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drabbles-mc · 11 months

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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.”

#law and order #law and order svu #svu #svu fanfiction #law and order fanfiction #mike duarte #captain mike duarte #mike duarte fanfiction #mike duarte x reader #mike duarte x you #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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mariamariquinha · 1 year

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

Summary: The story repeats itself.

Word count: 3.6k

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

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

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

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

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

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“Since when do you wear glasses?”

“Since I started needing to use them.”

“... Rude.”

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

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

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

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

“Mm?”

“Can you give me two minutes?”

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

You knocked twice.

“Who is it?”

“Are you serious?”

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

“Captain.”

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

“Not a fan of role play.”

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

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

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

“Surprised that I did my job?”

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

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

“Like my couch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It's fine with me.”

“So we are good, Lieutenant."

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

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

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

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

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

And it got worse because of something really stupid.

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

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

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

“Sorry.”

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

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

“I can come back another time.”

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

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

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

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

Duarte considered you for a bit longer before nodding.

“Just a second opinion.”

“One more, you mean.”

“Yeah, that too.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Borrow?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This isn’t a poker game.”

“But we can always have similar consequences.”

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

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

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

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

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

And you had someone to thank.

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

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

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

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

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

“About?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So we agree to accept both.”

“Fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are?”

“Don’t you think?”

“Well, since y-”

“I haven't stopped thinking about you.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m not. We both know that.”

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

And you loved it.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give you the hundred-dollar head start.”

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

Mike Duarte has ruined you for every other man.

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

No pressure tags:

@cheesybadgers

@the-hinky-panda

@bullet-prooflove

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

#mike duarte #mike duarte x reader #captain mike duarte #law and order svu #law and order fanfiction #law and order fic #maurice compte #female reader

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the-hinky-panda · 1 year

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The Dog (Mike Duarte x Reader)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: This fic deals with depression, PTSD, alcoholism, traumatic brain injuries, and seizure disorders

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?

Part I: The Dog

Part II: The Veterinarian

Part III: The Beach

Part IV: The Ex

Part V: The Other Ex

#Mike Duarte #Captain Mike Duarte #Mike Duarte x Reader #Mike Duarte x You #The Dog series

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raulesparzascheerleader · 1 year

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pouring one out for my man, captain mike duarte. 💔

#captain mike duarte #svu #💐💐💐

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thoroughlymodernminutia · 1 year

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-SVU, s24e12, Blood Out

#captain mike durate #mike duarte #svu #svu24 #svu gifs #law and order svu #law & order: svu #law and order special victims unit #svu spoilers

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girlpornparadise · 1 year

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#liam shaw #captain shaw #picard spoilers #horacio carrillo #colonel carrillo #diego jimenez #mike duarte #kevin jimenez #tavo barros #are you people seeing a pattern here yet?#benny borracho magalon #oscar #brasa #big evil?#is he even anyone's blorbo?#senator carlos alvarez #now there's a deep cut

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letters2fiction · 2 months

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Welcome to Letters2fiction!

The concept here is to send in a question or a letter request, and you’ll get a response from your fictional character of choice, from the list below. Please stick to the list I’ve made, but of course, you can ask if there’s some other characters I write for, I don’t always remember all the shows, movies or books I’ve consumed over the years and I’m sure I’m missing a lot 😅

Status: New Characters added - Thursday March 21st, 2024

TV SERIES

A Discovery of Witches:

Matthew Clairmont

Baldwin Montclair

Gallowglass de Clermont

Marcus Whitmore

Philippe de Clermont

Jack Blackfriars

Sarah Bishop

Emily Mather

Diana Bishop

Ysabeau de Clermont

Miriam Shepard

Phoebe Taylor

Gerbert D’Aurillac

Peter Knox

Father Andrew Hubbard

Benjamin Fuchs

Satu Järvinen

Meridiana

Law and Order:

Rafael Barba

Sonny Carisi

Joe Velasco

Mike Duarte

Terry Bruno

Peter Stone

Hasim Khaldun

Nick Amaro NEW!

