When I saw your Marvey art I fell in love because its rare to see, so pls make more, your art is so fucking good
Thank you so muchh, that means alot!! Here’s something silly I cooked up… i needed more doodler mike + Harvey who secretly loves n collects em, so i indulged.
He’s a decent artist in my head ok
Yes I made him too blond but it adds to the whole sun n moon vibe they got goin on
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summary: mike ross finds out that harvey specter is behind his well-known ‘puppy’ alias. he has words with him. #flirting, #sugardaddyharvey
word count: 1.1k
Harvey has this tendency to gift Mike things he imagines he needs. Like now, as Harvey sits on an overly comfortable futon in an empty dressing room, the only noise the squeaking of Mike’s shoes, doing the zipper on a new suit, and the hum of the AC.
Mike steps out, undoing the blinds, looking somewhat awkward. “I don’t like this one,”
“Neither do I,” says Harvey, because unless Mike exudes his usual boyish confidence, he doesn’t look great at all. “Try the other one. The navy one with the blue shirt.”
“I’ll look like a clown,” Mike groans playfully, laughing. “Or, worse; like a boy headed for his communion.”
Harvey frowns. “Try it on.”
“Yes, sir,” Mike mocks, winking.
The next few suits are another definite no, lacking Mike’s general flair. When he tries on a plan black with a plum-coloured tie, some of his personality comes back to him, and Harvey knows that he must buy this one. Next up, he tries this attractive navy pinstripe three piece, and Harvey convinces him it looks exquisite, even when Mike doesn’t explicitly think so. He thinks it makes Harvey happy.
What makes Harvey happier is sliding his platinum card into the reader as the serious-looking man behind the desk packages the suits into separate suit bags, which Mike has always seen as overkill.
“Alright puppy, you ready to learn some new tricks?” Asks Harvey, more of a statement than a question when they aren’t even one step from the suit shop.
Mike feels ridiculously small carrying his new, pressed suits while being labelled a puppy. “Sure,”
“That’s no way to show your enthusiasm,” Harvey picks on him.
“Have I told you lately that I hate you?”
“Who bought you those suits?”
“I can still hate you even if you buy me suits as bribes,” Mike amends, tugging on his tie. It’s heavier than the ties he’s used to, which is a ridiculous thought to have. Harvey bought this one, too. It’s embroidered with polo players on it.
“I stand corrected,” Harvey smirks, pressing his palm into Mike’s suit pocket, stroking it down the left of his chest. “They look good on you.”
“Thanks,” Mike flushes around the ears, “but I won’t take compliments as bribes either.”
Harvey nods. “Good boy.”
***
Mike approaches Donna’s desk with the same trepidation as prey approaching his predator’s hunting ground. He’s not grown out of this unfortunate habit after two years of working here.
“Hey, pup,” Donna greets once she looks up from her terminal, face brightening.
Mike has gotten seriously over hearing this nickname across the past few weeks. “Hey,”
“You need anything?” Donna asks, with which the realisation comes that Donna’s unprecedented ‘pup’ has wiped Mike’s memory.
“I forgot,” he groans.
Donna grins up at him. “Something from mom or dad?”
“Stop,” Mike warns, “you’ll give me a reverse Oedipus complex,”
Donna smirks. “Come back when you remember.”
Defeated, Mike turns and walks away. A few paces forward, it dawns on him: he was about to ask Donna for help with the haywire fax machine. He does a little jump when the lightbulb flicks on above the crown of his head, quickly turning around to meet Donna’s expectant smile. “Can you help me fax something?”
Donna smittenly shakes her head.
***
Mike stands in the riveting silence of Jessica Pearson’s office like a boy waiting on his headmaster. He holds his hands behind his back then brings them forward to twiddle his thumbs then cups them behind his back again. He repeats that routine when the headmaster (Jessica) looks up at him from her computer.
“Harvey tell you that you’re working with me this week?” Jessica prompts, lithely folding her notepad over.
Mike swings on the balls of his feet. “Yep,” he pops the ‘p’.
“Okay,” Jessica can’t help but smile, “he tell you what the case is about?”
“No,” Mike admits, “but I did my homework.”
