Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The elevator ride down was weird for—if Mike had to guess—about seven seconds.

Him and Harvey, shoulder to shoulder in a space as confined as it was any other day of the week, was nothing new. The awkward silence, the pointed inability to look at each other, that was new.

For the seven seconds it took Mike to say, "So, are we just going to stand here, or...?"

And for Harvey to say, "Standing is what people do in elevators, Mike. Try and keep up."

Then for Mike to say, "I'm just saying, there's nobody else here to impress with our unblinking stoicism."

Harvey nodded slowly, the ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth. "So, what then? Twenty questions?" His gaze drifted down, from Mike's eyes to his mouth, and then back again. "Favorite color? Dream vacation? First memory?"

"What kind of tree would you be?" Mike countered, a grin tugging at his own lips.

"An inane question if I've ever heard one," Harvey said. "Why, the mighty oak, of course. Strength, endurance, provides shelter for lesser creatures." He paused. "You, on the other hand..."

"What, I'm not a tree at all? I'm a squirrel the tree deigns to allow on its branches? A bird that nests in its—"

"You are a goddamn English ivy," Harvey said. "Invasive. Looks beautiful from a distance, but if you turn your back for a second, it'll swallow your entire house." The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to the lobby. Harvey gestured at the empty space with an exaggerated flourish. "Get the hell out of my metaphor. Try not to choke any potted plants on your way out."

Harvey's driver was waiting at the curb, the car's engine idling with a quiet purr. 

How in the world Ray was always there, always on time, without any texts, no calls, no warning, was one of the great, unspoken miracles of their world.

He was microchipped, maybe. Some kind of little button Harvey pressed under his skin that sent up a bat signal.

This is what Mike's brain was doing as Harvey opened the rear door and slid in first. This is what it was doing as he followed him, sinking into the buttery leather next to him. This is what it was doing as the partition between them and Ray rose with a soft hiss, sealing them in their own little world of leather and tinted glass.

Harvey's world.

"Okay, new game," Mike said, once they were moving, the city lights smearing past the windows. "One of us says a word. The other person has to say the first thing they think of."

"No," Harvey said.

"Well, I'm not the guy who designed Pearson Hardman offices to be made entirely of glass, am I? I wasn't consulted on the see-through nature of the conference room walls. I wasn't—"

"You know that the offices were pre-existing, right?" Harvey said. "That Jessica didn't build a new tower from scratch with the express purpose of your personal inconvenience?"

"Well, obviously," Mike said. "But somebody, somewhere, made the executive decision to make the walls out of glass. And that person is an exhibitionist, or a sadist, or a sadistic exhibitionist, and either way, I—"

"Mike."

"Okay, I'll start," Mike said. "Basket."

"No."

"Dude, come on," Mike said. "Basket. First thing you think of."

Harvey let out a long, slow breath. He was looking at Mike's mouth again, and that was getting to be a problem.

"Groceries," Harvey said, the word sounding like it had been pulled out of him with a pair of pliers.

"Wow," Mike said. "What does that say about your psyche? Of all the baskets—picnic, laundry, fruit—I mean, do you even buy your own groceries?"

"I do," Harvey said. "It's... meditative. Sometimes. Not often. Rarely. Almost never."

"That's a thought. How rich do you have to get before you stop buying your own milk?" Mike asked.

"It's not about reaching a number. It's about the value of one's own time versus the mundanity of the task," Harvey said.

"That's... Harvey, do you hear how condescending that is?" Mike asked. "Like, for the person who buys your groceries for you? Or is it okay because they can't hear you?"

"One, I'm not devaluing their time because I'm paying them for it," Harvey said, and he turned to face Mike fully, the city's lights catching across the contours of his face. "And two, my capitalist sins are my business."

And, okay, Mike wasn't going to win an argument about the value of labor with a corporate lawyer, especially not one who was currently paying a man to drive them around while they played the world's most awkward game of pre-fuck word association.

But he was winning the actual game they were playing, even if Harvey was pretending not to play. Because Harvey had been right. He was invasive, and he was going to swallow Harvey's whole goddamn existence.

Shit.

He needed to get a handle on himself before he went and said something insane. Insaner than what Harvey had already said to him.

"Uh... suit," Mike said. "First thing."

Harvey scoffed.

"What?" Mike snapped.

"What are the rules of this game, exactly?" Harvey asked. "Either it's my turn to give the word, or you just replied 'suit' to 'groceries.' Pick a wrong."

Mike's head thudded against the headrest. "Game over."

"Game over because you don't know the rules to your own game?" Harvey asked.

"Game over because you're a pain in the ass," Mike said. "You know exactly what I'm trying to achieve here, but if you want to sit in silence so bad, by all means. Have at it."

Harvey's smirk widened into an eye-crinkling smile, the kind that always made Mike feel a little like he won something, way before he ever knew there was an undercurrent of... everything that was happening right now.

"The least you can do is choose interesting words," Harvey said. "I'm not going to waste my synaptic energy on 'basket.'"

"Then you go," Mike said, gesturing with a wave of his hand. "Dazzle me."

"Bin Laden," Harvey replied.

"Damn it, Harvey," Mike said.

"I think about him sometimes."

"Everybody thinks about him sometimes."

"I know a guy who knows a guy whose ex-wife slept with his cousin," Harvey said. "Is that anything?"

"Is that... a good thing, or a bad thing?" Mike asked.

"The wider Bin Laden family condemns his actions, so I imagine it was fine," Harvey said. "It's not like he was calling the guy up asking for money."

"Osama calling the cousin or vice versa?"

"You have a real talent for identifying the least important detail of a sentence and interrogating it until it cries uncle." Harvey shifted in the plush leather of the seat, moving just a fraction of an inch closer. "So what's your word, El Capitan? Don't say 'plane.'"

Mike's head lolled to the side, a tired laugh bubbling up from his chest. "Uh... porn."

"No, it's not, you're just trying to get a rise out of me," Harvey said.

"Okay, first of all, you can't say shit like 'get a rise out of' like you don't know what you're doing," Mike said. "And second, yes it was. They found porn in his, like, compound, or whatever. I don't know. I don't follow politics. I'm busy."

"Busy committing felony fraud," Harvey supplied.

"That," Mike said. "Exactly that. So, go."

"Go what?" Harvey asked.

"I said 'porn,' you say..." Mike trailed off, gesturing for him to continue.

"No, not 'go.' You changed the rules again." Harvey was definitely smiling now.

"'Porn' is the new word I pick," Mike said, a little annoyed and a lot more interested in the segue he was trying to orchestrate than the dumb game he'd invented. "Unrelated to the first one. My word is 'porn.'"

"You are neither subtle, nor discreet," Harvey said.

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"It was in spirit."

"It was, in spirit, me saying that your attempt to get me to talk about sex is transparent and clumsy, and that you should have more respect for your craft."

This was good.

This was great, actually.

They were arguing, but it was a warm-weather argument. A summer shower argument. They weren't fighting about things that mattered, or things that could get them disbarred or arrested or shot in the back of the head.

"And I said it, in spirit, because I want to know what kind of porn a guy like you would watch, and I figured if I could get you to say a word, we could work from there," Mike countered. "And because you're too chickenshit to kiss me in the back of a town car, so we have to find something else to fill our time."

"Ah," Harvey said. "We're back to 'chickenshit.'"

"Never left, buddy."

"I'm not a viewer, I'm a participant," Harvey said, and the line was delivered with such effortless, devastating cool that Mike felt like he should look around for the hidden cameras. "I don't have the kind of free time that requires digital aid to fill a void."

"You're a liar," Mike said. "You have a penthouse the size of Delaware, you work a hundred hours a week, and you're allergic to intimacy. There's a void in there the size of the Grand Canyon, and you can't tell me you've never tried to fuck it empty."

"We weren't talking about fucking, we were talking about porn," Harvey replied, but he'd lost some of his polish. Mike was getting under skin he'd only just learned he could touch. "If I don't have time to buy my own groceries, I'm certainly not wasting the rest of it watching poorly lit strangers work out their own issues on a rented sectional sofa."

"Nobody said it had to be low-budget," Mike said, pressing his advantage. "You'd be into the high-end stuff. The... shot-on-35mm, scored-by-a-real-composer—"

"Mike," Harvey snapped, suddenly sharp, the warm breeze giving way to a cold front. "Stop."

Mike flinched, just a little. He'd hit a nerve. Not a fun, teasing nerve. A real one. And he'd done it by accident, by pushing too hard, by forgetting that the ground they were on was still shifting.

