Work Text:
Mike should have known better.
Harvey's working him later than usual this week, trying to meet some deadline or other – they're all starting to blur together in Mike's head, boiling down to nothing but get it done. This case is particularly heavy on the minute details, and Harvey's taken to keeping Mike in his office to pour over it, running entirely on coffee and persistence as each new discovery sends them in another direction, another chance at solving the riddle.
It's awesome. The other associates don't quite understand this – they see it as punishment, or at the very least a nerve-wracking experience, being under Harvey's direct supervision at all times. Mike doesn't bother trying to explain how wrong that is, how he values the quiet and the privacy, the back-and-forth rapport between the two of them, as natural as breathing...the way he sometimes lets his mind wander, stealing a glance at Harvey out of the corner of his eye. Harvey's totally absorbed in his work and has no idea how the light from the setting sun frames his face, bringing out the highlights in his hair and softening the harsh line of his jaw. Mike's glance is turning into more of a stare, but he can't help it – Harvey is gorgeous, and Mike never seems to get used to it, no matter how often he looks.
“Yes?” Harvey asks, breaking the silence, voice deadpan and eyes never leaving the folder in front of him.
Shit, Mike thinks. Not quite as absorbed as he'd thought. He scrambles for something to say.
“I was just, uh, thinking it might be good to...go over the, uh, financials again. In case we missed something.” He winces. Awful.
Harvey does look up at that, pinning him with an unamused stare. “We finished the financials two days ago.”
Mike swallows and shuffles his papers and, like an idiot, keeps digging. “Well, you know, you never know, we could've...”
“Did you miss something? Because I know I didn't miss anything. And I was under the impression my genius associate didn't either. Am I wrong?”
It's Harvey's fake-pissed voice, which is good and bad. Good, because genuinely-pissed Harvey doesn't usually end well. Bad, because fake-pissed Harvey likes to mess with Mike for his own amusement. And he's good at it.
Mike sputters, too brain-dead to find a quick reply, and Harvey raises a dismissive hand.
“Mike.”
“What?”
“Shut up.”
Mike bends back over his work and mutters, “Shutting up.”
He does work then, really, but he can't help one more peek at Harvey's face, just to see the almost imperceptible trace of a smile around his eyes. It's the same game they've been playing with each other from the beginning, this weird sort of not-flirting that leaves Mike feeling pleased and dizzy and...safe, somehow, like as long as Harvey is still amused by him, he doesn't have to worry about being exposed or fired or anything at all, really – nothing can touch him. Even after everything they've been through, all this time, there's still a part of him that believes Harvey can fix anything.
Time passes. Mike's not sure how much, only that the sun has long set and most of the rest of the building is deserted. The room feels isolated, like they're completely alone in this comfortable pool of light, the two of them and the work and Harvey's music. Mike drops his highlighter on the coffee table and stretches, arms raised high in the air and neck swinging from side to side. He's not tired – not at the moment, anyway. This job has made him good at fighting through the urge to sleep, finding a second and third wind, and right now he's in that sort of weightless state, the kind where he can feel the tiredness, but it's way down deep, pushed away until Mike has time for it. He's still got hours of good work in him. And Harvey, of course, looks just as awake as he had at seven this morning. He's taken off his tie and unbuttoned one button of his shirt – just the top button, and it's amazing how much that extra half-inch of exposed skin makes Mike's mouth water – but otherwise he could be practically heading into court, not one hair out of place. Another one of Harvey Specter's superpowers, Mike thinks, and he's not sure whether to be jealous or just plain impressed.
Mike takes a deep breath, the cool air bringing him a little further into wakefulness, and stands, heading for the door. His legs are half asleep, and all that coffee's gone right through him, and his suit is starting to bunch and chafe and tug uncomfortably all over, the way it does when he's been wearing it for too many hours – well past time for a break. He wonders if Harvey would care if he changed into something more comfortable. Why does it matter if they look presentable when there's no one to see?
“What are you doing?” Harvey's no-nonsense tone fills the room behind him, and Mike freezes with his hand on the door handle.
He looks back over his shoulder uncertainly. “Um...going to the bathroom?” he says, and it comes out as a question without meaning to. It's not like he needs Harvey's permission for something as basic as taking a piss. That's more Louis's department.
Harvey looks highly unimpressed. “No, you're not.”
