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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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mariamariquinha · 1 year

Text

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

Summary: The story repeats itself.

Word count: 3.6k

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Since when do you wear glasses?”

“Since I started needing to use them.”

“... Rude.”

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

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

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

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

“Mm?”

“Can you give me two minutes?”

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

You knocked twice.

“Who is it?”

“Are you serious?”

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

“Captain.”

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

“Not a fan of role play.”

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

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

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

“Surprised that I did my job?”

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

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

“Like my couch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It's fine with me.”

“So we are good, Lieutenant."

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

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

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

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

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

And it got worse because of something really stupid.

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

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

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

“Sorry.”

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

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

“I can come back another time.”

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

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

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

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

Duarte considered you for a bit longer before nodding.

“Just a second opinion.”

“One more, you mean.”

“Yeah, that too.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Borrow?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This isn’t a poker game.”

“But we can always have similar consequences.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you had someone to thank.

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

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

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

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

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

“About?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So we agree to accept both.”

“Fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are?”

“Don’t you think?”

“Well, since y-”

“I haven't stopped thinking about you.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m not. We both know that.”

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

And you loved it.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give you the hundred-dollar head start.”

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

Mike Duarte has ruined you for every other man.

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

No pressure tags:

@cheesybadgers

@the-hinky-panda

@bullet-prooflove

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

#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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bullet-prooflove · 11 months

Text

The North Star - Part Nineteen: Fucked Up - Terry Bruno x Reader (feat: Mike Duarte)

Tagging: @legit9thlunaticwarrior @bbyxoo @the-adzukibean @xoxabs88xox @crazy4chickennuggets @beardedbarba @wooshwastaken @justreblogginfics @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @storiesofsvu @anime-weeb-4-life @witches-unruly-heart @genius2050 @spaghettificationandpretzels

Part One: Moments (NSFW)

Part Two: Case of the Ex

Part Three: Her Worse Half

Part Four: Always

Part Five: Ask Me Again (NSFW)

Part Six: Degas

Part Seven: The Heist

Part Eight: A Part to Play

Part Nine: Home

Part Ten: Safe Space

Part Eleven: Weak

Part Twelve: Got Your Back

Part Thirteen: Familia

Part Fourteen: Gunplay

Part Fifteen: Friendly Fire

Part Sixteen: Alive (NSFW)

Part Seventeen: Karma

Part Eighteen: Lucky

You want a smoke. Christ, you want nothing more than to light up a cigarette and inhale but you couldn’t, it was one of the things the doctors were very clear about so instead you head to a bar. Your head's messy again, a chaotic space. You didn’t want to be in it anymore. You think about calling Terry but you knew he’d stopped in at SVU to check in on the case he’d been working. You're on medical leave, you had no place you needed to be, you're listless, restless, angry with no target to direct it at.

You strip off your blazer and throw it onto the stool next to you before signalling to the bartender. He pulls the bottle of tequila from the top shelf before pouring out a shot and pushing it towards you. It burns on the way down, warming your chest as it hits you. You tap your fingertips on the bar, watching as he refills the glass again.

You realise you should probably be raising a toast to Paul right now for doing something fucking right. Instead you tip the liquid down your throat before signalling for another. He gives you a look and you meet his gaze with a furious one of your own.

“Another.” You tell him.

You feel the third shot the moment it hits you. The room tilts slightly and all those intrusive thoughts evaporate, you feel lighter and a little giddy.

“Switch her to water.” A familiar voice says. “And me an Americano.”

You turn your head to see Mike standing beside you, Bono wagging his tail.

“Boo, you’re no fun.” You tell him as the bartender puts down a glass of water in front of you.

“You’re not supposed to be drinking on those painkillers.” Mike informs you, handing over his credit card to the bar tender. “They’re the same ones I was on after the attack. Trust me, things are about to get real fucked up for you.”

“I don’t see that making a difference right now.” You inform him with a pointed look. “Everything’s already fucked up.”

Mike says nothing as you take a sip from the water. It feels cold as it sweeps through you, leaving a numbness in it’s wake. You're used to this feeling; you’ve had it before. When things got too much, you want to shove everything away from you, get a little space because your brains too overcrowded.

“They were going to flip him you know?” You say into the space between the two of you, your thumb chasing a bead of condensation from the cool glass. “After everything he did, they were just going to let him carry on so he could flip on his dealer.”

Mike’s coffee cup hovers in front of his mouth as he processes this new information.

“Is that why you’re spinning out?”

“I’m not spinning out.” You snap.

Mike huffs.

“We’re sitting in a bar before the lunchtime rush and you’re almost three sheets to the wind already. How many more of these would you have had if I hadn’t got here?” He says, picking up the empty shot glass to show you.

“Give me a fucking break.” You mutter, rolling your eyes to the ceiling. “I just wanted to turn down the noise in my fucking head, for one fucking minute.”

“This isn’t the answer.” He tells you, setting the shot glass back down onto the bar before gesturing at your surroundings. “This is how you form bad habits. Do you want to end up like your parents, hermanita? Picking up a drink every time something goes wrong in your life.”

It's a gut punch, one that's meant to make you think twice about what you're doing. A surge of rage erupts through you because it's fucking true, and you hate it. Hate the fact that you’ve come this far and you're still doing the same fucking thing your mother and father had done before one of them fell asleep with a cigarette in their hand burnt down their own fucking house.

“That’s a low fucking blow Mike, even for you.” You tell him, feeling the agony twist in your chest as you stare at the three empty shot glasses all lined up in row. Your father used to do that, you remember it acutely because you used to count them, while he watched whatever game was on the TV in the bar. He always stopped when he got to five, five meant he could get in the truck and drive home, anything over and he was calling a cab.

Five, alive! He used to say when he clipped someone’s trashcan.

You count the shot glasses again.

Three, just for me.

Something else he used to say.

“I’m worried about you.” Mike says quietly. “I’m worried about how you’re coping. You have been through so much shit, in your life, in the past 48 hours. It’s more than any one person can be expected to handle…”

You cut him off.

“Don’t preach to me Mike.” You hiss at him. “Do not act like I don’t know you were a fucking drunk before you met Meredith.”

He sighs before he looks at you, because you were right. He’d had a slight problem before the attack and afterwards… It had gotten out of control, if it wasn’t for Bono, he thinks there’s a good chance he would have eaten his gun. He reaches out, his hand smoothing over the dog’s soft fur. Those wide, loving eyes look back up at him and he knows he has to keep trying. If it was anyone else, he thinks he would have told them to go fuck themselves, but it’s you. The girl he thinks of as a sister, the one that’s fucking struggling because her entire life she has been dealt a shitty hand, and now the job, the one she loves is kicking her when she’s down.

“That’s why I’m the right person to be having this conversation with, because I fucking get it.” He tells you, angling his body to read your expression. “I know what it’s like to be trapped in your own head, to feel like you’re suffocating under the weight of everything you’ve had to endure. I know what it’s like to hurt so fucking badly, it tastes like blood on your fucking tongue every time you try to find a way through it.”

“So, what’s the solution?” You ask him, each of his words is like a punch, hitting home because that is exactly how you feel. The anguish is fucking visceral, you can feel the heartache underneath the surface of your skin. “How do I survive this?”

Mike pulls out his phone, his thumb tapping until he finds the app he wants.

“Get your shit together. Our Uber driver will be here in a couple of minutes.”

You rub your hands over your face before looking at him wearily.

“I don’t want to go home Mike.” You tell him. “The last place I want to be is alone with my own thoughts right now.”

“We’re not going home.” He informs you before gesturing to Bono, who looks up at you his tongue lolling out of his mouth. “I promised Bono we’d go to the beach, so we’re going to the beach.”

Love Terry Bruno? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#terry bruno #detective terry bruno #mike duarte #terry bruno fic #terry bruno x you #terry bruno x reader

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adarafaelbarba · 1 year

Note

You are my sweetest downfall

«Captain?»

He didn’t need to look up to know it’s you. But when he does look up his thumb breaks the pen in his hand. «Detective?» He stutters out, taking in your undercover outfit, a black lace bralette under a white button up the looked like you had nicked it from a boyfriend’s closet, and ripped skinny jeans that accentuated your curves perfectly.

Mike was done for, and he knew it. Still he tried to keep professional, «How are you gonna get wired in that outfit?»

«Sown in, impossible to find.»

He nodded, mindlessly, taking another peak at you. Muttering under his breathe, «You’re my sweetest downfall.»

«Hmm?»

