#mike duarte imagine

[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.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Homecoming

Pairing: Mike Duarte x Reader

Rating: T

Notes: .....I've seen one episode. I blame my darling @massivecolorspygiant

Not beta-read and written partially last night and mostly this morning

Warnings: Angst. Angst angst angst angst, mention of spanking, cigarette smoking, friends to enemies to lovers, has a happy ending

Summary: Mike almost hadn’t let you go. He’d placed his hand against the door, eyes skimming your face, gaze lingering on your lips. You had to report at nine the next morning. That was surely enough time to get you out of bed, showered, dressed, down to the precinct—it’d be so easy. He’d have time to pick you apart the way he’d been thinking about for months before putting you back together. He’d have time to savor you, to give you something good, something warm to think about while you were undercover, to show you what you’d be coming back to. 

It’s been eight months. Eight goddamn months of Duarte getting limited intel on you, spending most days without knowing whether you're alive or dead. And now you’re telling him that if he can’t handle your lip, you’ll fucking transfer. 

He’s been distracted, on tenterhooks, wary, terrified. He’s shrugged it off resolutely, and done his best to hide it from himself, from his team. 

You’ve been a piece of flint ever since you returned—ready to spark at any moment, at once the rock and the hard place. 

He waits for the others to leave the briefing, tells you that he needs you to stay behind for a moment. He sees the attitude you cop at the order, catches on the slick sound of you sucking your teeth, the roll of your eyes. Your attitude is damn near intolerable. If he had less composure, less focus—if the two of you were at his place, or at yours, he’d spank the insolence out of you. But he waits. He waits until he’s absolutely certain the others are gone before crossing the room, gripping your jaw tightly. He sees your eyes flare, your lips part just a touch in shock. 

“Listen to me,” He growls low, “I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you, but shape up or fuck off.” 

You jerk your chin out of his grip. 

“Glad to,” You snip, nodding. “Give me a week, I’ll get my fucking transfer.” 

It’s not what he wants, but he doesn’t get to tell you that. You skim right past him, your body pushing against his as you storm out of the room. His eyes settle on the spot where you’d been just a moment ago, ears deaf to the slamming of the door behind you. 

--  

This rift, your harsh manner in the face of his warnings, all seemed unfathomable just months ago.

You were going undercover. You were resigned to it. The team had had a gone to Mike’s for a send-off dinner, and you’d stuck around longer than the others. It had been under the guise of any last words of advice from your captain. You’d spent two more hours, had three more drinks apiece, had taken a long time to say goodnight. The two of you had lingered in his entryway for at least half an hour, still talking. He could sense your unease with the case ahead in the way you kept moving, your hand raising to fiddle with the necklace that you always wore. You couldn’t settle in one place either, and had moved to lean against one wall, and then the other wall, and then back against the door. 

Mike almost hadn’t let you go. He’d placed his hand against the door, eyes skimming your face, gaze lingering on your lips. You had to report at nine the next morning. That was surely enough time to get you out of bed, showered, dressed, down to the precinct—it’d be so easy. He’d have time to pick you apart the way he’d been thinking about for months before putting you back together. He’d have time to savor you, to give you something good, something warm to think about while you were undercover, to show you what you’d be coming back to. 

Fuck, he could’ve done it. He’s certain he could’ve—until he’d said something so phenomenally stupid, something he’d been thinking about for months. 

“I’ll be back before you know it,” You’d offered. Mike nodded, shifted from foot to foot with a lazy smirk on his face. 

“I’m not worried about you.” 

Five words. Five stupid little words that made your face shift, your head duck, and your mouth push out a mumble that you had to go, that you had an early morning. You’d turned, said one more goodnight, and left. He could’ve stopped you between his door and the elevator—hell, if he’d run, between the elevator and the front door. But he didn’t start overthinking it until a couple of months later. By the time the case was closed, the perps were indicted, and you were back in the office, he’d realized how bad it had sounded. 

Now, Duarte has nothing of you in that room but the scent of your perfume, and the ring of your voice playing in his ears: 

“Give me a week, I’ll get my fucking transfer.” 

--  

“You liking SVU?” 

“Sure. The work’s challenging, but I love it. Why?” Grace’s eyes sparkle with a tease as she watches you take up your drink. “You looking to transfer?” 

When you don’t answer right away, when you take a long, long pull from your glass, Grace’s smile wilts. She leans forward just a little against the table, folding her arms on the table. 

“You’re not, are you?” She presses. You still don’t answer, you just look down into your drink, trying to sort out the muddling of feelings in your gut. Grace gives you the time, raising her fingers to her lips to gnaw at her nails. 

“I don’t think there’s a place for me in that unit anymore,” You finally admit. “The way I operate…The way I’ve had to operate, it’s…” You shake your head, tightening your grip on your bottle as your emotions swell. You swallow thickly, averting your gaze. Christ. Thank god you came to this boozy little dive. It isn’t anywhere like Duarte would go to unwind after work. The man likes a little more atmosphere—somewhere that precludes the possibility of having to subdue a drunken disorderly on his off-hours. You don’t think you could handle seeing him outside of work right now. You can hardly handle seeing him at work. You clear your throat, blinking rapidly to push back frustrated tears.

“Come to think of it, I don’t think there was one for me before I went undercover,” You add, raising your drink again. 

“Come on, that’s not true,” Grace argues. “You just need some time to readjust. Captain’ll get that.” 

“He told me to shape up or fuck off.” 

“So you’re fucking off?” Grace scoffs a laugh. “C’mon, you know he’s only saying that to try and snap you back into focus.” She pauses, eyes narrowing as she searches your face. “You sure this is about what he said to you today, or is it what he said before you left?” 

Your gaze snaps sharply to her, shock sparking through your system. 

“...He told you about that?”  

“I mean,” Grace sighs, “I kinda already knew there was something between you. We all did.” 

“What?” 

“Not the whole time!” She insists, “But the night before your assignment, we could all kinda tell, you know. You couldn’t keep your eyes off each other.” 

You groan, bracing your elbows on the table and tipping your head into your hands, scrubbing your eyes with your palms. 

“He tell you what he said, then?” 

“That he wasn’t worried about you? Yeah. He was pretty tipsy when he told me. He told me about what he said, how quickly you left…” Grace grimaces, remembering the way her captain's eyes had shown with regret. “He said he fucked up.” 

You lean back in your seat, breath punching out of you like you’ve just been socked in the gut. 

“He didn’t care if I came back,” You insist. 

“That’s not true! He was worried about you, we all were. Someone would bring your name up once in a while, and I could kinda see it in him. He’d go stony for a second there, like he was bracing himself to hear the worst. He just..." Grace frowns. "I think he was trying to be reassuring, you know? Say that he wasn't worried that you'd be back because he knew you would. It just went sideways."

You look around the bar again. 

“Well,” You mumble. “I don’t know if I can keep my place at the BGU. I told him I’d be out of there by the end of the week.” 

Grace blinks at you, a smile widening her lips. 

“Fuck, you two are awful.”

“I know!” You crow, throwing your hands up. Grace laughs, and it rouses your weary laugh, too. 

“Tell you what,” Grace adds, “Just go in, work whatever this case is, do your due diligence and see how you feel. Make whatever happened between you and Mike secondary, focus on the work. If you really don’t think you can stand it after the week, I’ll talk to Captain Benson. She’d be happy to have the help. Okay?” 

You sigh softly. “Okay,” You mutter. “Okay. You want another? I need another.” 

--  

“Can I bum one?” 

Your question seems to catch him off-guard. Mike hesitates before he draws the pack back out of his pocket, holding it out to you. You take hold of it, drawing one out of the pack and lightly tapping the bottom against the cardboard before holding it back out to him. He takes it, holding his lighter up to you in turn. You lean in, hovering the end of the cigarette in the flame and drawing in a deep breath. You sigh the smoke out softly through your nose, leaning against the closed storefront beside the bar. 

“...Since when do you smoke?” He asks. You draw the cigarette from between your lips, rolling it between your fingers. 

“Picked it up. I’m trying to cut back.” 

“How’s that going?” 

“How does it look like it’s going?” You glance at Mike, raising the cigarette to your lips again. He huffs a laugh, lips twitching with a smile. You can’t help but smile a bit yourself, lowering your gaze to the ground. It’s been two weeks since you told Duarte that you’d be gone. Your most recent case is closed, your place on the team feels solid again, but your relationship with Mike is still a stunted mess. You have good moments and bad ones. He runs as hot and as cold as he did before you went away, but the cold seems more chilling than it used to be.

Mike shifts from foot to foot beside you, bringing himself just a little closer to you, the toe of his shoe brushing yours. You look down at your feet again, stomach flipping at his increased proximity. 

"They still going strong in there?" He asks, nodding toward the bar where the rest of the team is still celebrating closing the latest case.

"Yep."

“...You still fixin’ to jump?”

“I don’t know,” You admit. “Should I be?” 

“I can’t make that decision for you.” 

You smile ruefully, shaking your head a little as you tip your chin up and look out over the street. “No. You certainly can’t.” And it’s cruel, but you dig the knife in just a touch: “Muncy offered to speak to Benson for me.” 

Mike laughs, mutters, “Shit,” As he raises his cigarette back to his lips. “That’s all I need. Before I know it, I’m gonna be the whole unit.” 

“Eh, you’d be fine.” 

“Nah, I can’t do it without the team.” And then, more softly, “Can’t do it without you.” 

Your stomach flips at his insistence. You can feel him looking at you again, but you’re too scared to look. 

“You did fine without me,” You point out. 

“Because I had to. I didn’t want to.” 

You swipe your tongue across your rapidly drying lips, toying with the cigarette. Mike straightens, rounding to stand in front of you.

“Look,” He adds, dipping his head into your field of vision. “You wanna go, then go. I’m not gonna beg you to stay, but I’m not gonna pretend to be happy about it, either.” 

Your gaze flickers to his, stomach flipping when you find him so close. He’s as close as he was the night before you left—before he said what he said, and you tucked tail and ran. 

“I don’t wanna go anywhere,” You admit. 

“Then don’t. But you gotta watch that lip.” 

Your mouth twitches with a smile, your tongue darting over your lips, leading Mike’s gaze there. 

“What for?” You murmur. “You’ve been doing a hell of a job watching it for me.” 

Mike groans a curse. He moves so quickly that you hardly register him flicking his cigarette away and taking hold of your face in his hands. You grin as he presses his lips to yours harshly. You lean right into it, swaying into his chest and curling your arms around his shoulders. Mike backs you up more tightly against the storefront, groaning as you slip your free hand into his hair. 

“Fuck,” He mumbles, knocking his forehead against yours as the kiss breaks. “Stay here, call a car. I'll be right back.” 

“Why?” You pout, chasing his lips. “ Where are you going?” 

“To close our tabs and get us out of here before the team books us for public indecency.” 

You grin, letting him go as he steps back. 