Jessica knows why Harvey likes having him around. Anybody who thought different was blind. “Alright, puppy,” she pulls herself from her desk.
Mike stills minutely. “Okay, what —?” He stumbles, falling over his feet and stumbling into a walk when Jessica floats ahead of him. “What’s up with that?”
“What’s up with what?” Jessica questions innocently. Mike jogs up to walk by her side.
“This whole . . .puppy business. Whose idea was it?” Mike accuses.
“Ah.” Jessica hums, smiling beside herself. “No idea. I heard someone else use it and, well. It just stuck.”
Mike frowns. “It just stuck?”
Jessica nods. “Mm—hmm,” she smiles downward, “it’s quite fitting,”
“How?” Mike guffaws.
Jessica looks at him from the side—following her without question, as though on a short leash, watching her with wide-eyed anticipation. Yeah, that’s a good puppy, alright. She shrugs at him. He sighs and deflates. They walk into the meeting room together.
***
“This is all your fault,” Mike proclaims, storming Harvey’s office.
Harvey’s eyebrows crease in a frown and yet he can’t help the smile playing at his lips: he indulges in it and smirks at his associate. “Alright, Lady Bird, why so dramatic?”
Mike comes up to the front of Harvey’s desk and leans into it, eyes slim and scalding when staring down his technically-boss. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Refresh my memory?” Harvey gestures to his temple.
Mike’s frown deepens. He glares into Harvey’s eyes, which are creased at the corners from smiling.
Harvey leans over his desk, slender fingers reaching for Mike’s slim wrist. He ghosts his fingertips along the veins of his hand and they disappear into the cuff of his sleeve, wrapping around his bare forearm. It makes Mike dip further forward, abdomen nearly pressed to the lip of Harvey’s desk.
When Mike speaks, his voice is lower than before, yet level. “You’re the one that started calling me ‘puppy’ first,”
“Watch out, Mike, you’re about to make me jealous,” Harvey tilts his head, watching as the red on Mike’s face doesn’t dissipate. He snakes his hand up further, Mike’s sleeve bunching around his knuckles.
Mike reaches out with his free hand, the one untouched by Harvey’s palm, and traces a finger above Harvey’s brow bone, pressing into the beauty mark there. “I’m not saying I don’t like it,” Mike amends, “but I like it only when you do it,”
“Okay. I’ll tell Donna off.”
“It’s not just Donna,” Mike bemoans, retracting his hand just to scrub it over his face. “It’s everyone.”
“Louis?” Harvey looks honestly scandalised.
“Oh, ew,” Mike shakes his head, “not yet, but the mental image of that is . . .” He shudders.
“Right,” Harvey chuckles gruffly.
“Also, Donna’s looking at us through the glass,”
Harvey smiles lopsided, making Mike weak. “She’s such a voyeur.”
We all remember how in early season 3, Louis tried to make Mike his personal associate since he knew that Mike and Harvey were going through a rough patch.
The last scene where Harvey goes to get his boy back and Louis just looks at them SHOCKED while holding that stupid cake, it lowkey reminds me of this.(Mike being the one sitting on the guys lap)
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three simple rules by learnedfoot
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sick/injured fics
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the empty corner office by aspirateurkilleuse
I say to him once; I say to him one last time by acxsmist_inc
and my name was on you by veritas_st
but a whimper by beelove
shutting down by skyenapped
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tags. ♱ ⠀harvard marvey au, character x character (for once), mutual pining, bar fights, longingly looking at one anothers lips, the psychosexuality of tending to wounds, or something.
The bar sat a few streets off Harvard Square, crowded with students trying desperately to convince one another they were already important.
Future politicians drank beside future lawyers, future financiers boasted about internships they had not yet earned, and somewhere beneath the stale beer and cigarette smoke hung the collective arrogance of people who believed the world already belonged to them.
Harvey fit right in. At least, that was what everyone assumed.
From across the room he looked perfectly at ease, leaning against the bar with a glass of whiskey in hand, laughing at the appropriate moments, dressed better than everyone else present and fully aware of it.
