#mike duarte

[bullet-prooflove]

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[drabbles-mc]

On the Ledge

Mike Duarte x GN!Reader

Warnings: 18+, smoking, light angst

30 Fic Challenge with prompts from This List: scrosciare- the action of rain pouring down or of waves hitting rocks and cliffs

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: i've been rewatching SVU from the beginning and i know that Duarte doesn't come around till way way later in the seasons but it still got me thinking about him and here we are!!

It was a particularly loud clap of thunder that pulled Mike from his sleep. He came-to, eyelids heavy in contrast to the sharp breath he pulled in. Through closed lids he could still catch the flash of lightning through the bedroom window—neither of you closed the blinds anymore since you were both up before the sun anyway.

He reached for you, expecting his hand to find you in the twisted mess of sheets you always seemed to tangle yourself up in. It was only when his hand fell to a flat, empty mattress that he forced himself to open his eyes. His eyes were only open halfway despite his best efforts. The room was dark, the storm outside muting the haze that the streetlamps usually provided. Still, he was able to see that you weren’t on the bed, weren’t in the room.

Taking a deep breath, he sat upright, the sheet falling so that the fabric pooled in his lap. Bringing his hands to his face, he wiped at the sleep that was gathered at the corners of his eyes. He blinked a few times, eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness. He gave himself another moment to adjust to being awake, and then he peeled the sheet away, swinging his legs so that they were dangling over the edge of the bed.

His bare feet landed silently on the throw rug next to the bed. His footfalls were quiet as he made his way through the apartment, but even if they hadn’t been, the sound of the rain battering the roof and the metal fire escapes outside would’ve drowned it out anyway.

It wasn’t often that Mike found himself waking up to an empty bed, especially not when the two of you were staying at your place. Since that was the case, he had a feeling he knew where you’d gone, and it wasn’t very far. He slowly and carefully made his way through your living room, over to the large window that opened out onto the fire escape. The window you were currently sitting on the sill of, legs hanging outside onto the fire escape.

You’d been so focused on the rain, the sound of it, the way it felt hitting your feet and the bottoms of your legs, that you hadn’t noticed Mike making his way up behind you. it wasn’t until you felt his fingers lightly trace along the nape of your neck that you knew he was there. You flinched at the contact, turning to look behind you, but even as you looked you knew who it was. Who else would it ever be?

You nearly flicked away the cigarette that you were holding onto, but it was too late to try and hide it now. It was perched so nicely between your fingers—you saw the way that Mike’s eyes trailed from your hand, up your arm, and to your face once more. He didn’t comment on the smoke, or the guilty look in your eyes about it. Instead, he leaned down and placed a chaste kiss to the top of your head before managing to slide down next to you on the window sill.

He mirrored your position, the rain and runoff from the roof above you splattering off the lower parts of his legs. He frowned as he watched it happen, and after a couple seconds, he finally spoke up. “This isn’t comfortable.”

You laughed, harder than you meant to, harder than you thought you’d be able to considering your mood before he showed up. You shook your head at him before bringing the cigarette to your lips for another drag. You spoke, allowing the smoke to swirl out from between your lips with each word.

“You don’t have to sit here, you know. You can go back to bed.”

He shook his head. Waiting for a moment, he reached over and took the cigarette from you and brought it to his own lips instead. It got a chuckle out of you, but you didn’t fight him on it. It was a filthy habit—you both knew that full-well. You didn’t smoke often, Mike even less than that. You blamed it on the stress, as a joke sometimes Mike would blame it on you because some of the only times he ever found himself smoking were in situations like this. Not that he ever sounded all that upset about it.

You’d always loved the rain. When you were younger, you loved it in the same way that most children do. But as you continued to get older, you grew to find it refreshing, grounding even. The world felt like such a mess, and with your job being what it was, it felt impossible to get away from it sometimes, but when all you could hear was the sound of raindrops on metal and concrete, when you could feel the cool patter of it against your skin, for a moment it felt like everything was going to be okay.

Mike clearly didn’t feel the same way, you could tell by how he was fidgeting as the water trailed down his legs. You hummed in amusement as you reached to steal your cigarette back. You leaned your head against his shoulder as you took another drag. The contrast between the warm skin of his bare shoulder against your cheek and the cool water against your legs was more grounding than you could’ve ever hoped for.

“What was it this time?” he finally asked.

The long exhale through your nose brought with it a stream of smoke. He could feel the way that you were shaking your head against his shoulder. “You know.”

He hummed in understanding. He turned his head as best he could to look at you. He watched as you snubbed the last of the cigarette out on the exposed brick to your left. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head again. “I don’t think so.”

Silence grew between the two of you, but it was comfortable. Your face pressed against Mike’s shoulder, his arm looping behind you so that his hand could run up and down your back. The rain continued to hammer down around you, the occasional clap of thunder and flash of lightning breaking up the sameness of it all. Mike knew that the sound, the light, it wouldn’t make you flinch, but part of him was still waiting for it anyway.

The two of you watched the building across the street from you, not able to make out any details between the darkness and the rain coming down. But what you could see, was the lights that would come on and off as people woke in the middle of the night. Maybe they had kids that couldn’t sleep through storms, maybe they were getting water or a midnight snack. Maybe they were slipping out the door after a one-night stand. The possibilities were endless, and on a different night you would’ve talked Mike’s ear off about them all.

You felt Mike’s leg twitch against yours, the sensation of rain not calming for him the way that it was for you. His reaction made you chuckle. Lifting your head up from his shoulder, you said, “You really can go back in, you know.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“You hate this.”

He looked at you. “Hate’s a strong word.”

His palm was still pressed against the small of your back, and you soaked in the warmth that was emanating from it. You could feel it even through the fabric of the oversized shirt that you’d worn to bed. Closing your eyes, you tilted your head back just slightly as you tried to focus on all of the sensations around you rather than the racing thoughts inside you. Mike could tell, too.

“Talk to me.”

You held the breath you’d just taken in, let it linger deep in the base of your throat. It wasn’t anything that he hadn’t heard before. He probably knew that, too, and you told him as much. “It’s nothing new.”

He shrugged, unbothered by the notion of it the way that he usually was. “Tell me again, then.”

Despite the heaviness in your chest, you found yourself smiling. Mike had this simplicity about him, in the way that he spoke. Sometimes it was infuriating. Other times, like this, it was amusing, comforting even.

You folded your arms across your chest.  Staring down at your legs, watching the droplets run down them, you said, “What if I can’t ever come back?” You looked at him, eyes starting to get glassy. “What if I never shake it?”

His lips dipped down into a pensive frown. He gave a slow nod as he turned the words over in his mind. You knew that there was no way he hadn’t thought about the possibility. Each day that went by, he had to feel that it was more and more likely. How could he not?

“Then we’ll find something else for you.”

You nodded, but it slowly shifted into your shaking your head. “Something else,” you repeated the words carefully. “I don’t even know what else…”

“There’s time,” he reassured you.

You sighed, but you didn’t argue back on it. “I hope so.” You felt him twitch slightly again and you laughed as you reached and patted his thigh. “C’mon, let’s get back inside.”

“I’m fine.”

You rolled your eyes as you managed to carefully get yourself back inside your apartment. “You’re twitching like you’re about to start melting.”

“That’s what happens when you’re made of sugar,” he said with a smirk, looking over his shoulder at you.

You laughed, a real one, one that came easy in a way that most things didn’t lately. You held out your hand for him to take so you could pull him back inside. “Come in before I shut you out on the fire escape.”

(divider by @silkholland 💞)

SVU Taglist: @proceduralpassion @the-hinky-panda @nessamc @garbinge (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

[adarafaelbarba]

Papa Joe and Papa Mike hating the show their watching.