Slowly, Mike turns around. “Harvey...”
“Sit. Back to work. You've wasted enough time tonight.”
Oh. Mike bites his tongue on a retort – well if you didn't look so perfect all the time, I wouldn't stare – and assesses the situation. It's not so bad. He can hold it. Let Harvey have his little game.
He crosses the room again and sits back down on Harvey's leather sofa, picking up a folder and attempting to focus on it. But it's a pointless endeavor from the beginning. Now that he's thinking about it, the urge to go is stronger than he'd thought, and before long he finds himself squirming where he sits – just a little, barely noticeable at all.
Harvey notices. Harvey doesn't just notice, Harvey watches, which only makes things worse, because now Mike's squirming from self-consciousness too. He keeps waiting for Harvey to crack one of those ridiculous cocky grins of his, tell Mike he can't believe he thought he was actually serious and to go piss already. But the thing is, he doesn't. He just watches, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands under his chin, looking relaxed and casual and gorgeous. Bastard.
Fine. He wants to play, Mike can play. He shoves the pressure in his bladder out of his mind, same as the tiredness, same as the haze in his brain from too many hours reading tiny text in dim light, and goes back to work.
Not long later – maybe twenty minutes, maybe a half hour – Harvey gets up from his desk and goes out, leaving the door open behind him. Mike tries not to care, tries to stay focused, but he can't help the fact that he can hear every sound Harvey makes echoing through the empty building. Dress shoes more expensive than a month of Mike's rent striding down the hallway, the rush of water, the howl of a hand dryer, and fuck, this is worse than he'd thought. He drops his paperwork on the table and wraps one arm around his middle, hunching over himself and holding very still. He's not letting Harvey win this easy. No fucking way.
Harvey's footsteps make their way back to the office, and by the time he gets to the door Mike is sitting up straight again, highlighter in one hand and paperwork in the other, the picture of productivity – or he would be, but for the tiny rocking of his hips he can't quite seem to still. Harvey smirks, and Mike groans inwardly, knowing just as well as Harvey does that he's fighting a losing battle. It's only a matter of time.
Three more songs play themselves out on Harvey's record player, and now Mike can't even keep up the pretense of working. His eyes are closed and his hands are in fists, digging into his shaking thighs. The pressure is becoming a need, more urgent with every passing moment, and Mike really doesn't know how much longer he can do this. If he can just figure out what Harvey wants...that's not a win, not really, but it's not a loss either, and at this point he'll take it.
He looks up at Harvey, and his voice is almost disbelieving when he speaks. “Harvey, seriously...”
“Hmm?”
“Just let me go, I'll be right back, I swear.”
Harvey cocks his head, playing dumb. “Go where?”
Mike narrows his eyes. “Really? This is what you want?” He sighs and pitches his voice to sing-song sarcasm, asking, “May I please go to the bathroom?”
“No.”
Whatever reply Mike might have had gets cut off by a sudden desperate pain, and in the next moment his hands are grasping his cock through the fly of his suit, right there in front of Harvey's unwavering stare. It takes several slow, shallow breaths to get himself back under control, and suddenly Mike really doesn't want to play any more.
“Harvey, if you keep forcing me to stay here, I swear to god I'm gonna piss all over your couch and it's gonna be your fault.”
Harvey's hands fly out into the who me? gesture Mike's seen him use countless times before, his face all innocence. “Forcing you? The door's right there, Mike. It's not like I'm holding you down.”
An image flashes through Mike's head unbidden, Harvey holding him down...but there are more urgent things to deal with at the moment, and he banishes it quickly, trying to follow Harvey's stupid logic.
“So I can go then?”
Harvey smiles, slowly, and shakes his head. “No.”
Mike groans and throws his head back in frustration. “So what, you want me to piss all over your couch, is that it?'
No answer. Mike levels his gaze at Harvey again and finds him still staring back, but...for once in all the time they've known each other, it seems that Harvey doesn't have anything to say.
Instead, his lips are parted slightly, just breathing, his tongue darting out for a split second to wet the lower before disappearing again, and his eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, intense. It hits Mike all at once, a shock to the system that almost makes him lose control entirely – that's exactly what Harvey wants, because Harvey is turned on as fuck right now, waiting for Mike's time to run out.
