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drabbles-mc · 11 months

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Stomping Grounds

Mike Duarte x F!Reader

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

Warnings: 18+, language, alcohol, light angst

Word Count: 2.7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit day got shittier.”

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

“Work?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You like your boss?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only sometimes?” he quipped right back.

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

“What about me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You looking for an apology?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t believe you.”

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

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

“I should go.”

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

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

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

“And look how that turned out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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elliot-olivia · 1 year

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#svuedit #svu #olivia benson #mike duarte #mygifs #24x12 #svu24

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tropes-and-tales · 1 year

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

“The soda was retaliation for stealing my lunch.”

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

“Why? Because of the baked ziti?”

“Nah.”

“Why then? You hate me.”

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

You shrug. “Yeah, kinda.”

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

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

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

Or not.

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

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

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

“Mike, I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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thoroughlymodernminutia · 1 year

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-SVU, s24e12, Blood Out

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

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mysoulisasunflower · 1 year

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MAURICE COMPTE as CAPTAIN MIKE DUARTE

(Gifset 3)

#maurice compte #mike duarte #mike durate #my post #law & order: svu

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the-hinky-panda · 1 year

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The Dog: Part I

Pairing: Mike Duarte x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit

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

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

Mike Duarte did not want a dog.

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

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

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

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

They stayed for an hour, had a glass of wine while he drank his third tumbler of whiskey that day. When they leave, the dog is not with them. He’s sitting next to the couch, leash still around his neck. Mike locks the door, refills his whiskey glass, and engages in a staring contest with the dog.

“Well, shit.”

***

He’s getting ready for bed when he realizes he doesn’t even know the dog’s name. He takes his watch off, setting it on the nightstand, and sits down on the side of the bed. He motions to the dog and he comes over to Mike, sitting down in front of him. There’s a tag, simple, silver and round, hanging from a red nylon collar.

“Bono?”

The dog’s ears perk up at the name. So far, the dog’s behavior has been stellar. He hasn’t jumped up on any furniture, scratched or chewed on anything. He’s followed Mike around the house, half a step behind him. He sat in the doorway of the bathroom while Mike took a shower, watching and observing. Against his better judgment, Mike reaches out and rubs his hand over Bono’s head. He hates to admit it but feeling the warmth of a living thing under his palm after so long is more satisfying than the cold glass of a whiskey tumbler.

He turns off the light and climbs into bed. He tries to ignore the pleading eyes that catch the dim light from the streetlight outside the bedroom window. But after ten minutes of staring at the ceiling, he caves with a sigh.

“Come on.”

Bono jumps up immediately on the bed, circles once, and curls up by Mike’s hip. He reaches down and rubs the soft fur between Bono’s ears briefly before rolling to his side and closing his eyes.

“Shit.”

It looks like he may have a dog.

***

Flashes of light blind him. They come so fast, like a strobe in a nightclub.

The flash from the muzzle of his gun.

The glint of steel from the machete blade.

Then there’s sprays of bright red blood on the bodega floor. The smell of gunpowder and iron fills his nose and he prays for a lucky blow to his neck so he’d bleed out quickly and it would be over.

It’s not like he has a family he would be leaving behind.

It’s not like anyone would miss him.

He wakes up sobbing, arm thrown over his face in a protective position. It’s not the first time he’s woken up like this. He’s fairly certain it won’t be the last either. But this time is different. When he tries to get up, there’s a weight on his chest. He brings his arm down from where it was slung over his face and it lands on Bono. The dog must have known he was having a nightmare and crawled halfway on top of him.

Part of him wants to shove the dog off him, go downstairs, and drink half a bottle of whiskey. He feels weak and pitied and it makes him angry. But then Bono whimpers slightly, flattens himself even more across Mike’s chest, his tail beating out a slow and steady rhythm against the down comforter.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

His heart soon slows to match the calm beat of Bono’s tail. His breathing becomes less ragged. His spirit loses some of its rage. The desire to soften the blows of the nightmare with liquor slowly fades. He brings his other hand up, runs his fingers through the soft undercoat of the dog and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, sunlight is peeking through the gaps in his curtains. Kids are outside on the sidewalk waiting for the schoolbus to pick them up. Bono is back to his original position, curled into a perfect orange and white circle against Mike’s hip. The alarm clock on his nightstand says 6:52.

It’s the first night he’s slept soundly since being released from the hospital.

***

The attack happened in January. It’s now late April. The weather is just as patchy as the leftover snow in the front yards of the homes in his neighborhood. Some days are warm, spring in the air, and other days still hold winter’s chill. Today is one of the days that winter still has its icy grip on the weather.

But Bono needs his walk so Mike is forced to pull out his down jacket and gloves. He zips up the jacket with an irritated tug. He never had issues with being cold before that night in Manhattan. He always ran hot, something his father attributed to their Cuban blood. He wonders if he lost all that fire when he lost all that blood on the scuffed floor of a bodega.

