations.  Case in point:  the last time you and Ben were in the same room.  When he stared at you with a blank expression and unceremoniously dumped you.  You hadn’t been able to speak much then either.

The song ends and another slow one begins.  When you go to step away from him, he holds you firm.  He pulls you closer to him until you’re flush against him.  He sets the two of you in the same meandering, swaying steps on the dance floor.

“Knew I made a mistake,” he continues, and it comes out mish-take, his whiskey-laden tongue heavy and slurring finally.  “Knew it the moment you left.”

“You mean the moment you dumped me.”  It comes out mean and you don’t care if it stings. 

He sighs, turns his head to press his nose in your hair.  “Yeah, then.”

You never got to do a post-mortem on your relationship with Benny Magalon.  He never gave you a straight reason, but you could guess at what drove him to break up.  He’d been growing more and more distant in the months leading up to it.  You always thought it was his job—the awful things he investigated, the worst people doing terrible things.  He had already started a slow fade before he dealt the killing blow.

As the song continues, he shifts his hold on you, wraps his arms around you outright.  You don’t fight him.  He’s drunk on whiskey, but you’re just as drunk on a heady blend of nostalgia, of melancholy, of disparate feelings.  You hate him.  You still love him.  You wish you never saw him again.  You miss him keenly.

“Sorry,” he says against your head.  “I’m sorry, baby.”

“Ben—”

“So fucking sorry.”  He takes a shaky breath, and adds, “I’d take it back.  If I could.”

You hate the way your heart leaps at that, the stubborn traitor.  You hate the hot bloom of hope unfurling in your chest, tickling against your ribcage.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” you reply weakly.

“Yeah, but still.  Mean it.”  He tightens his hold on you, presses you against him.  “Always miss you.  Always wanna take it back.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you say nothing.  You go quiet as he sways with you on the dance floor, as he holds you like he never wants to let you go.  And with that hot-bloom of hope filling you, you realize you don’t want him to.

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

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Long-time reader, first-time asker. Huge fan of your writing!

If you're still taking requests for the comfort prompts, can I request #18 for Borracho? I love the thought of reader having a terrible string of days at work (maybe they work together and aren't quite yet together) and Borracho (of course) notices and slips her favorite candy bar/treat into her jacket pocket to cheer her up?

Aw, thanks nonnie! Sure thing :D

Warnings: Light angst, tired reader, ends in fluff

It has been a shitty, shitty week.

Your car broke down on Monday. On Tuesday, your date with the guy you were seeing, Ben (his friends often called him Borracho) had been cut short when he'd gotten called into work. On Wednesday, you found out that the repair costs for your car were going to be outrageously high. On Thursday, work had been absolutely slammed—but you'd had a brief bright spot when you managed to see Borracho for dinner between shifts.

Your Friday has, so far, been less than stellar.

You have to take public transportation to work, and to your chagrin, it's insanely delayed. When you finally reach the store that you manage, it's absolutely slammed with customers—and they just keep coming. You can't take your break when you'd like to, and when you finally make it to the break room, you're so exhausted and frustrated that you're on the verge of tears.

You glance at your phone's battery, huffing in annoyance when you find it nearing 5%. You walk over to your jacket, and begin to go through your pockets, looking for your wireless charger. You go still when you feel the wrapper of something crinkle beneath your fingers. You frown, drawing whatever it is out. You're perplexed still as you find yourself looking at your favorite candy bar. What the heck? You don't remember buying this. You spot a little arrow drawn on the corner of the wrapper, and turn it over. Your confusion melts to a watery smile as you eye a hastily scrawled, slightly-smudged message:

Take a deep breath. You got this. -B

You draw in a deep breath, then push it out after a few seconds. You grab your phone charger and plug your phone in, settling down. You open the candy bar, eyes sliding shut and groaning softly as it practically melts in your mouth. You sigh softly, feeling your tension dropping away just a bit more. You open your phone, swiping to Borracho's contact and opening it. Your finger hovers over the text field before you raise it to tap on the call button.

You raise the phone to your ear, listening to the brrrrrrrrrrr of the phone ringing. Frankly, you don't expect him to answer, but you'll be just as happy to leave a voicemail—

"Magalon."

You perk up at the sound of his voice, gruff as it is.

"Hey," You greet, looking down at the candy bar. "Is this a bad time?"

"Ah—No! No."

You can hear the creak of his chair, and the scratch of his pen on the other end of the line before you hear it drop.

"You okay?" He presses. You can't help but smile.

"Better now," You admit, "Since I found the little treat you left for me."

"Oh, yeah?" He chuckles. "Good."

"When did you even put this in my pocket?"