Mike Dodds

Grace Muncy

Kat Tamin

Toni Churlish

Amanda Rollins

Olivia Benson

Rita Calhoun

Casey Novak

Melinda Warner

George Huang

Sam Maroun

Nolan Price

Jamie Whelan

Bobby Reyes

Jet Slootmaekers

Ayanna Bell

Jack McCoy

Elliot Stabler

One Chicago:

Jay Halstead (Could also be Will if you want)

Antonio Dawson

Adam Ruzek

Greg "Mouse" Gerwitz

Dante Torres

Vanessa Rojas

Kevin Atwater

Sean Roman

Matt Casey

Kelly Severide

Joe Cruz

Sylvie Brett

Blake Gallo

Christopher Hermann

"Mouch"

Otis

Violet Mikami

Evan Hawkins

Mayans MC:

Angel Reyes

Miguel

Bishop

Coco

Nestor

911 verse:

Athena Grant

Bobby Nash

Henrietta "Hen" Wilson

Evan "Buck" Buckley

Eddie Diaz

Howie "Chimney" Han

Ravi Panikkar

T.K. Strand

Owen Strand

Carlos Reyes

Marjan Marwani

Paul Strickland

Tommy Vega

Judson "Judd" Ryder

Grace Ryder

Nancy Gillian

Mateo Chavez

The Rookie:

Lucy Chen

Tim Bradford

Celina Juarez

Aaron Thorsen

Nyla Harper

Angela Lopez

Wesley Evers

BBC Sherlock:

Greg Lestrade

Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock Holmes

Moriarty

Molly

Bridgerton:

Anthony Bridgerton

Benedict Bridgerton

Simon Basset

Daphne Bridgerton

Eloise Bridgerton

Kate Sharma

Edwina Sharma

Marina Thompson/Crane

Outlander:

Jamie Fraser

Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser

Frank Randall

Black Jack Randall

Brianna Fraser

Roger MacKenzie

Fergus Fraser

Marsali Fraser

Jenny Fraser Murray

Ian Murray Sr.

Ian Fraser Murray

Murtagh Mackenzie

Call The Midwife:

Shelagh Turner / Sister Bernadette

Dr. Patrick Turner

Nurse Trixie Franklin

Nurse Phyllis Crane

Lucille Anderson

Nurse Barbara Gilbert

Chummy

Sister Hilda

Miss Higgins

PC Peter Noakes

Reverend Tom Hereward NEW!

Narcos:

Horacio Carrillo

Peaky Blinders:

Tommy Shelby

Downton Abbey:

Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham

Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham

Lady Mary Crawley

Lady Edith Crawley

Lady Sybil Crawley

Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham

Isobel Crawley

Matthew Crawley

Lady Rose MacClare

Lady Rosamund Painswick

Henry Talbot

Tom Branson

Mr. Charles Carson

Mrs. Hughes / Elsie May Carson

John Bates

Anna Bates

Daisy Mason

Thomas Barrow

Joseph Molesley

Land Girl:

Connie Carter

Reverend Henry Jameson (Gwilym Lee's version)

Midsomer Murder:

DCI Tom Barnaby

Joyce Barnaby

Dr. George Bullard

DCI John Barnaby

Sarah Barnaby

DS Ben Jones

DS Jamie Winter

Sgt. Gavin Troy

Fleur Perkins

WPC Gail Stephens

Kate Wilding

DS Charlie Nelson

Sergeant Dan Scott

NEW! Once Upon A Time

Regina / The Evil Queen

Mary Margaret Blanchard / Snow White

David Nolan / Prince Charming

Emma Swan

Killian Jones / Captain Hook

Mr. Gold / Rumplestiltskin

Neal Cassidy / Baelfire

Peter Pan

Sheriff Graham Humbert / The Huntsman

Jefferson / The Mad Hatter

Belle

Robin of Locksley / Robin Hood

Will Scarlet

Zelena / Wicked Witch

Alice (Once in Wonderland)

Cyrus (Once in Wonderland)

Jafar (Once in Wonderland)

Gideon

Tiger Lily

Naveen

Tiana

Granny

Ariel

Prince Eric

Aladdin

Jasmine

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Hercules

Megara

Tinker Bell

Merida

Red Riding Hood

Mulan

Aurora / Sleeping Beauty

Prince Phillip

Cinderella

Prince Thomas

NEW! The Vampire Diaries / The Originals

Stefan Salvatore

Damon Salvatore

Caroline Forbes

Elena Gilbert

Bonnie Bennett

Enzo St. John

Niklaus Mikaelson

Elijah Mikaelson

Kol Mikaelson

Rebekah Mikaelson

Freya Mikaelson

Finn Mikaelson

Mikael

Esther

Marcel Gerard

Davina Claire

MOVIES

The Pirates of the Caribbean:

Captain Jack Sparrow

Barbossa

Will Turner

Elizabeth Swann

James Norrington

Kingsman:

Merlin

Harry Hart

Eggsy Unwin

James Spencer / Lancelot

Alastair / Percival

Roxy Morton / Lancelot

Maximillian Morton / The Shepherd

Orlando Oxford

Jack Daniels / Whiskey

Gin

BOOKS

Dreamland Billionaire series - Lauren Asher:

Declan

Callahan

Rowan

Iris

Alana

Zahra

Dirty Air series - Lauren Asher:

Noah

Liam

Jax

Santiago

Maya

Sophie

Elena

Chloe

Ladies in Stem - Ali Hazelwood books:

Olive

Adam

Bee

Levi

Elsie

Jack

Mara

Liam

Sadie

Erik

Hannah

Ian

Fourth Wing - Rebecca Yarros:

Xaden Riorson

Dain Aetos

Jack Barlowe

Rhiannan Matthias

Violet Sorrengail

Mira Sorrengail

Lillith Sorrengail

Bodhi Durran

Liam Mairi

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tropes-and-tales · 1 year

Note

“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.

#ask game #mike duarte #mike duarte x reader #mike duarte imagine #law and order svu #tropes and tales

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mysoulisasunflower · 1 year

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MAURICE COMPTE as CAPTAIN MIKE DUARTE

Law & Order: Special Victims Unit (1999 - ) | 24.10 "Jumped In"

#i love this man with his glasses #mike duarte #maurice compte #law & order: svu #my post

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 1 year

Text

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.”

#Mike Duarte x Reader #Mike Duarte x You #Mike Duarte/Reader #Mike Duarte/You #Mike Duarte fic #Mike Duarte imagine #Homecoming

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bullet-prooflove · 10 months

Note

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.

#captain mike duarte #mike duarte x reader #mike duarte #mike duarte x you #terry bruno x you #terry bruno x reader #detective terry bruno #terry bruno #joe velasco x you #joe velasco x reader #joe velasco #jose velasco x you #jose velasco x reader #jose velasco #nick amaro x you #nick amaro x reader #nick amaro imagine #nick amaro

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adarafaelbarba · 1 year

Text

Officer Down

Pairing: Mike Duarte x Reader (reader’s pov)

Fandom: Law and Order SVU (season 24)

Trigger warnings: Character death (not how he died though. Cause that’s too brutal for this).

An: This has plagued my mind since we lost him, and I need to get it out of my system asap! Please read with caution though! 🫣❤️ We’ll miss you Captain Duarte 🥺💔❤️

Based on this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jkvjx9CCdRo

Red and blue lights cover 213 W 30th St like a train Miles of cars, full of people with nothing to say

Your hands fidgeted as you sat next to Liv in the back of the black SUV, an old habit that you’d picked back up from being on the job. Even more so now with the current situation.

“You ready, y/n?” She asked, her voice muffled by all the thoughts flashing through your mind. The last moments you’d had with him. “y/n?”

Looking up at your Captain, eyes filled with tears, you bit back a sob, “I don’t want to say goodbye to him, cause that means moving on.”

She let out a soft sigh at that, hugging you, telling you you’d always have him with you.

He’d found it endearing, watching you get nervous, had called it cute, his face lighting up in a smile when you blushed. You’d missed that smile, the way his dimples showed, his head falling back when he laughed. His laugh…You’d miss that too.

The sun's out, you'd think that it's just another November day Oh and I can't help but be mad, knowing I'll leave and you're gonna stay

Stopping outside the church, you and Liv got out, followed by Grace and Joe. Sonny, Terry, Fin and Amanda following close behind. Once on the sidewalk you fixed your uniform, flattening out the creases.

The entire area was filled with officer, all clad in uniform, and all there to take part in the funeral.

When they spotted you, they all got up in attention, Chief McGrath barking out orders, all of them presenting arms. It was almost as if you were the one they were honoring, that you’d been the one to die. And in a sense you had, if only a small part of you when Mike died

They called me on a cell phone Telling me there's an officer down And we prayed for a miracle, but you didn't come back around Oh, I've kissed you goodbye a thousand times But never like I'm doing right now

Oh, with twenty-one shots going up for the officer down

Never in your life did you think you’d be here. Least of all alive, in place of a spouse, ready to take farewell with their serving spouse. The engagement ring burning on your fingers as you walked past them all, a reminder of what could’ve been. Your squad following close behind should anything happen.