He wonders whose blood now runs through his veins.

Bono whines quietly, breaking Mike’s focus on the memory of that night. He’s not sure if it’s because the dog is excited for his walk or if somehow he knows when Mike is getting too far inside his head. Benson and Muncy both referred to him as a service dog, provided through an organization that pairs the dog with military and first responders. Benson had some kind of downtown connection, guilt over all her accusations that she had hurled at him, and now he has the dog. A service dog. He snaps the leash on the nylon collar and opens the front door.

The neighborhood is older, springing up in the 1950’s after World War II. The houses are modest craftsman with postage stamp yards, metal fences, and broken concrete sidewalks. The house had been his parents, the one he and his four siblings had been raised in. His mother died of cancer when he was in the police academy. His father died of a heart attack while Mike was undercover. All his siblings had given up on the neighborhood, on the Bronx, on New York itself. So the house was left to him.

Most of the neighbors have died or gone into nursing homes, new families now living there. He still remembers the names of the original families, the kids that he played football with in the street, his younger sister’s friends who would come over and giggle and bat their eyelashes at him, the handsome older brother. Of course he was always more interested in what his mother was making for dinner than the awkward flirting of middle schoolers.

Now, no one plays outside. The kids huddle together waiting for the school bus in the morning like a pack of gazelles gathered at a watering hole on the Serengeti. All eyes watching for BX9 or 19th street recruiters. Then when the bus returns, they scatter in the afternoons directly to the safety of their homes. He had foolishly hoped that with Oscar Papa in jail for the rest of his life that there would be some kind of reprieve. But there isn’t.

Nothing has changed.

***

Bono’s a good dog.

He doesn’t bark, doesn’t chew on anything, doesn't dig in the small backyard, and doesn’t steal food. Bono watches though, and tracks Mike’s movements through the house with an almost laser focus. He sits and waits whenever Mike is in the bathroom or kitchen. Bono lays on his bed (a two am impulse buy with an Amazon gift card from one of his sisters) in the living room while Mike reads or watches television.

Or drinks.

Being watched constantly makes his skin crawl. But that was the dog’s job: to watch.

The first seizure that Mike had was on the operating table.

The second was in the rehab center during physical therapy. He remembers trying to reach for bar and his vision blurred. He tried multiple times to grasp it but the bar kept moving. He tried to voice this observation but his tongue refused to move. He could hear the therapist asking if he was alright but then his vision completely turned psychedelic: blobs of bright lights and colors. He could hear things happening around him but it sounded like everything was underwater. Maybe he was. Maybe he had fallen into the pool. It seemed to be hours before his vision returned, the masses of light and color consolidating into healthcare workers in colored scrubs. His hearing came back as he broke the surface of consciousness again. Medical bags were open, their contents spilled across the fitness mat. A blood pressure cuff around his arm, the cold circular end of a stethoscope shifted around the bandages on his chest. The quiet murmur of the other patients as their sessions paused while he had to be looked after.

It was everything he had in him to not cry at the humiliation.

But then the third one happened at home. His sister had come down from Boston to help with the transition from rehab to his home. She was two years younger than him but had taken over as the matriarch of the family after their mother passed. She fussed over him, changed bandages, reapplied ointment to the stitches on the particularly nasty gashes, particularly the one that ran from his shoulder blade down to his hip. She cooked, cleaned, and tutted at the empty whiskey bottles that kept being added to the recycling bin in the garage.

She came home from running to the grocery store and found him on the kitchen floor, dazed, with a black eye, bloody nose, and missing an hour of time. It had been ten in the morning and the new whiskey bottle hadn’t been cracked open yet which meant alcohol wasn’t to blame for the blackout. She managed to get him on the couch before cleaning up the bloodbath on the kitchen floor. When she came back to the living room with red stained hands and tears in her eyes, he wished he had died on the operating table.

“Hermano, you need help.”

He had waved her off. Who was going to help him? Her, with her husband, three kids, and architectural career in Boston? Or his two other younger sisters? One was a teacher in Maryland and the other had a few successful Bed and Breakfasts in Maine. They all had worked hard to become successful women and get out of the Bronx. He never blamed them for that, in fact he encouraged it, especially once BX9 started becoming more prevalent. But that was all she had said about getting him help and he thought the subject had been dropped when he hugged her and sent her on her way two days later.

But then Muncy had shown up, back in the neighborhood to spend time with her brother, and stopped by to check on him. As her eyes took in the healing black eye and collection of whiskey bottles, he wondered how in the world his sister had gotten a hold of Muncy’s number.

A week later, he had Bono.