“Better make it quick, Duarte,” You warn, raising your cigarette back to your lips. “I’ve waited long enough.”

[justreblogginfics]

🥹🥹🥹🥹 This is so amazing, my heart can’t take it!

You wrote Mike so amazingly, I’m excited for the next part!

The Dog: Part I

Pairing: Mike Duarte x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Lots of talk of injuries, blood, PTSD, depression, alcoholism, seizures, acquired brain injury, violence, and eventually sexual situations. 

Summary: After BX9′s attack, Mike finds himself having to rebuild his life after an acquired brain injury forces him into early retirement. But how do you rebuild your life when your life was focused on bringing down one man for so long? 

Mike Duarte did not want a dog. 

He didn’t want a lot of things at the moment. He didn’t want early retirement, a plaque for being wounded in the line of duty, an acquired brain injury with a seizure disorder, and he definitely didn’t want the pity he’s currently seeing in Grace Muncy and Olivia Benson’s faces. 

But he really doesn’t want the service dog that is currently sitting politely between the two women. 

It looks like a mutt, some kind of Collie - Golden Retriever type dog with one ear bent over and the other standing straight up. He looks nice enough with his longish orange and white coat, sharp eyes darting around the inside of Mike’s home. Probably looking for something to chew up. He sighs as he steps aside to let the women and the dog inside. 

“This doesn’t mean the dog is staying,” he warns them. 

Keep reading

[bullet-prooflove]

orgasm headcanon

With the SVU boys, please.

Terry Bruno - Tugging his hair, as soon you run your fingers through his hair and tug it just a little, it takes him 0 to 60 in a heartbeat. I imagine him on the couch with you straddling his lap fully clothed and the instant you do it, his hips jump and you're like ohhh....

Nick Amaro - Words of affirmation. Knowing that you're so desperate for him, that you need him and only him and I think would make him lose his mind. Stuff like, you're the only one who can do this to me, please I need more.

Joe Velasco - Praise - You tell him he's going a good job, or call him sweet boi, good boi anything like that, it makes him feel loved and treaured. I think Joe gets off on intimacy and part of that is feeling emotionally safe with his partner.

Mike Duarte - Vulnerability- I swear I think knowing that you are giving yourself to him wrecks Mike. Telling him how you feel exactly in the moment gets him off, knowing that he's the one that makes you feel loved, wanted or good about yourself. The fact you're putting yourself out there, gives him an emotional boner, which leads to a very satisfying orgasm.

[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.”

[stmichaeldeorleans]

Orphanages where Michael stayed: Oklahoma City Good Sheppard of Hope Catholic,  St Agnus of Dallas, twelve main orphanages with outlets in Dallas,.. Ellyson Home for Children Dallas, ...Dallas Child Development Center Analysis and Orphanage,..Catholic Orphanage in.Yukon, Ok., Taft School near Littlerock, Ark..., " Arbeque" with the clinical name, owned and managed by Dr Joseph Arbeque M.D. Psychiatrist,  Imagination Dragon of New York City,  plus 14 other places where children can stay in NYC., then The Spicer in Germany, ...then The Loughe of Paris, France. 14 places in Paris, France....12 in Germany.   Michael Duerksen is " The Black Rose " of Germany, Tuscany and France and " The Black Pearl" of France.  Also " The Only Gift Child according to Illuminati Wisdom", "The Edge of Nightshade", " The Dark Fairy of the Night", " The Sacred Red Rose of Infiniti ", " The Son of the Evil Wickerman", " Buttercup of Remembrance". " Karen " Mariah" " Taylor (?)" Siguer Taro Telo Rothchild", " Mariah Rothchild Montasort, Redi LaMont, Snafa Al Ghul, Tilly Ting Evertyting C. Grant,  Mara /Mario Silo Parmiese Devereaux,  Michael Alluese' Silo Parmiese Devereaux, Tuolo Paoli Marcheti Luchia Geyford, Tonie Gilbraltor Luchia, Rachel  " The Saint" Luchia, Rosalie Luchia, Michael Duerksen Steinem Vanderbilt Montrose, Mike Duerksen Huntford Carlton, Carry Cardin Carlton, Carlotta DeBakey, Patricia DeValley DeGeneres, Michael Duerksen Gurley, Michael Lauren Hatch Bacall,  Michael Duerksen Bancroft Castilano May,   Mary May Ham Rothchild, Cassandra Gilbert Der Rothchild,  MaryAnn Richardson Rickert Weiner Rothchild,  Marie Rothchild Harrington, Marie Rothchild, Marie Marianette, Marie Rothchild Hall, Arthur Michael Ann Rothchild Bach, Ms.LaGuardia, Ms. Costello, William Preston, Eric Dathan, Matilda ( Michael ) Avager Rothchild Ponti,  Arthur Michael John Commencia, Michael Arthur Ann Rothchild Snelson Streisand, Carolina Michal " Muriel" Hemingway Winters Rodgers,  Isabelle or Emilia Duarte Galveston Rothchild Darlington, " Emmanuel Bogotta Rothchild" ( donor), Maria Angelus Mata Hari Rothchild, ( donor), Michelle L. Rouchefourde Phillips DeSousa DeMentos,  Phillip Newman Morris, Michael Newman, Angelina Isabelle Rothchild Childress ( donor) , Michael Rothchild Burnett, Princess Rothchild Luchia Hampas, Princess Maria Diedra Lyons Windsor, Michael Jean Paul Getty, John Robert Robin Blake,  Princess Maria Guttenburg Furstenburg Oldenburg Mountbatten DeGeneres ( Lafite), " Prince of Tides ", Princess Marissa Oldenburg Hamburg, Jack Michael Bouvier' Kennedy, Michael Dean Duerksen Garland, Michael Duerksen Monroe, " Michael Briarcraft Hyatt", Michael Stouphlous, Michael Casa Linda, Michael Feingold, Michael Feinstein, Michael Forester Turner, Michael Dan Turner, Cicelia Rothchild Luchia Hampas, 

[bullet-prooflove]

@the-hinky-panda Thank you so much for the tag babe!

Mike lost it then. Something inside of him imploded and all he could imagine was the noises that Tommy McGrath would make as he beat him to death with one of the fucking trophies in his office. He wanted to watch the fucking light die in the other man’s eyes and he wanted McGrath to know why.

A snippet of Past Mistakes Part 8 with Mike Duarte

No pressure tags for: @storiesofsvu @adarafaelbarba @plaidbooks @cosmic-psychickitty @daniacat @annieradcliff @blackleatherjacketz

Last Line Tag Game

I was tagged by @ninjasawakenedmystar :)

Grace put a hand on her holstered gun, hesitant to let it go. She hated this. But it wasn’t hers anymore. It wasn’t the Second Mass’. It belonged to Charleston now. 

They all did.

I tag @littletonpace @ageless-aislynn @darklydeliciousdesires

[morose-magnetrix]

Strange Academy Presents the Death of Doctor Strange #1 by Skottie Young (writer), Mike Del Mundo (artist and colorist), Niko Henrichon (artist), Peach Momoko (artist), Humberto Ramos (artist), Alessandro Cappuccio (artist), C.F. Villa (artist), Gustavo Duarte (artist), David Baldeon (artist), Luciano Vecchio (artist), Natacha Bustos (artist), Marco D’Alfonso (colorist), Edgar Delgado (colorist), and VC’s Clayton Cowles (letterer) 

Strange: “You are the worst. You know that, right?”

Enchantress: “Indeed I do.”

Oh boy, this issue is one of the things I adore when comics do. I had thought that we’d only be getting a story about Iric, Alvi, and the Enchantress - but instead, we also get mini looks at the lives of the other Strange Academy students once they go home. Each student has a different artist/colorist team working on their mini stories, allowing us to have a huge sampling not only of these quiet moments but also just amazing artists that we may not have seen otherwise. 

The main plot of this book is that the Enchantress, back in the day, had made a deal to give her firstborn son to a wizard in exchange for an amulet. Strange turned the wizard to stone but when he died, that spell was undone, and Iric is kidnapped to be used as a magical battery à-la Peter Quill in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2. To save Iric, Alvi and the Enchantress venture into Weirdworld. My gods, the art is incredible. Weirdworld is an ever shifting world like the imagination of a child and the artwork reflects this, taking on this surreal, imaginative, and childish tone at points - the map that the mapmakers make for them is a prime example of this, something so believably made by a six year old that I had to wonder if Del Mundo actually had a child assist on the artwork for a moment. Even the lettering becomes something appropriate for this whimsical place, with variations in the coloring and style of the letters. You can really tell a lot of thought and care went into this. 

The only thing I didn’t like during the Iric/Alvi/Enchantress plot was how quickly Iric and Alvi forgive the Enchantress for more or less abandoning them and selling Iric to a wizard as infants. I get that we’re going for a heartwarming story about reconnecting as a family, and while the Enchantress does save Alvi’s life during the fight and they manage to save Iric, it doesn’t feel earned to me. Rather than having the twins call her an amazing mother, I would have preferred for them to have a quiet moment with her where she vowed to do better and they agreed to give her a chance - that would’ve resonated more deeply with me. 

The other mini plots are advertised as revealing the secrets of the students of Strange Academy, but we don’t really see any secrets revealed. We see some bleak realities, but also just little quiet moments of joy. There’s something for pretty much every major character which is nice, but I also wish we would’ve had one moment just showing the staff (namely Voodoo, Magik, Wanda, etc etc)  and how they were dealing with this, but I suppose they’re all off trying to keep the world in shape. 

Overall, if you love Strange Academy, you’ll want to pick this up. 

Verdict: Seven out of ten firstborn sons

[megaphonemonday]

my worst enemy

romanceisreal: Neither of them can get the baby to sleep so they start enlisting team mates to come over and help

Did I steal at least the inspiration for this premise from The Office? Definitely. Am I proud of that? Eh. 

read on ao3

It was entirely possible that at the grand old age of 41, before he’d even managed to make it onto the ballot for the Baseball Hall of Fame or master the art of the one-handed diaper change, Mike Lawson had finally lost his mind. 

Sleep-deprivation-induced insanity was a thing, right? They—and he didn’t know who exactly, but he was willing to bet someone out there believed this—said that too many nights without hitting a REM cycle could do that. Mike had to have left that particular benchmark in the dust at least a week ago. 

He’d either lost his mind or he’d actually crashed the car on his way home from the grocery store and this was some hallucination courtesy of a concussion and an infusion of the good shit at the hospital. Because he definitely hadn’t stumbled his way through laying up his haul, probably stowing boxes of spaghetti in the freezer and the Eggos in the pantry, in his fatigue and eagerness to get upstairs for Ruby’s bedtime only to be confronted by... this. 

Because this could not be real. Not unless some very serious brain damage was at play.

It was the only way to explain what Mike was witnessing in the nursery. It had to be his eyes playing tricks on him. His exhausted brain had finally given up the charade and melted into a puddle of goo that’d come dribbling out his ears any minute. 