«N—nothing!»

~~~

Tagging: @thatesqcrush @storiesofsvu @plaidbooks @beccabarba @itsjustmyfantasyroom @detective-giggles @appletreesinwinter @misscharlielulu @cycat4077 @alwaysachorusgirl @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @bisexual-dreamer02 @xoxabs88xox @beatrice-san @meetmeatyourworst @bullet-prooflove

#my writing #five sentence fic #5 sentence fics #mike duarte x reader #law and order svu x reader

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thoroughlymodernminutia · 1 year

Text

-Law and Order: SVU, s24e10, Jumped In

Did I start making this right when I got up at 6:40am? Yes. Will I be making more gifs from this episode? Probably not, @mysoulisasunflower looks like they have that covered! But when he said this I was like, "AHHHHHHHH YES!" and there was no way I could not make a gif of it.

So I will carry around this gif with me in my pocket and look at when I need a dopamine boost.

#he's really hot in this ep you guys #was really having a meltdown the entire ep #this has encouraged me to work on getting the first part of my duarte fic posted #svu #svu24 #svu24x10 #law and order svu #mike duarte #captain mike durate

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harvestleaves · 2 years

Text

Breathe (Chapter 3)

A/N: Sorry it took me almost 3 years to update this story, life got in the way and I wanted to make sure this next chapter was great because Ginny, Mike, and Livan deserved it! This chapter definitely had more MikexGinny interaction than Livan, but he had the game to get ready for! You can also read the new chapter on Ao3 here!! Enjoy!!!

Rating: T

Word Count: 979

Ginny sighed softly as she took her spot next to Mike on the bus to PNC Park, with Livan taking his now usual place in the row behind them, headphones around his neck so he could still listen to his partners talk.

“You know you don’t have to tell the trainers what happened last night, right?” Ginny whispered to Mike, noticing how the captain hadn’t put his headphones on to listen to his usual pre-game music. And Ginny knew from previous experience that it was because he was listening closely to her shitty lungs, anxiously awaiting another wheeze, cough, or hitch in her breathing.

“I’m sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you over the memory of you gasping for air last night, or wheezing this morning after merely putting your clothing on,” Mike hissed back, trying to contain the bitterness in his voice so as not to upset Ginny. “I’m just worried about you. Livan and I both are. So sue me if I want you to get checked over to make sure you’re not going to almost keel over again,” Mike sighed, his forehead creases softening as Ginny’s shoulders lost their tenseness and she leaned into his side, finally allowing herself a small moment of vulnerability.

“I’m sorry about that, you know? I really thought I had a handle on the attack, it just caught me off guard. I’m sorry I scared you guys,” Ginny whispered softly, settling her cheek against Mike’s shoulder for comfort the last five minutes of the ride.

“I’m not mad at you, rookie. I’m mad at myself. I’m not just your boyfriend, I’m also your captain and catcher. I should have known something was wrong. I should be able to anticipate your every move, your every breath,” Mike sighed, slipping an arm around Ginny’s waist slyly to pull her close, not only to provide her with comfort, but also to soothe himself in a way.

“It’s asthma. It’s going to be unpredictable at times, you can’t always know when something is going to happen,” Ginny explained as she pressed her face into Mike’s shoulder, letting the older man squeeze her close before she pulled back, seeing PNC Park come into view.

“Now that we’ve resolved that, let’s get you looked over, mami,” Livan smiled as he stood, stretching his arms to crack his back before he followed Ginny and Mike off the bus.

“Fine,” Ginny huffed as she let Mike lead her to the visiting locker room, grumpily following him into the training room where a portable nebulizer already appeared to be set up.

“I called ahead,” Mike smirked as he nudged Ginny forward, laughing slightly as she clearly held back the urge to stomp her foot and let the athletic trainer listen to her breathing before she took the mouthpiece of the nebulizer and slid it between her lips.

Leaning back in the spinny chair, Ginny let her shoulders slump as she breathed in the medication, trying to keep her gaze on the ground as she heard Salvamini and Blip enter the training room to get taped for warm-ups.

“What happened with Ginny?” Blip asked Mike in concern as he gently patted Ginny’s shoulder curiously, because he knew she wasn’t supposed to talk when taking her medication.

“Asthma attack last night. Livan and I had it under control though. She’s not playing today obviously, but she should be back warming up with us tomorrow,” Mike explained as he settled into the warm whirlpool, letting the heat soothe his achy back and knees.

“So are they marking her on the DL for today?” Salvamini asked curiously as he tilted his head, clearly trying to figure out how the nebulizer worked. “I think my little brother had to use something like this when we were younger,” he commented offhandedly before raising his fist to Ginny so she could bump it with her own.

“They shouldn’t be. She’s not scheduled to play today anyway, and I don’t think Baker wants the whole world knowing about her shitty lungs,” Mike teased, though he shot Ginny a stern look when she pulled the nebulizer mouthpiece out from her lips to stick her tongue out at Mike quickly before putting it back in place.

Less than ten minutes later, when Ginny was done with the medicine, and being stared at by almost all her teammates; she was back in the main locker room, changing into her uniform before Livan gently knocked on the curtain shielding her from the rest of the guys.

“Are you dressed mami?” Livan asked curiously, his jersey only half done up as he rocked back on his heels.

“Yeah papi, I’m dressed,” Ginny called back, smiling as he stepped behind the curtain to press a firm kiss to her forehead before dropping a second to her lips.

“I know you needed the medicine. But I feel like it took all of my self-control not to go over and hold you while you took that breathing treatment,” Livan whispered softly against Ginny’s hair as he finally pulled her into his chest for a hug, feeling her weight press against him as she settled into the hug.

“We have a few minutes before we need to be out on the field. Or before I need to be on the field and you get to warm the bench. Do you want me to just hold you for a while?” Livan asked, though he already could anticipate Ginny’s response, bracing himself for her to sag more of her body weight towards him.

Smiling, Livan let his own eyes drift shut for a brief second, cherishing this soft moment, knowing that the only thing that would make it better would be Mike hugging Ginny from her other side, but he was talking with Al, so that minute in time, his own presence would have to be enough.

#pitch fic #pitch fanfic #pitch on fox #pitch fox #pitch #Ginny Baker #mike lawson #livan duarte #ginny x mike #ginny x livan #bawson #mike/ginny/livan

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drabbles-mc · 11 months

Text

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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spaghettificationandpretzels · 9 months

Text

About me and my blog

Hello all,

I hope you find the below information helpful (thank you to @thegayhimbo for providing a template on how to do this)

Below you will mostly find information on my writing but I want you to know who you're following so I'll let you know a little about me too.

All about me

I'm a twenty-four-year-old woman living in wonderful Australia (AEST). I have had this blog for a very long time but only became active over the last three years and only started writing early last year. I'm also busy studying to get a bachelor's in a helping profession. I have a dog and a cat and I love them more than anything.

My blog

First and foremost, please don't follow me if you're under the age of 18. I don't want you here, especially considering the content of what I post. I do not make exceptions even if you coming to talk to me about something that is safe for work.

I am passionate about many social issues and will share posts about them from time to time. I have been told from knee-high that I'm opinionated and I'm very happy to share said opinions. Bigots of any shape will be blocked.

I love talking to people about their passion, ideas and thoughts so if you're having to urge to info dump about anything, please say hello.

My writing

Main Masterlist

I write for lots of fandoms for both men and women. I do both reader and OC although I'm moving towards OC more and more. I only do requests very rarely, mostly for milestones. I prefer to use canon as a starting point and most of my work deviates very heavily.

What I write:

One shots Series Fluff Smut Angst

I write for:

Sons of Anarchy

Jax Teller Lyla Winston

Mayans M.C.

Guero Manny Angel Reyes EZ Reyes

Law & Order: SVU

Terry Bruno Joe Velasco Mike Duarte

The Punisher

Karen Page Billy Russo Frank Castle

Call of Duty (Video Games)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley Valeria Garza Phillip Graves Kate Laswell

The Gentleman

Raymond Smith

Peaky Blinders

Alfie Solomons John Shelby

Gangs of London

Sean Wallace

Many of my fics have very dark themes, and I fully believe that fiction should be used to explore the worst parts of humanity. However, it needs to be done well.

I will not write:

Any form of violence against women for the sole purpose of furthering a man's story. Violence against animals or children. Sexual assault smut. All my smut heavily features enthusiastic and mutual consent

General things for readers

I am more than happy to talk about my work, I will give spoilers and talk about my process if you want. Just ask!!!

I have a tag list and I'm happy to add you but if you are inactive for five posts, I will remove you.

You are under no obligation to read my work so please do not struggle through anything.

This is a hobby and I do this for free, I do this for myself so I'm happy to receive feedback but please don't complain.

Comments and reblogs are loved and cherished.

Thank you for reading this far, I wish you fun on your journey through my blog.

#sp talks

