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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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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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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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thatesqcrush · 1 year

Text

Come Back Alive

Duarte x f!reader. Spoilers for SVU 24x12 “Blood Out”

AN: listen in my SVU world, both Mikes aren’t dead, Barba’s a judge, and Rollins and Amaro are still there. Anyway, this is my fix it because I’m still not over what they did to Mike. For @adarafaelbarba bday bingo - Dangerous Woman, Ariana Grande (lyrics in italics).

WC: 1046, CW: see Blood Out - someone is attacked by a bunch of machetes. But it’s all HEA in this story.

—

“Babe, where are you?” you spoke into the phone as you chewed on the tip of your nail. “Call me when you get this. Love you.”

You let out an irritated sigh as you ended the call. You knew Mike had been under a lot of stress with BX9 and the Manhattan SVU. You left work early to surprise Mike. You treated yourself to a mani/pedi and then spent an obscene amount of money on a lingerie set that was nothing more than a strip of fabric. At home you set to task with dinner - one of Mike’s favorites. You opened a wine that both of you enjoyed - a barolo - and let it breathe.

You did your best to ignore your rumbling stomach. Your phone buzzed and you saw it was Mike. You let out a sigh of relief and responded to his text.

‘Getting a pack of smokes and then I’ll be home.’

‘See you soon. LY’

You grabbed the remote and started flicking through the channels. After putting on a movie, you decided to help yourself to a glass of wine. And then another. You brought back the bottle before you finished it all and decided to watch the movie. You couldn’t wait ‘til Mike got home.

The sound of an ambulance wailing caused you to wake up with a startle. You groaned, rubbing your eyes. It was eerily quiet.

You glanced at the digital clock and realized hours had gone by. You frowned at the realization that Mike still wasn’t home. Your gut gnawed at you. You were used to Mike working all hours - it was part of the job. Still, you couldn’t help but worry.

When you stood up, the empty glass of wine along with your phone that was on your lap fell and shattered to the ground. “Shit,” you muttered as you carefully toed around the shards of glass.

You returned with the dust pan from under the sink and then grabbed your phone from off the floor to see if Mike at least messaged you.

Your stomach dropped as you saw the dozens of missed calls and texts for you to call back. Your heart began to race and your hands shook as you listened to the voicemails.

Mike was hurt.

He was attacked by BX9.

Surgery.

Lots of blood loss.

You need to be here just in case.

It was that last message that sent you bolting to the kitchen to throw up in your sink.

Your phone buzzed. It was Muncy.

You answered, putting the phone on speaker. “Muncy what the fuck is going on?” You asked, your voice shaking. “Is Mike okay? Please don’t tell me he —“you couldn’t bring yourself to say the words, instead beginning to sob.

“There’s a car outside to take you to the hospital. I’ll explain more when you get here. Mike was attacked and he’s really hurt. You just need to get here now!”

You grabbed your purse and sprinted down the stairs of the apartment building. You could barely breathe or think straight as you flew down the stairs. You burst out of the apartment complex just as two uniforms showed up.

“It’s me! Mike’s—“

The officers nodded and ushered you to their car. The city passed by as a blur - lights and sirens overwhelming you. You began to cry again and clutched the small crucifix you wore on a chain.

You just prayed you weren’t too late.

—

Hours went by.

You wept on Muncy’s shoulder.

You went to the hospital chapel to pray.

Someone brought you coffee but you didn’t touch it.

Finally, two surgeons emerged. You squeezed Muncy’s hand tightly and she squeezed it back.

The surgeons said it was a miracle that Mike survived. He lost a lot of blood and required multiple transfusions. He was in bad shape but he would pull through.

You nearly fainted in relief. And then you promptly threw up again.

—

You found yourself sitting vigil by Mike’s bedside for days. You held his hand, rubbing concentric circles, praying that Mike would wake up soon. You needed to be there in case Mike woke up. Mike had a plethora of visitors. Muncy and Benson both tried - and failed - to convince you to go home and rest.

You were stubborn to a fault - a trait that sometimes got you called a pain in the ass by Mike. You refused each time.

One night you nodded off, slumped forward with your head on the bed, your hand still holding his.

You woke up to the feel of your hair being stroked. You opened your eyes and realized it was Mike. Your heart soared and you felt a tremendous weight lifted off your boulders.

Mike gave you a defeated smile. You leaned over him, cradling his face and then peppered him with kisses.

“I got hurt.” Mike croaked. “I live for danger.”

“You sure fuckin’ do,” you replied with a fresh set of tears. “Please don’t ever do that again.”

“Sweetheart, I’m probably going to have to put my papers in after this.”

“That’s okay.” You sniffled. “I want that. I want you home with me. I love you.”

“You are so beautiful.”

“Oh no, I look terrible.” You wiped your eyes and ran your hands through your tussled hair.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

“Benson, Muncy, Joe - the whole crew - they’re going to get these assholes. They’re not gonna stop until —“

“I know. They’ll start what I finished,” Mike replied. “I know. Now get up here.”

You looked at Mike warily. “Listen you almost became ceviche. I don’t think me climbing in bed is the best for recovery.”