That, after all, was just as plausible as the scene he’d just walked out on: Ruby Baker-Lawson for once sound asleep at her designated bedtime. 

Of course, that wasn’t what made him turn on his heel and go in search of her mother. That, if anything, was a dream come true. Had he mentioned how goddamn long it had been since he’d had a good night’s sleep? 

(If he were less tired, he’d remember that he’d started keeping track on the calendar on his phone. As it was, Mike was just relatively sure it’d been too fucking long.)

The problem was who, exactly, had finally, miraculously, gotten her down for the count. 

It wasn’t Ruby’s mother or father; their kid had proven over and over again that she had little respect for his or Ginny’s authority. 

(Or their begging and pleading, for that matter.) 

It wasn’t Al, who’d been more than happy to adopt yet another grandchild, in spite of the fact he already had a horde of his own.

It wasn’t even Blip or Evelyn, which would’ve probably stung a little. In the interest of reintroducing his daughter to something even approaching a regular sleep schedule, though, he’d learn to get over it.

He was less sure he’d get over this. 

Mike wasn’t sure how to even begin wrapping his brain around the sight of Livan fucking Duarte in the nursery— settled as comfortably into the rocking chair as if he’d been the one to spend hours cursing over the incomprehensible instructions just to construct the damn thing—a sleeping Ruby nestled into the crook of his arm. 

Was it too late to ask for that total mental breakdown?

“Ginny!” Mike hissed, probably too loud considering his daughter was soundly asleep for the first time in what felt like weeks just a room away. He wanted answers. Right fucking now. 

Which, okay. If it was possible that Mike had actually lost his mind, it was more than possible that he was overreacting.

He knew this. Somewhere in the last reasonable part of his mind—the part that wasn’t operating solely on day-old coffee, adrenaline, and three hours of dozing, one ear always cocked for fussing from his baby girl—was fully aware that this was not the hill he wanted to die on.

(If he had to pick, he’d definitely go with something more important. Like the superiority of Empire Strikes Back over Return of the Jedi. Or implementing Pants-less Thursdays in the Baker-Lawson household like he’d tried before Ginny got pregnant. 

At least as long as Ruby was too little to notice. How else was she going to get a younger sibling? 

Well, given his track record, in a multitude of ways, but this would definitely up the odds, right?)

Problem was: that part, that utterly reasonable part of him that he wanted so desperately to listen to? It was weak. Defenseless. Beaten down by weeks of failure to get his daughter to do one of the four things all babies were constitutionally designed to excel at: sleep.

So much so that every other part of him—the ones that had turned a little ruthless in the face of too little rest and too much stress—had no problem squashing it like a bug.

Poor thing. It never even stood a chance.

His wife, as relentlessly productive as usual, though she had to be operating in the same thick fog of fatigue as him, stuck her head out of the laundry room but stepped into the hall when she caught sight of his thunderous expression. She padded along the plush runner, wafting the soothing scent of dryer sheets and warm linen as she approached. 

Mike didn’t let himself be lulled out of his anger in spite of the way she smelled exactly the way he’d always imagined home would and looked even better. (It was always something of a marvel that Ginny’d actually agreed to hitch her wagon to his, not least because she still managed to look like a goddamn supermodel with bags under her eyes and dried spit up on her shirt.) He steeled himself, didn’t let the indignation sputter and die, instead stoking it to a crackling roar.

How could she have called him? Of all the people who would’ve dropped what they were doing to help them out—and Mike could even admit that they probably needed it—it had to be Livan? 

“Seriously?” he demanded, unwilling or unable to translate his—God, there was no word for it but—betrayal into more something more eloquent. 

He didn’t really need to, though. They knew each other too well—which was almost always a good thing, even if something ugly was stirring in the pit of Mike’s stomach now—for there to be any question of what he meant. 

Her jaw squared, shoulders drawing back as she braced for his response to her answer: “He’s babysitting. So we can get some sleep.”

Mike snorted, even if the thought of actually getting to sleep with Ginny in the same bed at the same time nearly made him tear up in desperation. It’d been too fucking long since he’d had that and goddamn it, he missed it.

Livan Duarte, hotheaded hotshot still tearing up the NL West and coaxing Ginny through her starts, had lowered himself to babysit? And Mike was supposed to just go to sleep with him in his house? Jesus, what had the world come to? 

Theoretically, it wasn’t such a bad idea. It was pretty brilliant, actually. Mike would just chalk it up to sleep deprivation that he hadn’t come up with it himself.

It was the reality of it all that bothered him. Livan had already taken one job from Mike. He couldn’t have this one too.

If Mike were just a little less exhausted, he was pretty sure he could put up a better fight. Then again, if Mike, or Ginny for that matter, were a little less exhausted, there’d be nothing to fight over.

He’d been tired before, but this was something else. Worse than any burnout from a playoff push, worse than back to back doubleheaders in the depths of July, worse than his bouts of insomnia during his separation from Rachel. Worse because there was no end in sight; he and Ginny were responsible for this mess—under ordinary circumstances Mike would never refer to his six-month-old daughter as a “mess” unless she’d managed to blow out yet another diaper, but he figured it might be allowed in this particular instance. Ruby was theirs to raise and love unconditionally and, yeah, at the moment, grit their teeth and deal with until she eventually grew up and moved out.

Which, to be clear, Mike still wanted to come only after she’d graduated or maybe turned at least 35. Still, it was a little hard to remember that sometimes.

Because for what seemed like the past eternity—but could only have been a month tops or they’d already be dead instead of just dead on their feet—little Ruby Baker-Lawson had been running her parents ragged. His own progeny.

Spawn seemed more accurate lately.

God knew Mike loved Ruby more than life itself—remember: no moving out until after she had her own 401K and maybe not even then—but would it really kill her to cut them a break? To go the fuck to sleep and stay asleep for more than an hour or three at a time?

Given Ruby’s continued refusal to do so—even in the face of her parents’ increasingly desperate tactics: swaddling, long car rides, the rock n’ play she was rapidly outgrowing, sprawling her bare-skinned and squirming against Mike’s chest to be lulled by his breathing, endless circuits of the house as Ginny bounced and rocked her into drowsiness—Mike suspected that it just might.

As soon as they thought they had her down, settled into her crib, white noise machine whirring, and began to sneak out of the room, the baby would begin to wail, upset at finding herself left alone.

On darker days, Mike found himself wondering from which parent she’d inherited her clear terror of abandonment.

It wasn’t that Mike would rather endure his daughter’s sobs, his heart broke every time her little lip so much as wobbled, but did it really have to be—

“Him?” he hissed, not bothering to keep his voice down. So what if Ruby had been quiet the whole time he’d been home and this woke her up again? Apparently, they’d hired a goddamn Cuban manny without Mike even realizing. God, how long had he been at the grocery store? “Ginny, Jesus! You called him? To our house? Where we live?”

"Neither of us are gonna be living here much longer if we can’t get Ruby to sleep through the night! We’re gonna lose our minds, Lawson,” she hissed right back, albeit at a far more reasonable volume. Any louder, though, and Mike was sure she might’ve just given in and yelled. Clearly, neither of them were at their best tonight. 

Well, at least he wasn’t the only one entertaining that possibility. Maybe going crazy wouldn’t be so bad if Ginny was in it with him. It sent a funny wave of warmth rushing through him; he really did love this woman. Wouldn’t trade her or her ability to understand him for anything, not even a solid eight hours.

“Besides,” Ginny continued, apparently oblivious to the rush of affection she’d just inspired in her husband, or she wouldn’t ask, “who else should I have called?”

“Anyone!” Mike was aware there was a distinct whine to his voice, but he didn’t really care. 

Out of all the people she could have asked to come lend a hand, (Blip and Ev, Salvi, Al and, weirdly because he had no kids of his own, Omar all had pretty good track records with Ruby, even if only for short periods. They were better than what Ginny and Mike were currently managing. Some other time, when Mike’s brain wasn’t shrouded in a haze of sleep deprivation, he would feel worse about the fact that his baby only went to sleep for men who weren’t him.) she had to pick the smirking asshole who’d taken his job.

After he retired on his own terms, of course, but it still fucking rankled.

She rolled her eyes. “You never complain when Omar babysits.” 

Which was—

Well, absolutely true. But for good reasons!

For one, Omar had never set himself up as the Baby Whisperer, easily getting Ruby to cooperate and fall asleep where neither of her parents could. Omar definitely hadn’t looked up at Mike’s entrance into the nursery, baby cradled peacefully in his arms, smirked, and said, “Heard you needed my help, old man.”

Because for two, Mike actually scared Omar. 

That’d never been true of Livan.

Of course, now Livan had even less reason to be afraid. He had an ace in the hole.

The kid loved him. She loved lots of things—strained carrots and her stuffed turtle, Ginny’s dimples and his beard—but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she loved Livan Duarte.

It was a bit of a sore point.

Even before this latest bout of sleeplessness, Ruby always lit up whenever the Cuban catcher happened to walk by when Mike took her to Petco to visit Ginny. Livan, in turn, was slightly less obnoxious while interacting with Ruby; he grinned rather than smirked and it didn’t matter if he spoke to her in crooning Spanish because it wasn’t like she really understood him anyway.

If it were anyone else, Mike would’ve been happy to admit Ruby babbling in excitement as she was danced around the Padres’ clubhouse was pretty fucking cute.

Except it was Livan and, seriously, fuck that guy.

Still, Mike didn’t really have much interest in delving into his lingering resentment and jealousy of the guy who’d taken his job.

So, he replied, “Because Omar’s not gonna teach our kid Spanish pickup lines before she can even walk.”

Ginny laughed, a short, almost hysterical sound that immediately had Mike catching hold of her hands to draw her in close. She took the invitation gratefully, but didn’t collapse against him the way he really wanted. She held herself up, looking him straight in the eye as she asked, “What did you want me to do? Neither of us have slept for more than an hour at a time all week.”

“She’s just reverse cycling,” he tried, feeble and well aware of it.

Sensing the flicker in his resolve, Ginny shifted her grip and twined their fingers together. The cool, platinum band of her wedding ring against his skin flicked a switch somewhere deep in his gut. Immediately, his hammering heart rate dropped, the flood of anger and desperation leaking away. She looked up at him, big, brown eyes weighted down by heavy shadows. Mike doubted his were much better.

“I’m this close to losing it, Lawson,” she said, honesty and a little shame coating her words. Automatically, he squeezed her hand, bringing a flicker of a smile to her face. Still, Ginny shook her head. “Livan’s the only one to reliably get her to stay down for more than an hour or two at a time, and she’s so little. She needs to sleep. If that means he has more opportunity to push your buttons, I’m willing to put up with it.”

“Because it’s not your buttons he’s pushing,” he muttered.