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kabloswrld · 1 year

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I need more fics about Mike Duarte in them glasses 😭😭

When i tell you if I got home with him already there in them glasses looking up at me with them on tell me to come here and to get on my knees as he takes them off and puts one of them temples in his mouth slightly biting on it looking me up and down asking about my day and telling me he gonna take care of me. I would fold so fucking fast ‼️‼️‼️ rough day or not 🙏🏽🙏🏽

(Did that make since it's like 4am 😭) (SOMEONE MAKE IT PLEASE)

#mike duarte x reader #mike duarte #law and order #i love him more than anything #i would do anything for that man #on my knees #him in glasses

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the-hinky-panda · 1 year

Text

The Tremont Tempest: Chapter 5

Warnings: Descriptions of a sexual assault.

Jonas Bronck Park

17 months ago

Mike has no idea what he’s looking for but what else is new? He’s been chasing leads, losing witnesses left and right to either pay offs or hits, and still healing from the wounds of his undercover failure. The blood loss had been significant but fixed relatively easily with a transfusion. The stab wounds missed major arteries and organs, leaving only muscle damage, which he’s still doing to physical therapy to regain his fitness. Speaking of fitness, his legs are burning at the moment as he treks off trail in one of the many wooded parks in the Bronx. One of his contacts told him he should head out here, have a look around…

He looks at the compass on his phone, the longitude latitude numbers as he wanders through the woods. He comes to a stop on a ridge in the middle of the woods, standing at the exact coordinates. It’s the early morning, three thirty to be exact. He checks his notes from the informant.

“Look for the broken tree.”

He turns the flashlight on on his phone and shines it around the area. About five feet in front of him, it lands on a tree that had been blown over, the trunk snapped and jagged. He goes over to it and continues to shine his flashlight around the area. Down from the tree in a small flat area, he sees something hanging on a tree branch. He climbs down the embankment and as he gets closer, he sees multiple things. Scraps of clothing, probably sixty or seventy pieces of cloth. No. Not just cloth.

Underwear.

He crosses himself. “Dios mio.”

He takes pictures of the tree, tries to get as many up close pictures of the underwear that he can. A fucking rape tree. As if he needed another reason for wanting BX9 out of the Bronx for good. Anger carries him out of the park and back to his apartment. He’s trying to figure out who he can report the tree to that won’t bury this evidence. Who hasn’t Oscar Papa paid off in the NYPD? There was a detective over the Bronx SVU, what was his name? Pluto? Fido? It was a dog’s name, Mike remembers that. He was one that was making noise over there, pointing fingers at inept and crooked cops. He might be a good one.

He gets back to his apartment, unlocks the four out of the five deadbolts on his door, picks up the paper, and then clears his home. He needs to look up the name of that detective, see if he can meet with him, talk to him, feel him out to see if there is a bite to his bark. He googles Bronx detective whistleblower and immediately the name Terry Bruno pops up. Bruno, that’s it. Next, he goes through his contacts until he finds the number for Bronx SVU and calls. Two rings and an automated message comes on: Thank you for calling the Bronx SVU. At this time, we are experiencing an influx of phone calls and wait times may vary from sixty to ninety minutes. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. If this is not an emergency, please remain on the line until an available officer can speak with you.

Sixty to ninety minutes? What the hell is happening down there? As soon as the thought crosses his mind, the answer is immediately provided by the newspaper headline: Detective Terry Bruno files lawsuit against Bronx SVU for wrongful termination. Mike’s eyes zero in on the ax that slices through his only lifeline, termination. Bruno isn’t even a detective there anymore. The SVU is going to be scrambling trying to cover their tracks right now. Piles of evidence is most likely being dumped into the incinerator which is why no one is answering the phone.

“Fuck.”

He ends the call and fights the urge to throw it against the wall. He rubs his hands over his face, his fingers slipping down to the new tattoo on the side of his neck. He had just gotten it last week. It had been Gabby’s birthday and he wanted to do something to memorialize her because no one else in the neighborhood was going to do anything for some stripper in a sticky floored bar. He had the tattoo placed there, the point on his neck where her head always inevitably fell, even after death when he held her on the blood-slicked kitchen floor. Now, he presses the pads of his fingers into the still sore skin.

What is he doing wrong? What does he need to do differently? Or is he just destined to fail no matter what?

***

Bronx River High School

Later that day

You had just finished a tenth grade class where students were doing peer edits of their final essays on symbolism found in “The Tempest.” You had helped guide discussions, modeled how to properly and kindly critique others' work. The students had been responsive, some even grateful, for the chance to fine tune their writing before submitting a final version at the end of the week. You were saying your goodbyes to the students when Dr. Caban stepped into your room. One of your new students, a young man named Albert, stops by Dr. Caban and gives him a wary look.

“Albert, have you met our principal, Dr. Caban yet?”

He shakes his head. “No, teach.”

Dr. Caban extends his hand. “Albert, very nice to meet you. Welcome to Bronx River High.”

Albert cautiously takes the offered hand. “Thanks.”

“Albert’s writing about the symbolism of Prospero’s books in Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest,’” you add. “He makes some very solid points and explains them well. He’s quite a strong writer.”

Caban smiles kindly. “You’ll have to share your final revision with me, Albert. She doesn’t praise student’s writing very often. In fact,” he winks, “ you should hear what she says about the writing in my emails.”

Albert nods. “Alright, okay. I’ll, uh, I’ll send you my final essay.”

Albert leaves and Caban motions to him. “Bright boy.”

“He is, very much so. He just came to New York from El Salvador. His attendance is still shaky but he could just be becoming used to the routine here. I’m keeping an eye on him. He has a lot of potential.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, if you have a minute.”

If it were anyone else, that phrase would make you nervous. But you’ve known and worked with Dr. Caban since the start of your teaching career. He’s seen you from the first day in the classroom, through your cancer treatments, your divorce, and your rise to the English department head. “Of course. What do you need?”

“More teachers like you,” he responds kindly. “Actually, more administrators like you. Our Dean of Students is taking an admin position over in Brooklyn Heights next year. I would like to see you fill the role.”

You’re stunned. You had gotten your administrative certificate just as a fallback, a just in case kind of career plan. You never intended to leave the classroom. But you know Dr. Caban wouldn’t ask you to make this move if he didn’t think you would do well in it. “I, uh, I don’t know what to say.”

“The pay would be more, the benefits would be better. But I want you there because the students love you. They’ll listen to a dean that they feel will hear them.”

“But I love to teach.”

“I know, and you’re excellent at it. But when opportunities to move forward, to move up, are presented to you, you should take them.” He gives you a wide smile. “Besides, when have I ever steered you wrong?”

He had a point. “Alright, I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

Something feels off about the exchange. Dr. Caban had always encouraged you to follow your gut whenever it came to teaching a concept or interacting with a student. His response now seems pushy, maybe even…no, you’re just not comfortable with the idea of being in a more administrative position. You remind yourself of the idea that you teach to your students: growth only occurs when you’re uncomfortable.

***

You feel like a teenager again as you get up the next morning and get ready for work. For once, the clearing of your apartment last night resulted in no findings. No notes, no bottles of wine. All that Mike found was a blanket on the couch that you forgot to fold and a couple dirty dishes in the sink that you were too tired to clean. You and Mike had enjoyed the food from the Havana Cafe and the bottle of wine while sitting on your couch.

You fix your hair, twisting the riotous curls into a dignified style to keep your hair from getting in your face while remembering how Mike’s hands felt sliding through the curls last night. The broad span of his palms as they held your cheeks, the pads of his fingers pressing into your scalp. It seems like a shame to slide lipstick on, wanting to preserve the feel of Mike’s lips on yours. You’d never been kissed like you had been last night.

Mike kissed like he did everything else, with complete focus, conviction, and passion. It had been so long since someone had not only kissed you, but kissed you like they wanted you. All of you. It had been overwhelming and heady. There was an undercurrent of excitement that ran through your body, the kind that you hadn’t felt for such a long time. You wanted to feel it again. But before things progressed past the kissing, his phone had rung and he had been called back to the precinct. He had said he was going to try to make it into the school this afternoon but you don’t know how far into the night he had to work. So you ready yourself for your day with slightly trembling hands and a silly grin on your face.

You make your way into the office, opening your door and are immediately greeted by half the Manhattan squad of SVU. Captain Benson is back and introduces a new face, Sargent Tutuola. Your cousin Terry saunters in, takes one look at you, and grins. Doctor Caban is the last person to join you all in your office and he shuts the door for privacy. Of course it’s your cousin who outs you in front of everyone that’s gathered for the debriefing.