Tears threaten to spill again, but you do your best to hold them back, lifting your head bravely.

When you get to the end of the line, McGrath stands there, stoic as always. You stop in front of him, offering your hand, “Thank you, Tommy, for this, all of this. Miguel would’ve hated all this for him.” A tear laugh escaped your lips, followed by a strangled sob.

“I’m just happy we could honor him, y/n.”

You shared a quick handshake, then you pulled him in for a hug, needing to be anchored before tears spilled again, not that you were really succeeding in holding them back.

I begged you to throw out that t-shirt that I sleep in now And badge number 0477 is all over town And people keep asking if there's anything they can do But no one can give me back you

“If there’s ever anything, y/n, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.” He sounded sincere, and you knew he was, but what you really wanted couldn’t be given. So you simply nodded, thanking him before you walked up the rest of the steps to the church.

The service was beautiful. Some of his guys said a few words. Grace spoke. And then you did, through tears, taking one last goodbye with the man you loved.

Once you’d finished speaking, you walked down the few steps to the casket, leaning down to press your forehead on it, the hand that had your wedding ring on, while also holding his dog tag and wedding ring on a chain, pressed against the casket too.

I held ya tight when they told me it's time to let go And I know that somehow you knew that you weren't alone

Someone’s hand rested on your shoulder, telling you it was time. But you didn’t let go, tears flowing freely now, not caring who saw. “Come back to me Miguel.” You whispered, begging him.

“y/n, it’s time.” Liv said softly, her hand rubbing your shoulder.

They called me and told me It's my officer down And I talked to you and begged you, but you didn't come back around

“Please, Miguel—please come back to me, I can’t do this without you.” You begged, clutching anything you could hold onto, whispering into the void to please give you back your one true love.

Oh, I kissed you goodbye a thousand times But never like I'm doing right now

You finally pressed your lips to the casket, “te amo, mi vida.” The silence that had previously been in the room broke as you let out a sob, at last allowing yourself to cry over him.