“Mike,” she pleaded, pressing her forehead into his shoulder and otherwise sagging against him. His arm wrapped around her waist, support and comfort all at once. He marveled, not for the first time, that in six months she’d already worked off all the baby weight. He didn’t necessarily miss the extra softness, though it’d been nice while it was there. Honestly, he loved Ginny any way he could have her. Besides. Her rack? Still phenomenal. A fact he could appreciate all the better with her pressed to him. He did manage to drag his thoughts out of the gutter to listen to the rest of her request. “I need to sleep. We need to sleep.”

She sounded so exhausted, so close to throwing in the towel in a way he wasn’t used to, not from Ginny fucking Baker, that he immediately caved.

“I know,” he murmured, rubbing soothing circles up and down her back. Ginny sighed, and Mike was sure that if he kept it up, they’d fall asleep standing right there in the hall, mere steps from their bedroom. When her arms came up to wrap around his waist, and she snuggled in, warm and close and perfect, he thought he might not even mind.

Except, that was the moment Livan chose to emerge from the nursery, cradling their sleeping baby—the love of Mike’s life right alongside her mother—and smirking that insufferable smirk of his. He raised a brow at the position he found them in, but otherwise managed to keep his thoughts to himself.

“Mami,” he murmured, low and concerned enough that Mike felt a stab of affection rush through him; anyone who cared about Ginny that much couldn’t be all terrible, “I thought I was here to babysit. Let you and the old man get some sleep. What are you still doing up?”

Ginny pulled away and any charitable thoughts Mike might have harbored went up like so much smoke.

“We’re going, we’re going,” she replied, tugging on Mike’s hand, to lead him to their room. He followed along, only a little grudging.

“You sure it had to be him?” he muttered, low enough to seem like he didn’t mean for Livan to hear it while still making absolutely sure he did.

Ginny just squeezed his hand. Livan, though, hadn’t quite learned when to keep his trap shut.

“Don’t be mad, Lawson,” he said, that god damn smirk somehow audible. “Your girl’s just got good taste.”

Whether he meant Ruby or her mother was up for debate. Neither option left Mike feeling warm or fuzzy, though.

He glared but still allowed Ginny to pull him away, into their dark bedroom. Which was made only darker when she shut the door, cutting off the hall light and any more snark from their babysitter. 

Smart move.

In the dark with just his wife to worry about—for all his faults, Livan could handle a sleeping baby on his own—the world seemed to slow down. Mike wasn’t quite so aware of the way his pulse rushed in his ears, became more attuned to Ginny’s quiet breaths filling the space, the warmth of her hand still clasped in his.

At the foot of the bed, she turned back to him. Her hands skated up his arms, over his shoulders, fingers finally lacing behind his neck to hold him just where she wanted. 

Mike waited. 

Not for long.

In the weak light filtering in through the windows, she leaned up to press a less than chaste kiss against his mouth. It didn’t take much convincing for MIke to sink into it, even with a cocky Cuban somewhere outside their door.

It didn’t matter that he couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d done more than swig mouthwash; Ginny’s tongue was curled around his, sweet as the first time he’d ever kissed her. For the first time in weeks, Mike was at his leisure to reciprocate, working a hand into his wife’s—God, he was never gonna get tired of that; Ginny Baker was his goddamn wife—hair and drawing her in close. She came eagerly, leaning against him the way she had in the hall, though there was nothing weary about her now. She licked eagerly into him, rising on her tiptoes to get her own taste.

For once, nothing interrupted the moment.

For once, Mike got to languidly undress Ginny, fingertips skimming over miles of smooth, brown skin, and enjoy her hands against his arms and chest and thighs as she did the same for him.

And, yeah, once they made it into bed, they were too fucking tired to do much more than curl together and lazily kiss until their eyes and lips grew too heavy to do anything other than give in to the heady call of sleep. But Mike wasn’t going to complain.

Sure, it was Livan playing babysitter to his daughter, but there were worse things in the world. Especially since it meant Mike was going to wake up after a full night’s sleep with Ginny Baker in his arms. Maybe, come morning, they’d even be able to finish what they started. A little morning sex would more than cancel out putting up with a smirking Cuban in his house.

Plus, once he was properly rested, Mike could start coming up with some appropriate payback. Livan could joke about Ginny’s, or Ruby’s as yet unproven, taste in men all he wanted. 

Just like Mike could bribe his former teammates to replace all of Livan’s expensive hair products with glitter-infused knockoffs.

He chuckled in spite of himself.

From her place draped over his chest, Ginny let out a sleepy sigh, nuzzling her cheek over his heart as she settled more firmly against him. Mike didn’t bother reining in his beaming smile as he dropped one last kiss on her forehead and closed his eyes, arms tightening around the love of his life.

Didn’t matter how satisfying it would eventually be; payback could wait. He had something much better to focus on now.

[melodramatic--blog]

GOD’S KINGDOM | FILM

**Dim the lights, click fullscreen and pop on a pair of good headphones for the full theatrical experience.

GOD’S KINGDOM | Short Film

Jack and Ella travel alone, taking the path less trodden. Dishevelled and dirty they keep away from people, towns and cities, off the grid. They are hiding and on the run, but from what and why?

QUOTES

Ian Durkin – Vimeo Staff Pick Curator – “Gripping short. Great production.”

Rob Munday – Directors Notes / Short of the Week – “Your work never fails to impress.”

Luke Rodriguez – Modern Horrors – “We all know that genre producers love turning these things into features, and God’s Kingdom is practically begging for it.”

MGDSQUAN – Horror Society – “Hollywood will come banging on his door one day, I guarantee you”

Jay Creepy – Severed Cinema – “His eye for pacing and detail grows along the way to be nothing short of awesome.”

Jack Bottomley – UK Film Review – “Soulsby has delivered a most interesting film and I can only pray we shall see more good things on the horizon.”

FILM FESTIVALS

Imagine Film Festival, Amsterdam

BIFFF – Brussels International Fantastic Film Festival

Grimmfest, Manchester

CPIFF – Crystal Palace International Film Festival

Shorts on Tap, London

The Royal Television Society Awards, West of England – Winner Best Composer and Best Sound

CAST

Alistair Petrie – (Rogue One: A Star Wars Story, Rush, The Night Manager) Anthony Flanagan – (The Terror, Versailles, Red Riding: The Year of our Lord 1974) Mark Wingett – (Quadrophenia, Snow White and the Huntsman, The Bill) Paul Hurstfield – (Dead Man’s Shoes) Jack Johns – (Call the Midwife, Maigret Sets a Trap) Robert Goodman – (Gangs of New York, Joan of Arc) Rod Glenn – (Ripper Street, American Assassin, The Hippopotamus) Amanda Foster – (Die Another Day, Harry Brown, World War Z) Introducing Leah Rhodes

CREDITS

Writer / Producer / Director – GUY SOULSBY Producer – JOE BINKS Director of Photography – NICHOLAS BENNETT 1st AD – TRISTAN HEFELE 1st AD – DAN GIBLING 1st AD – ANDREW POTTER Production Manager – FELIX JUDE WEST Camera Assistant – TOBY ROTHWELL Camera Trainee – JOE SALKEY Art Director – NOAM PIPER Production Sound – RUSSELL EDWARDS Production Sound – STEVIE HAYWOOD Boom Op – THOMAS MARKWICK Wardrobe – SAMMY CORNEILLE SFX Make Up – ROBBIE DRAKE Make Up – JO TURNER Make Up – PAULA J MAXWELL Casting – ANDREW MANN @ FRUITCAKE Casting – MATT ZINA @ THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL OF ACTING Chaperone – KADY RHODES Armourer – NEIL MOUNTAIN SFX – ROWLEY SFX Runner – MICAH HARBON Runner – JAMES MAZUR Storyboards – JAMES HUSBANDS Catering – MICHAEL KERNALL CATERING Accommodation – BAROLIN FARM GUEST HOUSE Northumbria Cars – PHIL TERNENT Camera Equipment – FOCUS 24 Playback – TAKE TWO FILMS Film Poster – TOM MAC

THE NATIONAL TRUST

Head of Filming and Locations – HARVEY EDGINGTON Visitor Experience & Marketing Manager – ALEXA MORTON Marketing Officer – AIMEE RAWSON

BRADFORD COUNCIL / LEA

Children’s Services – TARA WATSON Children’s Services – TRACEY JEFFREY Children’s Services – NEIL HELLEWELL

IMMANUEL COLLEGE

Head Teacher – MRS TILLER Head Teachers PA – MRS GRAY Pastoral Support Assistant (Attendance) – JUDIE HEANEY

CUT & RUN

Executive Producer – KAYT HALL Producer – MAGGIE McDERMOTT Editor – NICK ARMSTRONG Edit Assistant – MEREL SCHUURMAN

JOGGER STUDIOS

Film Colourist – YOOMIN LEE Digital Compositor – RICHARD HARRIS Digital Compositor – PAVEL IVANOV Digital Compositor – ANDY BROWN Digital Compositor – DAVIDE PASCOLO

UNIT

Executive Producer – KEVIN DOCHERTY Trailer Colourist – SCOTT HARRIS Flame Op – ANDREW CURTIS MCR – ADRIAN THOMAS

AUTOMATIK

Digital Compositor – VIKRAM CHADHA VFX Supervisor – SEBASTIAN BARKER Producer – JENNIFER THOMPSON

STORMBORN STUDIOS

FX TD – GORAN PAVLES

VISUAL EFFECTS

FX Artist – MARTIN MIROLA FX Artist – JOEL LELIEVRE 3D / Digital Compositor – JIMMY LOTARE Digital Compositor – NICHOLAS HURST Digital Compositor – OLIVER NEWBOULD Digital Compositor – ALAN PRADO

ECHOIC AUDIO

Composer – SAM FOSTER Composer – DAVID JOHNSTON Sound Designer – OWEN HEMMING-BROWN

SLATE & ASH

Musical Sound Design – SIMON ASHDOWN Musical Sound Design – WILL SLATER

EVOLUTIONS

Producer – GABRIEL WETZ Rerecording Mixer (Final Mix) – WILL NORIE

FOUND

Executive Producer – MIKE SHARPE

STUDIO OUTPUT

Executive Producer – IAN HAMBLETON

CREDIT SEQUENCE

PUSH VFX

VFX Supervisor, Lighting, Shading & Compositing – PEDRO MOTTA Houdini TD, Additional Lighting and Shading – JOAO AGOSTINHO 3D Modelling – JOAO JACINTO Compositing – DUARTE GANDUM Concept & Pre-vis Development – RICHARD HALLSWORTH

CREDIT MUSIC

Music and lyrics by Michael Malarkey Performed by Michael Malarkey, Kent Aberle, Brandon Bush, Jenn Cornell, Benji Shanks, Kevin Spenser Produced by Michael Malarkey, Brendon Bush and Tom Tapley Recorded and Mixed by Tom Tapley Recorded at The Projector Room, Decatur, GA Mastered by Billy Joe Bowers Courtesy of Cap On Cat Records

Managed by Danny Keir at Sound Diplomacy Likes: 90 Viewed:

The post GOD’S KINGDOM | FILM appeared first on Good Info.