“Well, who is he?” Terry asks.

You shuffle papers on your desk. “Mind your own damn business, Ter.”

“He, who?” Dr. Caban asks.

You shake your head. “Nothing. Detective Bruno is my cousin and likes to instigate things.”

“I mean if you’re seeing someone,” Terry continues, “we should probably know who it is. For the investigation’s sake.” He ends the sentence with a shit-eating grin.

“I plead the fifth, thank you.”

Benson speaks up. “I do think we should know if you’re dating someone. It’ll give us someone else to talk to, maybe they’ve noticed something you haven’t.”

You sit down behind your desk and hold Benson’s eye for a beat longer than necessary. “We’ve already discussed this.”

She nods once in understanding but the downturn of her mouth tells you what she thinks of the situation. Thankfully, she doesn’t say anything else about it. “Alright, this is what we have so far. All the notes and the wine bottle didn’t have fingerprints on them. The paper is cardstock that is found throughout this school and many others in the state. We do have the video of the woman from the convenience store.”

Caban pushes his glasses up his nose. “There was a woman at a convenience store?”

Benson nods. “ Yes, the bodega owner has the person who bought the wine on video but he didn’t recognize her from the neighborhood. Velasco and Muncy are trying to identify her as we speak. Fin, you and Bruno went out to Long Island to talk to Charles Murrary yesterday afternoon. Anything come from that?”

“I could have saved you a trip out to Long Island,” you say. “Charlie and I still talk from time to time. He’s a little too busy and quite happy with his wife and four kids to care about me.”

Terry shoots you a pointed look and grimace but neither one of you says anything. You know his feelings about Charlie and how things shook out after your cancer diagnosis. You can only imagine how that interview went yesterday. Maybe you should shoot Charlie a text to see how badly Terry questioned him and see if you need to smooth any ruffled feathers.

“So here’s what I’d like to do next,” Benson adds. “Dr. Caban and I will go over a list of teachers and staff to see if any of them stand out as possible suspects. Bruno and Fin can brainstorm with you to come up with any other people that you may have noticed hanging around you lately. Someone from the neighborhood, parents, store clerks.”

You nod. “Okay, sounds good.”

Caban gives you a light touch on your shoulder and a smile before following Benson out of your office. He closes the door behind them and Terry immediately leans forward in his chair.

“Who’s the new guy?”

Before you can shoot off a retort, Fin interjects. “I don’t want to get in the middle of family issues here, but I’m with Bruno. It might be helpful to know who the new boyfriend is.”

You drop the pen that you had been fidgeting with onto the desk. “Fine but I don’t even know how serious this thing is yet.”

“Fine,” Terry agrees, “I’ll hold off on the background and credit check. Who is he?”

“It’s Mike.”

“Duarte?” Terry prompts.

“Yeah,” you confirm.

“Well shit,” Fin sits back in his chair. “Liv isn’t going to like that.”

“Liv and I have already had a conversation about how Mike isn’t the stalker. He’s had multiple opportunities to take advantage of me and hasn’t done one thing that raises a concern.”

Terry sighs. “To be fair, you did marry Charlie.”

Fin shrugs. “What happened with you and Charlie? Cuz over here got real quiet when I asked him why the two of you divorced.”

You’re surprised that Terry didn’t blast Charlie when Fin asked about him. Terry’s opinion of your first husband always had been less than stellar. “Charlie and I just…wanted different things.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Terry mutters.

“Look,” Fin starts, “I know this is tough. Having all of us here, digging into your life, your past, it’s invasive. But having someone stalk you is dangerously invasive. The more information, even the embarrassing things, can help us.”

“On a professional level,” Terry says, “anything you say in here stays between us. We might see something in the information that you don’t. And trust me, we’ve heard worse than what happened with you and Charlie.”

You pick up the pen again and click it a few times. “Alright, fine. Charlie and I met in college. We were both education majors. We got married two days after graduation, he went to work at an elementary school, and I came here to teach. Two years later, I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Between the hysterectomy and chemo treatment, I obviously couldn’t have any children of my own. Charlie always wanted children but I couldn’t give them to him. So we divorced.”

Fin motions for you to continue. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. He met his current wife at the elementary school. She’s a kindergarten teacher and was able to give him his…legacy.”

“Duarte’s looking pretty good now, isn’t he?” Terry quips.

“No shit,” Fin agrees.

“So that’s why I don’t think it’s Charlie,” you state. “Charlie has exactly what he’s always wanted. There’s no reason whatsoever for him to stalk me.”

Terry stands. “Well, maybe Benson and Caban can come up with some names for us to track down. But until then-”

“I’ll keep in touch,” you promise.

***

Mike looks down at his phone and smiles as he takes another sip of bourbon.

Teenagers and Shakespeare do not mix well. God love them for doing their best though.

He had been tied up with leads, strategizing, and paperwork all afternoon that he never made into the school today. He had been afraid after last night you would take his disappearance personally. God, he didn’t want to leave last night. Everything had been perfect for once. Nothing had been found in the apartment, the food was excellent, it was the first time he had felt like he could breath. And then you stole it away from him when you kissed him.

He had texted you about the day getting away from him and you had messaged back that you were facing similar circumstances. The principal that was supposed to show up for the Shakespeare play this evening had to cancel due to a sick baby at home so the duty of attending fell to you. So he opted to have a drink at the Bronx Beer Hall while exchanging text messages with you.

What play is it?

Taming of the Shrew. There’s a pause. At least I think that’s what this is.

Any plays you’ll need to attend on Saturday night?

Nope, no theater productions are being held on Saturday. What do you have in mind?

I was just thinking I could go for some Italian.

Oh really? I was thinking of trying some more Cuban.

He smiles. I guess the kids aren’t the only lousy acts this evening.

I suppose not. I don’t know if you’re ready for Bella Luna yet.

Why not?

My Aunt runs it. Terry’s mom, Carla. She’ll throw you in the meat locker in the back and interrogate you.

Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s done that.

What?!

Long story. Sounds better with a good bottle of wine. I’ll be back in school tomorrow and we can settle on where to go on Saturday.

Ok. The lights just came up. Oh dear God, it’s only intermission. I may pull the fire alarm.

That’s premeditation now. Better find another way.

“Well, you look happy.”

Mike looks up from his phone and sees Benson standing next to his chair. “Captain. To what do I owe this visit?”

She orders a glass of wine as she takes the barstool next to him. “A friendly warning.”

All good naturedness bleeds out of him. “Alright then.”

“Dr. Caban is convinced that you are the stalker.”

That doesn’t surprise him. “Dr. Caban was against me coming into the school in the first place. He’s been looking for a reason to get me kicked out. Let me guess,” he drains his glasses and motions for a second one, “you agree with him.”

“Actually, I don’t.” She laughs humorlessly. “I talked to a lot of teachers and students today and they all spoke very highly of you. Those kids in that school love Mr. Mike.”

He smiles at the nickname the students have come to refer to him. “Alright, so the staff and kids vouched for me. I already know that Caban is gunning for me. What’s the warning?”

She fiddles with the stem of the wineglass. “The way that Caban was gunning for you, wanting me to focus on you and only you, it was odd.”

Mike leans back on the barstool. “You think he’s the stalker?”

“Him or maybe his son. I have Velasco looking at Caban’s family, see if he has a sister. Muncy is reaching out to some gang contacts to see if the son has been approached by BX9 or if he’s involved, it’s just a solitary fixation.”

Mike stares down in the amber liquid and sighs. “If the Cabans are involved in this, it’s going to break her heart. Caban was her mentor when she was student teaching. She equates everything she learned about teaching to him.”

“Betrayal never comes from enemies.”

That is certainly true. “Amen.”

“Where is she tonight?”

He picks up his phone and turns it over. There are no new texts from you but it could be that the second act has started. “She’s at the Shakespeare play at the school. It should end in another hour.”

Benson pulls out her phone. “I can have Fin or Bruno make sure she gets home safely.”

“I can finish this off and go see her home, that’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” It’s an excellent excuse to surprise you at the school, to see you again.

She finishes her glass of wine and reaches for her purse. “Are you sure I can’t drop you at the school?”

“Nah,” he waves her off and finishes his drink. “I’ll walk. It’s not that far. And the play should be letting out by the time I make it there.”

“Okay, well, let me know if you change your mind.”

He throws some money down the bar to pay for both of their drinks. “Is this your way of apologizing to me?”

Benson opens her mouth but closes it as she rethinks her answer. “It’s not so much an apology as it is…an understanding. You’re right. The Bronx is a completely different animal compared to Manhattan. But talking to those students today, you guys are making a difference in those kids' lives. It may not be the way I would deal with the problem, but at least the problem is being dealt with.”

“Well, if that’s the closest I get to an apology tonight,” he grabs his phone and stands up from the barstool, “then I will sleep soundly.”