"Okay," Mike said, pulling back physically, pulling back metaphorically, raising both of his hands in surrender. "I'm stopping. Sorry."

But Harvey didn't want him to pull back, and that was the crazy-making part of this entire night. Because the second Mike retreated, Harvey pursued.

Harvey unfastened his seatbelt and was crowding Mike against the window before he could even register the click of the buckle. He had one hand planted on the leather seat next to Mike's thigh, the other coming up to brace himself on the glass by Mike's head.

The city was a dizzying kaleidoscope of neon and headlights through the window behind him, but all Mike could see was Harvey.

"I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to analyze it, I don't—" Harvey's voice was a low, strained growl. "I don't want to know what kind of porn you watch, or who you think about in the shower, or which one of your little girlfriends taught you how to kiss like that."

Oh.

Oh.

The snapping wasn't about Harvey's weird aversion to being a normal human being.

It was about Mike being a normal human being.

Mike had a history. He had a life before Harvey, during Harvey. Mike had a body that other people had touched.

And Harvey Specter, the goddamn king of cool, was jealous.

He was green-eyed, knuckle-whitening, jaw-clenching jealous.

Mike could see it the flash of it in Harvey's eyes, bright and hot and possessive, and Mike had lit the fuse without even knowing it.

So, he did what any self-respecting idiot in his position would do. He threw fuel on the fire.

"Her name was Sarah," Mike said quietly. "High school sweethearts, first loves, all that. We lost our virginities to each other in the back of her dad's—"

"Don't," Harvey bit out, closing the last inch of space between them, erasing the words with a kiss that made Mike worry he might merge with the seat cushions from the force of Harvey's body against his.

Essential. Keystone. Why.

Mike felt it, what had to be it, at least a fraction of it—the inking of... fear was a strong word, but it was there. The idea that this was just Harvey, just how he was with anyone who managed to get this close.

"Harvey," Mike breathed against his mouth. "Her dad's minivan. That's where I learned."

Harvey made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat and bit down on Mike's lower lip. The kiss was brutal, a punishment for a life Mike had lived before he knew he was supposed to be saving it all for Harvey Specter.

This wasn't... Mike wasn't... he was.

Maybe Harvey was too.

Mike's hand found Harvey's hip first, fighting the irritating bunch of his suit pants at the crease of his thigh. From there, it was an easy slide to palm Harvey through the fabric.

And that—that was a revelation.

He was already hard.

He was hard from a kiss, from a conversation, from... god, Harvey was hard for him.

The groan that tore out of Harvey's chest was a thing of beauty, swallowed by the desperate press of their mouths. His hand flew from the window to fist in Mike's hair, holding him in place, like he thought Mike might try to get away.

Like Mike would ever, in a million years, try to get away.

Mike rubbed him slowly, learning the shape and heat of him through the wool. Harvey bucked into the touch, a complete loss of control that was so un-Harvey that it made Mike feel invincible.

"Mike," Harvey gasped, turning his head just enough to get the word out, pressing his cheek to Mike's like he couldn't bear to be separated by a full inch. "The partition isn't soundproof."

"Couldn't afford the upgrade? With all that non-existent free time, I'd have thought you'd need to optimize travel for—" The rest of the sentence was lost as Harvey kissed him again, shutting him up, shutting him down.

But Mike wasn't done. 

He was never done when it came to getting a rise out of Harvey, and this was the most fascinating rise he'd ever seen.

"—getting the job done between point A and point B," Mike managed, a choked whisper as Harvey's lips traveled down the line of his jaw. "Cab fare in her hand before she's even fixed her lipstick?"

"Stop," Harvey growled, muffled against Mike's throat, because he wasn't pulling away. He was burying himself deeper.

"Or do you just hop out at a rolling stop and have Ray take her home? Classy," Mike said, pressing his palm harder, a slow, firm circle that made Harvey's whole body seize.

Mike was pushing, he knew he was pushing. He was poking at the freshly exposed wiring with a wet finger, just to see it all spark.

"In a percentage, how often would you say breakfast is involved?" Mike asked breathlessly.

"For you? It's going to be zero percent if you don't shut your mouth," Harvey warned, the emptiest threat Mike had ever heard. The proof was currently grinding against Mike's hand, yanking at his hair like he wanted to rip it out by the roots.

"I don't believe you," Mike whispered. And then, because he was an agent of chaos who had just discovered he was living in a world without consequences, he went for the kill. "I like omelets. With the cheese folded in, not just sprinkled on top. Do you want the rest of the specifications now, or is this a bad—"

Mike was cut off by Harvey's hand flying from his hair to his mouth, a clumsy press of fingers against his lips.

Mike's tongue darted out, a slow drag over Harvey's fingers, and Harvey's breath hitched against the shell of Mike's ear. For a second, Mike thought Harvey was going to shove his fingers into his mouth, and the thought was so overwhelmingly hot that he had to bite back a groan.

But the car was slowing down. The streaks of city lights were resolving into distinct shapes, into the familiar, canyoned streets of lower Manhattan.

Harvey pulled back reluctantly, his fingers still pressed against Mike's lips. He looked at Mike, and Mike had no idea what he saw, but it made something in Harvey's face go soft.

When Harvey finally pulled his hand away, he dragged those same two fingers over his own lips, like he was catching Mike's taste. 

The worst part was that it didn't even seem like it was on purpose. It was just reflex, a goddamn biological imperative to not let a single drop go to waste.

The car rolled to a smooth stop.

Harvey blindly found Mike's seatbelt, fumbling with the buckle until it clicked. He pushed himself back to his own side of the car with an effort that looked monumental, straightening his tie, smoothing the front of his jacket, trying to pull himself together. He was wiping Harvey Specter back onto his face, but it wasn't quite sticking.

He leaned forward to press the intercom button as he swung his door open. "See you in the morning, Ray."

"Have a good night, Mr. Specter," Ray's disembodied voice replied.

Mike couldn't help but wonder how many times Ray had been party to a scene like this in this very car. How many "good nights" he had delivered to Harvey as Harvey fled the scene just as hard as he'd been in Mike's hand. He wondered how much of the man's salary was hazard pay.

Mike slid out of the car behind Harvey, the cool night air hitting him like a slap. He felt unsteady on his feet, and for just a second—just one—he was certain that the handoff at the Chilton had gone bad, different bad, bad bad, and that this was all just a vivid, oxygen-starved hallucination before the lights went out for good.

Then Harvey's hand was on his back, guiding him toward the same set of doors Mike had pushed through twenty four hours ago under very different circumstances.

"Last chance to back out, rookie," Harvey said, his body pressing Mike forward more than his hands. "Go home, sleep it off. You can chalk it up to stress and proximity to superior wit." He leaned in close, his words a low murmur against Mike's ear. "I won't hold it against you."

His tone was playful, teasing, but Mike was certain that he was dead serious.

If Mike left, Harvey would let him go. He would let him walk away and never bring it up again. He would let them both retreat to their respective corners to lick their wounds. He would let the wound heal over into a thick, ugly scar that they would both have to look at for the rest of their working lives.

Fat fucking chance.

"Are you going to call me 'rookie' in bed?" Mike asked. "Because I have to be honest, I'm not super into that." Mike paused. "I mean, I'm not not into it. I could be into it." Another pause. "I'll let you know."

Harvey's laugh was the kind of thing you could build a religion around. "Get in the elevator before I change my mind."

Mike did, pressing his back against the wall opposite the doors. "So... elevator part two. Anything to say to me now that you couldn't say to me then?"

Harvey watched the numbers climb above the elevator door. "I'd like to fuck you against a window."

Mike had to grab the handrail for support. "Jesus, Harvey."

Harvey.

Window.

Against.

Mike's brain was short-circuiting, trying to string together a coherent thought, a coherent response, a coherent anything, but all he had was the image. Him. Harvey. Glass. City.

Harvey fuck him.

Was that... was that was it sounded like? Or did he mean A fucks B in a general sense? Not... not A fucks B.

The corner of Harvey's mouth kicked up in a lazy smirk, and Mike had to fight down the urge to press the emergency stop button.

Mike had no idea how they made it from the elevator to Harvey's front door.

He was aware of Harvey's hands, and the fact that they were the only things keeping him from running down the hall like a racehorse out of the gate. He was aware of the sound of Harvey's keys, the jangle of them, and the way he didn't realize he was pressing close to Harvey's back until he was flush against him.