Oh, with twenty-one shots going up I wish you had more time with us 'Cause thirty-three years ain't enough for the officer down

~~~

tagging:

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#tw death #tw character death #law and order svu #mike duarte #mike duarte x reader #law and order svu x reader

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mariamariquinha · 1 year

Text

Casual - Another Mike Duarte Drabble

It will be the last. I promise. These are all loose ideas and writing exercises because I'm running like an old car - slow but still driveable even if it feels like it's going to explode.

This is dangerous because I started to care.

You'd say it was a convenience of the job, a bonus for choosing street work over desk sergeant.

It had been a hard chase, one of those moments when you were more instinctive than practical, and when you least expected it, you were on the curb with a guy, him just pushed up against a parked car so he could be restrained, after punching you in the face. Usual.

You didn't even notice that there was blood dripping from your forehead or something when you arrived at the station - you wiped it with your hand to stop the bleeding. When your captain said you'd better go to the hospital, you wanted to finish booking the guy and any further questioning was for the next day.

At least the act of attacking a police officer warranted pre-trial detention.

The doctor was adamant about the recovery, but he gave you the painkillers knowing you wouldn't take them. Professional experience with your 'type'. It wasn't until you got home, showered and sat on the sofa with a beer in your hand, that you came to the inevitable conclusion that maybe your 'type' must have been out of date for quite some time.

Someone knocked. Insistent.

Your first reaction was to grab the gun sitting on your coffee table. In the background, a random movie that you barely paid attention to was playing, and your eyes stayed fixed on the door, waiting for the next knock.

It came.

“Who’s it?” You asked.

“Mike.”

In all the months you've started dating casually, this was the first time he'd come to your apartment. There were always motels, his apartment, under the justification of being more practical, which was true.

It was past eleven, he certainly had other occupations besides showing up, without warning, at her house. And without calling over the intercom.

Maybe that instant chock, the fact that you waited long enough to answer, made him grow impatient.

“... I'm going in anyway.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you will.”

And he did.

Duarte didn’t look around in search of anything inside your apartment, nor did one of that arrivings from a lot of politeness. You certainly had stopped caring so much about this type of behavior a while ago.

“Any chances of telling me what happened?” He stopped in the middle of your living room, hands on his hips.

“You wouldn't come here if you didn't know that,” You adjusted yourself in the couch with discomfort, ready to sip more of your beer. “How did you get into the building?”

“Is this relevant?”

“I like to think it's not that easy to get into my apartment.”

He wet his lips, rubbed his chin and shrugged, like a mischievous boy caught in the act.

“I showed the badge to your neighbor, Mrs. Hastings. Said it was a professional matter.”

“You’re unbeliviable.”

“You wouldn't let me come any other way.”

Well, that... makes sense. Fuck.

There was a small smile playing on his face with your silent admission, and shortly afterwards Duarte went into your kitchen and fetched himself a beer, making himself welcome at your side.

“Beer seems to solve most of our problems,” He muttered.

“The doctor told me to stop.”

“Why?”

“Eh,” You shrugged.

There were a few questions you wanted to ask there, in the pitch black of your living room, but you made sure you did your best. You wanted to ask about the Benson case, about the whole BX9 situation, because he was definitely wasting precious time while he was there with you.

Also, who were you kidding? Your ego was particularly bruised for making such a reckless decision as if you were an amateur professional. It wasn't the way you should have handled things and it made you feel bad.

“I lost Muncy,” Because you certainly didn't want to talk about your situation, so Mike brought up his.

You pondered the information silently, staring at the TV and movie knowing he was doing the same.

“Benson?”

“Mm-hm.”

“The Manhattan SUV is good.”

“I know.”

“And she’s a good detective.”

“It sounds very rehearsed,” He pointed out and that made you look at him. “When we worked together, you didn’t talk much.”

Mmphf.

“... I’m not a fan, is all.”

“Are you not a feminist?” It was obvious that Duarte was teasing you, but you still rolled your eyes.

“Is that why you came? To ask my opinions about Muncy?”

“You don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Of course not,” You got back to the TV, a touch offended. “Just because I agree with feminism, doesn’t mean I need to like all the women in the world. You can dislike a cop but admit they’re good at what they do.”

“As it happened to me.”

Which was also true. You didn't want to assume how those concepts got lost along the way, how his bullshit got more tolerable, or how the two of you became more in tune. And he knew it. He always knew everything.

“I'm not a walk in the park either,” You said after a time, not daring to see his reaction.

He didn’t say anything for a good amount of time. Just when the silence was full settled, though, he decided to open his mouth.

“Don’t do that again.”

You closed your eyes for a few seconds, shaking your head and then pursing your lips to prevent something stupid coming out. Him, on the other hand, seemed more determined, squirming in the couch to turn fully at you.

“... I needed to catch the guy an-”

“I wasn’t talking about it,” He interrupted. This time, you two stared at each other and perhaps that was the closest you've come to seeing him with no intentions of pissing you off. “You should be careful about it too, but that’s not what I meant.”

“So what do you mean?”

“I heard from a former Captain I had that the more experienced we get in the profession, the more we become those people who react to robberies. As if we suddenly switch sides and relive every day on the other side of the spectrum of what we once were.”

He touched your shoulder.

“Everyone makes mistakes. We’re not the fucking Robocop or whatever.”

“But?”

“No but. I wouldn’t lie, especially because you would know if I did.”

That made you smirk, just as he did right after. When silence hung in the air again, he narrowed his eyes and came to a considerable conclusion, one that made him raise his eyebrows in defeated acceptance.

“It's not just casual, is it?”

Because a casual thing didn't go that far. Because he wouldn't say that to you or be there if it weren't for a feeling of care that went beyond the limits of that casuality.

“No.”

And with that, you leaned over to the coffee table, put your gun away and picked up the TV remote, handing it to him before making yourself more comfortable on the couch.

“We can watch your Indiana Jones.”

“Who said I like Indiana Jones?”

“I stalked your mother on Facebook.”

He laughed. As the opening credits of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom started to roll, you hoped that was enough for him to know that it was your way of saying that, in fact, it wasn't a casual thing.

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

No pressure tags:

@cheesybadgers

@thoroughlymodernminutia

@the-hinky-panda

@annetje

@bullet-prooflove

@seaweeden

#mike duarte #captain mike duarte #law and order svu #mike duate fic #mike duarte drabble #maurice compte #female reader

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