Benson laughs and shakes her head. “Just know that I wish Terry’s cousin the best of luck with you.”

He laughs as well. “Well, thank goodness she’s used to dealing with people with behavioral issues.”

He sees Benson to the towncar and waves her off for the night before heading down to the school. It’s early spring, the night is unusually warm, a positive reminder that warmer days are on the horizon. But he’s worried about what Benson told him about Caban. If Caban really were the stalker, it truly would devastate you. He had also looked into Caban’s son’s record and the boy was an upstanding citizen and student. He really hoped that Benson was wrong on this one. He passes by the bodega where the wine had been bought and catches sight of Roberto behind the counter. Checking his watch, he sees he still has some time to kill so he goes inside.

“Hey, Cap!”

“Hey, Roberto.” He doesn’t really need anything but knowing the news that he may need to break to you prompts him to do something he hasn’t done for six months. “Can I get a pack of reds?”

“Sure,” Roberto reaches around and grabs the pack of cigarettes. “I thought you gave these things up a while ago.”

Mike shrugs. “Old habits, I suppose.”

Roberto shrugs and starts to ring him up when the door opens and two teens in hoodies walk in. They both look at Mike and Roberto before moving towards the back of the store. Mike turns to Roberto who just nods and Mike sees one hand press the emergency call button under the counter and the other hand wraps around the handle of a baseball bat. Mike draws his weapon but keeps it at his side as Roberto comes from behind the counter.

“They might be letting their friends in from the back,” Mike says.

Roberto motions to the sidewalk in front of the store. “Let’s get out there at least.”

As soon as Mike reaches for the handle of the front door, it swings open as three more teens rush them. He manages to get off one shot but the flash of a machete comes down on his right hand and forces him to drop his gun. Roberto is swinging the bat as best he can in the confined space but Mike feels a blade cut into his arm, his shoulder, his back. He hits the ground as Roberto keeps swinging, trying to hold the teens at bay but Mike can see the blood dripping off Roberto as well.

He can hear the sirens in the distance and prays they reach them in time.

***

You were so happy to hear the last line of the play and see the lights come up in the auditorium. The kids made a very valiant attempt at tackling Shakespeare and you gave them props for that. But you were tired and ready to crawl into bed and sleep for at least a few hours before getting up and coming back tomorrow. You go back to your office to pick up your coat and purse when someone knocks on your door, causing you to jump.

“Oh,” you laugh, “Dr. Caban, you startled me.”

“Sorry about that,” he smiles easily at you. “I was hoping I could talk to you for a moment.”

“I’m very tired-”

“I understand. This won’t take long.”

“Okay,” you sigh and set your purse down on your desk. “What’s up?”

He closes the door behind him. “I really enjoyed the play tonight. Taming of the Shrew. It was always one of my favorites of Shakespeare.”

Your skin starts to prickle, your palms sweaty. “Really? I was always a fan of Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“You always do enjoy the more fantastical stories of literature, don’t you?”

“I suppose.”

Caban stops just a couple feet away from you. “What do you see in him? That Duarte guy?”

Something is terribly, terribly off at the moment, and you swallow down the bile that has risen to your throat. “I don’t understand-”

“Yes, you do.” He lays his hand over yours. “I can, I have offered you so much more than he ever could. I gave you your career, your skills, your positions. I put you in this office, next to me. You deserve everything that I’ve given you and more. And I can give it to you. If you let me.”

“Dr. Caban-” You try to slip your hand from his but his grip tightens to the point of pain.

“Just stop!” He closes his eyes and releases a breath through his nose. “Stop.”

“Please,” your eyes dart to the closed door. “Please, just let me go.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve watched you go every night for the last twelve years. I can’t do it anymore. Not after those clandestine lines from the Bard himself.”

“Please, just let me go.” You feel tears starting to form in your eyes, the buzz of adrenaline bursting through your veins. But Caban had an iron grip on both your arms now. You were wedged against the curve of the desk, your back against the hardwood with Caban pressing closer against the front of your body. He lays his cheek against yours, his lips against your ear as a tear slips from your eye.

“‘Tis a wonder,’” he whispers the last line of the play, “‘by your leave, she will be tamed so.’”

“I don’t…please, I don’t want this.”

“Oh, my fiery Kate, you don’t mean that.”

You’re shaking with fear, looking for any escape route when you hear voices in the outer office. Caban stiffens with surprise and you take the only chance at escaping this situation and yell for help. Caban’s hand cracks across your cheek with enough force you see stars momentarily and leaves you dazed. You manage to scream again which earns a second strike across your face but you’re able to hear the splintering of the door to your office as someone kicks it in.

“Hands where we can see them!”

There’s a scuffle around you before Caban is pulled away and you fall back against the desk. Before you can regain your balance, someone has your arms and is pushing you towards your office chair. You hear your name being repeated and recognize the voice speaking it.

“Terry…”

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says, his fingers skating over your face where Caban’s hand had struck you. “Are you okay?”

You nod numbly. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Did he-”

“No,” tears start to fall in earnest. “No, he didn’t.”

“Okay. Okay,” he looks behind him before refocusing on you. “We’re going to have to head over to the hospital.”

You take in a couple deep breaths. “I’m okay, I promise.”

Fin is standing at the door of your office. “Caban’s in handcuffs. I’ll wait for Velasco. Get her over to the hospital.”

You start to assure them both that you’re okay, just dazed and out of sorts when you catch the look in Terry’s eyes. “What else has happened?”

Terry sighs. “Mike was jumped along with a bodega owner tonight by BX9.”

#mike duarte x you #mike duarte x reader #mike duarte #captain mike durate #mike duarte fic #law and order: SVU fic #SVU fic

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thatesqcrush · 1 year

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Just watched Mike Duarte being murdered.... Why?? Why do they keep killing interesting characters? He could have been a stable side character .... Anyway love your stuff specially the Bryan Fics

He could have been so great! Bring him back from time to time, like they do with Phoebe and dare I say, Barba. But noooooooo. 😩😭

And thanks so much!!! That makes me so happy! I am currently working on a Bry piece so stay tuned!

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mariamariquinha · 1 year

Text

Poker Games (Mike Duarte x f!reader) - one shot

Part 2 (because I can't control myself)

Summary: The guy was a bitch.

Word count: 5.8k

Warnings: I've never watched a single episode of Law and Order, but let’s pretend I did. A lot of bad words, unprotected p in v sex, smut, kinda of rough sex, alcohol consumption and... Eh. I guess. If there’s anything more, again, pretend you didn’t see.

Author’s Note: First of all, I would like to give a HUGE thanks to my dear (and who are already my friend, sorry) @thoroughlymodernminutia. Meaghan helped me a lot because, as I said, my ackowledgment about this show is zero. She was a sweetheart as always. Check out her gifs, too! ❤️❤️❤️

I also want to say that this will be a one time thing. Sometimes I can’t promise a shit here 😂😂😂 But now I’m kinda serious, as much as I love to write for Maurice, I’m already working with two cops (Carrillo and Benny), so I need to write for my other characters away from the police work.

If you want to find amazing jobs about this baby here, follow @the-hinky-panda and @bullet-prooflove! They are THE BEST.

For taglist, I’ll tag @cheesybadgers (because she’s always supporting my ideas here) and @mysoulisasunflower (because she’s a sweetie and make amazing gifs too).

That’s it! Woo-hoo!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

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

You didn't like him right off the bat and you never hid it; just like he didn't disguise that he noticed.

Mike Duarte could have any reputation in the Bronx Gang Unit - everyone with age and experience had one, it wasn’t spectacular and you could easily list other officers with lesser titles than his who were worthy of any pomp or recognition. And in a way, at first, things flowed well. Despite the differences, you had found a certain rhythm that didn't even include a basic exchange as ‘co-workers’.

But you didn't like him. And he knew it.

Not hate, perhaps… it was a subliminal sense that happened when you used to lay eyes on a person and knew there was something. If someone asked you, you wouldn't know how to pinpoint it. Not that someone would. As a lesser-ranked professional, as a lieutenant, you simply withheld comments about your superiors because you knew better than to try your luck. Certain kinds of opinions were better left in your own head.

Things started to escalate little by little - all because of that case. In theory, the functions there were separate. You've always been from different departments, but a common situation ended up connecting the two of you, and since then it worked. Somehow.

Sometimes the two of you discussed more banal things: procedures, bureaucracy, witnesses. As a lieutenant, again, you found your limits fairly easily, and the understanding always earned him grunts or eye rolls on your part. Duarte used to look, wait for a more verbalized reaction, and then return to the subject. His team already knew him like that, sometimes you got sympathetic or condescending looks, and that was it.