Harvey pressed right back like it was nothing, like he'd been expecting it. He unlocked the door, and pushed it open, and the next thing Mike knew, he was being pushed inside, his heart racing just as hard as it had the last time he'd crossed this threshold.

But this was different. This was the kind of fear he wanted to chase.

The door clicked shut behind them, and the city lit up the entire apartment like a stage set. And Harvey... Harvey was looking at Mike like he was the only thing worth looking at.

"There are a lot of windows in here, I've noticed," Mike said conversationally.

"And?" Harvey asked.

Mike let out a shaky breath. "Just an observation."

The distance between them evaporated. Harvey's hands were in Mike's hair again, and Mike was kissing him, or Harvey was kissing him, or they were both just trying to inhale each other.

Mike fumbled with Harvey's coat, pushing it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor.

Harvey sighed deeply. "And so it begins."

He pulled away, bending at the waist to pick up the coat, folding it neatly and draping it over the back of the couch.

"And..." Mike swallowed hard, his ability to not press his luck completely gone. "If I told you to just leave it?"

Harvey looked at Mike, then at the coat, and back at Mike. "I might leave it."

Holy shit. 

"But you'd want to pick it up."

"More than you could possibly imagine."

"You can throw my clothes on the floor," Mike offered. "You can wad them up and throw them in a corner. You can use them as a coaster."

"Now you're just trying to distract me with dirty talk," Harvey said, loosening Mike's tie, his knuckles brushing against Mike's throat.

"It's working, isn't it?" Mike asked.

"It is," Harvey conceded, pulling the tie over Mike's head and tossing it over his shoulder. Mike didn't see where it landed, and he didn't care.

Mike leaned into it, expecting Harvey to go for his shirt next, to fumble with the buttons, to get frustrated and just rip it open. But Harvey didn't.

His hands lingered at Mike's collar, and then they went out, over Mike's shoulders, down Mike's arms, taking a slow inventory of him like he was checking for damage.

His thumbs brushed inside the crooks of Mike's elbows, and Mike shuddered.

"Ticklish?" Harvey asked.

"You wish," Mike lied.

Harvey's fingers traced the line of bone in Mike's wrist, then took his hand and held it up to the light from the windows. He looked at the hand for a long moment before he raised it to his lips, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the center of Mike's palm.

Mike's knees nearly buckled.

"Quick question," Mike breathed. "Do you believe in God?"

Harvey huffed a quiet laugh against Mike's palm. "I'd call myself agnostic on a good day. Do you want to let me in on the punchline?"

"Just... pondering a few things," Mike said.

"I'm ethnically Jewish, if that helps," Harvey said, and he turned Mike's hand over, kissing the inside of his wrist this time.

Huh.

"Huh," Mike said.

"Huh?"

"No, it's just... I don't know, I always figured you for, like, generically Protestant or something," Mike said. "No offense."

"My last name is 'Specter,'" Harvey said, tracing his thumb up the line of Mike's throat.

"It's also a noun," Mike said, his head tilting to the side to give Harvey better access. "Doesn't mean anything."

"Boy genius has never encountered a list of Jewish surnames?" Harvey asked.

"Apparently not one that included 'Specter,'" Mike said.

"And here I thought you knew everything," Harvey said, leaning in to kiss the corner of Mike's mouth. "Ashkenazi Jew, not particularly observant, but my brother went on the first ever Birthright Israel trip and was so insufferable when he came back that I'm almost certain I'm agnostic out of spite."

Mike could've spent a week on that.

On Harvey and a brother. On a trip to Israel. On an entire family of Specters. But Harvey's mouth was on his jaw, then his throat, and it was very difficult to care about anything that wasn't the hot, wet drag of Harvey's tongue against his skin.

His fingers were still tracing the skin at the edge of Mike's collar, and Mike realized with a start that Harvey was waiting on him to make the call.

And what a fucking call it was.

"I'm not going to take my own shirt off," Mike said. "That's not sexy, it's just undressing."

Harvey made a small, affirmative noise in the back of his throat, like he was a judge awarding points.

He popped the first button on Mike's shirt, clean and easy, and Mike found himself disappointed that Harvey wasn't fumbling.

He wanted to see him lose it.

"You're great at buttons," Mike said.

Harvey's fingers paused on the second button. "I've been known to dabble."

"Keep it up, big dog," Mike said, taking Harvey's wrist and guiding it to the third button.

Harvey shook his head slowly. "Absolutely not."

"No 'big dog?' Noted. I can work with 'daddy' if that's more your—"

Harvey popped the third button. "You want me to tear it off you, don't you?"

"I want you to do what feels natural."

"What feels natural is not destroying René's hard work," Harvey said, his movements slowing even more, watching Mike's face instead of the buttons.

He was thinking about it.

"You're close to only having one button left to destroy. Takes the hotness from an eight to, like, a six," Mike said. "Don't get me wrong. A six is... a six. Solid. But, last I checked, we're not in the business of 'solid.'"

Harvey looked at the second to last button for a long moment, then his hands drifted back up to the previous button, and...

The bastard buttoned it back up.

He slowly buttoned every single goddamn button he'd just unbuttoned, and then he took half a step back to admire his work, smoothing the fabric over Mike's chest.

"We have work in the morning," Mike breathed. "I didn't sleep last night. Did you sleep last night?"

Harvey's eyes narrowed. "Problem?"

Mike bit his lip to fight the smile that wanted to spread across his face. He'd poked another wire. He could see the frayed end of it, glowing in the dim light.

"I'm just saying, for a guy who doesn't have the spare minutes to buy eggs, you're taking your sweet-ass time," Mike said. "Do you have eggs, or are we going to have to order—"

"You're very confident about breakfast, aren't you?" Harvey whispered against Mike's ear, one hand sliding down Mike's back, pulling them flush.

"If you want me gone before the sun comes up, all you have to do is say the word," Mike said, nuzzling—nuzzling—at Harvey's cheek. He was going full barnyard, and it was glorious. "But I can't promise I won't leave an earring on the nightstand. Or steal your wallet."

"Are your ears pierced?" Harvey asked, his fingers coming up to touch Mike's earlobes, a searching caress.

"That was a joke," Mike said, fighting the urge to shudder from a touch so intimate, so pointlessly specific as Harvey feeling for scar tissue that wasn't there.

"I know it was a joke," Harvey said, full on kissing Mike's cheek, and Mike wasn't sure if he was hallucinating this or if it was the most tender thing that had ever happened to him.

He had to kiss Harvey then, because there was no other option. Except for the other thing he did, which was to slide a hand between them, to palm Harvey through his pants again.

"You're hard," Mike breathed against Harvey's lips.

Harvey's breath hitched. "Your grasp of the obvious continues to be one of your most compelling attributes."

"Is this why you're dragging your feet?" Mike asked. "Because you're worried you won't last?"

"Jesus, Mike," Harvey laughed. "The world is your skin flick and we're all just living in it."

Mike rubbed his thumb in a slow circle right over the head, and Harvey choked.

"Don't come in your pants, Harvey," Mike murmured. "Or maybe do. I'm not the boss of you."

"You mouthy little—"

The rest of Harvey's sentence was lost as Mike went for Harvey's jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. This time, Harvey was so on top of it, so onto him, that he caught it and slung it over the back of the couch without breaking the kiss.

Mike pressed his hands flat against Harvey's chest, scratching at the fabric just a little with his fingernails, just to feel the wool texture.

"Vest," Mike mumbled against Harvey's mouth.

"Skinny tie," Harvey countered.

"A three-piece suit is a cry for help, Harvey. It's a costume."

"At least my ties don't look like they come attached to the shirt of a six year old boy's church outfit," Harvey shot back, pressing his hands over Mike's against his chest, stopping the scratching.

"No, but you'd win in the wide tie competition against every 1970s game show host, so you've got that going for you," Mike said. "Take this off." He scratched again, pointedly this time.

"What happened to 'that's just undressing?'"

"You don't want me to watch you undress?" Mike asked.

Harvey's response was to wordlessly unbutton the vest with one hand and add it to the back-of-couch pile, without breaking eye contact once. 

Mike's hands were back on his chest just as quickly, feeling the hard muscle underneath. Harvey rarely went without a vest. This was a remarkable level of undress for him, and Mike was enjoying the view.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're attractive, or is it more of an implied thing?" Mike asked, wrapping his hands around Harvey's wrists and dragging them back to his collar.