"Grabbed it when I was getting cigarettes last night, put it in your pocket while you were texting."

"You sneaky little so-and-so. This is how you're putting your skills to use?"

"What else am I supposed to do with 'em?"

"Don't let your boss hear your say that."

"Don't worry about that."

You smile, biting your lip.

"Can I see you tonight?" You hedge.

"Course you can. If your car's ready, we can go pick it up."

"You don't have to do that with me."

"I don't mind. Besides, I can check what they did, make sure they're not padding your bill."

Your smile widens as you shift the candy bar in your hand.

"I'd really appreciate that," You agree.

"I'll come pick you up. Your shift's up at six, right?"

"Mhm."

"Alright, I'll wait outside."

"Thanks, Ben."

"You don't have to thank me."

"Yeah, I do, I—" You stop yourself, feeling your emotions swelling again. "I appreciate it."

"...I know," He murmurs. You close your eyes, pulling another deep breath in.

"I'll see you tonight."

"Yeah, you will. Try to take the rest of your shift easy, baby."

Baby. It's a first from him, and it makes you flustered and warm.

"Don't work yourself too hard either," You urge.

"I won't."

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye."

You draw the phone away from your phone, eyeing the contact again. Baby. That felt nice. Sounded good, too, especially coming from him. You raise your candy bar, taking another bite as you hit the edit button on his contact information. You consider for a moment before you tap on his name, edit it, then hit save.

Ben💖

#Benny Borracho Magalon x Reader #Benny Borracho Magalon x You #Benny Borracho Magalon/Reader #Benny Borracho Magalon/You #Benny Borracho Magalon fic #Benny Borracho Magalon imagine #asks #replies #anon #requests #prompts #comfort prompts

[tropes-and-tales]

A Package Deal

December 6:  Mittens/Kid - Parent and child’s caretaker (Benny Magalon x F!reader)

(From the winter prompts found here)

CW:  Single dad Benny; convoluted plot; I dunno.

Word Count:  1538

AN:  Requested by anon!

Benny Magalon didn’t necessarily feel any sort of way towards children before.  He always assumed he’d have kids someday, after he met a woman and married her, but it was just an assumption about a hazy future when he, a detective with Major Crimes, necessarily lived in the present.

It all went out the window when his girlfriend got pregnant and decided to keep it.  He wasn’t sure they’d last as a couple, but he thought he’d at least have a partner to co-parent with.  Six months after the birth of their daughter, though, his girlfriend split without a word.

It was the worst six months of his life—sleepless nights, a yawning black hole of terror that he won’t be able to handle single parenthood.

Six months after that, she sent paperwork signing over any and all rights to their daughter, Ava, and Benny realized he had no choice but to handle his new life as a single dad and sole provider to his young daughter.

-----

He’s not completely alone.  

His parents help a lot.  His mother and sister are invaluable; they help him navigate the tricky world of infants with their sleep regression and unformed skulls and burgeoning immune systems sensitive to every germ.  He has cousins who pitch in, who show up with one-dish meals that require only a quick reheating, who quietly tackle the mountain of laundry that accumulates during the work week.

Hell, even the guys help out in a pinch once in a while.  It’s a sight, Connors sitting at Benny’s kitchen table with Ava and coloring in her My Little Pony coloring books.

His best help comes from next door.

Benny meets you when he’s at his absolute lowest point:  abandoned and left to care for an infant, he manages to find a little bungalow that he can actually afford the mortgage on.  He desperately wants to give Ava stability, and something about owning a house—albeit a small one—with a tiny backyard makes him feel like he isn’t failing completely as a father.

He meets you the day he moves in—his next door neighbor.  You’re an illustrator; you work from home.  Ava’s red-faced squalling pulls you from the tranquility of your home as he struggles to handle his daughter while directing the movers.

“Need help?” you ask that day, and in the five years since, you’ve been nothing but a blessing in both Benny’s and Ava’s lives.

-----

It’s hard to pinpoint when he falls for you.  Certainly, you’re a lifesaver almost immediately:  you step in when Benny’s called into work at all hours.  How many times, in that first year, do you sleep on his couch and watch over his sleeping daughter so that he can keep his job and health benefits?

And once he hits a rhythm, how many times do you bring dinner over for him and Ava under the flimsy guise of having too much for just yourself?

And who waves off his thanks, even when he’s so heartsore that the words crowd in his throat, that a woman who happens to live next door to him is more loving to his daughter than her own biological mother is?