The two of them were sat on the couch, one kid each on their lap, and watching the kids show on tv when you came home from work.

“Hey, you guys okay?” They both looked like they didn’t want to be there.

“Sofia wanted to watch the show, and you know how Javi gets when his sister wants something.” Joe explained.

That made you chuckle, walking over to greet them all. You knew exactly how the kids were. The twins wanted to do everything together. They liked the same shows, same toys, same clothes.

“You both look miserable, why don’t I take over and you can go do whatever until dinner?” You suggested, picking Javi up from his dad’s lap.

As soon as he was in your arms, Miguel got up, “I’ll start dinner.” He said softly, kissing the top of Javi’s head, then yours.

Sitting down next to Joe, you brought Sofia over to your lap too, the little girl cuddling close in your embrace. “Didn’t you have a date tonight Jose?” You asked, looking at your best friend.

“It’s laters, after Sofia’s gone to bed. So I can put her down in her crib.”

You absolutely adored how good they were with their kids. The perfect dads, in your eyes at least.

“We’ll be fine if you need to go earlier though, won’t we baby?” You looked down at your daughter, smiling softly at her.

“Nah it’s okay. You two come first always.” He dipped his head to kiss his daughter’s forehead, then did the same to you.

It had all started with two one night stands. With Joe it had been while out of state for a case. Both had gotten drunk and ended up in bed together. Vowing to never speak of it again. But with Mike, you had met at a bar a few days later after getting back to New York and you both hit it off right away, instant attraction.

Then a few months later you found out you were pregnant. With no way of knowing which one of the men were the father.

You had told them soon after you found out and promised to take a dna test so you could find out. They were both there though for every visit to the midwife or doctor. And when you found out it was twins, you were shocked to say the least. Surprised that both babies were from different dads.

Throughout the pregnancy you’d told both men that you didn’t expect them to stick around. Even if you would be sad to see Mike go, the relationship between you two having been solid since day one. But they stuck around, from the time they found out you were pregnant and onwards.

Both being hands on dads to their child and helping out with each others kid too. If Mike had to work late, Joe could easily offer to take the kids to the park. Same if it was the other way around.

“I love Sofia as if she was my own daughter,” Mike had confessed one night when the two of you were putting the twins to sleep. “And I’m sure Joe feels the same about Javi.”

“We’re so lucky to have the two of you, Mike.” Your eyes tearing up a little and he leant down to kiss you softly.