"You're trying to get me to rip your shirt off you again," Harvey said.

"Would you, please?" Mike asked in his best eyelash-batting, wheedling tone.

"It ruins the spontaneous illusion of passion if you ask for it," Harvey replied, popping the top button on Mike's shirt again. "It's a performance. A tawdry little community theater production of 'Take Me Now, You Big, Strong Lawyer.'"

"Fine," Mike said. "I'll rip your shirt off."

He went for the collar, and Harvey caught his hands. "You don't want to do that."

"I really, really do."

"You won't like what happens," Harvey said, his smile fading into something sharper.

"What are you gonna do, dock my pay?" Mike asked, trying to wrench his hands free.

Harvey's grip was like iron. He spun Mike around, pushing him up against the back of the couch next to the couch-pile, and Mike stumbled, bent in half over the leather.

Mike had never, ever been manhandled like that. He'd never seen Harvey move with that much force, or that much speed. He was pinned with Harvey's body pressed up against him, Harvey's hard cock grinding into his ass.

It was... effective.

"We get it, you box," Mike managed. "Now what, you're gonna show me your left jab?"

Harvey just pressed his face into the back of Mike's neck, and then he... smelled him? No, it was more than that, a deep, slow inhale that was so animal that Mike felt it in the base of his spine.

"Holy shit," Mike breathed, pushing back into the grind of Harvey's hips. "Are you a werewolf, what the fuck are you—"

Harvey's teeth scraped against the side of Mike's neck, and it immediately funneled into the thrumming need at the base of his cock.

"Okay," Mike breathed. "Okay, you can do that. You can do that all you want."

Harvey may have actively hated him, Mike thought mid-spin, as Harvey pulled him upright and back to facing him, but god, the man was a good kisser.

He bit at Mike's lower lip, then soothed it with his tongue, a one-two punch that Mike was helpless against when it was paired with Harvey shoving a thigh between his legs.

Mike groaned, the last few hours of tension and terror finally coalescing into a single, burning point. He grinded down against Harvey's leg, a pathetic display that he might've been embarrassed about if it were anyone else.

But it was Harvey, and Harvey was clutching at his hips, pulling him in, like he was trying to get them to occupy the same footprint.

"I'm not ripping your shirt," Harvey said against Mike's mouth, his hands finding Mike's collar for the fiftieth time. "I'm going to take it off you, slowly, and you're going to let me."

Mike wanted to say something smart, something to keep the game going, but Harvey's thigh was pressing just right, and all he could do was nod.

He was an effigy, a thing for Harvey to dress and undress at his leisure.

Harvey worked the buttons from the bottom up this time, and Mike's cock gave a desperate little twitch every time the back of Harvey's knuckles brushed against his stomach.

When the shirt hung open, Harvey's gaze drifted down, taking him in. He traced a ticklish line up Mike's sternum with one finger, stopping just shy of his throat.

"You're not as thin as I thought you were," Harvey said, a weird, clinical observation.

"How do women usually respond to that?" Mike asked. "I wanna make sure I get it right."

"I wouldn't know. There's not usually this much conversation." He slid the shirt off Mike's shoulders, starting couch-pile 2.0. "And you're not a woman." Harvey smirked. "But you do have soft features."

Mike muttered a sarcastic laugh, breathless as all hell. "Sick callback."

"I expected... wiry. Like a nervous little greyhound." Harvey ran his hands up Mike's ribcage like he was checking for scratches on one of his vaguely metrosexual European cars. "You're solid."

"And I thank you for that," Mike said. "The ability to afford food is one of the many benefits of my continued employment."

Harvey's hands found Mike's chest again, palms flat against his pecs. Mike gasped as Harvey's thumbs found his nipples, the friction making Mike's toes curl in his shoes.

Mike had never had such big hands on him before.

Harvey's attention was laser-focused on Mike's nipples, on getting a reaction out of him, and Mike rocked back into the grind of Harvey's thigh.

"You like that," Harvey whispered.

"No, I'm faking it," Mike breathed. "I'm trying to make you feel good about yourself."

Harvey responded with a pinch to Mike's nipple, and Mike's knees trembled, a moan tearing out of him.

He needed a distraction, something to keep him from melting into a puddle of Mike on the floor, so went for Harvey's tie, tugging the knot loose.

He unthreaded the tie from Harvey's collar, and then did something that felt maybe insane, definitely necessary.

He looped it around his own neck, letting the ends hang down his bare chest.

Harvey's breath hitched, his eyes fixed on the tie. Half a second later, the ends of the tie were in Harvey's fists, pulling Mike in for a hard, messy kiss.

Harvey wrapped the silk around his thumbs and flattened his palms against Mike's chest again, dragging the fabric over Mike's nipples. A second sensation, a new texture. Mike was going to pass out.

Mike found the top button of Harvey's shirt with shaking hands, popping it open, then the next, and the next, until the shirt hung open.

In Harvey's pursuit of wearing as many layers as possible, he was wearing an undershirt.

"You wear wifebeaters?" Mike asked, grinning as he traced the hem of the armhole.

"I wear sleeveless undershirts so there's no unsightly t-shirt sleeve visible through my dress shirts," Harvey said. "It presents a clean line."

"You look like you should be drinking a Schlitz in a plastic lawn chair during your break from working on a Trans Am," Mike said, his gaze traveling down Harvey's biceps. "If you didn't drink water for, like, three days, you'd have a six-pack, wouldn't you?"

Harvey raised an eyebrow. "I have a six-pack now."

Mike had to see. He had to know. He fisted the fabric of the undershirt, and yanked it up, bunching it under Harvey's armpits.

"Yeah, but you've clearly had your eight glasses of water today," Mike said, tracing the faint lines of muscle with a finger. "It's in there, though."

Harvey barked a laugh, pressing Mike's hand flat against his stomach. Mike felt the hair there, coarse and wiry against his palm.

"You called me... whatever you called me," Mike said. "Rubenesque, was it?"

Harvey laughed again, stroking the back of Mike's hand with his thumb. "Pleasantly substantial." He gripped Mike's biceps and squeezed. "You've got muscle."

"I carry a lot of files," Mike said, pressing a little closer, nudging up Harvey's arms to peel the undershirt the rest of the way off.

Harvey pulled him in again, tucking his face in Mike's neck.

His teeth and tongue and lips were everywhere, until they were in one place, right above Mike's collarbone. He sucked, hard and wet, and the pressure was just right, pulling a desperate moan from Mike's throat at the idea even more than the sensation.

Harvey was—deliberately, on purpose, with intent—giving him a hickey.

They'd go to work tomorrow, and the mark would be covered by his shirt collar, but Mike would know it was there. Harvey would know it was there. Every time Mike turned his head, he'd feel the ghost of Harvey's mouth on him.

Mike's brain fast forwarded to tomorrow, to catching Harvey looking at him that way he does sometimes, and Mike touching the spot over his shirt, a silent, smug little, 'You did this.'

And Harvey's expression, a flicker of something dark and proud, an, 'I know what you did last summer."

Mike's hands flew to Harvey's waistband, feeling for the button on his pants. Harvey's hips canted forward, an eager press into Mike's palm, and Mike fumbled with the button, with the zipper.

Harvey's hands mirrored Mike's, and the rasp of Mike's own zipper was the only thing that registered over the roaring in his ears.

Mike tucked his thumbs into the waistband to push them down but Harvey stilled him with hands on his wrists.

"Shoes," Harvey said.

"Oh my god, you're right," Mike said, like it was the most revolutionary thought he'd ever heard. "It's hard to get your pants off over your shoes."

Harvey rolled his eyes, letting Mike pull away but not taking his hands off him.

Mike pressed the underside of one shoe against the heel of the other, but before he could pry the first one off, Harvey's fingers dug in.

"No," Harvey said firmly.

And he dropped to one knee.

There was another image for the highlight reel of Mike's new life. Harvey Specter, on his knees for him. He had the wild urge to cup Harvey's jaw and tell him to open his mouth.

Instead, he watched as Harvey untied one of his oxfords, nudging at Mike to lift his foot before pulling the shoe and sock off, and then repeating the process on the other side. He set the shoes neatly by the leg of the couch, tucking the socks inside them.

Mike briefly wondered if Harvey had some kind of OCD about order that extended to the bedroom, or if he really was just this anal about everything.

Mike decided he didn't care when Harvey caressed the inside of his ankle, a featherlight brush of his thumb against the bone.