Mike let out a deep laugh before wincing. “Ceviche! Ah, come on. I’m bulletproof at least.”

“I am never letting that go,” you teased.

Mike smiled. “I would hope not. But listen, I’m pretty doped up on morphine right now so I’m not feeling much pain. I’m good, baby. So get up here.”

You climbed into the hospital bed and carefully laid next to him. “You know how I’m feeling. Can we just hold each other and never let go for the rest of our lives?”

Mike squeezed your hand. “God as my witness. That’s the plan.”

FIN.

Tags: errrr lmk if you wanna be tagged for Duarte. @plaidbooks @storiesofsvu @madpanda75 @beccabarba

#mike duarte x reader #Mike Duarte x you #Mike Duarte fanfic #they did all the Mikes dirty #adarafaelbarbabdaybingo

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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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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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wooshwastaken · 1 year

Text

Snowman - Mike Duarte x Reader

Hey everyone! Just though I’d post this oneshot of our favorite Captain! Mike Duarte! Hope you enjoy!

Normally on a winter day, Captain Duarte would sit on the couch with a cup of coffee and a book in hand. But here he was, snow up to his calf. You convinced him to join you on a trip to the park. It took a while but it worked.

“Miguel, you don’t go anywhere!” You exclaimed, sitting on his lap.

And to be fair, he couldn’t deny it. He didn’t want to admit it, but you were right. He hated the snow after he was forced to watch a snowman he worked hard on was destroyed in front of him along with his love for winter by a group of bullies as a kid. He knew he needed to try again; it’s only once, right?

“Fine, I’ll go, for you mi vida” he says with newfound vigor as he gets out of his chair.

Fast-forwarding to now, he stood at the entrance to the park that damned him all those years ago. “C’mon!” You said as you tugged his arm. He shakes his head a little before the two of you enter the park. Somehow after all these years, it still looked the exact same. You both went down the trail towards the set of benches. There were other couples present, but all that mattered in the moment were the two of you.

Mike takes a seat looking at the icy scenery; suddenly, he feels something cold on his jacket. You had hit him with a snowball while he was unaware. “It’s on now princess” he snarls as he picks up some snow before chucking it at you. You duck and chuckle before tossing another at him. More snow goes flying until you both are out of breath.

The two of you plop down on the bench laughing like maniacs, Mike's worries slowly fading in your presence.

“I have something else planned” you say before pulling out a carrot and a pack of pebbles.

“Are you planning what I think you’re planning?” Mike says nervously.

“I know you haven’t done it in a while, but I want to make a snowman with you by my side. Is that okay?”

Mike nods reluctantly before you hug him tightly, your warmth thawing his icy heart. “Before we start, let’s go grab some sticks” Mike says before you both set off together to find a pair of sticks. It didn't take very long to find what you were both looking for; and so together, you both headed to the main section of the park.

“Grab snow for the lower part, I'll get some for the head” you said as you began to gather snow.

The two of you reunited minutes later to begin the assembly, starting off with the lower body, moving to the chest, finishing with the head. All that was left was the face.

“Would you like to do the honors Miguel?” You asked him cheerfully.

He looks at the blank face, sweating nervously. He hadn’t done this since the incident, those awful memories flowing through him. He can’t puss out now, not after all the work you went through to get him to even leave the house. He grabs a pebble and attaches it to the ball of snow, making out an eye. You both continue to adorn the snowman with the materials, finishing off with your hat and Mike’s scarf. Mike stands frozen in place, taking in the sight before him.

“How does it look?” You ask, excited.

“It’s beautiful” Mike says, his eyes lost in awe as if he was a child once again.

You run your hand over his cheek, grazing the stubble on his chin. “I love you, so much” he says as he kisses you with a fiery passion. The world didn’t matter in that moment; all that did was the two of you.

“It’s getting dark” you said pointing to the sky, the stars filling the night.

“In that case, let’s get going then.” Mike says in a tender tone before leaving for the car. You both get inside and Mike starts driving. “I enjoy these moments with you” You say to him as he drives. Mike can feel his heart of ice begin to melt. As he drives, the memories of that incident fade out of his mind slowly, putting him at ease.

It doesn’t take much long after to arrive at the apartment. The two of you grab your things and head inside, the warmth welcoming you in. You take your coat and shoes off as Mike does the same. “I’m gonna go set up the bed, you wanna join me?” Mike says, you agree; and so, Mike disappears into the bedroom as you move to the kitchen. You grab some milk and some chocolate bars before getting to work.

“Babe, the bed’s ready!” Mike calls out to you from the bed.

You put some marshmallows and whipped cream before going to Mike’s room.

“I made some hot chocolate” You say before setting them on the table next to the bed.

Mike sits up and grabs one of the glasses before taking a few sips. “Delicious” he says before taking some of the whipped cream and putting it on your nose. You giggle before returning the favor and kissing him.

“I enjoy every second with you Mike'' You say as you settle under the sheets, snuggling next to him.

“Goodnight, mi vida” Mike says as he kisses your forehead before trailing off to sleep, you following him quickly after.

Hope you enjoyed the story! I’ll take requests from time to time also!