Things started to escalate to the other side at the same pace, you would say. A practically premeditated, probably predictable, fight that built up and heated up over the weeks. Ugly, cunning, with certain types of offense that bordered on a lack of respect that never existed in that implied relationship of misunderstandings. He said you didn't understand, you countered by saying he was gaslighting you. It was an exchange of complicated words that resulted in a later intervention by your captain, from your department, who really was your boss.

“If you carry on like this, you'll leave the case, understand?”

It should have been a threat, but it felt more like relief at the time. You scoffed, and in that moment, when you looked at a Duarte standing in front of you with his arms crossed, visibly victorious, you both knew there was more to it than 'professional differences'.

No one brought it up.

Did this go on for days? Weeks? Something like that. You stopped bickering with each other in conventional discussions and everything became so pragmatic, so mechanical, that when the case was resolved, you didn't feel the conventional victory or relief. Everyone went to celebrate in a bar, you attended, but you didn't stay long to raise a flag of peace. You weren’t in the mood.

He didn't seem like the type to need a few drinks to get up his nerve for something, always very assertive and confident in his own words and actions, but Duarte waited until you were alone between one round of drinks and the next, leaning against the bar.

“You don't look very satisfied,” That smug grin was there, accompanied by his eyes checking you out.

“I forgot the fireworks at home, I'm sorry.”

“I'm just saying that the merit of this is also yours. It was collaborative.”

“How many times did you have to repeat this in front of the mirror to sound even remotely convincing?”

“Three,” You rolled your eyes, turning back to the bartender preparing the drinks to give the most explicit sign of not-in-the-mood-for-talking. Duarte didn’t see it that way, though. “Four if you count that I changed the speech last time.”

“Should I be curious to know what the other version was?”

“You are good at what you do.”

That definitely wasn't expected and it wasn't the starting point of a more peaceful relationship either, but it was something. He wasn't the type to lie for benefits, nor be charming for interests - there wasn't a thing you could offer. You looked at him, he looked back at you, and for a brief moment, with the light of the establishment or just the fact that Duarte was keeping his mouth shut, you almost saw him differently.

Still, you shrugged your shoulders and maintained a veneer of disinterest.

“That's how I got to where I am and how I won almost every family poker game on Thanksgiving.”

“Almost.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Why? What could make you lost?”

At the same time, the drinks were placed in front of you and you smirked with as much falsehood as you could display, calmly grabbing the glasses.

“My aunt majored in Mathematics at Harvard.”

“Sounds unfair.”

“That's what happens when you try to face someone with more power than you, Captain Duarte. You lose.”

He didn't even look for you for the little rest of the night and when you left, carrying nothing but your own farewells even though you knew you would bump into that team eventually at the station, looking back was like seeing a puzzled figure.

That was new.

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

One day, early in the morning, the two of you arrived together. You both parked, got out of your cars, and you didn't particularly see him until you noticed a hand intervene in your path to open the access door to the station. You looked up and he was smiling discreetly, further intensifying your frown. Duarte nodded inside, the door still opened by his grip.

You didn't thank him. He surely wasn’t expecting this anyway.

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

It was another night shift and you were visibly tired but steady. Your part of the precinct wasn't as busy, but still, you considered it possible to enjoy your dinner in the conference room - a Caesar salad, which was hardly suitable for dinner, properly speaking, but you didn't have that in mind.

You managed to enjoy everything in silence and calm. You stretched out a little in the chair, worked on your neck and sciatic nerve, grunted and closed your eyes for a moment to relax.

*knock, knock*

Just two were enough to make you wake up from a good trance and let out a brief 'come in', waiting for what seemed to be trouble coming from somewhere. Well, it wasn't. It looked like one, though.

“Did I interrupt?” Duarte pointed at your finished meal and didn't dare go further into the room than his own head peeking through the half opened door.

Yes.

“How can I help you?”

“It's not a help. I mean, it depends on the point of view.”

You were ready to ask what that was really about, but he didn't give you a chance to answer as he walked right in and closed the door, a deck of cards in his right hand. Huh. Very funny.

“I thought you were busier,” Your voice had a sarcastic tone, almost a joyful one, and he shrugged, putting the cards in front of you.

“That night at the bar sounded like a challenge to me.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Eh. That's the problem with half-telling things to curious people.”

“They show up at your dinner hour and ask you to play poker with them?”

“I know you want to. I can see it in your eyes.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“You can’t see a thing in my eyes, Duarte.”

Of course, the idea, despite being against you, tended to be more favorable on your side than not. Still hesitantly, you pushed the remnants of your dinner aside and grabbed the cards with both hands, shuffling them.

“No chips?”

“We can work this out.”

Seconds later, Duarte returned to be in front of you, pulled up a chair and distributed two handfuls of paper clips on parallel sides. Jeez, you wanted to keep a smile or any indication of excitement from your face, but it was inevitable.

“Gambling in the workplace… I'm glad it’ll be your fault,” You murmured, shuffling the cards a little more.

“It's not gambling if we aren’t playing with money,” He explained. “But we can always adapt to our interests.”

“What makes you think that something of yours interests me?”

“I don't know. What I do know is that I want something.”

He was going to make you ask, of course he was - paying attention, it even sounded like an interrogation where Duarte planted the specific traps. There he appealed to your curiosity again.

Dammit.

“And what do you want?”

“A dinner, perhaps?”

A moment of silence fell between the two of you and you somehow expected him to laugh, say it was a joke, divert the subject to the poker game. You'd honestly prefer him to say whether he was going to play Texas Hold'em, Omaha or Courchevel; it would be easier to say that your skills were very limited and mediocre to just one of them. Of course, this wasn’t the case.

That's why you went back to the cards, saw your fingers stopped and started moving them again.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you want to have dinner with me?”

“I wouldn't appreciate leaving the impression that I’m like your aunt in any way.”

It was the second time that night that Duarte left you motionless, speechless, looking at him and waiting for the laugh, the mask to fall. None of that happened. He continued to stare at the game space for a while and when he saw that you didn't react, he looked up to watch you.

“Texas?”

Right. The game. You blinked a few times, began to deal the cards and digest what he had said. It didn't sound bad, not at all, but you didn't think he'd heard you right or even considered what you'd said that night. It had been over a month. Anyone would forget.

The game started silently, just the sound of cards and clips being passed bit by bit. He won the first game by being distracted, as you just stared at the cards instead of saying anything about it or paying more attention, but there was no overheard celebration on his part. In the second, you were more prepared - more aware.

“That was just a metaphor,” Luckily, it would be a full house. Fortunately. In the meantime, you've seen Duarte shift in his chair, then adjust his bets of ten or fifteen paper clips. “I understand that your position is greater than mine.”

“But the hierarchy bothers you a little. The procedures may not work in your favor when you are one of the younger or less experienced nieces.”

That made you frown. With three cards turned over, you both raised the stakes, but you decided to keep pressing.

“Only when it is misused.”

“Do you think you were wronged?”

“Did someone scold you in any way about our discussion?”

A fourth card was turned over and you looked at each other, either because of the game or because of the tone that the conversation had just started to take. He looked for some physical trick in your expression; when he didn't find it, he gave up the move.

“Full house.”

Your clip bargain certainly felt nice, so you pulled it all in your direction and drummed your fingers on the table as you watched him get the cropper done.

“Don't you think you've come a long way for a simple poker game?”

“I think it's already clear that I didn't come for the game.”

You considered him for a while, watched the dealing of the cards.

“The dinner, then.” A statement, not a question. “Where?”

“Where do you want it to be?”

“Not in your house.”

“Scared of what you may find?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I'm already scared of what I'm going to find before I even accept this invitation.”

He hummed, but didn’t say a thing. Hopefully, Duarte didn't even notice that you would make a Flush. The stakes were raised, he pressed harder until you both reached the fourth card.

“Funny to think you've already made up your mind.”

Well, you… didn’t. Not at the moment. You could say ‘no’ straight away and maybe he was expecting it. Still, you didn’t. And unfortunately you had no answer to that.

“Are you going to try to convince me then?”

“You don’t like me.”

“As a matter of fact.”

“Take it as a chance to confirm that I'm the asshole you think I am.”

Was that what dinners were for? To prove the point that a person was a complete idiot and spend hours dealing with it just for confirmation?

“All.” With determination, you've put all your clips into the bet. He analyzed the scene, ran his tongue over his teeth and arched an eyebrow, the smirk playing on his lips.