"Uh... thanks," Mike managed. "For that."

Harvey huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he went to work on his own shoes, and he had them both off and lined up with Mike's in under ten seconds.

He rose to his feet, and Mike went for his waistband again, and Harvey stopped him for the second time in as many minutes.

"What?" Mike snapped.

Harvey dropped a kiss on Mike's lips, soft and—dare Mike think it?—sweet.

Who was he kidding? Of course it was sweet. The guy who buttoned Mike's shirt back up for the sheer, unhinged joy of it, the guy who was on his knees to take Mike's shoes off, was a closet romantic.

Mike wasn't exactly sure who this marshmallow Peep of a man was, but he was going to take advantage of him for as long as he could.

"I need to wash my hands," Harvey said, stepping away.

"Because you touched shoes?" Mike asked. "Are you that much of a princess?"

"Because I don't want to get the filth of New York City sidewalks on your dick," Harvey said over his shoulder, and Mike nearly tripped over himself to follow. "Say 'thank you, Mr. Specter.'"

"How many callbacks is too many callbacks?" Mike muttered, following Harvey to the sink.

"I think it's thoughtful," Harvey said, and the domesticity of it, of Harvey washing his hands, of them standing in the kitchen in their bare feet with their pants undone, was so jarring that Mike didn't know what to do with it. "Shows I'm a good listener."

Mike leaned back against the counter, watching Harvey dry his hands on a dish towel, the line of his shoulders broad and strong.

"Okay," Harvey said, tossing the towel on the counter next to Mike. "Back to it."

Mike laughed, a bright, bubbling one that he felt from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, and Harvey smiled back at him.

Harvey was gorgeous when he smiled. Not just handsome, but something more than that. He looked... approachable.

Mike pushed off the counter, closing the distance between them. He cupped Harvey's jaw in his hands, and Harvey leaned into the touch, letting out a little sigh.

Mike's organs were rearranged by that sound, by the revelation that he could make Harvey sigh like a contented cat with just a touch.

Except it wasn't just anything. It was Mike's hands on Harvey's face, an impossibility wrapped in a miracle, and he was pretty close to thanking whatever God Harvey was agnostic about for the privilege.

Mike grabbed at Harvey's pants again, and this time, Harvey didn't stop him. He pushed the fabric down, over Harvey's hips, over the curve of his ass, down his thighs, bunching at his knees.

Harvey wore boxer briefs, apparently, black ones that hugged Harvey's thighs and showcased an impressive hard-on.

That was... Mike had seen one of those before.

He had one of those.

He and Trevor had to do something in between bong rips and rounds of Call of Duty, and that thing was sometimes jerking off from opposite ends of the couch to porn from whatever website had the least sketchy pop-ups.

'Curious' was grotesquely juvenile, but it wasn't completely inaccurate. Trevor's dick had looked like a Trevor-dick. This was a Harvey-dick, and Mike was weirdly fascinated by it, by the fact that he could see it, that it was there, that it was hard for him.

Harvey stepped out of his pants, and Mike was a little glad this time for whatever psychological disturbance made Harvey as neat as a pin, because he got a second to regroup as Harvey folded them in half and draped them over the end of the counter.

"Your turn," Harvey murmured, pressing into Mike again. Mike's pants were a distant memory before he could even register Harvey's hands doing anything because he was too focused on the feels of Harvey's cock with one less layer of fabric between them.

What took Mike an additional moment to register was that Harvey had taken his underwear with them, and now Mike was very, all-the-way naked.

It felt like some Rubicon had been crossed, a point of no return where this had officially become sex, and not just whatever fever dream of gay chicken they'd been running into the ground all night.

"I can't believe you've been gay this whole time," Mike managed.

"I'm not," Harvey said, but he was looking at Mike like he'd found religion after all, wrapping a hand around Mike's cock and giving it a slow stroke.

Mike's hands flew to Harvey's biceps, holding on for dear life as Harvey's thumb swept over the head of his cock. "Do you watch Will and Grace?"

"Never heard of it," Harvey murmured against Mike's jaw.

"You're fucking with me," Mike moaned, thrusting into Harvey's fist. "I know you're fucking with me."

"Am I?"

Harvey pulled away just enough to look down, watching his own hand on Mike's cock, and it twitched in his hand. 

Mike could feel it happening in real time, the Pavlovian dick-conditioning to Harvey looking at him.

Mike was pretty sure it was his turn to say something, but it was in the wind as Harvey walked him backward, hand never leaving his cock, until Mike's back hit the freezing cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up an entire wall of the apartment.

Mike yelped, but Harvey just laughed, pressing him harder against the glass.

"Cold?" Harvey asked.

"It's glass, and it's fifty degrees outside, so yes," Mike gritted out. 

"You'll live," Harvey said, and Mike was going to say something snarky back, but Harvey's tongue was already in his mouth, so Mike just bit it instead.

Mike was pretty sure it was placebo, but he tasted blood as Harvey moaned, the pain or the surprise or whatever it was only making him more determined to lick the inside of Mike's mouth until Mike's brainstem attached to his tongue.

Harvey stroked him faster, a perfect, tight-fisted rhythm that was designed, Mike was sure, to make him come so fast he'd get whiplash from the shame.

He was a fiddle, and Harvey was a devil from Georgia, and that was maybe not a good metaphor because the devil lost that one, and Mike was definitely, definitely losing this one.

"Am I supposed to come, or... what are we doing here?" Mike gasped, tilting his head back against the window.

"Are you asking for my permission to have an orgasm?" Harvey asked, and Mike couldn't tell if he was genuinely asking or making fun of him.

"I'm asking—" Mike cut off on a whimper as Harvey's free hand found his nipple again. "I'm asking if this is the main event or—"

"You just love the sound of your own voice, don't you?" Harvey asked, pressing his tongue to Mike's pulse point, lapping at the frantic beat.

"I'm asking a relevant—"

"Orgasm denial is for people who hate checking things off their to-do list," Harvey said, stroking Mike even faster.

"What the fuck does that—"

"Come in my hand, Mike," Harvey whispered against Mike's jaw.

He wasn't ready. It was too fast, too soon.

But Harvey's thumb was circling the head of his cock, pressing right into the slit, and the words, an order from Harvey, the one thing Mike was built to obey, were enough.

Mike's head slammed back against the window so hard he was pretty sure it would hurt if he pressed there tomorrow, another souvenir of the night he came so hard he saw stars on the back of his eyelids.

He felt it everywhere, in the copper taste at the back of his throat, in the backs of his knees, in the ache in his jaw from clenching it so hard.

Harvey worked him through it until he was shuddering from overstimulation, pressing his ass back against the freezing glass to get away. Harvey still didn't let go, just slowed his strokes as Mike's head lolled against the window.

"Good boy," Harvey whispered.

And that was just... that was mean. It was mean, and unfunny, and it made Mike's softening cock give a final, exhausted twitch.

Harvey finally let go of him, and Mike watched in a daze as Harvey brought his hand to his mouth, licking a stripe up the side of his hand.

"What's wrong with you?" Mike breathed. "I'm already here. You don't have to sell me the car."

"I just wanted to know if you taste as neurotic as you act," Harvey said, before leaning in and kissing Mike again.

Mike could taste himself on Harvey's tongue, salt and bitterness, and it was just one more thing in the dizzying cascade of sensation.

"What was the 'fucking against the window' thing?" Mike asked, when they came up for air. "Was that it, or...?"

"That was the amuse-bouche of fucking against a window." Harvey stepped away, and Mike had to press a hand against the glass to steady himself. "That's what I thought."

"What's what you thought?" Mike asked, blinking, trying to get the room to stop spinning.

"The standing portion of the evening is over," Harvey said, nudging at Mike's calf with his foot. "Bed."

"Uh... okay," Mike said, because that was a word he knew.

Harvey smiled, gathering both ends of the tie still around Mike's neck in his clean hand and tugging gently.

The tie was still there. Mike had just gotten a handjob from Harvey against the windows of Harvey's apartment with Harvey's tie around his neck.

What a night.

Mike stumbled after him, a willing, docile lamb being led to a slaughter of epic proportions.

He'd never seen Harvey's bedroom before.

He hadn't even been sure Harvey had a bedroom, that he didn't just sleep standing up in a hyperbaric chamber.

But he did, and it was just as soullessly expensive and sleek as the rest of the apartment, two walls of windows with a massive bed with dark gray bedding.