#mike duarte #mike durate x you #mike duarte x reader #mike duarte x you #fluff #law & order: special victims unit #law and order svu

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kabloswrld · 1 year

Text

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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bullet-prooflove · 7 months

Note

Clandestine meetings and longing stares

With velasco?🙏🏻

Joe didn’t mean to fall in love. It was meant to be a one-night thing, something that happened after a couple of drinks, a way to blow off steam after a crazy case. The thing is it keeps happening, over and over and over again.

Joe can’t seem to help himself, now he’s had a taste he can’t stop.

It doesn’t matter that you’re married, that the two of you work together, all that Joe cares about is the press of your skin when he’s inside of you, loving you the way your husband doesn’t.

He watches the two of you now, you’re in the breakroom in the midst of another fight. Your marriage had been rocky long before he came along and it’s only getting worse. When your husband storms out of the breakroom, his eyes are on Joe. He can see the fury in them, the rage and he realises in that moment that Mike Duarte knows exactly what his wife’s been up to and with who.

#joe velasco #joe velasco x reader #joe velasco x you #mike duarte x reader #mike duarte x you #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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thoroughlymodernminutia · 1 year

Text

A Wisp of Smoke - Chapter 1 (Mike Duarte x F!Reader)

Summary: An unconventional member joins the Bronx Gang Unit.

Word Count: 3364

Content Warning: This is mildly canonical but like not really, so if that bothers you, then I’d skip. Some physical description - gave hte reader some gray hair cause I'm old and I want to represent some old people lol. Edit that out of your mind if you need to. Foul language (if that bothers you?), Gang talk, coworkers who don’t like each other, this part I don’t think has anything that would be triggering, but if you feel differently I can update the warnings.

A/N: When I tell you that I started writing this in October…it means exactly that. This has morphed into something different than I was expecting and I imagine I will have to scrap some stuff I have written once the next episode airs, so this is EVOLVING. Who even knows what this will be about by the time it’s finished. God help me. If there are typos, I apologize - I proof read this a few times and i'm sure somewhere there is something wrong

UM, Minors probably shouldn’t read this but I’m not your mother.

—-

The thing about the subway is it takes time to understand the quirks—the nuances—of the subway lines you take. The majority of your time is taking one line to and from work if you’re lucky. You’ve been taking one train line for so long, you’re at 90% accuracy of predicting when something is about to go wrong. You like the routine of it—knowing if you get to the platform right at 8:01 AM you’ll only have to wait a minute before the train comes and you’ll get to work early. It’s an art and a science, but it takes practice. It’s why taking a job so far out of your usual subway line is annoying; you have to learn it all over again. It’s made even worse by having to switch to another line, if something goes wrong on that first leg of the commute, you’re fucked for the rest of it.

And today, you feel like you’re fucked. You leave your apartment like a parent leaving for the airport; panicking about the time and trying to make sure you have everything. You feel smug catching the subway right when it pulls into the platform and getting in a nearly empty subway car. The smugness fades when you transfer to another train that happily sits between stations for 30 minutes and then decides to switch to the express track. It’s not express for you though, of course. It puts you a good mile away from where you need to be, instead of the five blocks you planned for. The extra distance isn’t an issue, for once you might show up on time without having to walk around the block ten times. It is, however, unseasonably warm for February and now your coat is overkill. You stop and take it off, juggling your bag from hand to hand as you remove it. It’s insane, not even being able to feel cold in February in New York.

While you walk the unfamiliar sidewalks of the South Bronx you think about how this is your brother-in-law Tommy’s doing. You don’t even know how or why he’s sending you up to the Bronx as some kind of backfill in the Gang Unit. You aren’t a cop, so you have no idea why they’d want you up there. You feel like it’s going to look pretty strange, a senior analyst for the NYPD in the Intelligence Bureau, joining the Gang Unit. Gangs in the Bronx aren’t really on your radar; the majority of your time is spent juggling mostly empty threats against NYC. Analyzing the message boards and social media where people spew garbage 24/7. It’s weird to think that maybe this will be a break from that.

You do know a little about Duarte’s reputation. For as much as Tommy thinks gossiping is a female trait he certainly loves to partake in it. You heard all about the drama between him and Captain Benson–Tommy was almost gleeful when recounting it. You get the impression that like most men in the NYPD Duarte is only happy when he gets his way. You could be completely wrong, it’s not like Tommy is the most reliable narrator.

—-

The precinct looks different than you thought it would. You had imagined something along the lines of a bland box with windows, but this is a beautiful limestone building. Some of the stone work looks like it belongs in an Italian palazzo in the 16th century. The inside reminds you of an old library with the heavy wood furniture and dim lighting. It’s really quite something—all these disappearing architectural gems throughout all the boroughs. As you walk towards the Desk Sergeant you wonder how much longer it will be around before the city turns it into a glassbox citing progress in the neighborhood.