Knowing that there’s a living being that could go get help for him brings some comfort. Humiliation but also comfort. Bono watches him, ever present but never in the way. He never trips over the dog, never is pulled along when they go for a walk, and Bono stays on his side of the bed. Unless, of course, Mike has a nightmare and then he wakes up to Bono’s head on his chest.

He hates to admit it, and would certainly never admit to Benson or Muncy, but Bono is a good dog.

***

It’s on one of their walks through the neighborhood when Bono sticks a curious nose under a boxwood bush and meets the neighborhood alley cat, a large tabby the kids dubbed Diablo. The cat takes a few swipes at Bono’s nose, Mike feels a pang of sympathy for the dog. He doesn’t know exactly how to treat the bloody slashes and a quick google search of diseases feral cats can carry is enough for him to load Bono into an Uber and head over to the animal clinic up by Little Italy. He fills out the paperwork, shows the receptionist the service dog ID card on the sly. Her eyes land on the long scar across the palm of his hand and wrist and gives him a tight nod.

“There’s no payment required for emergency visits for service dogs.”

“That’s not necessary.”

Her eyebrow raises. “Cat scratch on the nose? You really want to pay about $350 for the visit and shots?”

$350? How does anyone afford a pet?

The receptionist laughs as his surprise. “ That’s what I thought. We only have one vet in today so it may be a little bit before she sees you.”

He mumbles a “thanks” and takes a seat in the corner. Bono sits dutifully by his knee but his ears are down, his eyes worried, and blood drying on his dark nose. Mike tugs the sleeve of his jacket down and wipes most of the blood off but there’s one scratch that’s pretty deep and still oozing. Bono gives him such a sad look, like he’s failed at his job. Mike scratches him behind the ears.

“At least we’ll have some matching scars now, huh, bud?”

***

You’re beautiful.

Your scrubs are smeared in muddy paw prints (he’s choosing to believe it’s mud), your hair is a disheveled mess piled on top of your head, your eyes are tired, and your face is strained with overwork.

You’re beautiful and he momentarily forgets how to speak.

“Mr. Duarte?”

There should be a Captain in there. That’s what he wants to say but he can’t get his tongue to work right so he just nods. You glance down at the file in your hand.

“And it looks like poor Bono here has officially met Diablo.”

That surprises him and loosens his tongue. “You know about Diablo?”

You stand up and pull out a bottle of antiseptic and a cotton ball. “I’ve patched up quite a few victims of El Diablo.”

He shoves his hands in his jacket and grumbles. “The cat’s a menace.”

You laugh, a short but sweet sound, as you gently hold Bono’s muzzle in your hand and swipe the cotton ball over the cuts. Bono whines but stays still and you coo soothing words to him during the process. You’re efficient in your work, purposeful, but still maintain that softness of compassion. You keep up a lilting conversation with the dog, who is looking up at you like you’re the most amazing person he’s seen. Mike wonders if this is how you speak to animals, how would you speak to a significant other? He has to block out your voice when you say “good boy” as his mind jumps to a completely unprofessional place and tries to focus on the poster about heartworms to bring the blood back up to his brain. Wait, heartworms? Is that something else he needs to worry about with Bono?

“Can I give him a treat?”

Once again it takes him a moment to process what you’ve asked him. You pull something out of your scrub pocket, a small bone shaped treat, and Bono immediately perks up. Both you and the dog are looking at him with such hopeful eyes and he immediately nods his head. God, he’s gotten so weak since the attack. He would have eaten it if you had given it to him. Bono chews loudly on the treat and Mike realizes he’s never given the dog a bone or treat in the last month that he’s owned him. He has to be the worst dog owner on the east coast. You’re looking over the chart and start to say something when he interrupts you.

“I’ve never owned a dog before.”

Despite the exhausted rings under your eyes and the many other patients waiting to see you, you smile kindly at him and close the file. “I see that he’s a service dog so that’s not uncommon at all. What questions do you have?”

There’s so many and they come all at once and he can’t triage them at all. There’s a knock at the door and a tech peeks her head inside the exam room.

“Sorry to interrupt but I just wanted to let you know that Dr. Ramirez made it in to help out.”

“Oh, thank God!”

Your eyes roll back in relief and Mike focuses on the heartworm poster again.

“She said she would cover you so you can finally grab lunch.”

The tech ducks back out of the room and your shoulders drop slightly. “Since I can finally grab something to eat, do you want to join me and we can go over some of those questions?”

His tongue is heavy again and won’t work despite him desperately wanting to answer that yes, he does want to join you for whatever time, space, action you wish to engage with him. But he can’t get the words out. Bono starts to whine, pushing his wet nose, the sting of the antiseptic hitting the new skin on his hand and wrist. It startles him but not enough to stop the progression of being pulled under the water of a seizure. His hearing starts to muffle and his vision starts to blur. He’s dimly aware of you tugging his jacket off and pushing him down onto the bench against the wall. He feels the wadded up suede of his coat under his head, protecting his skull from the hard walls. Right before he completely goes under, he catches sight of your eyes.