Nobody ever seemed to notice the tension permanently lodged between his shoulders. Nobody noticed how often his jaw clenched. Nobody noticed that every smile seemed a fraction too sharp around the edges.
Harvey preferred it that way.
The conversation beside him had begun as background noise, the kind he normally tuned out without effort.
"...kid's a freak."
Harvey's attention flickered. "Who?"
"Ross."
His grip tightened around the glass.
"The photographic memory guy. You know the one. Shows up to class looking like he got dressed in the dark and somehow walks away with the highest grade."
A chorus of laughter followed.
Harvey said nothing.
"He creeps me out," another voice added. "Nobody remembers that much. Guy probably spends Friday nights memorizing textbooks for fun."
More laughter.
Ordinarily Harvey would have ignored it. Mike was not exactly lacking in ammunition for people looking to make fun of him. The kid was socially awkward when he forgot himself, talked too fast when he got excited, and possessed the astonishing ability to turn even casual conversation into a lecture if somebody accidentally mentioned a topic he liked.
The problem was that Harvey found all of those things irritatingly endearing. Not that he would ever admit that.
"He acts like he's smarter than everybody else."
"He is smarter than everybody else." The words left Harvey's mouth before he could stop them.
The group turned and one of them barked a laugh.
"Jesus, Specter. Didn't know Ross had a bodyguard."
Harvey took a slow sip of beer. "Didn't know he needed one."
The guy grinned.
"What, you two sharing study dates now?"
A few snickers rippled through the group.
Harvey felt something ugly stir beneath his ribs.
The smart thing would have been to walk away. The smart thing would have been to finish his drink, go back to campus, and forget about the conversation entirely.
Unfortunately, Harvey Specter had never been particularly interested in doing the smart thing when he was angry.
"Ross works harder than any of you," he said coolly. "Which probably explains why he makes the rest of you look stupid."
The grin vanished.
"Or maybe he's just a fucking nerd."
Harvey smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.
"No," he said. "You're thinking of yourself."
The first shove came fast.
Harvey barely felt it.
Months of stress, years of resentment, and more than a little beer surged together inside him like gasoline finding a spark. Before he consciously registered moving, his fist had already connected with someone's jaw.
The room erupted, chairs scraped, someone shouted. Another punch glanced off Harvey's cheekbone hard enough to split skin.
He welcomed the sting.
For a few glorious seconds there was no Harvard, no expectations, no future hanging over his head. There was only movement and impact and the satisfying crack of knuckles against bone.
Some distant part of him knew this had very little to do with Mike anymore.
Maybe it never had.
Because the truth was that Harvey had spent months watching Mike from library tables and lecture halls, finding his gaze lingering far longer than it should. He knew the shape of Mike's laugh. Knew exactly how his face lit up when discussing something he loved. Knew the precise moment concentration made him chew absent-mindedly on the inside of his cheek.
He knew far too much.
And every bit of it sat somewhere beneath his skin, impossible to ignore.
So when someone called Mike Ross a nerd, Harvey threw a punch. When someone called him a freak, Harvey threw another.
And when campus security finally dragged him out of the bar with blood on his mouth and swelling already forming beneath one eye, Harvey found himself wondering, not for the first time, what Mike would say when he saw him.
The answer, as it turned out, was considerably less grateful than Harvey had imagined.
︶⊹︶︶⠀†⠀︶︶⊹︶
The knock came shortly after midnight.
Mike ignored it.
Not because he thought it would go away, but because he was three chapters deep into a constitutional law reading and had reached that peculiar state of exhaustion where words stopped being language and instead became decorative arrangements of letters.
The knock came a third time, louder than before, and Mike finally shoved his reading aside with an irritated groan.
"If this is Trevor," he muttered as he crossed the room, dragging a hand through his curls, "I'm changing my name and transferring to Yale."
The door swung open and the complaint died instantly.
Harvey stood in the hallway looking as though he'd survived a small war.
His rugby jumper hung crookedly from one shoulder. One side of his face was already darkening with a bruise, his lip split and crusted with blood. There was something almost absurd about it, the contrast between Harvard golden-boy Harvey Specter and the fact that he looked like he'd just stumbled out of the world's most violent pub crawl.