California king? Alaskan king? Some kind of king. The bed of a king who slept starfished in the middle of it and had plenty of room left for a clone of himself to do the same thing.

The worst part was that it wasn't even against a wall. Just... there, at a forty-five degree angle to the windows, and—Mike almost laughed—an elliptical in the corner.

Harvey Specter's elliptical that he kept in his bedroom for... what?

So he could knock out ten miles in the middle of the night? So he could have a place to hang out while he waited for the maid to change the sheets? What kind of monster lived like this?

Mike glanced at Harvey's calves. Yeah. That was the muscle definition of a guy who actually used the elliptical in the corner of his bedroom for something other than a high-end coatrack.

Why was Mike here again? This wasn't a person he should be sleeping with. This was a person who should be investigated for tax evasion.

Then Harvey was leading him to the bed, pushing him onto the mattress with a hand on his chest.

Mike bounced a little, and... Christ, it was a good mattress. Memory foam? Memory something. His back was going to be so, so happy tomorrow.

This was a mistake. He was going to get used to this.

"Don't go anywhere," Harvey said, a teasing lilt to his voice, as he disappeared into the bathroom.

"Am I allowed to touch the elliptical?" Mike called after him.

"Only if you have fifteen minutes set aside to learn about VO2 max intervals," Harvey's disembodied voice replied.

"I'm good," Mike said, taking inventory of the bed instead.

Two ugly throw pillows sat neatly against the regular ones. Mike wondered what would happen if he threw them on the floor. Would Harvey get a twitch in his eye? Would he have to pick them up before they could do anything else?

Mike decided not to risk it. He slid under the covers instead, and his skin immediately broke out in goosebumps from the sensation of the soft, cool sheets. High-thread-count, obviously.

What was a high thread count? Four hundred? Seven thousand? Whatever it was, it was a lot. Mike had never slept on sheets like this in his life. He'd probably never even seen sheets like this.

Fuck, could he use Harvey for his money? Like, more than he already was? Could he start a Harvey slush fund? Petty cash?

What a fucking joke.

Harvey would buy him a new toaster if he dropped into conversation that his was on the fritz, and he'd make it sound like Mike was the idiot for not having a nicer toaster to begin with.

"You look like a kitten who just discovered sunbeams for the first time," Harvey said, reappearing in the doorway. He was still in his underwear, and he was holding a foil packet and a small bottle of lube.

"These sheets are crazy," Mike said, rubbing his cheek against one of the pillowcases. "If I slept like this every night, I'd act like you, too."

"Tread carefully," Harvey said, tossing the supplies on the nightstand and crawling onto the bed.

Mike tilted his head back and forth, considering it.

He was nearly certain that he never had to tread carefully ever again. That was the old world. In this world, Harvey Specter was crawling up the bed toward him, looking at him like he wanted to eat him alive.

"Nah, I'm good," Mike replied.

Harvey glared, settling over him and bracing himself on his elbows. His hair was starting to get messy, and Mike wanted to run his fingers through it until he'd achieved the level of chaos he was looking for.

Then he realized he could, so he did. Harvey made a small, contented noise and leaned into the touch, and Mike's heart did a stupid little flip-flop thing.

"So, what's the plan boss? We knocking the bottom out of this thing?" Mike asked, because it was better than thinking about flippy-floppy hearts. "Should I have been stretching?"

Harvey buried his face in Mike's neck and laughed. "Don't get used to these words coming out of my mouth—" He pressed a kiss to Mike's throat. "What do you want to do?"

Great question.

The most pressing answer was that he wanted to go to sleep, in this bed, for eight hours. Maybe ten. He wanted to wake up in the morning and order breakfast on Harvey's dime and then fall asleep again. Then he wanted to go to work and close a case and come back here to do it all over again.

The thing was, though, that that was coming from the part of his brain that was still normal, that was still a little unclear about the new neural pathways being forged between "Harvey Specter" and "sexual gratification."

The new, feral part of Mike's brain that contained the receptors... recepting Harvey's dick pressing him into the mattress had a little more ruminating to do.

"Are you asking me if I want to fuck or get fucked?" Mike asked, wanting to make Harvey say it.

"Those are two of the options," Harvey said, his hips giving a slow roll that made Mike's breath catch.

"Right, but those are... the mains," Mike replied.

"Not if you don't want them to be."

Mike barked a laugh. Harvey Specter, human steamroller, seriously didn't want him to feel pressured.

Fucking marshmallow Peep.

"You seem... toppy. In a control freak way," Mike said. "Sorry, is that offensive to your people? You know, your community?"

Harvey's expression went flat. "Say it again, and see what happens."

"Okay, okay, simmer down," Mike said, patting Harvey's cheek. "Not gay. Got it."

"I've been missing your personality," Harvey said dryly. "I've always known you were a smartass, but the sheer extent of it is staggering."

Mike shrugged, hooking a leg around Harvey's. "We don't hang out."

"We don't," Harvey agreed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to entertain myself while you work out whatever it is that you're working out."

Harvey ducked his head and latched onto Mike's neck again, right next to the hickey he'd already given him. This one was a little higher, a little closer to his throat.

Mike wouldn't be wearing t-shirts in public for a week, but the thought made him feel more smug than anything. Let someone ask. Let anyone ask.

He wanted Harvey to do it again, to make a constellation of marks across Mike's throat. He was pretty sure if he just laid back and let Harvey do whatever he wanted, he'd have a whole solar system mapped out on his chest by morning.

Mike sighed into the pinprick of pain as Harvey sucked another patch of skin into submission, the capillaries bursting in a quiet bloom under the surface.

He made the executive decision to let Harvey's little exploration into the world of vampirism continue for the moment.

And that was a fun thought, wasn't it? Harvey as a creature of the night, a suave, bloodsucking lawyer who only came out after dark to drain the life from the willing and the stupid.

Not that much of a departure from his day job, when Mike thought about it like that.

Harvey shifted, getting a better angle on Mike's throat, and the roll of his hips brought his cock flush against Mike's. Mike hadn't realized he was getting hard again, but he was, and Harvey seemed pleased with himself about it.

Mike was pleased with Harvey for being pleased.

Okay.

Okay.

Sex.

Sex, sex, sex.

Harvey put it on the table that Mike could fuck him, and now Mike's brain was making a very compelling, very sexy argument for it. Harvey, on his back. Harvey, with his legs spread. Harvey, looking at Mike with those dark, hungry eyes as Mike pushed into him.

It was a fantastic image.

So was the other one, though, the one that had been dancing around in Mike's peripheral vision since the elevator ride up, since he was trying to figure out if the fucking against the window was the A to B type.

Because that one, the one where Mike was on his back with Harvey's hands pressing into his hips, holding him still, holding him open, while Harvey pushed into him. That one was… novel. Very novel.

This night was novel, and all the dopamine and acetylcholine and especially the vasopressin that had flooded Mike's system over the last few hours had turned him into a giddy, hedonistic moron.

He was a rat who'd just found the lever to the cocaine dispenser, and he was pressing that thing like his life depended on it.

The cocaine was the novelty, or the Harvey, or the novelty of the Harvey. Or just the Harvey.

What would the rat do?

The rat would choose an option that opened him up to the most future options, that's what. The rat was a forward-thinking, problem-solving motherfucker.

The rat wanted to get fucked so he could have the data. So he could know how it felt. So he could have a file for the next time this came up.

Assuming the cocaine didn't kill the rat.

Harvey was still busy making out with Mike's throat, and he slid a hand down Harvey's back, over the solid muscle, to the curve of his ass. He squeezed, and Harvey groaned into his neck.

Well...

No. No. Mike was going to be brave. He was going to be bold. He was going to be the kind of guy who got railed by Harvey Specter and lived to tell the tale.

He had a weird feeling that Harvey was, in a way that he wouldn't admit to at gunpoint, a people pleaser.

Not in a normal way, but in an 'I'll give you what you want so thoroughly and expertly that you'll have no choice but to be impressed by me' kind of way.

If Mike said, 'fuck me,' Harvey was going to fuck him like it was an Olympic sport and he was going for the gold.

Okay, one... 

Two... 

Three...

"Fuck me," Mike said.

It was a little quiet, a little hoarse, but it was out there.

Harvey pulled back, and his eyes were so dark, so blown out with want that it was lending a lot of credence to that whole vampire thing.

"You're sure?" Harvey asked.