You’re so beautiful.

#mike duarte #mike duarte x reader #mike duarte x you #The Dog

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spaghettificationandpretzels · 5 months

Text

SP's 150 Fanfic Celebration Masterlist Completed.

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

A Cold Desert Night❤❤

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

****

A Bird's Eye View💦 💦

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

****

The Hazards of the Job😨 ❤

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

****

Fashionably Late💦❤

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

****

In Other Words, I Love You❤ ❤

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

****

Lavender Bath Drops😨❤❤

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

****

Bath Oil and Bubbles❤❤

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

****

Just the Common Cold😨 ❤❤

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

*****

When Things Go Wrong💦 😨 ❤

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

****

The Northern Lights❤

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

****

A Possessive Display ❤💦

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

****

A Comforting Embrace😨 ❤

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

#jax teller #raymond smith #frank castle #billy russo #karen page #simon ghost riley #simon riley #phillip graves #kate laswell #valeria garza #terry bruno #mike duarte #joe velasco #lyla winston #angel reyes #manny mayans mc #guero mayans mc #sp's 150 fanfic celebration

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bullet-prooflove · 6 months

Note

I wish I was who you drunk texted at midnight, Wish I was the reason you stay up 'til 3, And you can't fall asleep, Waiting for me to reply I wish I was more than just someone you walk by, Wish I wasn't scared to be honest and open, Instead of just hoping, You'd feel what I'm feeling inside (This song kills me every time)

“You drunk texted me again.” Duarte says as he perches himself on edge of your desk obscuring Joe’s view of you. He doesn’t have to see Duarte’s face to know that he’s smiling, he can hear it in the other man’s voice.

You’d come in this morning wearing aviators and an expression on your face which read ‘hungover’.

“You said to let you know when I got home.” You remind him, pushing your sunglasses up into your hair before wincing at the fluorescent lighting.

“So I did.” He says before reaching into his pocket and withdrawing something silver from his pocket before placing it upon the surface of your desk as he leans in close. “You left this at my place the other night.”

Joe raises his eyes to see you pick up the pendent you wear of Saint Michael, the one your father gave you upon graduating the academy, the one you never take off. Christ, he hates this He hates the fact that you and Duarte are starting to become a thing, hates that it’s unfolding like some sort of Hallmark movie right in front of him.

Everytime, he sees the two of you together it feels like someone is plunging a knife into his chest and twisting the blade because the thing is Joe’s been in love with you for over a year now. He’s just been too chickenshit to tell you how he feels.

“Thank you.” You say to Duarte, your fingertip’s tracing lovingly over the engraving. “You have no idea how much it means to me.”

Duarte cups your chin, tilting it up so that he can meet your gaze. Joe knows what he’s looking at, you’re falling in love with the Brooklyn Gang Captain, and it breaks his heart.

“I do, mi vida.” Duarte says quietly. “Really I do.”

#joe velasco #jose velasco #joe velasco x reader #joe velasco x you #jose velasco x reader #jose velasco x you #mike duarte #mike duarte x you #mike duarte x reader #captain mike duarte

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adarafaelbarba · 6 months

Note

Surrender my everything 'cause you made me believe you're mine

"Miguel...", your voice was barely audible as you held back sobs. The moments you'd spent together while undercover came rushing back to your memory, clouding your mind and vision. But it had all been fake, an act to not get caught. "I'm serious, y/n––I've never been more serious about anything or anyone, ever." He stepped closer to you, and as you stepped back, your back hit the wall. Your eyes scanned his face, and without thinking, you grabbed his face and pulled him in for a kiss. It was frantic and desperate, and better than any kiss you'd ever have before. The way his hands wrapped around your waist, holding you close, dominating the kiss, made your head spin, and you couldn't believe how lucky you were. "Mine." He murmured, "You're mine, y/n."

Tagging:

@plaidbooks @storiesofsvu2-0 @cycat4077 @thatesqcrush @alwaysachorusgirl @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @bisexual-dreamer02 @misscharlielulu @xoxabs88xox @muchadoaboutcj @beatrice-san @meetmeatyourworst @thats-jaywalking @cursedashes @mysoulisasunflower @crazy4chickennuggets @imaginelover88 @beccabarba @itsjustmyfantasyroom @detective-giggles @guitita @imaginelover88 @ladylionstar @achataa @nessamc @peauxheaux @silversprings-mp3 @polkadotpenguin @pepperbstark @im-a-slut-for-this-man2 @chickensarentcheap @crazy4chickennuggets @irishavengersassemble

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#my writing #law and order svu #mike duarte #mike duarte x reader

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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:

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#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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