[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.”

[bullet-prooflove]

Valentine's Day Weeklong Event!

With Valentine's Day coming up that means one thing...

Love is in the air and I have booked in a week long smutfest for all of you wonderful people!

The titles for that week are:

Monday 13th Feb: Lemon Trees - Benny Miller x Reader (NSFW) - Whilst trapped in the Andes, Benny remembers that time in Tuscany.

Tuesday 14th Feb: The Perfect Moment (NSFW) - Luke Alvez x Reader - There's no such thing as the perfect moment.

Wednesday 15th Feb: Fantasy (NSFW) - Hasim Khaldun x Reader - Hasim fulfils a fantasy of yours. - A birthday gift for @adarafaelbarba

Thursday 16th Feb: Lover's in the Backseat (NSFW) - Mike Duarte x Reader - Mike gives you a first in the backseat of his vintage Mustang.

Friday 17th Feb: Only With You (NSFW) - Will Halstead x Reader - It's been a year but somethings don't change.

Saturday 18th Feb: Forever (NSFW) - Joe Velasco x Reader - Joe can't remember the moment he fell in love with you, only that he has.

Sunday 19th Feb: Mine (NSFW) - Brian Zvonecek x Reader - Brian doesn't get jealous... Until he does.

[lagilliland]

WHERE WE LIVE BENEFIT ANTHOLOGY CONTRIBUTORS ANNOUNCED

LG: This is text of  image comics press release: 

On October 1, 2017, Las Vegas, Nevada suffered the worst mass shooting in modern American history, resulting in 58 deaths and over 500 injured. It broke my heart. Las Vegas is my home. I felt like something needed to be done to help in a unique way.”

—JH WILLIAMS III, Artist & Curating Editor

PORTLAND, OR, 03/27/2018 — Image Comics is pleased to announce the list of WHERE WE LIVE: LAS VEGAS SHOOTING BENEFIT ANTHOLOGY contributors.  

Curated by JH Williams III, Wendy Wright-Williams, Will Dennis, and Image Comics’ Publisher, Eric Stephenson, one hundred percent of the proceeds for the WHERE WE LIVE anthology will be donated to

an existing GoFundMe campaign

for the survivors in Las Vegas.

The WHERE WE LIVE anthology contains over 70 stories from over 150 different creators and clocks in at around 300 pages total.  

“It's a strange place, this time and this country, in which having tools that can only be used to murder is seen as human right. I wanted to write something to help raise funds for the victims of the Las Vegas mass shooting and for their families,” said Neil Gaiman, bestselling author and a contributor to the WHERE WE LIVE anthology. “It's about wounds and healing, about death and forgiveness, about pain and childhood and the dark.  I hope it helps make people think, and I'm honoured to be part of the conversation.”

The book will include a variety of perspectives with key themes exploring gun violence, common sense gun control, value of a compassionate society, mental health stigmatization, aftermath of tragedy and how individuals and communities persevere, and an appreciation of Las Vegas as a vibrant community.

The WHERE WE LIVE anthology is a riveting collection of both fictional stories and actual eye-witness accounts told by an all-star lineup of the top talent working in comics today as well as Las Vegas locals. All the creators have graciously volunteered their time and talent to help bring some sense to this senseless act and, in the process, raise money for the survivors and their families.

WHERE WE LIVE ANTHOLOGY contributors:

Michael Allred & Laura Allred

Henry Barajas, Isaac Goodhart & Kelly Fitzpatrick

Jennifer Battisti, Geof Darrow, Dave Stewart & Bernardo Brice

Jennifer Battisti & J.H. Williams III

Brian Michael Bendis, Michael Oeming, Taki Soma & Bernardo Brice

Haden Blackman & Richard Pace

Haden Blackman, J.H. Williams III & Todd Klein

Jeff Boison & Tyler Boss

Ivan Brandon, Paul Azaceta & Bernardo Brice

Ryan Burton, Tony Parker, Dee Cunniffe & Bernardo Brice

Kurt Busiek, Andrew Maclean, Lee Loughridge & JG Roshell (at Comicraft)

Amy Chu, Gabriel Hernandez Walta & Alexander Chang

Rachel Crosby, J.H. Williams III & Bernardo Brice

Al Davison

Kelly Sue DeConnick, Joelle Jones, Dave Stewart & Bernardo Brice

J.M. DeMatteis & Mike Cavallaro

Gustavo Duarte

Aaron Duran, Joe Mulvey, Jules Rivera & Bernardo Brice

Joshua Dysart, Pere Perez & Bernardo Brice

Pierce Elliott & Monica Gallagher

Joshua Ellis, Jeff Lemire & Bernardo Brice

Lucia Fasano, Tess Fowler & Bernardo Brice

Ray Fawkes

Joshua Hale Fialkov, Noel Tuazon & Bernardo Brice

Neil Gaiman, J.H. Williams III & Todd Klein

Kieron Gillen, Jamie McKelvie, Dee Cunniffe & Clayton Cowles

Brandon Graham

Justin Gray & John Broglia

Lela Gwenn & Matthew Dow Smith

Matt Hawkins, Aaron Campbell, Dee Cunniffe & Bernardo Brice

Daniel Hernandez, Moritat & Casey Silver

Talia Hershewe, Jock & Bernardo Brice

David Hine, Brian Haberlin & Geirrod Van Dyke

Joe Illidge, Ray-Anthony Height, Andrew Dalhouse & Deron Bennet

Van Jensen, Eric Kim, Chris O'Halloran & Bernardo Brice

Scott David Johnson, Phil Hester, Eric Gapstur, Mark Englert & Bernardo Brice

Justin Jordan, Tom Fowler & Taylor Esposito

Jarret Keene, Craig Cermak, Marissa Louise & Taylor Esposito

Neil Kleid & Nick Pitarra

Greg Lockard, Tim Fish, Michael J DiMotta & Sal Cipriano

Ollie Masters, Jason Harris, Sina Grace & Shaun Steven Struble

Mariah McCourt, Ariela Kristantina, Bryan Valenza & Bernardo Brice

Mike Mignola & Dave Stewart

Mark Millar, Alex Sheikman, Marissa Louise & Bernardo Brice

Gary Spencer Millidge

Fabio Moon

B. Clay Moore, Kelly Williams & Chas! Pangburn

Greg Pak, Triona Farrell & Simon Bowland

Alex Paknadel, Chris Wildgoose, Triona Farrell & Aditya Bidikar

Curt Pires, Matt Lesniewski & Alex Petretich

Christina Rice, Richard Pace & Bernardo Brice

Darick Robertson, R. Eric Lieb & Christopher Crank

James Robinson, Dean Kotz, Stefano Gaudiano & Casey Silver

Robert Rose & Matt Strackbein

Chris Ryall, Gabriel Rodriguez, Nelson Daniel & Bernardo Brice

Rafael Scavone, Rafael Albuquerque, Patricia Mulvihill & Bernardo Brice

Erica Schultz, Liana Kangas & Cardinal Rae

Alex Segura, Marco Finnegan, Kelsey Shannon & Janice Chiang

Gail Simone, Ryan Kelly, Giulia Brusco & Bernardo Brice

Matthew Dow Smith & Michael Gaydos

Matt Sorvillo & Sean Phillips

Jason Starr, Andrea Mutti, Vladimir Popov & Bernardo Brice

Cameron Stewart

Larime Taylor & Sylv Taylor

Paul Tobin, Dustin Weaver & Bernardo Brice

David Walker, Damon Smith & Motherboxx Studios

Malachi Ward

Rob Williams & Javier Pulido

Scott Bryan Wilson & Cliff Chiang

Chris Wisnia, Bill Sienkiewicz & Jeromy Cox

Wendy Wright-Williams, J.H. Williams III & Todd Klein

Warren Wucinich

And more!

Follow updates on the WHERE WE LIVE project on Twitter:

@WhereWeLive_LV

List of WHERE WE LIVE contributors

GoFundMe where all Proceeds from the book will be donated

###

ABOUT IMAGE COMICS Image Comics is a comic book and graphic novel publisher founded in 1992 by a collective of bestselling artists. Image has since gone on to become one of the largest comics publishers in the United States. Image currently has five partners: Robert Kirkman, Erik Larsen, Todd McFarlane, Marc Silvestri, and Jim Valentino. It consists of five major houses: Todd McFarlane Productions, Top Cow Productions, Shadowline Comics, Skybound Entertainment, and Image Central. Image publishes comics and graphic novels in nearly every genre, sub-genre, and style imaginable. It offers science fiction, fantasy, romance, horror, crime fiction, historical fiction, humor and more by the finest artists and writers working in the medium today. For more information, visit www.imagecomics.com.

[stmichaeldeorleans]