Mike was in bed with an industrial size case of Peeps, the yellow ones, the pink ones, a whole factory farm of Peeps crammed into one six foot tall lawyer, whose only personality traits were 'lawyer' and 'wants Mike Ross to have a good, consensual sexual experience.'

Mike Ross was going to die of a fucking sugar rush.

"Yeah," Mike said, drawing it out, rolling his eyes.

Harvey looked at him for a long moment like he was waiting for Mike to crack, to admit he was actually very, very scared of the elliptical and just wanted to skip to the omelet.

Mike was, a little, mostly of the logistics, but the rat was in charge now.

"Roll over," Harvey said.

Mike's stomach dropped. This was the final boss of vulnerability. This was 'face down, ass up,' and that was the easiest part of what was about to happen.

He was going to have to lie there, on Harvey's sheets, and get... prepared. He was going to have to let Harvey put fingers in him, and lube him up, and look at him in a place where he'd never been looked at before.

A Harvey-only zone.

Mike rolled over as Harvey reached for the supplies on the nightstand, and he pressed his face into the pillow that—he had to submit under the weight of the cliché—smelled like Harvey.

Harvey's hand settled on his back, using it as leverage to reach for the pillow on the other side of the bed. "Lift your hips," he said.

Mike complied, and Harvey slid the pillow under him.

That was worse. That was so much worse. He was presented like a fucking... Mike didn't even know. He didn't have the reference. He was a piece of meat on a butcher's block, and Harvey was the guy with the cleaver.

Mike wasn't sure if he should just exist, or look over his shoulder, or say something witty that he'd really have to dig deep to find, but then he heard the click of the lube bottle cap.

The bed dipped again as Harvey settled between his legs, and Mike tensed, anticipating the cold shock of lube on his skin.

Instead, he felt the soft press of Harvey's lips on the small of his back. Just a kiss. A gentle, warm, 'hello, I'm about to get more familiar with your asshole than you are, so here's a little something to soften the blow,' kind of kiss.

"You okay?" Harvey murmured against his skin.

Mike had to actively stop himself from saying, 'You need to stop being so nice to me, I'm getting a complex.' He just nodded into the pillow, because he trusted the rat.

"You're being quiet," Harvey said, reaching up to rub a slow circle between Mike's shoulder blades.

The tension eased out of Mike's shoulders in a rush, and he let out a slow breath. "Just... thinking about the national deficit."

Harvey huffed a quiet laugh. "Anything interesting?"

"I'm no expert, but I think it's a little high," Mike replied.

He felt Harvey's hands on his ass as he laughed, spreading him open, and it was just as weird and intimate as Mike thought it would be. He was a book, and Harvey was cracking the spine like a barbarian.

"You ready, rookie?" Harvey asked.

Mike snorted into the pillow. "There is it."

"I've been holding it in," Harvey said, and Mike felt the first slick press of a finger.

It was warm, which was weirder than if it had been cold. Mike wasn't sure if he'd missed Harvey warming it up in his hands, or if he just paid a premium for lube that came out of the bottle at the perfect temperature.

Harvey was slow about it, a gentle, steady pressure that didn't stop until the tip of his finger was inside. Not all the way, just enough to make Mike's body clench.

"Are you trying to see how long you can hold your breath?" Harvey asked, sliding his other hand up Mike's spine.

Mike hadn't even realized he was doing it until Harvey pointed it out, and he let it out in a whoosh of air. "Just getting used to the local customs."

Harvey's finger slid in a little further, and Mike's body went with it this time, a slow, yielding stretch that was... not bad. Not bad at all. A little strange, a little foreign, but not bad. He could see the appeal of the full-body nature of it.

Harvey was quiet, giving Mike a long moment to adjust before he started to move. It was less in and out, and more a slow, circling motion that felt exactly like what it was—Harvey scoping out the joint, getting the lay of the land.

"How we doing, citizen?" Harvey asked. "You acclimating?"

"I want to make an 'are you hourly' joke, but the reality is a lot worse than that," Mike managed.

"Oh, am I not going fast enough for you?" Harvey asked, and the next slow circle of his finger ended with a little press of a second one at Mike's entrance.

"Just waiting for the part where I get my money's worth," Mike said, and he was rewarded with a sharp little slap to his ass.

The surprise of it was a jolt, and his body opened up, letting Harvey's second finger slide in to join the first.

"I tend to find that a subtle approach gets better results in certain situations. Still, a satisfied client is a repeat client," Harvey said.

That was the only warning Mike got before Harvey's fingers crooked, and he saw God. Or at least, he saw the back of his own eyelids in a whole new light.

It was a switch, a fuse box of pleasure that Harvey had just flipped, and Mike's whole body lit up like in one of those Christmas movies where someone plugs in a single extension cord and the whole house turns into fucking Whoville.

"That'll do, pig," Mike gasped. "That'll do."

That earned him another little love tap, and another shock of that brilliant, white-hot pleasure.

Harvey did it again, and again, and Mike was reduced to a writhing pull and push, 'get the fuck away from me,' and 'if you stop, I'll break your neck by sticking it between the elliptical foot things and running until your head pops off like a champagne cork.'

Mike had never felt a sensation so specific, so concentrated. Every nerve ending in a twenty-foot radius had packed its bags and moved to his ass. They were having a party, and Harvey was the DJ and the bartender and the guy giving out glow sticks.

He felt the third finger pressing at him, and the thought was a distant one, a 'who's this guy showing up late to the party?' but then he was in, and the stretch was a slow, aching burn that was the perfect counterpoint to the sharp pleasure.

Harvey pressed him down with a hand on his lower back, and Mike hadn't realized how frantically he'd been grinding against the pillow until he was stilled.

"Hey," Harvey said sharply. "Stop."

That was a weird one, but a good one. A shiver, a thrill, a zing. That was a boss order. That was, 'Mike, drop it, Mike, get me the file, Mike, let me fuck you.'

He didn't have a reason to say no, so he didn't. He went still, letting Harvey hold him there, a trembling wreck of arousal and anticipation.

The only thing moving was Harvey's fingers inside him, a maddening rhythm that was building something deep inside him, a coil that was going to level him like a hurricane when it snapped.

"Good," Harvey breathed, leaning over him to press a kiss to the nape of his neck. "That's better."

Harvey's weight shifted, and he withdrew his fingers slowly. The emptiness was a strange, hollow ache, and Mike—if he was being totally honest with himself—whimpered like a kicked dog.

Mike propped himself up on his elbows to look over his shoulder, and Harvey was looking right at him, pushing his underwear down his thighs.

Then his cock was right there, hard and flushed and... considerable.

Mike's confidence in the 'rat makes smart decisions' thesis was waning. This was a 'rat sticks a fork in a light socket' kind of decision, but at least he'd get a little blow out of it before the cardiac arrest.

Mike wanted to crawl over there see what kind of power was thrumming under the hood of that thing, but he could barely hold himself up, let alone Greased Lightning it across the bed.

Harvey ripped the foil packet with his teeth, and it was gratuitous, really, a little show of bravado for an audience of one. Mike watched as Harvey rolled the condom on, giving himself a few slow strokes before reaching for the lube again.

This was the main event.

The part where Mike paid the piper for that handjob in the living room, for the hickeys that were starting to throb, for the sheets that he might actually steal.

"Turn over," Harvey said, and Mike's stomach flipped.

He wasn't totally sure he could look Harvey in the eye while this was happening. He wasn't sure he wanted to see Harvey's face, to see the focus, the intensity, the... whatever. He wasn't sure he wanted to be seen in return.

"Turn me over," Mike countered, dropping back to the pillow and turning his face to the side so he didn't die in that specific way.

"No," Harvey said simply,

Mike was halfway through formulating the words 'fine, you arrogant prick, I'll do it myself' when Harvey dropped to the bed beside him, rolling him onto his side with an arm around his waist.

Mike didn't mean to hum his contentment, but it slipped out as Harvey pressed closed behind him, fitting them together, Harvey's cock nestling against his ass.

Harvey wasn't any bigger than Mike, not really, but Mike felt completely surrounded.

One of Harvey's arms was tucked under his head, a pillow for a pillow, and the other reached for Mike's leg, guiding it up to drape over Harvey's thigh, opening him up.

Harvey's hand found Mike's jaw, turning his head until their lips could meet. Mike poured all of his nervous energy into it, letting Harvey soothe it away with each pass of his tongue.

Then he felt the press of Harvey's cock against him, and he broke away with a gasp, pressing his face back into the pillow. 

"Tell me you want this," Harvey murmured against his skin.