For a long moment Mike simply stared.
Harvey, meanwhile, offered him a lopsided grin that immediately ruined whatever sympathy Mike might have been preparing to feel.
"What?" Harvey asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"A ghost would probably be less concerning," Mike replied. His eyes narrowed. "Jesus Christ, Harvey."
Harvey glanced down at himself as though only just remembering his appearance. "Yeah, it looks worse than it is."
Mike barked out a laugh. "It looks like you got hit by a truck."
"That's dramatic."
"Your face is bleeding."
Harvey lifted a hand and touched his lip. When his fingers came away red, he frowned slightly, as though this information was new to him.
"Huh."
"Huh?" Mike repeated incredulously. "That's your reaction?"
The corner of Harvey's mouth twitched. "What would you prefer? Screaming? Crying? A heartfelt monologue?"
"I'd prefer you explain why you look like you lost a cage match."
Something flickered briefly across Harvey's face, not guilt exactly.
Mike knew that expression. It usually meant Harvey had done something incredibly stupid and was attempting to decide whether the story was worth telling.
"Oh, no," Mike said immediately, pointing at him. "That look means you're responsible."
Harvey scoffed. "I resent that."
"You should."
"I wasn't entirely responsible."
Mike folded his arms.
The oversized hoodie swallowed him whole, sleeves hanging over his hands as he leaned against the doorframe. Harvey's gaze lingered for a second longer than it should have before he dragged it away.
"How much of the fight was your fault?" Mike asked.
Harvey considered. "Fifty percent."
Mike stared. "Harvey."
"Fine. Seventy."
"Harvey."
"Okay, maybe eighty."
"Harvey."
Harvey sighed dramatically and pushed past him into the room. "It was one hundred percent my fault."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
The dorm felt noticeably smaller with Harvey inside it.
Maybe it was because Harvey always seemed too large for whatever room he occupied. Maybe it was because Mike was suddenly hyperaware that he was standing barefoot in plaid boxers while Harvey looked infuriatingly attractive despite being half covered in blood.
Either way, he hated it.
"Bathroom," Mike ordered, grabbing the first-aid kit from beneath his desk.
Harvey glanced over his shoulder. "What, no hello? No concern for my wellbeing?"
Mike followed him down the short hallway. "Harvey, if you wanted concern for your wellbeing you shouldn't have voluntarily participated in amateur boxing."
"I didn't volunteer."
"Oh, so somebody forced you into it?"
Harvey opened the bathroom door. "No."
"Then you volunteered."
Harvey rolled his eyes but sat obediently on the edge of the bathtub. That more than anything else told Mike he was hurt.
Normal Harvey would've argued. Normal Harvey would've spent ten minutes negotiating his way out of basic medical treatment.
This Harvey merely leaned back against the tiled wall and watched as Mike rummaged through the first-aid kit.
The fluorescent light overhead illuminated every scrape and bruise. Up close, the damage looked worse.
Mike's annoyance softened despite himself. "Idiot," he muttered.
Harvey's eyes lifted. There was something unexpectedly fond in the insult, something that made his chest feel strange.
"You know," Harvey drawled, watching Mike soak a cotton pad with antiseptic, "most people would start by asking if I'm okay."
Mike snorted. "Most people don't know you."
"That's hurtful."
"It's accurate."
Harvey laughed quietly and the sound echoed slightly off the bathroom tiles.
Mike hated how much he liked that laugh. Hated it even more when he stepped between Harvey's knees to inspect the cut on his lip and found Harvey already looking at him. Not at his eyes.
At his mouth.
The realization landed like a punch, neither of them acknowledged it. Neither of them moved. For one strange second the bathroom felt entirely too small.
Then Mike pressed the antiseptic against Harvey's split lip. Harvey hissed immediately.
"There he is," Mike said with satisfaction, unable to suppress a grin. "I was beginning to think you didn't actually have nerve endings."
"Oh, shut up."
"I'm serious. You walked in here looking like a homicide victim and acted mildly inconvenienced."
Harvey caught Mike's wrist before he could pull away. Mike froze.
"So you're saying you're worried about me?"