---------- Forwarded message ---------

From: Michael Duerksen <frenchcoat2021@gmail.com>

Date: Thu, Oct 5, 2023, 5:58 AM

Subject: Names 2023

To: Michael Duerksen <frenchcoat2021@gmail.com>

        Orphanages where Michael stayed: Oklahoma City Good Sheppard of Hope Catholic,  St Agnus of Dallas, twelve main orphanages with outlets in Dallas,.. Ellyson Home for Children Dallas, ...Dallas Child Development Center Analysis and Orphanage,..Catholic Orphanage in.Yukon, Ok., Taft School near Littlerock, Ark..., " Arbeque" with the clinical name, owned and managed by Dr Joseph Arbeque M.D. Psychiatrist,  Imagination Dragon of New York City,  plus 14 other places where children can stay in NYC., then The Spicer in Germany, ...then The Loughe of Paris, France. 14 places in Paris, France....12 in Germany.   Michael Duerksen is " The Black Rose " of Germany, Tuscany and France and " The Black Pearl" of France.  Also " The Only Gift Child according to Illuminati Wisdom", "The Edge of Nightshade", " The Dark Fairy of the Night", " The Sacred Red Rose of Infiniti ", " The Son of the Evil Wickerman", " Buttercup of Remembrance". " Karen " Mariah" " Taylor (?)" Siguer Taro Telo Rothchild", " Mariah Rothchild Montasort, Redi LaMont, Snafa Al Ghul, Tilly Ting Evertyting C. Grant,  Mara /Mario Silo Parmiese Devereaux,  Michael Alluese' Silo Parmiese Devereaux, Tuolo Paoli Marcheti Luchia Geyford, Tonie Gilbraltor Luchia, Rachel  " The Saint" Luchia, Rosalie Luchia, Michael Duerksen Steinem Vanderbilt Montrose, Mike Duerksen Huntford Carlton, Carry Cardin Carlton, Carlotta DeBakey, Patricia DeValley DeGeneres, Michael Duerksen Gurley, Michael Lauren Hatch Bacall,  Michael Duerksen Bancroft Castilano May,   Mary May Ham Rothchild, Cassandra Gilbert Der Rothchild,  MaryAnn Richardson Rickert Weiner Rothchild,  Marie Rothchild Harrington, Marie Rothchild, Marie Marianette, Marie Rothchild Hall, Arthur Michael Ann Rothchild Bach, Ms.LaGuardia, Ms. Costello, William Preston, Eric Dathan, Matilda ( Michael ) Avager Rothchild Ponti,  Arthur Michael John Commencia, Michael Arthur Ann Rothchild Snelson Streisand, Carolina Michal " Muriel" Hemingway Winters Rodgers,  Isabelle or Emilia Duarte Galveston Rothchild Darlington, " Emmanuel Bogotta Rothchild" ( donor), Maria Angelus Mata Hari Rothchild, ( donor), Michelle L. Rouchefourde Phillips DeSousa DeMentos,  Phillip Newman Morris, Michael Newman, Angelina Isabelle Rothchild Childress ( donor) , Michael Rothchild Burnett, Princess Rothchild Luchia Hampas, Princess Maria Diedra Lyons Windsor, Michael Jean Paul Getty, John Robert Robin Blake,  Princess Maria Guttenburg Furstenburg Oldenburg Mountbatten DeGeneres ( Lafite), " Prince of Tides ", Princess Marissa Oldenburg Hamburg, Jack Michael Bouvier' Kennedy, Michael Dean Duerksen Garland, Michael Duerksen Monroe, " Michael Briarcraft Hyatt", Michael Stouphlous, Michael Casa Linda, Michael Feingold, Michael Feinstein, Michael Forester Turner, Michael Dan Turner, Cicelia Rothchild Luchia Hampas, 

[olivereliott]

Road tested: Gear from Aether, Pagnol and Vaktare

We’re always trying to unearth motorcycling’s latest and greatest apparel around here. So we cast a pretty wide net, and whittle our catch down to the finest of gear. But every now and then, kit from lesser-known, independent makers gets dragged in with the haul.

These indie gear gurus don’t have corporate bean counters to appease, so they can take chances the big names won’t. New and interesting styles are developed, different fabrics are experimented with, and some exquisite protective pieces are created. Here are three of the best indie brands I’ve found lately.

Aether Moto Gloves I’m an unapologetic fanboy of Aether Apparel: their gear consistently nails that balance between aesthetics and functionality, and everything is built to last. Company founders (and avid riders) Jonah Smith and Palmer West not only scrutinize every product to receive their stealthy logo, but also put their products to the test themselves. That means rider-specific features that some big names miss during the design process are caught and created.

The latest piece of gear to survive Jonah and Palmer’s riding rigors is the Moto Glove, an all-leather, short cuff mitt that has quickly become my go-to this summer.

I’m picky when it comes gloves. I want my hand protection to feel almost non-existent on the controls, but beefy enough to save my skin if I take a tumble. And the fit needs to be spot on. To that end, the Moto Glove delivers the goods with soft, pliable leather for the fingers that’s all-day comfortable, plus an attractive diamond-stitched, secondary layer of protection at the palm.

The party piece, though, is an elasticized panel that runs along the fleshy part of the thumb. It delivers a fit that few gloves can match, and allows the thumb to flex properly whenever your fingers aren’t curled around a grip. It’s that little bit of ingenuity, a simple solution that makes all the difference in the world.

There are additional leather runners atop each finger and a thin, flexible layer of armor sits beneath the continued pattern of diamond-stitched detailing. A large Velcro closure flap resides at the cuff and two more elasticized panels, both top and bottom, keep things sealed at the wrist.

The Aether Moto Gloves retail for $150, which isn’t exactly chump change. But if you subscribe to the buy once, cry once philosophy—and don’t need a full-blown technical gauntlet—they’re a stellar piece of kit. And should last for years to come. The Aether Moto Gloves are available in both black and tan and are backed by Aether’s lifetime guarantee. [Buy]

Vaktare Bomber jacket Vaktare owner and lead designer Estefan Duarte wasn’t impressed with the cookie cutter products in his local shops. So he started making his own. Designed and manufactured in Los Angeles, California, Vaktare (pronounced ‘Victory’) Motorwear Company is a small upstart that’s taken a unique approach to riding gear.

I was first introduced to their products just over a year ago when they launched a protective Peacoat named the Draugr. It was a decidedly fresh take on a riding jacket that broke all molds of convention by being a fashionable coat, made from wool, but designed with riding in mind.

The Bomber model that I’ve been riding with lately is actually the jacket that started it all for the Vaktare crew. I had my doubts as to how versatile a white wool jacket would be, especially when it came time to swing a leg over a bike. It didn’t seem like the most practical choice for the summer riding season…

On the aesthetic side of things I can honestly say the Bomber has grown on me. At its core it’s a jacket with a tried and true design that stays true to its aviator roots. I dig the inclusion of epaulettes, and the contrasting brown touches at the pockets, cuffs and stitching add some subtle sophistication. Be warned though, this jacket will grab attention. You need to be prepared to answer questions at stoplights and when you get to your destination, because it doesn’t look like anything else on the road. The only thing you need ask yourself, stylistically, is whether a white coat is something you can pull off or not.

If you can, know that the fit is similar to a tailored trucker jacket. On my 6-foot, 200-pound frame, that means a size 42 delivers a touch more room in the shoulders to allow movement in the saddle and hugs comfortably at the waist. The sleeves are cut to fall just beneath my cuff, so they sit pretty both on the bike and off, provided the bars on your bike sit low.

With a high bar, the extended reach causes the jacket to rise, devouring your neck, resulting in an ill fit and boxy look. I spoke with Estefan after wearing the Bomber for a bit and let him know about my issues. My guess is a stretch panel between the shoulders or a more articulated, radial sleeve style would help, but I’ve left that in his capable hands. Also, if you like to layer, jump up a size from your normal suit jacket choice as the fit runs slim.

In terms of protection the Melton wool outer is of the 14 oz. variety. That means the fibers that hit the road first are a bit tougher than an equally thick denim jacket, but the true protection of all Vaktare products actually lies beneath. A layer of 1000D Cordura lines the entirety of the jacket, which handles abrasion in a fashion similar to Kevlar but doesn’t offer the same level of heat resistance. On top of that, there are pockets integrated into the silky smooth Bemberg liner at the shoulders, elbows and back. The only downside here is that Vaktare do not supply armor, so you’ll either have to swap some out from another jacket or pick up an extra set. I slotted in my own D30 bits and there was little disruption to the fit.

In the elements, the Bomber again performs reliably well. On the Scout Bobber launch I was seriously concerned about how well the wool would breathe: temps in Minneapolis were boiling the mercury to the mid-nineties. To my surprise, the jacket actually ran cooler that I imagined. Did I sweat? Sure, but everybody was dripping on that ride, regardless of what layers they were sporting. Back home in Toronto I’ve had the Bomber out in a range of temperatures and the wool regulates things nicely. It even stands up to the odd downpour here and there, although it won’t replace my Aerostich for torrential rides.

Outside of my concerns about the sleeves, and pleas for the inclusion of armor, there’s little I would change here. The Bomber is a unique piece of kit that delivers on its promise of style and substance. That being said, a white, wool riding jacket isn’t going to appeal to everyone. And at the price point it occupies, $599, it’s definitely a stretch to add to your closet if you see it as a once-in-a-while piece. But if you’re looking for an everyday jacket that will raise eyebrows and start conversations, whether you’re riding or not, the Bomber has you covered. [Buy]

Pagnol M3 Pants Paulo Rosas has an undying passion for motorcycles. He has a history of involvement in the motorcycle industry and regularly rubs elbows with Southern California’s most celebrated builders. He also has roots in fashion and design. So it should come as no surprise that his line of products, produced under the Pagnol Motor banner, tick every box for performance and style.

Rosas’ work first grabbed my attention when the M1 Moto Jacket was featured on this very site . Needless to say, I had to have one and I’ve kept a keen eye on every piece of Pagnol gear that’s has come out since.

Leather pants are a tough sell. Unless your name is Jim Morrison, the thought of plunking down on bovine strides probably hasn’t crossed your mind. But as a rider, the abrasion protection afforded by leather is superlative, so maybe it should. So, in the name of science, I decided to give the M3 pants a try, to see if they’d channel my inner Lizard King—or have me ending up like Ross on Friends.

First things first: anybody concerned about access and egress issues should know that the M3 comes equipped with a ventilated lining. (Trust me when I say this is a good thing, especially after the 90-degree ride through the Land of Lakes). It maintains airflow and works as a wicking layer, doing a great job of preventing you and your pants from becoming one.

The M3 has ‘accordion’ paneling at the knees to allow for flex in the saddle, and has interior pockets at the hips, tailbone and knees, designed for slim fitting armor. Pagnol recommends SAS-TEC stuff but, again, D30 products slide in without any worries. The leather itself is 1.2mm tumble-aged cowhide that has a robust yet buttery smooth feel to it.

It’s the styling of the M3 that makes them a standout item, though. If you have memories of the racers of yore, you’ll spot the inspiration: it’s a classic style that wouldn’t look out of place on Mike Hailwood on the Isle, and it lends itself to the current trends in riding gear. Added features not common to retro-racers include functional pockets both front and rear—which are zippered for stowage and belt loops to customize fit.

Outside of my racing onesies, the M3 is the only leather legwear I currently own, so comparing it to anything similar is kind of tough. In terms of fit, these pants are as comfortable as a well worked-in pair of jeans, and sizing is true. I wear a 34 in Levis and the same works here. They do have a slim fit though, so if you want extra room, sizing up is a good idea.

Incidentally, my wife told me that the M3 “hugs tight in all the right places,” and paired with a white V-neck and a pair of boots off the bike, the look is “badass.”

As for negatives, the only thing I can see stopping anyone from loving the M3 is a stance on leather pants. They’re the kind of item that either suit you or don’t. If they do, know that supplies are currently limited. But the good news is that a new crop will be hitting shelves in the coming months. Right after Paulo finishes prototyping his new riding boots… [Buy]

Model images: Barry Hathaway (Indian Bobber) and Carolyn Merey.

[tropes-and-tales]

Turf War

Characters:  Mike Duarte and F!Reader

WC:  4610

Other Pieces:  This is currently a stand alone.

CW:  Slight violence (punches); mistaken identities; angst; smut (impaired sex, drunk; a sad, failed attempt; oral, m!receiving; PiV, unprotected).  18+ only.

A series of coincidence, miscommunication, misunderstanding.

Manhattan SVU is investigating a serial rapist.  Scant details on the perp:  dark hair, facial hair.  Race undetermined.  Middling height.  Middling build.  