When you ask where you can find Captain Duarte you realize the charm seems to end with the interior and doesn’t really extend to the people. She looks like you’ve just ruined her day by speaking to her. She nods her head towards the stairs and says it’s the third floor. You thank her, thinking maybe that’s her problem, no one ever sounds grateful for her assistance. Halfway up the stairs you do consider turning around and walking right back down and out of the building. You suppress the urge; dealing with Tommy in the aftermath of flaking would probably be worse than whatever fresh hell is waiting for you a few flights up.

You duck into the bathroom when you get to the third floor and are relieved when you find it empty. You set your bag on the edge of the sink, and drape your coat over a stall door. You turn back to the mirror and give yourself a once over. You were going for an overall look of extreme competence so you went with all black. Black silk button down, black skinny jeans, black thick soled loafers. You think maybe you look like you’re about to attend a funeral—probably your own. You hike up your jeans a little and try to ignore how much your feet hurt. You look back up to your face in the mirror to check your makeup. It still looks good; your eyeliner is intact and hopefully giving the impression that you’re precise, detail oriented. Your hair looks fine, the gray pieces framing your face, glossy under the overhead lights. You used to hate that you started going gray fairly young; you must have spent thousands covering it up over the years. At some point you stopped caring and just let it be. It came with a fun bonus, men you worked with suddenly thought you were old and left you alone. You give yourself one last once over before washing your hands. As you grab your things and head out of the bathroom you run through the little information you have like you’re cramming for a test.

An officer shows you to Captain Duarte’s office and tells you that you can wait inside, that he doesn’t know when he’ll be back. It’s very you to think that you’re going to be late to something and be the person that ends up waiting. When the officer leaves you put your bag on one of the chairs and drape your coat over the back. His desk is neat and you don’t see much in the way of personal effects on it. There’s a few books and you’re tempted to go to the other side of his desk to get a better look, but restrain yourself knowing the moment you do, he will come walking in. You sit down in one of the chairs and wait.

—-

As Duarte approaches his office he can see you sitting inside. He had put your arrival out of his mind once McGrath had told him and seeing you now throws him off for a moment. He should be prepared, he only knows what McGrath told him. Although, he’s sure that since McGrath is the one who sent you here, the information isn’t reliable. When you get up and introduce yourself, his initial impression is that you’re prissy. The way your coat is folded over the back of one of the chairs. How you’re now clasping your hands in front of you. Your outfit, a far cry from the recently departed, hoodie-clad Muncy. He can’t tell what he hates more right now, the way you look or that you were foisted on him by McGrath.

Duarte closes the door to his office and turns back to face you.

“I don’t really know what you’re doing here. You have no gang—no actual police experience. I’d wager to say you’ve never used a gun. I don’t care about your intelligence experience. Frankly, you could single handedly bring down all gang activity in this city and it wouldn’t matter to me. If you think whatever relationship you have with McGrath is going to help you here, you’re wrong.”

It’s a lot all at once and you try to ignore the way he says ‘relationship’. As if you slept with Tommy to get you a job with the Gang Unit. If you’re going to sleep your way to a new job in the NYPD, it wouldn’t be for a mostly lateral position all the way in the Bronx. You can feel yourself about to do that thing where you match the energy that’s being directed your way. It’s great when the person you’re dealing with isn’t an asshole. But if they’re looking to take the low road, well you own a home there.

“I’m sorry, I must have blacked out. I think I missed a part where you said something like ‘I’m glad to have you on the team.’”

The look on his face tells you he was expecting you to be more yielding in your response. Maybe eight or ten years ago you would have been. You’re tired of minimizing yourself to make men in the NYPD feel better.

“If I felt that way, I would have said it. This is real shit we deal with, no one here has time to babysit you.”

“Well, I’ll just have to cut the crust off my own sandwich then, won’t I?” You try to keep your voice calm. “Look, I’m good at my job and whatever it is I’m supposed to do here, I’ll be good at that too.”

Duarte grabs a box off of his desk and thrusts it at you.

“I think you’re going to find your confidence is misplaced.”

You balance the box on your hip as you pick up your coat and bag from the chair. You consider not saying anything else, but when you get to the door you turn around and smile.

“I just have to say, this has just been so pleasant. Really looking forward to working with you.”

He huffs in your general direction before turning back to his desk. You know he’s setting you up for failure—not giving you a single inch already. He’s probably looking forward to watching you spin your wheels and flame out. If there’s anyone that can dig their heels in it’s you, so if he is looking for some kind of low level fight you’re ready.

��-

You’re unpacking the box at your desk when you see a friendly face standing at the desk across from yours. It could be Satan smiling at you at this point and you’d take it. You both introduce yourselves as he sits down.

“Should I call you Jordan or Williams? I know how much everyone in the NYPD loves going by their last name.”

“Ha! True. Honestly, either is fine.”

You pull another stack of files and a hard drive out the box and look at your computer for the time. When you see it’s barely 10AM you know it’s going to be a long rest of the day.

“Well, Jordan, can I ask you something?”

“Let me guess, your face is giving me, is he always like that?”

“Ha, yes that is the question.”

Jordan lets out a sigh, “It depends. He’s still pissed at McGrath I think. After he let Captain Benson snatch Muncy from us. And then Benson gets attacked, I don’t know, there’s a lot going on.” He pauses for a moment. “It’s fucked up, but he’s probably worried McGrath sent you up here as a spy or something.”