Sure, the torch Benny Magalon carries for you is likely driven by the care you give to Ava, and to him too.  But he thinks in another universe it’d be just the same, a gradual revelation to the person you are—because you’re kind and selfless, but you’re also talented and funny.  He knows all your quirks and habits, how you hate to wear socks and live in sandals, how you bake things that taste delicious but look like dogshit.  How you drink your coffee, how you hate ice in your drinks, how you have a dainty little giggle but a hearty, wall-shaking sneeze.

You are friendly with the other people who help with Ava—namely his family.  His mother especially takes a shine to you, thinks you’re an absolute angel, and she gives Benny not-so-subtle hints that you’d be good for him too.

He never makes a move.  He lets that torch burn low and steady without ever letting on how he feels.  He thinks you must think him pathetic, the loser next door who needs your help, and he can’t imagine what you’d see in him even if he had the courage to ask you out.

-----

Somehow Ava turns five, and you’re as much her family as any actual Magalon.  You greet her when she gets off the bus from kindergarten, and you watch her until Benny gets home.  

It’s one of his favorite things, picking Ava up from your place.  By now, he has a key to your place (and you have one to his), and he loves to let himself into your house.  Loves rounding the corner to see his young daughter at your kitchen table eating a snack, and two of you drawing or coloring or paging through a picture book.

It’s better than any drug, the way the two of you both turn to greet him, both of you with smiles to see him.  When he’s having a rough week at work, he leans into the fantasy a little, pretends that he’s coming home.  That he lives there with you and Ava, and that he’s not just there to collect his daughter and take her home to their own house.

-----

It must be said, though:  if Benny loves you in secret, then Ava is unabashed in her love for you.

She’s at that age where she notices the family configurations of her fellow kindergartners.  Fathers, it seems, are optional—Ava rattles off the names of her classmates that have absentee dads with no compunction at all.  But she herself is one of only two classmates without mothers, and there comes a point when she draws the natural conclusion that her warm-hearted neighbor who watches her each afternoon should just go ahead and be her mother.

It’s one of the most difficult conversations of Benny’s life.  Ava is so damned earnest and there’s no convincing reason why you can’t be her mom.  How can he make a five year-old understand that he and Ava are a package deal?  And how you probably aren’t interested in signing up for anything more than you already do for them?

Ava seems to understand the gentle terms he uses to couch the situation, but he catches the stubborn pout of her lips when he turns away.  He knows the expression all too well:  his daughter isn’t defeated.  She’s only biding her time.

-----

Christmas is just around the corner, and Ava is old enough to help with gifts for friends and family.  He takes her to the Grove one weekend with a list of people to shop for.

Benny is not good at gift-giving.  He’s awful, in fact.  With family, he just slides a gift card across the table to them.  With the guys, it’s as simple as giving them a bottle of booze.  And Ava is easy enough—she gives him an exhaustive catalogue of things she wants from Santa.

Where he struggles is with you.

What can he even get a person like you?  You have an outsized place in his heart, but he can’t express that via a holiday gift.  He can’t get you jewelry or anything intimate, but anything else (candles, chocolates, whatever the fuck other things he can’t think of at the moment) is too impersonal for the woman who takes care of him and his daughter for no reason other than her own kind heart.

Ava has a better handle on you.  Kinda.  Maybe.  At least, she doesn’t hesitate to find what she thinks is the perfect gift for you.

“Here, daddy!” she says, and she lets go of his hand to run over to a display of gloves, mittens, scarves.  Of all things in California…

“I don’t think so, peqūena,” he replies with a chuckle.

She pulls a pair of bright purple mittens off of the display and turns to him with that pout.  “For when she’s in the snow.”

He smiles, holds out his hand, and she gives him the mittens after a beat.  “It doesn’t snow here very often,” he points out.  In fact, Ava only knows about snow as a concept from the holiday movies they’ve been watching…

When he goes to put the mittens back, her pouting lower lip starts to tremble, and Benny realizes that he’s about a minute away from tears.  It’s been a long day for a little girl, and the Grove is busy, and she is late for her nap…

“Okay,” he says, hasty to head off the impending meltdown.  “You think she’ll like purple?”

Ava sniffs dramatically and nods.  “It’s her favorite color.”

Benny takes the mittens and goes to pay, his daughter’s hand gripped in his own, and he doesn’t bother to correct her—purple is her favorite color, not yours.  

It’s fine.  He’ll let Ava give you the mittens as her gift, and maybe he can come up with something nicer, from him to you.  Something that will magically capture his feelings for you without being forward or creepy or too much.

#benny magalon #benny borracho magalon #benny magalon x reader #benny magalon imagine #Borracho Magalon x Reader #borracho magalon x reader #borracho magalon headcanon #borracho magalon #den of thieves #tropes-and-tales #winter prompts 2022