The way in is on the victims, all of a type:  same coloring, same build, same hair.  A lucky thing for Olivia Benson then, that she has a detective who fits all of those things.  You’re the rapist’s dream girl, so setting up a sting operation on the fly is easy.  Rollins cracks the pattern, figures out his rotation through the boroughs, finds a likely place he’ll strike next.  Benson sends you off to get into your costume for the night:  amateur sex worker, scantily clad, nervous-looking.

In an entirely different borough (and bureau), Captain Mike Duarte is planning his own shoestring string operation:  as the head of the Bronx gang unit, he’s investigating a new gang, an up-and-coming bunch that don’t hold ties to nationality or creed or color.  This gang is purely built on violence for violence’s sake, and their MO is to use honeys posing as sex workers to pull in vics from other boroughs, then drag them to the Bronx to rob and beat the shit out of.

One of his detectives figures out where the gang is planting their women.  Mike sets himself up as bait.

The coincidence then:  that Manhattan SVU’s sting and the Bronx Gang Unit sting happen on the same night in the same place.

-----

The miscommunication:

You standing on the corner near a seedy bar.  You’re in a miniscule skirt, a tiny halter top.  Your face is buried under thick makeup, heavy mascara, a deep red stain on your lips.  You look terrified, like it’s your first night working the corner.

Mike sitting in his car near the same seedy bar.  He sees you, thinks, “holy shit, that’s one of the girls.”

You turn your head, see him staring at you, think, “dark hair, facial hair…that’s our guy.”

You walk over to him, tentative.  If you act too bold, he’ll take off:  your guy only likes the innocent-seeming ones, not the pros.

Mike watches you, just as tentative.  If he acts too bold, you won’t suggest a different, quieter spot where your guys are waiting to jump him.

“Are you looking for company?” you ask him.

“I wasn’t,” he replies.  “But if you’re offering…”

“I guess I am,” you answer, shy.

“Then I guess I am too,” he says.

You climb in his car, and you direct him to an alley nearby.  You know that Rollins, Fin, Benson are watching all of this.

Mike obliges.  He knows his detectives have his back.

In the car, once he parks:  he turns towards you, sees how nervous you look, and he wonders if he’s made a mistake.

In the car, once he parks:  you watch him turn towards you, and you see a flash of unease cross his features.  Is this the wrong guy?

When you lean forward to reach into your purse, he cranes his neck and sees it:  the butt end of a gun, so he reaches across you, quick as a viper, grabs for it, and you react, finally.  You jerk your purse away, fumble for the gun too but it falls to the floor of the car and in your scrambling, it gets kicked under your seat.

The miscommunication then:  that neither Special Victims nor the Gang Unit shared their plans.  That he thinks you’re bait for a gang initiation while you think he’s a rapist.  That he sees your service piece and thinks you’re about to hold him at gunpoint until your gang buddies can come.  That when he lunges at you out of nowhere, you think he’s the serial rapist you’ve been looking for.

-----

The misunderstanding:

The two of you fighting.  You each think you’re fighting for your lives—you have no way of knowing the other is a cop—so it’s brutal.

Mike would never hit a woman, usually, but he thinks you’re about to pull a piece on him, take him to the Bronx to be beaten to death.  And you’re strong in your own right, fierce as a wildcat, twisting out of his hold as he tries to subdue you enough to cuff you, then get you out of the car.

He pops you right in the face, a quick jab that stuns you for a half-second before you respond in kind:  you punch him in the face, a fucking hook he never thought a woman your size would be capable of delivering, and when he’s stunned for his half-second, you follow up with another hit—this time a jab to his solar plexus, enough to push the air out of him.

“You’re done,” you snarl, and he feels the cuffs on his wrists, the quick, efficient way you snap them on, the chain wound through the steering wheel, holding him in place.

But it’s not any vicious gangbangers who come for him:  it’s a riot of cops.  Manhattan SVU, Bronx Gang.  And a very, very unhappy Brooklyn captain, who is beyond pissed that two separate bureaus came onto his home turf and fucked everything up.

The misunderstanding then, the entire fucked-up situation revealed:  Captain Mike Duarte, nursing a sore gut and a bloody nose in one corner.  In the other corner, Detective Right-Hook, you, holding an ice pack to your face and glaring across the alley at him.

*****

Mike recognizes the bruise before he recognizes you.  He sees the woman at the corner table in his neighborhood bar.  She’s nursing a drink, and the bloom of purple and blue, the slightly-swollen eye…it pulls his gaze, and when he looks closer, he sees that it’s you.

Detective Right-Hook, from Manhattan SVU.  The honey with the red lips and the halter top who punched him so hard that it hurt to breathe.

What are you doing here?

He orders his drink and makes his way over to you, and he sees the moment you recognize him:  if you had hackles, he’d see them go up.  He sees the wariness in your eyes, the way they narrow as he grins, says hello, sits down across from you.

“Captain,” you say.

“Detective,” he replies.

“Run any disastrous stings lately?” you ask, and your lips (lovely, even devoid of red stain) curve into a mean little smile.

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Ah, but it’s different for me, Captain.”  You annunciate his rank clearly, each syllable crisp and distinct.  “I’m a lowly peon detective.  I don’t make the decisions.  Benson tells me to throw on a miniskirt and look cute, I do it.”

“You did look cute, right up until you punched me in the face.”

You take a sip of your drink.  “You punched me first.”  You raise your hand, flourish it under your black eye.  “Been getting a lot of looks on the subway with this baby.”

Mike settles into his seat and sips his own drink.  “I’m surprised to find you in my bar.  You live here?”

A nod.  “Just a few streets over.  My old bar got bought by some investor group, turned it into a mixology bar.”

“So now you’re here.”

You smile, and this time there’s no meanness to it.  “I don’t want to start a turf war with you, Captain.  I think the bar’s big enough for the both of us.”

He smiles back at you, waves down a passing waitress to order you each another round.  “Fair enough,” he says.  “But here, I’m just Mike.  None of that Captain bullshit.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, and he judges by your playful tone, the curve of your lips around the rim of your glass, that you’re a teasing little shit, an instigator, and he finds that he likes it.

-----

He sees you probably once a week.  Some weeks, he doesn’t see you at all, and he finds himself grumpier those days.  But then other times, he sees you a few nights in a row, say, and it makes him inordinately happy.  Unexpectedly so.

You are a teasing little shit, he finds.  You banter with him, you make off-color jokes.  Sometimes you pay for his drinks, so he wonders if your flirting has some intention behind it.  

He deals it right back to you, flirts back.  Why not?  You’re cute as hell and tough as shit.  His face, his chest remembers the force behind your fists.  He likes a feisty woman.  

He remembers the way you looked in your UC gear, all that skin exposed.  Even now, when he sees you at the bar and shares a few drinks with you—you’re much more covered up, in the same dark jeans, the same button down shirt and blazer, but you’re cute like this too.  

One night, his joking gets a little rougher than usual and you scoff at him.  Roll your eyes.

“Knock it off, Mike,” you tell him.  “Or else I’ll have to cuff you again.”

A feisty, teasing little shit, cuffing him?  Putting him at your mercy?  The implications are intriguing.

“Keep talking like that and we’re gonna need a safe word,” he retorts with a smirk.

You shake your head, smile back at him.  “You, maybe.  I don’t need one.”

-----

Then there’s a night when he comes in and you’re already there…and already well on your way to being completely blitzed.

In the entire time Mike has known you, you never drink like this.  You have one, maybe two drinks.  Not even enough to make you tipsy, just enough to relax and warm you.

Tonight?  Tonight you’re lining up the shots and throwing them back with an artful flick of your wrist, and when he greets you, your face is grim.  Haunted.  He recognizes its source:  you’ve had a rough day.  Caught a bad case, one that hits close to some part of you.  The kind of case that disturbs, that drives sleepless nights.

He’s had plenty of those.

“Tough day?” he asks, and he sits down beside you.  Watches as you order a whiskey, and instead of your usual careful sipping, you swallow it down in two, three mouthfuls.  Which is answer enough, he guesses.

Tonight, he cuts the joking with you, and he drinks with you, and when he reaches the point where he’s almost too far gone, he cuts himself off and cuts you off too.

“She’s done,” Mike tells the bartender, and he settles both tabs, helps you with your coat, leads you outside.

He knows you live over a few blocks away, but he also only lives a few blocks away, and you’re silent as you walk beside him.  Steady enough on your feet, but wavering a little here and there.

“Want me to walk you home?” he offers, and his breath comes out in plumes of vapor in the crisp air.

“You gonna come up and join me for a nightcap?”

It’s what he’s wanted, and his own blood runs hot with the shots he paced with you.  Still, there’s a quiet voice in the back of his head…

“You’re pretty drunk.  Seems risky, going home with a Special Victims detective when she’s wasted.”

You scoff.  “Not wasted at all.  You cut me off before I got black-out, which was my goal after the last few fucking days I had.”

“So you’re going home to finish the job?”

“Mm-hmm.”  You nod, then turn to face him, and even with that haunted, serious look on your face, Mike thinks you’re gorgeous.  You reach out, trace your finger down the seam of his shirt where the buttons lie.  “Unless you have a better way of getting me out of my head, Captain.”

It’s the Captain that seals it.  The glimpse of the teasing little shit you are, underneath whatever hurt you’re working through at the moment.  

-----

It’s everything he’s dreamt of with you, almost.  Almost.  

There’s a desperation in the way you kiss him that’s more than eagerness and more than your usual feisty boldness.  He can taste the liquor on you, but he drank a lot too, and it’s easy to lose himself in the way you kiss him.  The feel of your mouth on his, the softness of your lips, the impatient way you run your tongue along the seam of his mouth, and when he opens up to you, the impatient way you claim his mouth and taste him.

There’s a desperation in how fast you strip, shedding clothing as you lead him through your apartment and into your bedroom.  Desperate how you strip him as well, your booze-clumsy fingers fumbling at his belt, at the button and zipper on his pants, and that’s when he nearly stops you.  He nearly tells you to slow down, to take it easy, but then your hand is on him.  You slip your hand under the waistband of his boxers and find the half-hard length of him, and it takes all of a moment of you grasping him while you kiss him to coax him to his full length.

And it’s desperate, the way you push his pants and boxers down, how you push him backwards until he’s sitting on the edge of your bed, and then you sink to your knees in front of him—far more graceful than he would have thought, with all that you drank—

And then…then that feisty fucking mouth is on him, hot and wet, your tongue laving the sensitive underside before you take more of him, and he can only choke out a single fuck before you swallow against him—

And a moment later, you pull away from him, and he thinks you’re just catching your breath but then he hears it—uneven breathing, a quiet snuffling, and the ice-cold reality hits him, sobers him up more than any blow job could:  you’re crying.

“Hey.  Shit, hey.”  He sits up, leans forward.  Tries to look at you in the mostly-dark room, but he can’t make out much.  Just the general shape of you, naked except for your panties.  Kneeling in front of him.  Head bent, shoulders shaking as you try to hide your tears.