“What if he did?”

Jordan leans back in his chair and scans your face trying to determine if you’re telling the truth.

“Did he?”

You give Jordan a wry smile.

“No. But it will be fun letting Captain Duarte think so.”

You can’t help but laugh because it’s so dumb; that someone would think you were sent up here to spy. It seems like something Tommy would do—send someone up here to unknowingly spy for him. Tommy is an idiot, but you’re not.

Jordan chuckles as he shakes his head.

“I think it’s going to be good having you around.”

You both chat a little more and you’re able to get from him what you couldn’t from Duarte; what he’s actually looking for. You already had a feeling that he wanted to treat gangs like terrorist groups and your theory proves true. It also proves true that he wanted someone with your experience but who was also a detective. He must think Tommy short-changed him with you so he could have a person on the inside. At least now you have a clearer picture of why he hates you. You’d probably hate you too if you were in Duarte’s shoes.

You spend the rest of the morning going through everything Duarte gave you. It’s strange trying to apply everything you know to a completely new set of circumstances. You can already feel some doubt creeping in. Yes you’re good at your job—but this is not that. You think that Duarte probably views you as some interloper trying to use this as some kind of play to get ahead. Take credit for fixing a problem and leave behind other growing problems. It’s only partially true; you don’t care about taking credit for things but you are an interloper. It’s not like this is really your community; you don’t live in areas impacted by gang violence. You don’t have the depth and breadth of knowledge on the specific systemic issues that allow this type of thing to flourish. With counter-terrorism it always seems like a much broader issue where the violence impacts many, where gang violence only affects the few. It’s something that you feel like you’re going to be unpacking for as long as you’re here.

Duarte and Williams leave early in the afternoon. You don’t know if you were expecting Duarte to tell you what’s going on, but he doesn’t. He just gives you an annoyed look as he passes by your desk and you give him a tight lipped smile. You think back to this morning and wish you would have taken the high road and acquiesced to his running commentary of your lack of abilities. It’s the ‘relationship’ jab that’s bothering you the most for some reason—probably because it was so unnecessary. You wish you were the type of person that could just move on from comments like that but you’re not; it’s probably why your last relationship ended. So you know you’re going to hold on to that relationship comment much longer than necessary.

With Duarte gone you feel like you can finally relax; your shoulders drop and you take a few quiet breaths. You plug in the hard drive to your laptop and try to figure out where to start. When you first started with the bureau in counter-terrorism, it was overwhelming, but you quickly found your footing. It was a lot of research and developing counterintelligence reports. It was your job to plan, research, develop, and communicate in-depth analysis of targets, networks, and issues to key leaders in the department. You know how to plan and implement strategies based on a combination of information and gut feeling. At least here you won’t be starting entirely from scratch. You have your experience—and while this is a different set of circumstances you know what’s needed. You settle in and start familiarizing yourself with all the information you have.

You want to memorize the faces, the names, everything about the people in the files and computer in front of you. You know right now the focus seems to be BX9, but you also know as these groups collapse they splinter off or join existing gangs. You work on putting something together that you can leave for Duarte. The thought crosses your mind that if he doesn’t expect anything of you then why bother, but you have enough self respect to not do that.

—-

He sees you in his office as he comes into the squad room. He can see through the open blinds that you’re standing behind his desk, looking out of the window towards the street. He was hoping you’d be gone and that he wouldn’t have to deal with you again today. He just wants some fucking peace.

“Do you need something?” Duarte’s voice is quiet as he enters his office but he sees you jump a little in place at the sound of it. As you turn around and see it’s him you half smile. He recognizes it as the kind of smile that says you didn’t want to see him either. He thinks for a moment how this could have gone differently. How he could have been given someone qualified—a real detective. He wouldn’t have this generalized annoyance he’s been feeling since this morning.

“No, sorry. Was just leaving something on your desk.”

You brush past him as you say it and it breaks him from his train of thought. He watches you grab your things from your desk and then turn to leave. He sees you stop as Williams comes back to his desk. He watches as you say something to Williams but it’s not loud enough for him to hear. Whatever it was it must have been funny because Williams laughs. Duarte calls him into his office and he hears you say goodnight as you’re walking out of the squad room.

“You need something, Cap?”

“I want you to keep an eye on her.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I need to know if she’s—”

Williams cuts him off and shakes his head.

“I don’t think she’s like that if that’s what you’re getting at. I like her.”

“Good for you. Just do what I ask.”

“Aye, aye Cap.”

Williams turns to leave and Duarte closes the office door behind him. He goes over to his desk and opens the bottom drawer and pulls out a bottle of bourbon and a glass. It’s incredible how fucking exhausted he is every day. Every day since the subway attack in Manhattan has steadily been draining him. And then Benson getting attacked and her inserting herself into the investigation; he feels like everyone is coming at him from all sides. He feels like a tire slowly losing air. He uncorks the bottle and pours himself a drink and downs it before sitting in his chair.