“And we’re lucky to have the three of you.”

~~~

Tagging:

@plaidbooks @storiesofsvu @cycat4077 @thatesqcrush @alwaysachorusgirl @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @bisexual-dreamer02 @misscharlielulu @xoxabs88xox @muchadoaboutcj @beatrice-san @meetmeatyourworst @thats-jaywalking @cursedashes @mysoulisasunflower @crazy4chickennuggets @imaginelover88 @beccabarba @itsjustmyfantasyroom @detective-giggles @guitita @ladylionstar @achataa @nessamc @peauxheaux @silversprings-mp3 @polkadotpenguin16 @pepperbstark @im-a-slut-for-this-man2 @chickensarentcheap @irishavengersassemble

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[witches-unruly-heart]

Saw this post on Insta "Youve just had an offer of £500k but to collect the reward you have to marry a main character from the last TV show you watched. Who is it and would you do it?"

You are so mean! I can only choose one?! Even after thinking about it for weeks, I can't decide 😩

Hmmmm, maybe

OR

OR

I can't shorten the list any more than this, sorry

[elliot-olivia]

[tropes-and-tales]

“Do you really think I hate you? Just because we’re rivals doesn’t mean I hate you” for the enemies to lovers prompt with Mike Duarte, please!

The problems only start when you’re made the acting captain of Bronx SVU.  Housed in the same building as the Gang Squad, you’re on the same side (technically) as Captain Mike Duarte…but in practicality, you’re rivals.

Your rivalry extends from the mundane (the two of you fighting over the same handful of parking spots available at your building) to the profound (the two of you fighting over the too-few budget dollars, the same junior detectives to backfill vacancies in your organizations). 

SVU and the Gang Squad share a breakroom, a locker room.  You suspect Mike is the one who nabbed your lunch from the refrigerator.  

You wonder if he suspects that you’re the one who dumped out his orange sodas in retaliation.

He purposely hits the “door close” button on the elevator when he sees you sprinting towards it.  

You purposely kick shut the fire door to the roof while he’s out there indulging in a cigarette.

It’s childish and stupid, and if life were a romantic comedy, some wise third party would step in and remark that you and Mike are flirting.  But you aren’t flirting—not at all.  You have a good gut and are a good read of people, and Mike Duarte?  You get nothing but irritation from him—on a good day.  On a bad day?  You feel like he loathes you.

It's a million little tells.  The way his easy smile drops when you enter a room.  The way his eyes slide away from the sight of you.  The way he’s relaxed, friendly, easy with everyone else when there’s drinks at the nearby bar….everyone but you.

You can pretend it doesn’t bother you, but it’s a lie.  You can’t figure him out.�� Maybe he had someone else slated for the SVU captaincy.  Maybe he’s a closet misogynist.  Maybe you remind him of his ex-wife.

You can pretend it doesn’t bother you, but you’re a people pleaser at heart.  You want to be liked.  Or, if you can’t be liked, you at least want to understand why.

-----

It’s a cold war between you and Mike.  It’s mostly just tense with the occasional skirmishes that threaten a larger war.  When SVU cases brush against gang stuff, you each outsource to your detectives as much as possible.

A case comes up when you’re both short-handed.  You’ve both been the victims of poaching from Manhattan.  You have to pair up.

The cold war tension heightens:  early mornings, late nights.  Greasy take-out eaten at opposite ends of the conference room table that you’ve commandeered for the case.  Uncomfortable silences paired with rolled eyes, gritted teeth.  Time crawls.  The case is ugly shit:  gangland violence intertwined with the trafficking of women.  Sleep evades you, so you pull all-nighters fueled by bodega coffee.  

Sleep must evade Mike too:  he’s usually in the office with you during those all-nighters.

The progress on the case crawls until it breaks wide open, all at once.  You and Mike make a good team, you begrudgingly admit.  It’s old-fashioned police work:  knocking on doors, interviewing witnesses, palming cash to informants.  The two of you scare up a lead that brings the feds into it, and the case is solved and handed off to the FBI in the same day.

You glance over at your temporary partner as the special agent thanks both of you during the handoff.  You catch Mike looking at you, but when you offer him a truce—an acknowledging nod, the smallest of smiles—he only looks away.

-----

You’re exhausted.  You haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, but you have that wash of adrenaline making you jittery and anxious.  So you go to the bar near your apartment instead.  You try to dampen the anxiety, the jitters, the visions of those trafficked women with gin.

Halfway into the night (tipsy enough to unclench your jaw but not drunk enough for your shoulders to drop from where they’re pushed up near your ears), someone sidles up beside you.  They settle into the stool, and you don’t have to turn to see who it is.  You’d recognize that cologne/secondhand smoke scent anywhere.

“The case is over for us, Duarte,” you tell him as you stare into your half-empty glass.  “We can go to our separate corners.”

“Separate corners don’t stop you from pouring out my soda in the break room,” he retorts.  He flags down the bartender and orders his own drink.

“The soda was retaliation for stealing my lunch.”

He chuckles around the rim of his glass.  “It was your own fault for bringing in baked ziti.  I love that shit.”

“You really telling an SVU detective that she had it coming?”  You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, but he’s facing forward and not looking at you.  

He shrugs.  “You gotta bear some of the responsibility.  It was too tempting.”

It’s so close to joking.  So close to flirting, or even just that companionable teasing that you have with other detectives.  But Mike doesn’t turn towards you, doesn’t look at you.  He keeps his elbow tucked into his side so it doesn’t brush against you.  

The conversation peters out and you sit in silence, each sipping your drinks and thinking whatever lonely thoughts you each have.

-----

It’s hard to know how much time passes in a bar.  You’ve passed the threshold from tipsy to drunk, but with Mike perched beside you (silent as always), you can’t relax.  You lift a hand in a limp wave to the bartender for your tab, but when he set it in front of you, Mike reaches out—surprisingly quick—and snags it from you.  

“No, no,” you protest.  You reach out for the slip of paper, but he’s faster and surer in his motions.  He puts down his credit card just out of your reach, and you dare not touch him.

“Least I can do.”  You hear his words, the rounded off quality and realize he’s pretty drunk too.

“Why?  Because of the baked ziti?”

“Nah.”

“Why then?  You hate me.”

He turns in surprise and actually looks at you, makes eye contact with you.  “You think I hate you?”

You shrug.  “Yeah, kinda.”

His bleary eyes widen.  “Do you really think I hate you?”  His soft voice goes a quarter-octave higher in disbelief.  “Just because we’re rivals doesn’t mean I hate you.”

“Okay, maybe not hate.  But….like, dislike.”

He gapes at you, opens his mouth to retort, but the bartender brings his card and receipt back and interrupts.  Mike glances away, turns to sign it, and suddenly the bar feels too closed-in, too warm.  You slide off your stool and mumble a weak thank you to him, an even weaker good night and get home safe, and then your feet are taking you out the door into the cooler air and away from him.

Or not.

Someone strides up behind you, then beside you.  You don’t have to turn to see who it is.  You’d recognize his cologne and smoky scent anywhere.

You don’t have to turn because he doesn’t just fall in step beside you:  he puts his hands on you, clumsy from the whiskey.  He turns you, makes you stumble, steadies you against him.  Then he’s pushing you into a narrow alley, pushing you against the cool brick exterior.  He presses his body against yours, pins you against the building.  He pushes his face close to yours—close enough for you to smell the faint cigarettes, the stronger whiskey on his breath—but he doesn’t kiss you.

“You really think I hate you?” he growls.  “Really?”

“Mike, I—”

“Fuck, I don’t,” he interrupts, and he finally looks at you, peers deep into your eyes as he says it.  “I don’t hate you at all.”

If you weren’t so addled by all the gin, you could give him the laundry list of reasons why you thought he hated you, but your mind spins uselessly.  You’re stunned to near-silence by this moment—from the cold war to this, his big hands kneading at your curves, cupping your face, his knee tantalizingly close to where you suddenly seem to ache for him.  