Mike glances at the door. A normal person would get up and run to the bathroom now, because what other option is there? He imagines it for a second, just a second, what it would be like to let go right here – and oh shit, for a second he does, just a little spurt that barely wets his briefs, but he can't help gasping at the sensation, and based on the low noise Harvey makes, he knows exactly what that little gasp meant.
If he's gonna go, it has to be right now. Mike bites his lip and gives the door one more longing look. Then he lets out a breath and turns back to Harvey and says, “Fuck,” but Harvey knows him better than that, knows that what he really means is yes.
In the next moment Harvey is up and around his desk and hauling Mike to his feet. Before Mike even realizes quite what's happening, Harvey is pressed up behind him, his hard-on up close and friendly with Mike's ass and his hands wrapping around to rest on Mike's lower belly and cock respectively, and holy shit this is happening fast. Mike can't breathe and he definitely can't speak, but it doesn't matter, because Harvey, who's been weirdly quiet all night, has finally seemed to find his voice.
“Fuck, Mike, really gonna do it for me, aren't you? Can't believe you, so good for me, gonna ruin that godawful cheap suit, soak right through it. You gonna let me feel it, hold you right here while you piss for me?”
Mike groans and throws his head back to rest on Harvey's shoulder. He can feel Harvey's panting breath on his cheek, and it doesn't stop being strange, but it starts being something else at the same time, something...intimate. Maybe the most intimate thing he's ever done.
Harvey's still talking, pressing his hand gently into Mike's stomach and talking about how full he is, how he can feel it, and “it's all right, Mike, just relax, let go, let it all out for me.”
It takes longer than Mike thought it would, partially because his cock keeps trying to get hard, and who could blame him for that – Harvey's hand is right there. Mostly, though, it's just the strangeness of the situation, the bone-deep knowledge that this is not at all how this is supposed to work. Harvey doesn't seem to mind, just waiting him out, muttering soft and filthy words and keeping up a rhythmic press of his hand right into Mike's taut stomach, a demand that, finally, Mike can't resist.
Mike gasps again when it finally happens, when his control breaks and suddenly he's pissing himself, hot wet relief spilling out and soaking his suit all the way down, dark patch over his crotch and spreading down both legs into his socks. The flow is strong enough to cut right through his pants and splatter down onto Harvey's carpet, and Mike can hear it, the puddle he's making, filthy and wrong and shockingly, dizzyingly hot.
Harvey clearly agrees, holding him up as Mike relaxes back against him, his hand still cupping Mike's crotch as he pisses, his hand getting soaked with it, fingers playing in the streams that trickle through. He's panting in Mike's ear, rutting up almost painfully against Mike's ass, and even when the flow finally peters out, Mike just holds still and lets Harvey rub off against him until he shakes, and gasps, and comes.
I just made Harvey Specter come in his pants, Mike thinks, and realizes that might be the most unbelievable thing about this whole strange night.
Harvey releases him then, standing him back up on his feet and then circling his desk to settle in his chair again, plucking tissues from a drawer to dry his hand and looking otherwise no worse for the wear. Mike shakes his head in disbelief. Superpowers, seriously.
“It's late,” Harvey says, looking down at the various stacks of folders in front of him. “Go home. We can finish this in the morning.”
Mike blinks. Then he looks down at himself. The wet patches in his pants are cooling quickly, and he can feel his feet squelching in his shoes. “My suit...” he says, trailing off helplessly.
Harvey glances up, and his eyes darken again as he takes in the sight of Mike utterly ruined, the telltale patterns on him that couldn't possible be explained away as anything but what they are. Mike shivers under that look, heat and possession and want, and now he really is getting hard.
“Throw it away,” Harvey says. “I'll get you a new one.”
Mike nods. “Thanks,” he says, because he can't think of anything else to say, and turns to go. He knows a dismissal when he hears one, and besides, this is quickly becoming uncomfortable. He needs to go grab his bag, get changed, find somewhere to dispose of the suit where it won't be found...and absolutely, definitely jerk off. Maybe before he even takes off the wet suit. He's about three seconds away from doing it right here in the office, dismissal or no.
“Besides...”
Mike pauses, waiting for Harvey to get his last word in, as always.
“It's hotter when you're wearing something expensive.”
And when Mike comes, hunched over the sink and staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, it's that line that echoes in his head, the implicit promise in Harvey's words – the promise of more, and better, and most of all, again.