He mulls over the decision the DA’s office made every single day. On the surface he understood the reasoning behind it. But deeper, he felt it was a mistake, a decision made for optics. A lie that Manhattan has rid itself of BX9. That only the poor fucks in the Bronx have to deal with them from now on. Well that went out the fucking window once Benson got kicked in the ribs. If she had listened to him instead of only thinking about her case it would be a different story. Instead he has two dead kids in Rikers and he’s hunting for more. He pours himself another drink while he tries to ignore the pressure building in his chest. He’s grateful for the nearly empty floor, the quiet.

He leans in his chair and notices a manilla folder on his desk; it has a post-it with his name on it scrawled in unfamiliar handwriting. Maybe you’re already resigning, it wouldn’t surprise him. He knows he wasn’t very welcoming. He has no desire, no energy to be—this job is all consuming. He grabs the file folder and opens it. Inside he sees you’ve put together a briefing based on all the information you went through. You seem to have analyzed what you view as gaps in the systems that are being used to monitor gang activity currently. You’ve even outlined the resources you’ll need. It’s not even entirely focused on BX9–you included other gangs in your briefing, gangs that weren’t included in the information he gave you. He feels a little sting of something reading through everything. He can’t tell if he’s impressed or irritated that you put this much together in a day. He realizes that he knows almost nothing about you, having put in almost no effort to find out. He closes the folder and starts making some calls. He wasn’t expecting so much from you on your first day.

#mike duarte x you #mike duarte x female reader #captain mike duarte x female reader #a wisp of smoke

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tropes-and-tales · 1 year

Note

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or the rule of no feelings.

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

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

Next step is to finally admit it to you.

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

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

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

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

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

“I asked you to stay. I meant it.”

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

“They’re stupid fucking rules.”

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

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

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

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

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

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the-hinky-panda · 1 year

Text

The Dog: Part IV

Author’s Note: So if you guys follow @bullet-prooflove, you know that The Dog and The North Star take place in the same fic universe. The vet in this story does have a name (Meredith) but I will continue to write her as a reader by using you/your and have Mike refer to her by using nicknames only. All this to say I’m not sure how to label this now since she has a name but it won’t be used in this fic.

Another note, I do use physical descriptions in this chapter (freckles and red hair) but I do it for a bigger purpose. Yes, no descriptions are more inclusive, however I wanted to make a point that she is self-conscious of her looks because don't we all have something that we don't like about ourselves? Don't we all have something that we want to change? And how wonderful is it when we surround ourselves with the right people that love us and all our imperfections? So please forgive the physical descriptions in this chapter as they were only done to deliver an important message: love your freckles!

You stand in front of the mirror and inspect your face. Your fingers trail over the splashes of freckles across your round cheeks, your face framed by your red hair. You’re not beautiful. At least, not by social media standards. No one is going to stop you on the street and want to take your picture, make a model out of you. You’re not destined for Instagram fame. It makes you wonder what Mike sees in you, what prompted him to ask you out to dinner at a local brewery. Mike, with his roguish good looks and witty sense of humor; warm brown eyes and easy smile. And dear lord, those adorable dimples.

You dig out a tube of concealer, specific for freckles and other skin blemishes. Your ex, Kevin, had found it for you. He hadn’t been a fan of your freckles and often urged you to cover them up as best you could. You always kept a tube of the makeup on hand in case he wanted you to join him at a pharmaceutical rep party or just go out for drinks with some of his friends. Holding that small tube in your hand, you wonder if you’re really ready to try out another relationship with someone new. All the masks that need to be worn and maintained, you just didn’t know if you had it in you.

So, why try?

If Mike is going to like you, it’s going to be for you. You drop the make up back into the drawer and continue with your normal, basic routine. Simple make-up, a loose twist to keep your hair back from your face, and small gold hoop earrings. Shasta watches you curiously, her head cocked to the side, not exactly sure what this new routine is. It’s pretty sad when the dog is wondering why you’re dressing up. You pat her head as you leave the bathroom.

“You’re coming with me, don’t worry.”

Shasta follows you into the bedroom where the second struggle of evening occurs: what to wear? Your wardrobe consists mostly of scrubs. It’s been about six years now since your divorce and you’ve never really gotten back onto the dating scene and your clothes show that. You’re able to find a green blouse to go with your jeans and flats. You grab a navy blue cardigan since you’ll be sitting outside at the brewhouse. You give yourself one last look in the mirror, releasing a long sigh to try to dispel some of the butterflies that have taken up residence in your stomach.

You had forgotten this part of life. This nervous thrill that makes you feel nauseous but you can’t wait to see what the evening is going to bring. It’s a knife’s edge balancing act of being yourself but just the likable pieces. Honest, authentic but keeping the odd and messy parts of yourself still hidden from view. You pick up Shasta’s harness, try to get the dog to stand still and it takes three attempts to wrestle the harness on her body. It doesn’t help that her short tail is wagging so excitedly, you struggle snapping the enclosures. You stand up, grab your keys, and look at the dancing dog in front of you.

“If Mike doesn’t like me, it’s your fault,” you joke. “Maybe Bono can teach you some manners, you wild red dog.”