“Sorry,” you mutter.  He sees you shake your head, and you start to reach for him again, but he catches you hand, gently lowers it.  

“Sorry.  Sorry.  I’m sorry.  Sorry.”  You repeat it over and over, a broken record until you’re openly crying, and then the words come out garbled between sobs, and Mike realizes this isn’t just a moment of sloppy sex following a sloppy night of drinking.  This is a breakdown.

“Jesus Christ.”  He slides off of the edge of your bed, tugs his boxers back up, then sits on your floor in front of you.  “C’mere.  Jesus.  It’s okay.”

“No, I’m sorry.  Sorry, I couldn’t—just need a minute, then I’ll—”

“No, come on.  It’s fine.”  He manages to manhandle you, pulls you against him.  He sits, legs splayed wide, and tugs you until you’re between his legs, and he holds you, tucks you in tight against him.  It’s only then that he realizes—underneath the shuddering cries, you’re trembling.  Honest to god shaking.

“What happened out there today?” he asks, and you shake your head against him.  He tightens his arms, sighs.  “You can talk to me.  It’s okay.”

You don’t, and he doesn’t push it.  He might be abrupt, brash, grating on other captains across the city, but he didn’t make it to a captaincy for nothing.  He’s seen plenty of cops, detectives…hell, even captains…he’s seen all sorts of breakdown like this.  Doesn’t matter the type.  From the most hard-boiled detective to the one with the softest heart…everyone catches a case that pushes them into a dark spiral.

It takes a long while for you to calm down and stop crying.  It takes so long his ass goes numb on your hardwood floor, but he doesn’t complain.  Something has clearly broken in you, and he knows that broken cops can quickly develop serious problems.

When the trembling stops and your tears stop, he pushes your face away from him until he can see you.  In the weak light from the street, he can only just make out your features:  your tear-streaked face, your swollen eyes.

Your swollen eyes that refuse to meet his gaze.

“Look at me,” he orders softly.  He repeats it, and then you do, and he sees pure shame.  Shame, probably, for ruining a hookup that the two of you have been steadily building towards across the span of months.

Shame, probably, for losing your shit.  For crying.

“You don’t need to talk to me,” he continues.  “But you gotta talk to someone.  Understand?  You can’t bottle that shit up, and you can’t bury it in alcohol.”

You gaze back at him.  You don’t reply.

“Say, ‘yes, Captain,’” he tells you with a smile.  “Say, ‘I’ll absolutely find someone to talk to, Captain.’”

You blink in surprise.  “I’m sorry—”

“No.  No, no, no.”  He shakes his head in mock disappointment.  “It’s ‘yes, Captain.’  Say it.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And?”

“And…I’ll talk to someone.”

“Good girl.”  He leans forward, kisses you lightly.  “How about I get you a water?”

-----

Mike isn’t comfortable leaving you.  For one thing, you still seem shaky, emotional.  For another, you keep fucking apologizing to him, and he hates that you even think you have to.

He sits you on the edge of your bed and makes his way to your kitchen, gets you that glass of water.  He brings it to you, and as you drink, he gathers up his discarded clothes.  He puts his undershirt on, but when he goes to lay his button-down over a nearby chair, you snag it from him and—shyly, not at all the feisty woman he’s known—pull it on.

It's unfortunate.  Seeing women in his clothing is his oldest, tamest kink, and the sight of you in his button-down and a pair of panties makes his lust roar back to life in a single beat.

He pushes it down.  He plays the part of a gentleman.

“I can take the couch,” he offers, but you shake your head, so he joins you in your bed, holds you a second time as you cry again—more softly this time—and then cry yourself to sleep.

-----

Mike wakes up too early.  He wakes up slowly, comfortably, which is strange.  He almost never sleeps well in a strange bed.

Beside him, in his shirt and little else, snoring softly:  Detective Right-Hook.

It’s too early.  There’s not a hint of dawn out of your window, so he moves closer to you, pulls your warm, soft body to his.  You mumble something in your sleep but don’t wake, and Mike smiles as you turn towards him, tuck yourself under his chin.  Your bed is warm and it’s still dark outside, likely cold as well, so it’s easy to fall back asleep.

-----

When he wakes for real, he wakes from vague dreams about someone.  A woman—you, he guesses.  He wakes up hard and aching.  He wakes up already in motion, pressing against you in his sleep, pressing the bulge of his erection into the lush curve of your ass, and the motion must wake you because you wake with the goddamn cutest little moan that makes none of this easier.

As you wake, you press back against him, and all of the ease and flow he always imagined is suddenly here:  he rasps his face against the back of your neck, which pulls another moan from you, and you whisper his name.  Sleep-rough, it comes out low, Mike, and it curls around his gut like a line of smoke, fills him up, makes him feel drugged.

His arm is over your waist, his hand resting on the bed.  You reach down and take his hand in yours, draw it under the hem of his own shirt and then up.  You guide him to your breasts, and he cups one then another.  Huffs out a heavy breath at the feeling of you in his palm, molded to the shape of him, your nipples hard and peaked as he ghosts his fingertips over them, then pinches at them.

All the while, you press your ass back against him.  Even through your panties, his boxers, he swears he can feel the heat of your arousal.  

“I’d kiss you,” he murmurs against the side of you neck.  “Make it more romantic and shit.  But I didn’t brush my teeth and would hate to ruin a good thing.”

You laugh, breathless.  “Such a gentleman.”

“I can be gentle.  Too early to use cuffs.”

You turn your head enough to meet his gaze, and there—there you are.  Finally.  The feisty little shit who enjoys tormenting him at the bar.  

“You gonna keep talking about it or are you gonna do it?”  A beat, then you add, sweetly, “Captain.”

He nips at the side of your neck, lightly.  “How do you want me, Detective?  Like this?”

“Please.  Sir.”

He removes his hand from under your (his) shirt, and he reaches down, pushes his boxers down enough. His cock springs free, and he feels the hitching breath you take to feel it against you.

“I’m clean,” he mutters, his voice rough with need.  “But I have a condom in my wallet.  I just gotta—”

“’m clean too,” you whisper back.  “Have an implant.  Just…don’t stop, Mike, please.”

He reaches down, doesn’t even bother to try and get your panties off of you.  He runs his fingers against the fabric between your legs, bites back a groan at how soaked they are.  He hooks a finger under the lace edging, hooks your panties to the side, and then he pushes forward until the tip of him presses against your folds—slick, swollen.  Ready for him.

“You sure?” he asks, and he hopes to fuck you say you are because he’s so fucking hard, aching to be inside you, and you breathe out that you are sure, please, Mike—

He parts your folds, notches the head of his cock against your entrance.  He wants to romance it, just a little, but you use your bit of leverage to push back against him and he slips inside, the widest part of him just inside you, and he pauses, takes a breath before he pushes more of himself into you.

You’re so goddamned good.  Wet and hot, tight as a fucking vise, and he goes slow, works you up to it.  Warms you up to him.  Thrusts into you inch by inch, feels the way your pussy gives way to him, takes on the shape of him.  When he bottoms out, he stills and takes a steadying breath.  Brushes a soft kiss to the back of your neck, then winds his arm back around you and under your shirt, cups your breast as he starts to rock against you.

“This okay?” he asks, and you whisper yes, it’s perfect, not to stop.  You reach an arm up and back, and he feels your hand on his head.  Your fingers tangle in his hair, tug against him lightly.

Its slow and leisurely—perfect just as the sun starts to rise and washes your room in a weak, rosy light.  He hardly pulls out; he just rocks against you, grinds into you.  Bites back his own groans when he feels how he nudges against the end of you, so deep that you hiss out curses each time he does.

Something about the angle, the pace…the feel of his stubble rasping against your neck, or the feel of his hand cupping your breast and his thumb brushing against your nipple….he feels you as you get close to coming.  Hears the way your breathing gets ragged, feels how you press back against his gentle thrusting.

“Close,” you whisper.  “Mike, please….fuck, right there…so close—”

“Right there?”  He buries himself in you, pushes just a fraction more against your perfect ass, gains an extra bit of depth, and you groan out his name again…then he feels it.  The way your bear down on him, the smooth muscles of your cunt rippling against him, pulling him deeper, gripping him so hard that he can barely move.  Feels the hot wash of your arousal as it coats him and grants him that extra ease inside you.

He doesn’t come.  Not yet.  He’s able to close his eyes.  He breathes through his nose, ignores the sweet little whimpers you make just after you come, and he keep rocking against you.  He savors the aftershocks of your orgasm, and he coaxes you towards another.

“Come for me again.”

“I don’t think—”

“It’s an order.  Gonna come for me again.”

You move your hand from his head, curl it against your waist.  “I can’t,” you whine.

“You can.  Touch yourself.  Touch that gorgeous little clit for me and come on my cock, baby.”

You whine again, but you listen to orders so well.  You reach down and touch yourself, and he can feel it:  your fingers as you rub your clit, your fingers as you reach down and touch where he’s split you open.  He feels your fingertips, touching his cock, slick with your cum, feels where he disappears inside you.

“I…I’m close.  Mike, I’m—”

“I got you.”  He kisses the back of your neck.  “I got you, baby.”

And he does:  he wrings another orgasm out of you, feels the way you grip him, and this time, he doesn’t bother to hold back.  He deals you a few final, deep thrusts, and then he gives in to the pleasure crackling and sparking deep in his belly.  He buries himself as deep as he can, and then he comes with a pained groan, filling you with his cum, painting your insides with his spend.

-----

You each clean up, and you change into different clothes.  When you try to return his shirt, he shakes his head.  Grins.  

“Looks better on you anyway.”

You smile back at him.  “You gonna do the walk of shame in just an undershirt and a jacket?”

“No shame here.  And I don’t live that far from here.  We’re literally only a few blocks away from each other.”

Your smile falters, and you look down at the folded shirt in your hands.  “I’m really sorry about last night, Mike.  I know you came over here with different ideas than what happened.”

He steps up to you, looks down at you.  “Told you last night to cut out that sorry bullshit.  You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“I know.  I just—”

“What’d you promise me last night?  Do you remember?”  He cuts you off gently, but firmly.

You hesitate, then answer.  “That I’d talk to someone.”

“Damned straight.  You can always talk to me, but it can be anyone.”

You try to wave it off.  Minimize it.  Like he’s seen a hundred times before, a hundred cops who played off the darkness of their lives.  

“Honestly, it’s fine.  I just drank too much—”

“You promised,” he cuts in.  “You promised me.  You the type of person to break a promise?”

“…no.”

“Didn’t think so.”  He puts his hands on your shoulders, smooths them over your upper arms.  “So take care of it.  Promise?”

“…yes.”

“Good girl.”  He catches the sight of your pleased smile—you might have an unexplored praise kink, and he files that fact away for later interrogation—and he kisses the top of your head.

“See you at the bar?” he asks.

“You know where to find me, Captain.”