He's just drunk, you think, but then he bridges the gap between you and his mouth is on yours, firm but not harsh.  His calloused thumb brushes over your cheekbone as he kisses you, then drifts over your jaw, down the line of your throat.

He breaks the kiss, just barely.  His breath fans across you as he mutters, “don’t hate you,” and then he dives back in, pushes his tongue into your mouth, groans as he tastes you, then groans again at the little whimper he manages to pull from you.

He’s just drunk, you think again, but under the gin and under the intoxicating feeling of his hands and mouth on you, another thought surfaces:  maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you thought.

[the-hinky-panda]

Alright ladies and gents, we have a full Bingo Card!! Let the writing begin!

[spaghettificationandpretzels]

SP's 150 Fanfic Celebration Masterlist Completed.

More than one emoji dictates how graphic it is. Smut💦 Angst😨 Fluff ❤ Violence🔪 Gore🤢 Medical💉 Triggering material🚩

A Cold Desert Night❤❤

"You built me a blanket fort?" With Angel Reyes, requested by @daydreaming-belle

****

A Bird's Eye View💦 💦

"Eyes on me or this stops.” With Billy Russo, requested by @sweetserendipity65

****

The Hazards of the Job😨 ❤

"How did you get that bruise?" With Valeria Garza, requested by anon.

****

Fashionably Late💦❤

"Spin for me." and "Come on now, don't be like that." With Frank Castle, requested by anon.

****

In Other Words, I Love You❤ ❤

"I like this song, dance with me?" With Guero, requested by @daydreaming-belle

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Lavender Bath Drops😨❤❤

"I'm going to run you a bath, and you're not going to do anything." and "Where did you get those bruises?" With Simon 'Ghost' Riley, requested by @bringinsexybackk69

**** 

Bath Oil and Bubbles❤❤

"I'm going to run you a bath, and you're not going to do anything." and "Can I wash your hair?" With Frank Castle, requested by anon.

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Just the Common Cold😨 ❤❤

"You're sick, why didn't you tell me?" and "Can I just hold you a little longer?" With Billy Russo, requested by @thehumanistsdiary

*****

When Things Go Wrong💦 😨 ❤

"Be good for me and I won't spank you too hard, unless you want me to." and "You're having a panic attack." With Phillip Graves, requested by @candy616 

****

The Northern Lights❤

"It's snowing." With Kate Lawswell, requested by anon.

****

A Possessive Display ❤💦

"How drunk are you?" and "Eyes on me or this stops." With Simon Riley, requested by @candy616

****

A Comforting Embrace😨 ❤

"Can I just hold you a little longer?" With Frank Castle, requested by anon.

[thoroughlymodernminutia]

-SVU, s24e12, Blood Out

[bullet-prooflove]

Bitter - Mike Duarte x Terry Bruno x Reader

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond  @legit9thlunaticwarrior @witches-unruly-heart @annetje @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @chavez-ashley @kiwiithecrazybird @irishavengersassemble @xoxabs88xox @rosaliedepp

Mike is a fucking mess.

A kid died in his arms today and he can’t get the fucking image out of his head. He just sits there at the bar, reliving it over and over and over again as he throws shot after shot of whiskey down his throat.

He still sees the moment the light died in that kid’s eyes. Twelve years old and struck down by a bullet right outside his own home, a retaliation attack for something his father had done. Mike hadn’t even been on duty; he’d just been grabbing a pack of smokes from the bodega on the corner when he’d heard the gun go off.

He doesn’t acknowledge you when you slip onto the barstool alongside of him. The scent of your perfume floods his nostrils, the subtle scent of jasmine and he takes a second to breathe it in. There’s a comfort in your presence but he doesn’t want it.

That darkness is rising up in him, he can taste the bitterness of it on his tongue. He wants to scream, he wants to rage, he wants to put a bullet in the head of the bastard that murdered a little kid. He’s furious right now, absolutely fucking livid and he can’t seem to temper that feeling.

“I’m sorry.” You say softly and he says nothing, he simply stares into the bottom of his glass wishing that you would just fuck off. “Why don’t you let me drive you home?”

“I’m not going home.” He tells you as he hails the bartender with his empty glass.

“Mike, I think that’s enough…”

He doesn’t know why that’s the phrase that makes him snap, it’s like something inside of him just explodes and he can’t help himself.

“You’re not my fucking mother.” He snarls at you. “I don’t fucking need you to tell me what to do.”

“You wanna be an asshole?” You snap, reaching past him to snatch up his keys. “Fine, but I’m taking these so you don’t end up killing yourself.”

His hand lashes out, enclosing over your wrist. Your clothes brush against his and he looks into your eyes, your lips barely centimetres apart.

“You need to back the fuck off.”

“This isn’t you.” You say, your voice lowering an octave as you stare into his eyes. Your grasp on his keys tightens, the jagged edges digging into your palm.

“This is me.” He spits. “This is who I really am and I’m sorry if you don’t like it Mi Vida.”

He says the term of endearment with such fucking spite it makes you flinch.

“Mike…” You say softly, your fingers coming up to brush his cheek. He slaps your hand away because he can’t stand the intimacy, the compassion in your eyes, in your touch.

“Don’t…” He can tell his voice betrays him, the way it breaks.

You pull away and he just can’t bring himself to reach out for you. It’s Terry’s hand on this shoulder that changes things, the sensation of his thumb chasing up the nape of his neck as he slides onto the stool on alongside Mike. He’s always found the other man’s presence grounding and for the first time since he washed the kid’s blood off his hands Mike feels himself exhaling.

“Maybe you can talk some sense into him.” You say, shaking your head before disappearing from the bar.

Mike doesn’t even watch you go; he simply turns his attention back to his drink surveying the amber consistency.

“You know you were an asshole to her right?” Terry says, studying the profile of Mike’s features before he picks up his beer to take a sip.

“Do I need to be an asshole to you too in order to get a little peace?” Mike asks him, his thumb chasing over the curvature of the glass.

“The difference is, I know you don’t mean it.” Terry points out, gesturing with his beer bottle.

“For fuck’s sake.” Mike rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

“You wanna drink until you can’t see that’s fine. You need me to carry you home not a problem, but let’s cut the bullshit.” Terry says, tilting his head so that can meet Mike’s eyes. “You’re upset, you’re angry, you saw something fucking terrible today and you’re lashing out because you don’t know how to cope with it.”

“I hate you.” Mike tells him, throwing the shot of whiskey down his throat.

“No.” Terry says. “You don’t.”

Silence falls between the two of them. Terry lets it hang, his gaze straying to the TV behind the bar. There’s a game on but he doesn’t care whose playing. He’s waiting for Mike, because he knows there’s something on the tip of his tongue.

“I didn’t mean what I said. I just wanted her to go away.” He says finally, shaking his head. “She cares too much, more than I deserve. She doesn’t understand that I need to sit with this, to feel it. She wants to make everything better but some stuff… You just can’t.”

“I can understand that.” Terry tells him, tapping a fingertip to the space where his heart resides. “You want to keep hold of that feeling because it fuels you, it gives you a sense of purpose but a feeling like that, it can consume you. If you let it, it will eat you up inside. I don’t want that for you and neither does Nora.”

Mike’s gaze fixes on the bottles along the back of the bar, his fingertips tapping on the surface before he inclines his head towards Terry.

“I don’t deserve her.” Mike tells him. “I don’t deserve either of you.”

Terry’s hand comes to rest upon Mike’s, his fingertips tracing over the scars that line the back of his hand before their fingers entwine.

“Captain, my Captain.” He teases as Mike turns his head towards him. “You deserve the fucking world.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[drabbles-mc]

Stomping Grounds

Mike Duarte x F!Reader

Summary: Months after everything between you and Mike crumbled in the worst of ways, the two of you are put face-to-face all over again.