“All.”

Your Flush was like a sure win and you pulled it all your way with the biggest smile in the world. Duarte watched, between an abyss of curiosity and amusement, leaning back in his chair as he watched you adjust his mound and clean everything he had.

“Tomorrow at eight,” He leaned over the table, this time not distracted by any game.

“You still haven't told me where,” You, nonchalantly, kept your eyes on the cards. “And you need to win to get it, remember?”

“If I actually win, you won't accept my terms, Lieutenant,” His tone was challenging with a touch of smugness. That made you narrow your eyes at him, then shrug.

“You know that this still doesn't answer my question, don't you?”

“About me remembering the conditions of this game or why I invited you to dinner?” Duarte asked with more interest. “Yes, I remember what I said. I also remember that you didn't even hesitate to continue the game and preferred to ask my reason instead of going straight to the point, which would be your true reaction if you weren't interested, but we both already know that.”

Again, he was met with silence.

“And as much as you have your opinions, I liked you. More than you can imagine.”

“I wouldn't have imagined.”

“That's why I took the step to tell you that I did it for both of us,” He certainly felt extremely happy of having caught you in his own sense of pride or self honor, because Duarte saw the way your lips twitched, knowing full well he got you right there. “I'm interested in continuing. Best of three?”

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

He was right: you could say no. You could stop that game, not giving him the chance to win - to make his suggestion, at first.

Curiosity could be the most viable justification for this. You barely knew each other outside of work and he certainly wasn't on your list of friends, or even colleagues. In some context, between work gossip and extra alcohol at office parties, one would say he was attractive; in those conversations, you always kept quiet. Not that he wasn't handsome (he was), or that you hadn't already noticed that from the first moment (you did), but the circumstances meant that 'attractive' wasn't the first adjective that came into your head to describe him.

When you thought about dinner, you also thought about what to wear. Technically it would be something right after hours and because of the place, which was far from the police station, you wouldn't have much time for big productions, because your expectations weren't the greatest either.

You wore jeans, shirt, jacket, closed shoes. A purely professional meeting. And he thought the same thing, because when you arrived and saw him sitting at a table, casually looking at his cell phone, there was nothing new about his look.

“Ten minutes late,” He teased, watching you sit down.

“I got home to take a shower.”

“You took a shower?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Impressive.”

“I wouldn’t come here smelling like… day.”

“With all due respect, but you smell good during the day.”

That, maybe that was it. Duarte had mannerisms that were natural and intrinsic to himself, such as having the last word, pushing your buttons, and sometimes using phrases with flirty undertones. This bothered you a little because you felt inclined to give in at certain times, like when the comment was accompanied by a smirk - just the way he did in that moment.

It could be just his thing, that kind of behavior being bothersome. You didn't like to think about the possibility that, deep down, a part of you found it charming. When he wasn't using it to provoke you, of course. Didn't seem like the case at the time.

“... Thanks.”

He didn't answer, taking one last look at his phone before putting it in his pocket.

“What do you drink?” That's what Duarte asked instead.

“If I say blood from virgin girls, would you believe it?” You arched an eyebrow, seeing the way his lips curled into a small smile.

“Of course I would.”

And you got a surprise: that was a very pleasant evening. Neither Duarte nor you pressed that kind of small talk about personal life or professional past - if it was, it was very discreet, subjective, nothing you wanted to talk about too much.

He inquired about working as a lieutenant in that department, shared personal experiences from his time in the same position, but didn’t gaslighted you and offered no great advice as an older, more experienced sage. You asked about the real work in the Gang Unit, saw that he saved himself for more superficial things, and recognizing your place, you didn’t press.

No one expected an acidic comment or the moment when one of you would start a discussion if you were interested. There was a certain tune. The white flag of peace you haven't had since you met. Without effort, you'd say you could make the adjective beauty climb a little in your concept.

“I think that was better than if it was at my house,” He commented, the wind making you adjust your jacket but not repressing your scoff. You two were walking on the sidewalk, the offering of an extended conversation to a nearby park tempting enough.

“You would have to cook, so… If you say so.”

“The last time I used my kitchen for real cooking, you were probably still getting traffic tickets.”

“It's a bad way of saying that you're old.”

“And a shitty cook too.”

You both laughed, let the subject drop, and walked on for a little while longer in silence. That seemed like the right time to bring the other subject up, the reason you decided to be there in the first place.

“Listen, I… I should apologize.”

Duarte noticed the way you tipped your head to the side, trying way too hard to look at him in the eye. When you did, he was already there, stopping his steps, so you repeated the motion and sighed before keep going.

“Value judgments are not my thing, or at least they shouldn't be. I was unfair for being so direct in my opinions of you,” He just kept listening, almost lagging to give you an answer after your mouth shut.

“You had your reasons, I'm not an easy guy to deal with. Besides, what I imagine you thought of me wasn't the worst thing anyone's ever said. Just don't let your guard down now, I can still be obnoxious.”

If there was supposed to be a touch of humor in his voice, you missed it, as if the guy truly meant what he said.

“But we could go easy on each other,” The comment came right after. “You have natural leadership, this can take us to an unnecessary confrontation.”

He had his points, but you didn’t verbalize your agreement. Duarte huffed, raised both of his eyebrows and sent you a serious gaze.

“Starting with the fact you should use your words.”

“Not so fast, Captain,” You kept your feet. “I can still be obnoxious.”

“I have no doubts about that,” Was what you heard behind you as you continued walking.

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

No one commented on the change in behavior between you on a day-to-day basis. Of course, it would take another joint affair to test this new phase of amenities, but it was undeniable that you two started to get along better. Sometimes he would stop by their table, say hello; on busier days, he waved. In spare days, or rather in the evenings, he would gesture with a deck of cards and you would play poker.

The bets went from paper clips to staples to real chips you found around your house. The relationship went from mutual differences to reconcilable ones. Duarte went from being an 'annoying' guy to having nicer smiles, more interesting conversations and better jokes.

At that point, between small snippets of natural provocation, the attraction began to be more latent.

You didn't like this idea. And he knew it.

This type of situation was not uncommon and usually ended well, precisely because it was naturalized. You yourself have gone through the experience, acquaintances have, but you’ve always considered yourself a person of limits and Duarte just seemed to be outside of them. Like crossing a line. He had a bigger position, people could comment - if they weren't already commenting.

But then sometimes he would look at you, measure you, make another one of those flirty phrases and do things to maintain discreet physical contact. A touch on your arm, fingers brushing as they handed over your poker bets, leg poking yours under the table. You began to think of him with a little more affection and a dedication to your carnal reactions to closeness.

Ridiculous, you knew. The guy charmed you to another one of his traps.

On Thanksgiving that year, you didn't get to go home with your family - nor with your professional poker aunt. The promise to stop by after hours was so shallow that no one really heard it, the kind that if you went straight home no one would care a lot. The situation was already conventional, missing the holidays, so it didn’t give rise to further discussions; still, you felt bad.

“What are you doing here?”

You were looking at the computer screen with the report of the last case you’re working on that month and when you looked up, you saw Duarte standing in front of your desk with a cup of coffee in his hand, unpretentiously taking time. Instead of answering, you took your badge from your belt and showed him.

“Bad day,” He concluded, but even if you wanted to stay alone, Duarte pulled a chair from another vacant table and sat down there, determined to keep up the conversation. “What is it?”

“Doesn't it seem obvious?”

“You never sold yourself as a Thanksgiving enthusiast.”

“I’m not,” You sighed. “But it would be good to, you know, take a break. Eat good food. Not having to cook for the next few days because there’s a bunch of leftovers in your fridge.”

“It makes sense. This is a good time for those looking for virgin girls for big meals.”

Again, you didn’t answer, but shot him a middle finger before going back to your computer screen. He held that silence for a while, settling himself better in his chair and sipping his coffee in no hurry. If at a certain point he touched your knee with his and pressed a little, maybe to get your attention, you pretended you didn't feel it and held your eyes on the damn report. For as long as you could, of course.

“When are you leaving today?” Another question.

“Why? Planning to participate in my hunt for the girls?”

“Nah, I’m more like the Hansel and Gretel thing.”