Mike was surprised he had it in him to scoff. "Do I look like I'm here for the continental breakfast?"

"You explicitly said you were," Harvey said, tightening his grip on Mike's leg. "Humor me." 

There were a dozen jokes on the tip of Mike's tongue to put a layer of bubble wrap between him and the reality of what was about to happen.

—standing there with my goddamn heart on a platter—

"I want it," Mike said, the words stripped of all artifice. "I want it, Harvey. I want you."

Harvey let out a shuddering breath, guiding himself to Mike's entrance, the head of his cock pressing against him a little harder, but not quite pushing inside.

"Tell me you trust me," Harvey whispered into the shell of Mike's ear.

"Jesus, Harvey, of course I trust you," Mike said, because of course he did. He'd trusted Harvey with everything else. What was his body on top of the building blocks of his life?

Then Harvey started to push inside.

Mike's body fought it for a second, the sheer size of him an impossible proposition, and then it yielded with a sudden, startling give.

Harvey went achingly slow, a millimeter at a time, letting Mike breathe through it. Harvey had to have been feeling it, too, the tight, resistant heat of Mike's body.

Mike has a strange, intrusive thought that he hoped it felt good for Harvey.

It was the last coherent thought he had for a while.

The next time he surfaced, Harvey was all the way inside, stilling with a quiet groan. He wrapped a steel band of an arm around Mike's chest, pulling him even closer, holding him together.

"Mike," Harvey whispered, raw and wrecked.

Mike reached back, fisting a hand in Harvey's hair, holding on. He was full in a way he'd never been, full in a way that was starting to feel like the only way he'd ever want to be again.

"Yeah?" Mike breathed.

"Just checking for a pulse," Harvey said, and it was a relief, a sign that they were going to make it through this.

Mike laughed weakly, and the movement sent a jolt through them both. Harvey moaned, his hips giving a shallow little thrust that had them both gasping.

The coil that had been tightening in Mike's gut started to wind itself all over again.

Then Harvey started to move, a shallow, rocking grind, like he was savoring it, making it last. Mike could feel Harvey's breath on his neck, the rhythm of it syncing with the rhythm of his hips.

This was the part he couldn't have prepared for, the closeness of it—Harvey's arm crushing him to his chest, the way Harvey's nose was tucked into the hair behind his ear, the way Mike could feel every exhale.

Harvey shifted his hips without stopping the roll, and Mike realized with a dizzying rush that Harvey was aiming for the fuse box. He was going to make Mike come from the inside out, and he was going to do it while they were spooning like a couple of newlyweds.

Another shallow thrust, and Harvey hit it, his cock dragging right against that perfect, electric spot. Mike's whole body seized, a choked-off cry catching in his throat.

"That's it," Harvey murmured, tightening his already iron grip on Mike's chest. "Close your eyes. Just feel it."

So Mike did. He closed his eyes and let go, letting Harvey take the lead, letting him set the pace. He didn't try to hold back the sounds he was making, the whimpers and the gasps and the choked-off sobs of pleasure.

Harvey's rhythm became faster, more urgent, and Mike's grip in his hair failed, his hand dropping to the sheets to bunch the fabric in a white-knuckled fist.

Harvey's arm around his chest eased, ad Mike nearly protested the loss before that same hand slid down, wrapping around Mike's wrist, and dragging it up to Harvey's thigh instead.

Mike got the message, digging his nails into Harvey's skin.

Harvey's arm was back around Mike's chest just as quickly, holding him tight, and Mike could hear it in Harvey's breathing, the hitch, the stutter. He was close.

And so was Mike.

The sounds pouring from his throat were getting louder, more desperate, and Mike bit the pillow in a last-ditch effort to control himself.

Harvey's hand was there immediately, prying the pillow from between Mike's teeth.

Mike thought he was about to get some variation of 'let me hear you,' but instead, Harvey's arm tucked under Mike's head was there, pressing the softest part of his hand between Mike's lips, a gag of skin and bone.

Mike bit down hard, and Harvey groaned into Mike's ear, feral and pained.

Harvey was close, and Mike nearly reached for his own cock, needing to get there, needing to fall off the cliff with Harvey, but he knew like he knew the sky was blue that Harvey wouldn't let him.

So he waited, he trusted, and Harvey didn't disappoint.

Mike lost the arm trying to cut him in half, Harvey's body curling around Mike's as his hand found Mike's cock, fisting it with a rough, desperate grip.

"Tell me again," Harvey gasped, all pretense gone.

Mike's knee jerk reaction was to ask what he meant, what he wanted to hear, but it was just as quickly overridden by a deep, animal instinct.

"I want you," Mike moaned, and Harvey's hips stuttered. "I trust you, Harvey. I trust you, I want you, I want you, I want—"

Mike was cut off by a guttural moan of his own name, Harvey's teeth sinking into his shoulder as he came. Mike hadn't expected to be able to feel it, the throb of Harvey's cock inside him, but he could.

Mike came so hard he thought he might black out, spilling over Harvey's expensive sheets and Harvey's expensive hand. He was really only thinking about one of those things, and the man attached to it, a litany of Harvey's name dragging its way past Harvey's hand in his mouth.

Harvey collapsed into his side, a dead weight of satiation, and Mike realized Harvey had waited to melt into his own lethargy until Mike had his.

Marshmallow Peep.

It took a minute for the ringing in Mike's ears to stop. His brain felt like it had been put through a blender, a tangle of sensation and emotion that had no beginning and no end.

The world came back into focus piece by piece. Harvey's breathing, hot and heavy against the back of Mike's neck. Harvey's arm wrapped around Mike's chest again. Harvey's cock still inside him, a lingering fullness that was maybe Mike's new baseline.

Harvey's name, still imprinted on the roof of Mike's mouth.

Then Harvey stirred with an exhausted groan. He pressed a kiss to the bite mark he'd just left on Mike's shoulder before he slowly, carefully pulled out.

"Don't get up," Mike slurred into the pillow. "Whatever you feel the need to go wash, you need to exposure therapy it right now."

Harvey huffed a tired laugh, relaxing back into him. "I'm forty-five seconds overdue for my post-coital mile."

"Can I watch?" Mike asked, trying to turn over and failing.

Harvey stopped him with a hand on his hip, keeping them pressed together, chest to back. "I'm going to get up, and so are you. We're going to get in the shower. You can borrow a toothbrush. I'll change the sheets. And then we're going to sleep for—" Harvey twisted away from Mike just long enough to look at the clock on the nightstand, "—approximately an hour and a half. Then I have to get up to go to work and be me."

Instead of acknowledging Harvey's little list of chores, or why he might feel the need to make it, Mike latched onto something else. "You shower in the mornings."

Harvey had given up on trying to stop Mike from moving, so Mike flopped over onto his back, ignoring the aches in places he didn't even know had muscles.

Harvey's hair was a wreck, he had pillow crease on one cheek, and his pupils were still blown out, but the lines around his eyes were softer. It was a little beautiful.

"And what exactly makes you say that?" Harvey asked, a little smile playing at his lips.

"Last night," Mike stretched, a full, bone-deep stretch that made his whole body sing. "You still smelled like your cologne."

A look passed over Harvey's face, an unreadable flicker of something that looked a little like surprise, and a lot like something else.

Mike didn't particularly care to parse it, not when the city lights were glittering in Harvey's eyes like that.

"Did I?" Harvey asked softly.

His tone was so gentle that Mike felt a sharp, sudden need to be an asshole. "Yeah. And based on everything I've learned about you tonight, it's weird that you don't feel the need to wash the city off of you at the end of the day. A little gross, even."

Harvey's smile returned, a little wider this time. "I shower in the morning and at night. And after the gym. And sometimes just for fun."

"You still smelled like it," Mike replied on a yawn.

Harvey leaned in for a lazy press of lips. "My cologne and shower gel are the same scent—" He kissed him again. "—because I'm an adult—" A third time. "—who doesn't want to smell like the inside of a Bath & Body Works."

That was a direct hit to Mike's current shower setup of a three-in-one from the mall that smells like mountain rain if you hold it right up to your nose.

"So I'm going to walk into work tomorrow smelling like you," Mike said, a bizarre little thrill running through him.

Harvey hesitated for a moment, and Mike could see the same calculation happening behind his eyes that Mike had been doing all evening—say something snarky or say something sincere.

Harvey double dipped.

"You'll already be wearing yesterday's clothes. Best not let anyone get close enough to smell you."