Warnings: 18+, language, alcohol, light angst

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: What can I say??? I catch up on SVU and immediately decide that canon has no place here 😂 This is my first SVU fic, and by extension my first Duarte fic. I already want to write more for him lmao but one thing at a time

SVU Taglist (currently just tagging other people I've seen write or enjoy SVU things lol): @the-hinky-panda @bullet-prooflove @nessamc @proceduralpassion (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

It had been a long time since you were in the right part of the Bronx to run into Duarte. It’d been purposeful avoidance at first, but then it just became your new routine. The reasons for the switch started to fade from memory the farther your life moved on.

But then it all came rushing back the second you walked into the bar and saw Duarte there with Muncy and the rest of his team. There was no hiding from him, not when he was always clocking every single person who walked in or out of every room he was in. Clearly that was one thing that hadn’t changed. The first scan you took around the bar you found him already looking at you. You almost didn’t believe it until you heard Muncy's laugh. There was no way you were just imagining both of them.

If someone else hadn’t been walking in behind you, you would’ve frozen up right where you stood. You fumbled your way farther inside, too deep to just turn around and walk back out without it feeling strange, without it feeling like a missed opportunity.

You were about to go to the bar, get a drink to try and steel your nerves a bit before throwing yourself into the thick of things. You were a few steps away from being able to order when you heard Muncy call out to you. Being addressed by your last name felt so foreign now.

“We just ordered another round,” she said when you walked over. She greeted you with a grin and an awkward hug as she sat in her chair at the table they were all gathered around. “You can have Duarte's,” she said it like a joke, but you knew that when the drinks got brought over she would be handing one to you.

Judging by the look on Duarte's face, he wasn’t going to fight it, but he wasn’t going to be happy about it either. That seemed to be his MO with your after all.

“Was starting to think you left the Bronx altogether,” Duarte said, letting that be his greeting instead of extending you a real one.

To an outsider looking in, it would’ve seemed harsh. But it was Duarte, and pleasantries were never his strong suit. You considered the acknowledgement a win in and of itself, because you knew that if Muncy hadn’t called you over, Duarte definitely wouldn’t have. You couldn’t really blame him considering how everything played out. It wasn’t anything malicious, even if it had felt that way to him. The two of you were just the victims of the worst timing in the world.

You tried not to think about it as you caught up with everyone. They told you about everything that had been going on, the details they could spare at least. You gave them the broad strokes of what you’d been up to since you saw them. It was hard to separate it out, what you were telling them from the reasons Duarte’s jaw was clenched so tightly the bone of it was about to break.

You didn’t know if you should call it a shame or a blessing. Maybe it could be both. Regardless, you knew that it was unfortunate timing. After months of trying to figure out your place in Duarte's unit, you finally figured out that you weren’t meant to be in it at all. In fact, you figured out that the badge wasn’t for you in general.

That would’ve been unfortunate enough, but those realizations just so happened to hit you the day after Duarte had spent the night at your place. The first and last time.

It had nothing to do with him, with what happened between you. And you tried to tell him that. He didn’t hear it, though, didn’t see it in your eyes how much you meant it—all he saw was you turning in your shield.

The conversation flowed around the two of you. Duarte staying quiet wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary, but you felt the weight of it, the way that it was different this time. Apparently you were the only one, because everyone else was talking circles around him, throwing comments and jokes his way that he didn’t respond to. Despite the gray cloud looming over Duarte's head, you were having a good time catching up with everyone else. You’d always meant to keep in touch, but at first it was painful, and then you all were just busy.

Eventually, that same busyness slowly started pulling everyone away from the table. You could’ve gone too, before it was just you and Mike left. You saw it going that way, and as much as part of you wanted to avoid it, another part of you wanted to see what would happen, if anything would happen.

“I guess I owe you a round,” you said when it was just the two of you left, the first thing that you’d said directly to him all night, “since Muncy gave me one of yours.”

You half expected him to reject it, to get up and leave. Instead, he quirked his eyebrow and gave a small nod. “I guess you do.”

When you returned with your drink and his, you asked, “So how've you been? You’re the only one who didn’t give me a run-down.”

He watched you take a sip of your drink. “You know how I’ve been.”

You laughed. “Do I?” You shook your head. “You never answered any of my texts. At one point I was pretty sure you blocked my number.”

“I didn’t.” He took a long sip of his drink. “Thought about it, though.”

You sighed, toying with the glass in your hands. “I meant what I said, you know. It really was just—”

“Do you like it?” he cut you off. “Your new job, do you actually like it?”

“What, you think I’m lying just to save face?” You chuckled at the look he was giving you. “I like it a lot. And for what it’s worth, it’s not a new job anymore.”

He shook his head. “It’ll always be your new job.”

Hearing the sarcasm without the anger was reassuring. For a second things almost felt like they used to be. You missed him, truly. For as gruff and insufferable as he made himself sometimes, you really had missed him.

“So,” he sighed as he leaned back in his seat, “finally decided it was safe to cross back into my territory?”

You let out a small, slightly uncomfortable laugh. Of course he knew you had been avoiding him. He’d been doing the same thing, to be fair, which was why all of your texts went unanswered.

“Actually, no,” you admitted with a sad laugh. “I just had kind of a shit day, and this was where I ended up.”

“Shit day got shittier.”

You gave a small smile as you shook your head. “Not that much shittier.”

“Work?”

You nodded. “Yea. Stakes are different, obviously. Shitty day now doesn’t mean the same thing as it used to.”

“Those kids…” he trailed off, shaking his head.

The laugh you let out was a little more genuine. “I love ‘em. They test me, but I love ‘em.”

“How many of them are gonna end up on my radar in a few years?” he asked, always the brutal cynic.

You shrugged, trying not to let it faze you. “Hopefully fewer now that I’m there.”

He didn’t want to admit it, but he could see it on your face that you were where you belonged now. He wanted it to be with him, on his team, but it wasn’t. The tone of your voice, the look in your eyes, you never had any of that when you talked about your work with the gang unit. And he wanted to be happy for you, but he was still stubborn and selfish and admitting things to himself wasn’t the same as admitting them out loud to you.

“You like your boss?” he asked.

All his years of police work and yet he still couldn’t sell that sentence to you in a way that would stop you from seeing through it.

You smiled, nodding. “Yea, he’s, you know, he’s a good guy.”

He saw the look on your face and tilted his head back just slightly, just enough so that you knew he was trying to piece apart what your expression meant. “What?”

You had to laugh. “Nothing, nothing. He’s just, you know, he’s nice.”

“Hm,” Duarte drummed his fingers on the outside of his glass, “I was never good at that.”

You chuckled, not disagreeing with him necessarily. “He’s nice because he can be. You…it’s hard. It’s hard to do what you do and still be nice.”

“Good thing you got out then.” With his tone and attitude it was hard to tell if he was being snide or genuinely grateful.

“Yea…” your voice trailed off as you tried to figure out what you were trying to say to him. “I miss it sometimes. Not,” you chuckled quietly, “not all of it. But I miss parts of it.” You paused. “I even miss you sometimes, too,” you joked.

“Only sometimes?” he quipped right back.