“How would you feed a child to make him fat if you don't know how to cook?” A small smile played on your lips and when you dared a glance at his direction, Duarte was narrowing his eyes. “And I don’t know. Probably very late.”

“How late?”

“Does it matter?”

“We could do something.”

Your fingers landed on the keyboard and, taken aback by his words, you just stood there waiting for an elaboration. He adjusted himself again, this time looking more secretive about what he was going to say.

“Have fun.”

“This is very subjective,” That defensive tone came into view and he smiled.

“Just if you think it’s subjective.”

“Right.”

“But…”

Listen, you took pride in having certain life experiences, on and off the job. Once you answered a case of a boy who called the police because his roommate took a collectible anime magazine with Chun Li in positions… minimally gynecological. This matter lasted for weeks at the station. In personal life, it wasn’t much different. When you were still using dating apps, you got on a date with a guy who took his mother along. It happened.

However, you've never seen anyone be so succinct and blunt about their intentions with someone like him. Duarte was always very sincere in terms of his opinions and wishes, the type that went after what he wanted, and you were a little perplexed because you didn't know if that was just a friendly casualty or an invitation to sex. He could be like that. Surely you weren't the first person he got involved with there - if that was the real implication.

“You know that I still don’t like you, right?”

“I wouldn’t expect less,” Mike interjected with a head tilt. “Still, I’m having considerable success, don’t I? Making you like me a little more?”

He knew the answer. He… fucking knew, but that thing of ‘verbalize’ and shit always made him who he was. Insufferable. Annoying. Hot. Fuck.

“Nope. You’re still a bitch,” You insisted with a stubbornness that made him drop his head and sigh. “No need to fake this bothers you, Duarte.”

“Quite the opposite. And I can assure you I’m not faking it.”

Duarte didn't look away, didn't hesitate, certainly didn't even blink as he said each of those words in a volume for only you to hear. And he wasn't looking at anything but your eyes. Fixed. Direct. Diligent. This is what I want, he exuded. You didn't understand why he liked to value words so much when he demonstrated so much physically.

“... Fun, you said?” Man, you knew you were getting into dangerous territory, but you couldn't help the smirk, the teasing. “Will I need to bring my poker chips?”

“We can make it better.”

You didn't like him. And he decided that, at that point, it was pure bullshit.

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

In a way, you didn't know what to expect from his apartment. It's like that reaction you just have about people around you, natural assumptions your brain makes: what their favorite food is, what they do in their free time, why they dress a certain way. Still, after giving a lot of thought to knocking twice on his door and standing in the middle of Captain Mike Duarte's considerably large room, you didn't expect everything to be so… organized.

Maybe the idea of him just relaxing didn't cross your mind or just wasn’t something that made sense, but your prospects suggested that for a place he would certainly barely stay for very long, everything would just be messed up. There was a nice rug between the sofa and the television, the industrial style of the room kept the tones neutral but wasn't unpleasant at all. You would definitely see a place like this on one of those real estate reality shows.

The American kitchen was technically small, with a black marble counter dividing it from where you were, and that gave Duarte full view to see your surprised expression.

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

“Not what I was expecting, you mean,” He laughed at that, walking towards you with two bottles of beer in his hands.

“Value judgment, mm? I thought we were over it.”

“You're the one who said I shouldn't get my hopes up,” Your words almost didn't come out when you turned fully towards him, mainly because Duarte was closer - too close.

“What I said was that you shouldn't let your guard down.”

“Oh, so you remember things when it’s good for you, huh?”

“Of course I do. Only someone really stupid wouldn't do that.”

“Coming from you, that’s another thing that surprises me too.”

Taking one of the bottles from his hand, you continued your way through the place, calmly looking around and stopping at the window, which didn't have a very pleasant view but good enough. By reflection, you saw him approaching again. Respectfully, he kept enough distance that you could feel the heat emanating from his body behind yours. It made you take a good swig of beer; suddenly you started to get hot.

“You didn't bring the chips,” He commented.

“No. We could make it better, yeah?” You couldn’t help it again, this time turning to look him in the face with intention. “By the way, you should be more careful, Duarte. I always catch you in your own arguments.”

“It’s because you distract me.”

“So focus. Unless you’re bluffing about making things better.”

One step. He invaded your space and hovered over you, his chest almost touching yours as his eyes studied your face, but not like the conventional everyday times. Duarte had more intentions there - more interest, more opportunity. Your eyelids grew heavy, wobbly, ready to slam shut at any moment because you weren't going to be the one to initiate.

Duarte noticed that; he smirked at that.

“I said I liked you, but I think I adore you now. Quiet, concentrating and trying hard not to give in because you’re too proud to accept the fact that you thought about it too,” His hushed voice made you shiver.

“About what?”

“Us,” You didn't see, but you heard him put his almost untouchable bottle on a table by your side, just as you felt his fingers taking yours and doing the same thing. A sarcastic comment almost came out of your mouth, which didn't happen because Duarte prevented that too with a hand cupping your chin.

“Bold,” Was all you could manage to say in a broken tone.

“You're not really going to give in, are you?”

He didn't let you answer as he shook his head negatively for a moment before pressing his lips against yours. Duarte wasn’t frigid, much less discreet about his intentions. Your mouth opened at the contact almost as if it had melted and he wasted no time in deepening the kiss, which besides being good, made you grip the fabric of his henley tightly. That first contact was intense, like one of the arguments you guys had, like the occasional exchange of barbs that resulted in you huffing or raving about something. What was different there is that there was no disagreement: Mike was already taking your shirt off the bottom of your pants and you were already doing the same with him, whimpering when his skin touched yours.

The tightness in your jaw wasn't lost amid tongues tangling and clothes being discarded, and he used it to pull his face away enough to glare at you. The two of you had a look of pure fire, grabbing what you could while metaphorically fighting for dominance that, while unnecessary, made everything more interesting.

“If I put my hand inside your panties, I'll find you wet, won't I? Wet for me?” Duarte practically growled, watching how your lips turned into a smirk.

“Just like your hard dick in your pants?” You bit back. “That’s the difference between us, Captain, you can’t even hide how I make you feel.”

He maneuvered you with exceptional skill and you had to suppress a loud moan as you were taken to lie down on a sofa that was too small for the two of you, but enough for what you were about to do. Your pants were ripped off quickly and through his tousled strands of hair, you could see an animalistic need that made you even more aroused because heavens if that wasn't one of the sexiest sights you'd ever seen.

That haste only allowed him to remove one of your legs. Luckily, he didn't zip up his own dick as he pulled down his pants and underwear all at once, revealing his throbbing member.

“I’ll fuck you now, but be sure that this cock will be stuffed in your mouth soon, Lieutenant,” Duarte pumped himself twice, using a not-so-gentle grip to open your legs more.

All uncomfortable and improvised, like you haven't been dancing around each other for months. One of your legs was out of the upholstery, as was his, but that didn't stop it from penetrating your wet pussy in the right way, making you close your eyes for the wonderful sensation of that first intrusion. You moaned in unison with that. He still waited a while for you to get used to it, took his time to reach one arm over to the curtain and pull it closed.

That was the only moment of possible sanity between you, the only time he really looked at you, without provocation or desire to tease you.

“Don’t you dare,” You said.

“Not a word. For now.”

“Don't threaten me with a good time, Duarte.”

“I knew you liked it,” He leaned in to brush his lips to yours, gave a tug in your bottom one. “Nasty girl.”

If that couch was old, new, it didn't make much difference. The thing moved with every grinding of his hips, moving and creaking with the force of his thrusts. You grabbed him everywhere: his shoulders, his back, his hair, even the unfortunate couch. His pants were still halfway down his thighs and your bra was barely holding your breasts, which went from top to bottom with the firmness of his movements.

When your pussy began to tighten and orgasm seemed close, he cupped your chin again, this time pulling your face down so he could see you.

“Eyes open.”

And that's what happened, perhaps for the first time - your guard dropped. You came with a defeated, indiscreet groan; he came a little later, pulling out to spill his cum on your bare belly. The two of you looked at the scene, tried to control your panting breaths and then faced each other, just to burst into loud laughs.

“Poker, yeah?” He spoke first, pulling his underwear up and picking up his shirt off the floor to clean you up.

“Food first. Then poker. It’s Thanksgiving, after all,” You sat up. “I’ll choose the place too.”

“The place for what?”

“Take out.”

“Listen, when I said I couldn’t cook-”

“Nn-nn, Duarte. Virgin girls, remember? No children.”

“You have no timing for these types of jokes.”

“And this couch is terrible.”

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

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