You get Shasta secured in the backseat of the Subaru and make the ten minute drive over to Mike’s place. Any nervousness that you may have felt while getting ready completely dissipates when you see him, sitting on his front porch, Bono sitting next to him. He’s dressed up his regular henley with a plaid button shirt and has his suede jacket thrown over his arm. You’re struck once again with what a handsome man he is with his confident gait, wavy dark hair, and warm brown eyes. Maybe you should have worn the concealer this evening and you silently chide yourself as he gets Bono situated in the backseat next to Shasta before sliding into the passenger seat of your car.

“You look nice.”

You turn your head to hide the nervous, pleased smile that erupts on your face. “Thanks. You look nice too. Have you ever been to the Bronx Alehouse before?”

He shrugs halfheartedly. “Once or twice.” He glances behind him at Bono. “Guess I better get better acquainted with it.”

“You know that Bono can go into any restaurant you want. You don’t have to go to dog friendly ones only.”

“I certainly don’t want to leave Shasta out of the good times though.”

“That’s very kind of you. Shasta appreciates it.” You glance to the side and catch his smile that’s just large enough to cause that dimple to appear in his cheek. If it were even possible, you fall more in love with the man. You park a couple blocks away from the restaurant to give the dogs a chance to walk off some of their energy. Well, for Shasta to walk off her energy. Bono trots right at Mike’s side, the perfect gentleman.

They seat you outside on the sidewalk patio where they provide water bowls next to the table for the dogs and your waitress slips both dogs a small treat when she takes your drink orders. You chat about what has transpired in the last week of your lives, what has happened since that beautiful day spent at Orchard Beach. Your update is short and sweet: working overtime at the clinic. Although the finding of a litter of fox pups did make for an interesting day a couple days ago. His update is more interesting.

“My sister from Maryland came up for a few days.”

You know from the texts and calls that have been going back and forth between you two that he has three sisters along the East Coast. “She’s the teacher, right?”

“Right,” he picks up his beer and takes a sip. “So she cleaned the house, stocked my pantry, and fussed over me for three days before heading back to Baltimore. Then I paid a visit to the training center where Bono came from, learned a bit more about what goes into training a service dog and what they’re capable of doing. There were some dogs there that were being trained to sniff out cancer in people.”

“I’ve heard of that but haven’t seen any dogs in action yet. Dogs are incredible animals, extremely adaptable to a variety of situations and environments. They’re loyal, loving, dedicated. It makes me wonder what we humans did to deserve them.”

He laughs but there’s very little humor behind it. “Certainly nothing that we’re currently doing. The world’s a mess.”

You get it. You understand his bleak world view at the moment. Colin had it too after his accident. But Mike’s nihilistic vision comes from years of seeing the worst of humanity while on the police force. The last five years he’s spent chasing down Oscar Papa certainly hasn’t shown him the best of humanity either. “Maybe that’s why we have them. As reminders that we can be good enough people to deserve the love of our dogs.”

“How do you do that?” The bitter edge of his perception dissipates and there’s genuine curiosity behind his words. “How do you stay so positive after all the horrible shit you see too? The animal abuse? Abandonment?”

You shrug. “I guess I take peace in the thought that I’m not one of those people. I care for the animals, treat them, heal them, rehome them. I can’t stop people from being jerks and assholes, but I certainly can help fix what they’ve broken. You can’t make the world a better place without someone out there trashing it.”

The warmth comes back to his smile and his eyes. “That’s a commendable attitude then.”

“Thank you,” you raise your beer glass in his direction before taking a sip. He starts to say something else when your name is shouted across the patio and your blood runs cold. You can’t believe he would be here, in the Bronx, at this restaurant, at this exact time. But you hear your name again and when you turn, your eyes are immediately drawn to the extremely well-dressed blonde man who is waving at you.

“Who’s that?” Mike asks, a sense of wariness creeping into his tone.

“My ex-husband, Kevin.” You hope against all hope that he and his bubbly little girlfriend go back inside the restaurant but that is not your luck. The two of them, arms draped over each other in their high-end clubbing gear, make their unsteady way over to your table.

“Hey, babe.”

You twist the corner of the napkin in your lap. “Not your babe, Kevin.”

His blue eyes land on Mike. “Yeah, I can see that. Kevin Bradford.” , the ex. This is Wendy.”

“Mindi,” she corrects with a high-pitched giggle.

Mike reluctantly shakes his hand. “Captain Duarte.”

Mindi emits a small squeal of surprise. “You’re that police guy who got hacked up by-“

“Yes, I am,” Mike cuts her off.

Kevin grabs two chairs from another table and pulls them up to your table. “That’s fucking rad, man.”

“Kevin!” You feel the tips of your ears heat up with a flash of anger.

“What?” He shrugs. “How many dudes can say they went a few rounds with machetes and lived to tell about it? Like, that is fucking badass, legendary.” Kevin lightly smacks Mike’s arm. “Bet it gets you a lot of action from the ladies, am I right?”

Mike gives Kevin a sharp smile. “Not quite.”