You laughed. “Maybe if you were nicer I’d miss you all the time.” You were joking, of course, because of course you missed him all the time. And you could tell by the look on his face that he knew that too. Clearing your throat, you asked, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

You rolled your eyes, finishing off your drink before you asked, “You ever miss me sometimes?”

His expression was serious for all of a moment before he recovered, putting the same façade on that he always had. “Sometimes.”

It wasn’t much longer before the both of you squared up your lingering tabs. Neither of you said anything while you were still in the bar about how you were getting home. You knew that Duarte wasn’t going to drive, and you didn’t even have the option if you’d wanted to. You didn’t want to walk home alone, not with everything that had been going on in the city lately, but you also had no desire to get a taxi either.

Going against all the little voices in your head that were telling you not to ask, when the two of you stepped out of the bar and onto the sidewalk, you said, “Think you could walk me home, Captain? For old time’s sake?”

He hesitated, looking at you. You could tell from his expression that he was trying to figure out if there was a play here that he wasn’t seeing. He must’ve decided it was safe enough, because he nodded and started walking in the direction of your apartment.

It was a nearly-silent walk back. You wished you knew what the right thing to say to him was. You felt like you had said everything you’d wanted to say to him when it ended, but he never said anything in return. He still hadn’t ever said how he felt about any of it. Actions speak louder than words, sure, but you still wanted to hear something from him. After everything, it felt like you deserved at least that much.

“It’s been shitty, you know,” the words flew out of your mouth before you could stop them, “not hearing from you at all.”

“You looking for an apology?”

You rolled your eyes. “No.” You knew better than that. “But I just…you never said anything after I left. Like, at all.”

“If I had said something, would it have made a difference?” he asked, glancing over at you as you waited for the crosswalk sign to change. “Would you have stayed?”

You took a deep breath as you both walked across the street. “Would I have stayed on the force? No.” The two of you reached your building and you didn’t extend an invite for him to come up, hoping that continuing to talk to him as you walked through the main door of your building would do the work of that for you. “But just because I left the force, it didn’t mean, you know,” you hesitated as you started walking up the stairs, “it didn’t mean that I was leaving you.”

He scoffed quietly as he followed you. “In the same twenty-four hours that we—”

“I know my timing was bad,” you cut him off, already knowing what his argument was going to be, “but never once did I actually say that I didn’t want to be with you.”

“How else did you want me to take it, then?”

“I was done with the job!” you said, exasperated. “It wasn’t, it wasn’t right for me. There’s no way that you didn’t see that.” You glanced over at him as you said it and you saw the resignation on his face. “Exactly.”

“You could’ve been a good cop if you wanted to be.”

“But I didn’t want to be.” There was a long pause as the two of you walked down the hallway and came to a stop outside your door. “I hated that you just cut me off.”

“I hated that you quit,” he snipped back.

You chuckled softly as you took your keys out of your bag. “Touché.”

“I thought I was part of the reason that you left,” he admitted as he watched you slip the key into the lock on your door.

“I told you that you weren’t,” you replied. “If you’d read any of my texts, or listened to any of the voicemails I left—”

“I didn’t believe you.”

You looked over at him. “Because I’ve always made such a habit of lying to you?”

It was the most that the two of you had ever talked about any of it, and yet he cracked a small smile and you couldn’t help but to mirror it back to him. The two of you were standing in your doorway, both of you knowing that you were lingering longer than necessary, longer than you should’ve. You’d pushed your door open halfway, your hand still on the knob. You watched as his eyes flicked down to your hand before going back up to your face.

“I should go.”

“Do you want to come in?” You both spoke at the same time, resulting both of you to chuckle awkwardly, trying to figure out which one of you was going to follow through on what you’d said.

Duarte cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t.”

“Didn’t stop you before,” you said, more hopeful than you should’ve been.

“And look how that turned out.”

You let go of the door and stepped in closer to him, close enough so that you were chest-to-chest. “Nothing happens the same way twice.”

His shoulders rose and fell with the deep breath that he took. He looked at you, and you could feel the indecision radiating off of him. You knew that there was nothing you could really say that would sway him one way or the other—he was always going to do whatever it was that he wanted to do.

When he didn’t say anything for a few more seconds, you took it as your answer. You took it as one more loss. Taking a deep breath, you said, “Goodnight, Mike,” and pressed your lips to his cheek, over the stubble that he never stayed on top of shaving.

You went to step into your apartment, shut the door on all of this one more time. Before you stepped too far, he pulled you back to him and right into a kiss. His hands came up to cup either side of your face, thumbs brushing against your cheeks as his lips moved against yours. All the hesitancy, the manufactured distance he’d put between you, all of it was gone as you melted against him.

When he pulled away, he still held onto your face. He was close enough that you could still feel his breath against your skin, smell the alcohol that still lingered on it. You pushed forward just enough so that your lips brushed against his again.

“Just tonight,” he said, his voice low and rough. It almost sounded like he meant it.

You let him have it, if that’s what it took for you to have him. “Yea,” you agreed, stepping through the door and pulling him with you, “just tonight.”

[mysoulisasunflower]

I just found this photo on Kevin Kane's instagram ! They are both so cute !

[adarafaelbarba]

Hiii for @storiesofsvu bingo: Duarte + holiday work party please. Super fluff? Maybe post him getting attacked by bx9???? Thanks!

a/n: So sorry this is so late! I completely forgot I had it in my drafts 😅

He absolutely did not want to go. Hated big stuffy parties where higher ups would come to look down on the people below them in ranks, and the boots and others with no officer ranks to their names would try to do anything to please their higher ups, anything to climb the ladder.

But then you’d mentioned one night as you were lying in his bed that you were going. And he knew he had to go too. Not cause you could go together—no one knew about the relationship—but because he wanted to see how you’d dress, and at the end of the night he’d sneak you away back to his place.

So he decided to go. But opted on using his cane instead of the chair he mostly used. The wounds on his legs hurt like hell if he moved too much, but he did not want others to see him in the chair or give empty sympathy.

You’d not been to happy when you showed up to pick him up and he stood outside in the cold, cane in hand. “Miguel—you shouldn’t put yourself through this torture. Let me go get you chair—“

“No. Please don’t. It’s enough torture going to this party. I don’t want the looks.” The pleading in his eyes boring into you.

“Okay but you have to sit as much as possible when we get there—no dancing for you.”

He wanted to say that the only dancing he wanted to do was with you even if he couldn’t.

You helped him into the car quickly, leaning over to kiss him once you were back in the drivers seat.

“You look beautiful, darling,” he murmured, taking your hand and lifting it to kiss it.

That made you chuckle. “You’ve not even seen the dress I’m wearing.”

"I'm sure I'll love it either way. You always look so good."

You looked at your boyfriend again, worry etching on your face. "You know, Miguel, we don't have to go tonight. We can go back up to yours and just spend the night on the couch."

Although it sounded like the best plan, he knew how much you wanted to go to the party. It was one of the few times you got to see your friends from across the different precincts.

"No. It's okay. I can manage a few hours."

You smiled at that, telling him you owed him for going.

"I know, that's one of the reasons I'll go to it."

~~~

All night he watched you dance and drink with your friends, ignoring advances made on you by other men and some women. He hated that he couldn't spend the night with you. Mike had wanted to show you off for so long, but he knew what could happen if people found out. The accusations that would be made towards him, and her were not worth the risk, and you had agreed to that.

Which was why, when you sauntered over to him at some point during the night he was really surprised. "y/n--" "Hi Mike", you whispered, leaning over to kiss him. "I've missed you all night."

He looked around, then leaned back to kiss you again, "I missed you too."

~~~

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[mariamariquinha]

Poker Games (Mike Duarte x f!reader) - Part 2

Summary: The story repeats itself.

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: I still didn’t watch a single episode of Law & Order, so again, let’s pretend I did. A lot of bad words, unprotected p in v sex, smut, kinda of rough sex, slight mention of drug dealing and gangs. I guess. If there’s anything more, again, pretend you didn’t see.

Author’s Note: This story is proof that my word when it comes to Maurice Compte's characters isn't good for shit. I owe it all to the gifs of @thoroughlymodernminutia and @mysoulisasunflower, he looked way too good to not do something about it. 

Always safe to remind that Meaghan was the one who helped me, answering my questions about the show and the character. I hope I did a good job with your help, honey! 

Safe to remind that I don’t write for Law & Order fandom. Think of it as an outbreak.

ARE YOU A MINOR? CHOO! CHOO! THERE’S NOTHING FOR YOU HERE.

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

“Since when do you wear glasses?”

“Since I started needing to use them.”

“... Rude.”

“If this is a turn-off for you, don't worry. I can still see what I need without them.”

Mike didn't look at you, nor did he make any mention of it, but you saw the smirk on his face as he looked at whatever paperwork was on his desk. You, standing there in the doorway without an invitation to enter, made yourself welcome into his office space and closed the door behind you, holding a file behind your back as you paced back and forth, entertained by the lack of personal decoration there.

He flipped a page, then another. The place, all in all, was silent for a long time. It started to bother you after five minutes.

“Mike,” You said, standing in front of him.

“Mm?”

“Can you give me two minutes?”

“I can,” Eyes still on the pages. “But you can ask nicely, like the polite girl you are.”

“What do you mean?”

He pointed with a pen at the door, finally eyeing you from above his lenses. Are he-What a fucking bitch.

“You’re unbearable,” Your mumble didn't go unnoticed as you headed for the door, which gave you time to hear the 'you're not a walk in the park either' before stepping out into the hallway and standing in front of the closed door, face to face with 'Cap . Duarte' written on the glass.

You knocked twice.

“Who is it?”

“Are you serious?”

“Come in,” You knew he was smiling, being the fucking brat he was, and you even said ‘excuse me’ before entering again, this time closing the door with a touch of anger. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

“Captain.”

“You seem bothered. What happened?” Mike pressed with a tease, this time well prepared to receive you with fucking attention.

“Not a fan of role play.”

“No?” Again, looking at you from above his lenses. “You’re really boring.”

“And you're turning my two minutes into half an hour,” You gestured the file in front of him, crossing your arms right after. “This is the guy you asked for. Background, parentage, everything.”

“I didn't know that you were the one who arrested him.”

“Surprised that I did my job?”

“I’ve never doubted you would be good at what you do,” Mike said. “But I’m surprised that you didn’t complain.”

“You made a point of giving me other reasons to complain.”

“Like my couch.”

After what happened, nobody brought it up. It was understood, between his attempt to put his pants back on and you finishing your beer, that it was just an isolated event, that besides not happening again, it would be reserved for the two of you. It worked. He was still him, you were still you - honestly, there wasn’t a single chance of you forgetting that he was still him.

Despite the subjective comments there, the lighter work dynamics here, the 'peace' treaty between you felt, as it should, a convenience, whether it was what you had talked about at that dinner or the consummation of a natural will between two single and, modesty aside, attractive adults.

But he was still him, always leading you to a lot of eye rolls, which was exactly what you did at the moment.

“I wouldn't complain if it was good,” Was your defensive answer, and he measured you from head to toe again before going back to his papers.

“I may need to speak to this suspect in the near future, gather more information,” Yeah, officially back to the professional Duarte. This time though, he let the comment hang in the air - when you didn’t answer, his eyes followed yours again. “Which can include your eventual participation.”

The change of demeanor put a big and ugly frown in your face, one that didn’t go away with his intense gaze. Instead of feeling the necessity of hiding it, though, you showed with all of your ‘intimacy’ that you noticed.

“It's fine with me.”

“So we are good, Lieutenant."

Your mouth opened, then closed - it wasn’t worth your worries. Duarte was probably using the small idle time to tease you in some way about what had happened, that seemed to make sense. He was still him. Being very pessimistic and realistic with yourself, he wouldn't even include you in that investigation.

And if you walked out of his office with the same static frown on your face, it was because of the abrupt way in which the matter was dropped.

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

It had been a busy day - a particularly tiring two weeks, in fact.

First, Christmas. It has always been one of the toughest times at the precinct and this year was no different. In the midst of it all, you just found out that the FBI took over a case you’ve been working on for months. Months. The investigation, the late nights, the fucking bureaucracy… Everything was lost. Your captain's pat on the shoulder didn't make up for one percent of how frustrating that feeling was.

And it got worse because of something really stupid.

All you had to do was have lunch too quickly, with too little time, for a nice sauce stain to settle on your shirt and you had to take the path of shame to the locker room where, at least, you had a spare blouse to wear. You went the whole way trying to clean up the damage with a useless napkin, muttering little curses, and when you got to the front of the locker, you saw that nobody was there. Of course not. Besides everything, you always had lunch at odd hours, trying to do the best work ever.

The idea of privacy appealed to you, so you abandoned your napkin in the trash with a sharp toss of the can and abruptly pulled your shirt over your head. Maybe it was your mind fuming with stress, because you didn't hear when someone called your name, or when the door closed and footsteps came towards you.

The fabric of the new blouse had just passed around your neck when you saw Mike entering your field of vision and turning his back immediately. You suppressed a scream of fear, both hands going straight to your covered breasts - half by the shirt, half by the not-so-sexy black bra you’re wearing.

“Sorry.”

For some reason, that made you sigh with a tired posture instead of yelling at him for privacy invasion. You weren't healthy for that at the moment.

“Something happened?” You asked, fingers pulling the fabric all the way to cover the rest of your torso in time for him to turn back. There wasn’t a touch of embarrassment on his face, but you didn’t comment - it would probably lead to a 'not something I haven't seen before' that you definitely didn’t want to deal with.

“I can come back another time.”

“Well, it's not like I'm having a moment here or anything.”

“I heard about the case,” He used a calm, even careful tone, making you see a full face of sympathy (not condescension). “Crap.”

“Yeah, crap.” There was a silence between you two, a dense one, and Duarte didn’t take his eyes off your face. When it dropped to your mouth though, slowly and a touch insistent, you needed to get your shit together because damn if your day wasn’t already messy enough for this type of… situation.

“Is it something about the suspect?” You asked with a breathy voice, clearing your throat and turning your face away from him.

Duarte considered you for a bit longer before nodding.

“Just a second opinion.”

“One more, you mean.”

“Yeah, that too.”

You hid a small smile, the folder in his hand taking place in yours right away. Being really honest, you tried not to notice that he was still looking at your face when you gave you two a distance, eyes fixed on the document. You took a seat in one of the benches, reading what looked like a transcription of an interrogatory.

“You know I’ll need more time if you want me to verify this information, right?”

“Not so busy right now, are you?” Duarte teased and you didn’t suppress the urge to gaze at him before turning to the papers. The motherfucker was grinning like the menace he was. You should know better than to think that talk would be serious. “I talked to your Captain. Seems like perfect timing to borrow you.”

That sounded new, really new. You could count on one hand how many times you've had a collaborative work with Mike's team - significantly speaking, that would be a first. Admittedly, considering the history you two had, this was almost an impossibility, but apparently the scenario had changed.

You waited for him to say something about not wanting it as much as you did, but nothing came; probably because no one there was that dissatisfied with working together.

“Borrow?”

“You have more details on this suspect than anyone here, and you'll streamline our side by being a temporary consultant,” He leaned over one of the lockers, right beside yours.

“Consultant…” You murmured. “The most I can do is cross-reference information, Duarte, and even then it could be a dead-end street. This guy is a dealer, not a gangster.”

“If I told you that I trust your instincts, what would you say?”

“That you’re sweet talking me to do what you want.”

“I wouldn’t be able to do that even if I pointed a gun at your face,” There was a glint of mischief in his tone, justified by the way he smirked. “And let’s be honest, you’re already in.”

Then Duarte adjusted his position enough to have his full body turned to you.

“Remember what happened when you let your instincts lead last time?”

Amazing sex on a terrible couch? Of course you did. But of course you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“This isn’t a poker game.”

“But we can always have similar consequences.”

You resisted the temptation to say that you weren't too much of a workaholic to get certain kinds of pleasures out of a solved case, but you weren't in the mood to answer many provocations - especially coming from him. Admittedly, working so secondarily for Duarte was never a job aspiration, however, it wasn't like you really were at your best under the circumstances. With a case just taken over by the feds, you could use that parallelism to clear your head.

“Fine,” With one swift motion, you got up, gesturing with the folder in hand. “But next time, at least wait for me to get to my table.”

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

One thing you were sure of: working with Duarte was not like playing poker with Duarte. In poker, you had an advantage, falling back on the bitter and cruel experiences with your aunt who slaughtered Thanksgiving nights. At work, he was the dominant one, with firm words and definite directions that everyone obeyed because he lived up to his reputation as a tough but efficient figure.

There wasn't a joke or flirtation about your past aspirations in the month and a half you'd spent closest to the Gang Unit - he just talked about the suspect, the case, the strategies. It was better that way.

That natural efficiency of his team, with their almost superficial collaboration, dismantled an entire drug distribution network that provided money to a local gang, smaller but no less prodigious at getting more dangerous. It was fine. Amazing, even. A caress to your wounded ego and a new freshness for what was to come, for a good New Year and shit.

And you had someone to thank.

Most of the team had gone to celebrate, which seemed only fair, but you knew Duarte would stay a little longer to work out some final details with his natural perfectionism, so you said you had something to work out - which wasn't a lie.

Since the last few times you played poker in the first place, you've taken to keeping the deck of cards longer in your drawer, as well as real buy chips, just in case the opportunity for entertainment presents itself. With that in mind, you knocked on his office door, which was ajar but you'd learned your lesson the first time, so you waited.