“Oh,” Kevin shrugs. “Guess you haven’t gotten your strength back yet. In that case,” he points to you, “she’s a good one to break you back into the game. Doesn’t ask for much but puts out-“

Abject humiliation overtakes you to the point that you’re practically strangling the napkin that is still in your lap. Mike’s eyes flash and he starts to say something when Mindi interrupts him.

“Awww,” she coos and reaches towards Bono. “What a cute doggie!”

“Please don’t touch my dog.” Despite the directness of the command, Mike does soften his tone with the young woman and she immediately withdraws her hand.

“Sorry. Is he a service dog or something?”

“He is,” Mike answers. “I forgot his vest tonight. It’s okay.”

You’re once again impressed with how easily Mike can read a situation, measure people up, and respond to them. He’s like a social swiss army knife. You do take pity on the poor girl and scoot your chair out slightly. “You can pet my dog if you want. Her name is Shasta.”

The woman’s face lights up as she gives Shasta a vigorous rub on her back. “What a good girl, Shasty. I’m Mindi.”

“Hey, hey,” Kevin leans over and bumps her shoulder with his. “Save some of that hand energy for later, babe.”

You roll your eyes and look over apologetically at Mike. He responds with a “what the hell were you thinking” look but where there should have been judgment in his eyes, there was a soft mirth. Some of your humiliation fades. The sun has set enough that the lights on the patio turn on and brighten the outside area significantly. Kevin looks over at you and motions to your face.

“You run out that concealer? I can get you more if you want.” He motions towards Mike and lowers his voice. “You know, since you’re trying to impress someone new. Trust me babe, no one likes looking at…that.”

“Oh, is that the stuff you got me?” Mindi pipes up and turns back to you. “It’s fabulous and will totally cover all those freckles and spots. It’s a miracle in a bottle.”

Freckles and spots. You want to disappear again. You and your freckles and your red hair and your odd sense of humor and…

“She’s not trying to impress me,” Mike’s sharp tone draws all three sets of eyes to him. “I’m already impressed.” He picks up his beer. “Besides, I love her freckles.”

Kevin bursts out laughing. “What is this, your first date? Shit, man. You don’t have to try that hard with her. You already got a cool dog. If she hasn’t slept with you yet, trust me, she will soon.”

“Kev, be nice,” Mindi says but it’s quiet and half-hearted.

He drapes an arm around her shoulders. “Honey, you do realize this is my ex-wife. The one who dumped all my things in the front yard, in the rain, for no reason.”

“No reason?!” You’re halfway out of the chair when you realize your anger has moved you to your feet. People’s heads have turned in your direction and you slowly sit back down at the table. You remember that horrible night in vivid detail. You and Sam dragging Kevin’s Armani suits, fifty pairs of shoes, and exercise equipment out of the house. You still don’t know how the two of you managed to move a full size treadmill but rage at his behavior that night certainly was a solid motivator. “You showed up drunk to Colin’s funeral.”

“Who wants to go to funerals?” Kevin counters. “So I knocked a couple back at the bar down the street. Me and half the people there that night had been drinking before showing up.”

“Yeah but you were the only one that leaned his fucking elbow on my brother’s casket.” The disbelief and fury you had felt when you had seen that, his lean frame casually leaning on the highly polished wood of Colin’s casket roars to the surface again. You want to punch him in his smug face but instead you ball up the napkin that you’ve been twisting in your lap and throw it at his head.

Mike stands up from the table and tosses a twenty dollar bill on the table. “Okay, we’re done. Enjoy the table, Kevin. Mindi, my advice would be get the hell out now.”

“Dude,” Kevin throws his arms out. “What happened to bro code? Bros before hoes.”

Mike grimaces. “Exhibit A, Mindi.”

You’re humiliated and angry. You had been looking forward to this evening, excited for this new start with a charming, kind, and good man. And you’ve ruined it because Kevin decided to darken the door of this restaurant and bring out the worst of you. Mike has his phone in his hand, most likely getting ready to call an Uber and retreat from this clusterfuck. You don’t blame him at all. You’re so lost in your thoughts, berating yourself for your outburst, that it must take Mike a couple times of saying your name until you hear him.

“What?”

He smiles at you, warmly, and extends his hand that isn’t holding Bono’s leash. “Come on. I know a better place.”

You breathe a sigh of relief and take his hand before he changes his mind. His hand is warm, broad and it helps ground you in the storm of your fury. It takes a couple tugs for Shasta to follow you, as she doesn’t want to leave her new, loud and giggly, friend but eventually you, Mike, and dogs soon find yourselves back on the sidewalk.

“I’m so sorry, Mike. I had no idea-“

“Don’t worry about it. I have an ex-wife, I get it. They call it baggage for a reason.”

You sigh and drop your shoulders, the tension finally releasing as you start moving down that sidewalk back towards your car. “Thank you, for understanding.”

You walk a block and stop to wait for the light to change when he squeezes your hand. You realize you never let him go from the restaurant. You give him a small smile and he leans over and presses a quick kiss to your cheek. “I like your freckles. Don’t ever cover them.”

Oh yeah, you were completely and utterly head over heels for this man.

#mike duarte x you #mike duarte x reader #mike durate #captain mike durate #law and order svu #mike duarte x ofc #maurice compte

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