“Won't you celebrate with your detectives?” The question caught him off guard..

“There’s a few things I need to finish,” He said. “You?”

“Later. I needed to talk to you first.”

“About?”

One of the things that felt like squeezing your toes was the fact that Duarte knew how to stare at people, mainly because you liked the attention. He took in every detail of your face, as if taking personal notes in his mind, and as much as it was a little invasive at times, you appreciated it because he had nothing to hide when it came to his reactions.

It was no different then. Away from the table with file boxes, he propped an elbow on one of them and turned to you, waiting patiently because this time, it wasn't like you interrupted him.

“I want to thank you for the opportunity,” Before he could argue with one of his realistic and literal arguments, you raised one of your hands to stop his mouth. “Yes, I know this was just a convenience because of my work and all, but still.”

Duarte considered your face for a moment, serious as a rock, then shrugged lightly and grinned.

“In that case I think it's more than fair to say I'm sorry for accosting you like that in the locker room. Anyone else would have misinterpreted or taken it the other way.”

It was a little surprising; first because he remembered it and second because he was apologizing. You opened and closed your mouth, then repeated the shrug he'd given you seconds before.

“So we agree to accept both.”

“Fine.”

You two exchanged a touch - a handshake. Not firm like a professional one, but soft as ‘this is the moment we have a temporary peace’, as a memory of that fateful dinner that sealed a tenuous truce between you.

The difference is that something had happened in the middle of it. The fact that the air was briefly thinned by that memory made the touch linger, at least enough to know it wasn't just in your head.

“... I want to give you something,” You said, reaching for your back pocket with nervous hands. The chip was caught between your index and middle finger, the symbolic hundred dollars stamped there. “I've tallied up all your masterful losses the times we've played, so I'm giving you that hundred-dollar head start next time.”

“Masterful losses?” He raised both of his eyebrows, taking the small thing with a defiant expression. “Did your aunt teach you how to show off like that too?”

“You wouldn’t stand five minutes with that woman, Duarte. Be thankful that it’s me.”

“Oh, I’m thankful. That's why we didn't play again.”

You frowned, but before you could say something, he anticipated the explanation.

“I'm a sore loser. Especially when it comes from distractions.”

That sounded sharper (no, it was sharper) and you hesitated almost immediately, because one thing was a joking comment, and another was… whatever the guys meant. He didn’t hide the way his eyes got to your cleavage then back to your face. You hated to be taken aback, but suddenly it was too late, too silent, too tempting. Again, you were reminded of Duarte - not the Captain, nor the insufferable guy, but the Mike. That Mike.  

Your laugh shouldn't have come out so embarrassed, almost shy, but the fact that you maintained eye contact and noted how serious he really was, made you feel like a touch of courage to the admission.

“This sounds more like you sweet talking to me.”

“And I told you that it would be stupid to do that to you,” Duarte gave a single step closer, enough to make you need to move your face a little. “But since we’re leading things this way-”

“We are?”

“Don’t you think?”

“Well, since y-”

“I haven't stopped thinking about you.”

Whatever taunt that was trapped in your mouth, it died at the same time as your ready little smile. Again, it was honest and direct, no frills. And you'd be lying if you said the idea didn't cross your mind as you ate one of your mother's puddings at Christmas or New Year's, while the two of you hung out inside the police station at an impromptu party with cheap soda.

“Duarte.” You warned. For what? For who? You couldn’t tell, honestly, because it didn’t make sense. There wasn’t someone to hide your interest - just you, him, and that damn attraction creeping through your lungs.

“I can see it in your eyes, remember? You’re not even a little subtle about it.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Your defensive tone made his smirk grow bigger.

“I’m not. We both know that.”

It was the end of the day, by God in heaven. He was still there, intact, collected, with the dark look of a truth he wasn't even hiding. Surely that would be a stupid decision, as it was the first time - but then he didn't even dare move, tease you with a touch or even explore the moment of privacy of the place. Duarte pushed you to the limits with words.

And you loved it.

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

The damn sofa was there, intact, in the same place as always. You wish you could, with all the provocation on the tip of your tongue, tease him about it, but at the same time this didn’t occur to you because no one there wanted to talk, even more about that stupid thing.

Duarte made his kisses more leisurely, because there was no rush and because you still had muscle memory from the first time. Your back was against the door of his bedroom and he didn't hesitate to grab you in every possible place on your body - waist, breasts, thighs, ass. You had both hands in contact with the skin of his lower back, pulling close, feeling his erection tight in his jeans. All of it, added to the friction of the contact and the slowly sensual kisses, had you flexing your fingers on his skin, humming against his lips.

Clothes started to fall from your bodies - shirts were tossed into corners, belts undone haphazardly, shoes discarded randomly, and pants pinned at the heels. When Mike managed to get your back on the bed, he still had a sock on his foot, and he made an effort to expose himself more, without improvising like before. His body hovered you with attentiveness, like he was everywhere all at once. While his teeth were nipping your chin and neck, one of his knees pushed up on your right leg, gently opening your thighs to fit in and rubbing his covered cock in your wet panties. The contact made you gasp for air, your eyes closed at the delicious friction.

In contrast to the way he wanted to undress you, Duarte lowered one of the cups of your bra instead of taking it off completely and nibbled on your nipple, already ruffled through the air in the room. You gasped, pulled his hair, but all he did was giggle against your skin.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

In fact, the bed was more comfortable and allowed you to move around without the hindrance of cruel upholstery for things or limited space. You could spread yourself across the sheets, squeeze them together as he teased your center with firm but gentle fingers, savoring every moment of that moment with the anticipation of the climax you both remembered well how to achieve.

No one thought about the bar, or the fact that everyone would ask about your sudden disappearance, but in the end none of that shit mattered. The next day or two, a good excuse would come, and you could live with a clear conscience of having a magnificent orgasm.

He penetrated you unreservedly, eliciting moans that almost didn't come out due to the friction of that intrusion. As he moved his hips, Duarte bit harder - the neck, especially, where he would leave a mark that would be difficult to hide. Your eyes opened with each friction with that part inside you that made you soften almost instantly, making you stare at the bedroom ceiling over his broad, firm shoulders, which you held tight enough to leave your own marks.

When he lifted his head and gave you a warm kiss, his tongue shamelessly massaging yours, he murmured a praise that would stick in your mind forever, whether it was the horny husky tone of his voice or the context of it all.

“You’ve ruined me, you know that? Couldn’t fuck anyone without remembering this pussy.”

And that could have sounded like a successful attempt to make that kind of encounter a regular occurrence, both for practicality and for the pleasure of seeing you let your guard down, even temporarily. You smiled at him, lowered one hand to his hips and urged him harder while the other pulled him in for another languid kiss.

“I’m already here,” You whispered with a weak voice, the first signals of your orgasm building inside of you. “What's your plan?”

“Give you the hundred-dollar head start.”

Of course, you didn't voice how much sense it made, or how whatever he had done to you was worth more than a bad joke, but your body's reaction said it all.

Mike Duarte has ruined you for every other man.

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

No pressure tags: 

@cheesybadgers​

@the-hinky-panda​

@bullet-prooflove​

@seaweeden (Tumblr don't let me tag you 😩)

[thena0315]

New ‘Blood Out’ Promo

[tropes-and-tales]

Prompt TRACING PERSON B'S TATTOOS for Mike Duarte please!!! I was LIVING for the Carrillo content you had too! You’re fantastic, thank you 🥹🥹🥹🥹

It’s the heart of summer, the night hot and muggy.  Mike’s anemic window AC unit belches out tepid air as the two of you lie in the tangle of sheets, sweat cooling on your skin.

It’s new.  Not the hooking up—that’s been going on for months, back when the weather was still cool and crisp.  Back when he bumped into you at his neighborhood bar after months of flirting.  That night, you’d both been keyed up and restless.  

It was easy to fall into this thing between the two of you.  It was more difficult to keep feelings out of it.

Mike’s the one who breaks.  Tonight, after the two of you exhausted each other, took your pleasure from each other…after you returned from the bathroom from cleaning yourself up.  You had scooped up your clothing, ready to do your usual late-night scamper home.  

Mike stopped you.  The cloying, choking feeling in his throat became too much, finally, so he croaked out, “stay?”

You’d arched a curious eyebrow at him—at his words or tone or both—but you’d nodded, dropped your clothing, and crawled back into bed with him.

Now here the two of you are:  him sprawled out, you halfway on top of him.  Your chin digs into the soft spot below his sternum and above his belly, but Mike doesn’t care.  He doesn’t care about the way you’re watching him, trying to figure him out.  He doesn’t care that he’s breaking his own rule of no sleeping over.  

Or the rule of no feelings.

They were stupid fucking rules anyway.  His own rules, put in place to try and forestall future pain when you inevitably got tired of his shit and moved on.  Stupid rules because despite them, despite the shallow nature of your hooking up, you’ve crept into his wizened heart all the same.  Despite the rules, you’ve become a friend, first and foremost.  You shoot him texts throughout the day.  You check in on him.  Once, you even brought him dinner to the precinct when he was running on fumes.  The thoughtfulness almost made him cry that night—to be thought of, remembered, cared for.

You’re more to him, and he knows it.  He’s always known it.  Now he can admit it to himself.

Next step is to finally admit it to you.

That can wait.  Right now, the moment is perfect.  

Your weight on him is heavenly.  You tilt your head and reach out a fingertip, trace it over the tattoo on his pectoral, right over his heart.  The older ink used to spell out his ex-wife’s name.  Fresher ink—well, fresh as of ten years ago—turned the name into Gothic script gibberish.  Like Viking runes or something.

Then your finger moves, traces over the ink on his forearm.  It’s a NYPD policeman’s badge with his father’s badge number.  Then onto the tattoo on his ribcage, the memorial to his mother, a dove with a cross and her name.

It’s shit like this that did it.  The tender, everyday touches in between the rough and fast hookups.  The finger-combing out the snarls in his bed-head.  The soft press of your lips to his temple before you pushed away from the bed to get dressed and leave.  The cup of your palm on his stubbled cheek, the gentle way you pat him.  All those soft, gentle touches.  They were Mike’s undoing with you.

“If I stay much longer, I’m gonna fall asleep,” you warn him, and your voice has a lazy, heavy quality to it.  Your breath fans against his skin, makes goosebumps break out despite the heat of the night.

“I asked you to stay.  I meant it.”

That eyebrow arches again, and you pause in your tracing of his tattoos.  “It’s against the rules.”

“They’re stupid fucking rules.”

You snort, grin at him.  “They’re your rules, Mike.”

He shuts his eyes, smiles back at you.  “Sounds like I’m fucking stupid then.”

You snort again, and he cracks an eye open to peek at you.  You lift your head and press your lips against the tattoo over his heart.

“Only sometimes,” you murmur against his skin.  “You’re only fucking stupid sometimes.”