The bastard actually looked pleased. Mike stared at him. Then, very deliberately, he dabbed harder against the cut.
Harvey swore.
Mike smiled sweetly. "There's your answer."
Mike had reached the point in the proceedings where his irritation had transformed into concentration.
Harvey could always tell the difference.
When Mike was annoyed, he talked. He complained. He launched into lengthy tirades that somehow managed to be both intelligent and deeply exasperated. Concentrated Mike, however, became quieter. His brows drew together slightly, his mouth settling into a thin line as he worked, entirely unaware of the fact that Harvey found the expression unbearably distracting.
At present, Mike was crouched in front of him with a bottle of antiseptic balanced precariously on the edge of the sink, examining the cut near Harvey's eyebrow as though it were a particularly complicated legal case.
"You know," Harvey remarked, watching him through one half-swollen eye, "for somebody who spent the last twenty minutes telling me what an idiot I am, you're being surprisingly gentle."
Mike snorted without looking up.
"That's because if I leave a scar on your face, you'll somehow find a way to blame me for it ten years from now."
"I would never."
"You absolutely would."
Harvey smiled faintly.
Mike noticed immediately and shook his head, muttering something beneath his breath that sounded suspiciously like unbelievable.
The smile only widened.
"Hold still."
"I am holding still."
"You're literally not."
Before Harvey could formulate a defence, Mike reached forward and threaded his fingers into the hair at the back of Harvey's head, gripping just firmly enough to keep him from moving while he inspected the wound.
The gesture was practical. Entirely practical. At least, that was undoubtedly Mike's intention.
Unfortunately, Harvey's brain had never been particularly cooperative where Mike goddamn Ross was concerned.
The warmth of Mike's hand settled at the nape of his neck and remained there, fingers disappearing into dark hair as he tilted Harvey's head slightly to the side. The position forced Harvey to look up at him, and suddenly he found himself far more interested in the person patching him up than the injuries themselves.
Mike was still wearing the same oversized Harvard hoodie he'd answered the door in, sleeves pushed halfway over his hands.
His hair was a mess, flattened on one side from where he'd presumably been lying on his bed reading, and there was something almost painfully domestic about the sight of him standing in the harsh bathroom light at midnight, muttering to himself while tending to somebody else's wounds.
Harvey couldn't stop looking. Perhaps he should have. Perhaps any sensible person would have. But Harvey had never really claimed to be sensible.
Eventually Mike noticed the prolonged silence and glanced up.
Their eyes met immediately. Neither of them looked away.
Mike's hand remained tangled in Harvey's hair and Harvey's knees brushed either side of the younger man's legs.
Somewhere down the hall a door closed, but the sound felt impossibly distant.
Mike swallowed.
Harvey watched him do it.
His gaze dropped almost involuntarily, tracing the movement before settling, quite accidentally and then not accidentally at all, on Mike's mouth.
He became aware, in the way one becomes aware of gravity, that Mike was close enough to kiss.
The thought arrived uninvited. Worse still, it stayed.
When Harvey looked back up, he discovered Mike watching him with an expression he couldn't quite decipher. There was uncertainty there. Curiosity. Something softer than either of them usually allowed themselves.
Harvey could feel his own pulse beating steadily beneath his skin. He could feel Mike's fingers against the back of his neck. He could feel the weight of a hundred things left unsaid gathering between them like storm clouds.
And before he had properly decided to do it, before conscious thought had fully caught up with instinct, he found himself leaning forward.
Not much, barely enough to notice. The smallest reduction of distance.
Yet Mike noticed.
Harvey knew he did because Mike's eyes flickered downward for the briefest moment. To his mouth.
The realization landed somewhere deep in Harvey's chest. For one reckless second he genuinely thought Mike might meet him halfway.
Then Mike blinked, as though waking abruptly from a dream. "Oh, God."
Harvey froze.
Mike's eyes squeezed shut for half a second before he shook his head and let out a breathless laugh. "You know what this is?"
Harvey stared at him.
"What?"
Without missing a beat, Mike reached for another cotton pad and said, "This is exactly like The Treasure of the Sierra Madre."
Harvey frowned. "The what?"
"The Treasure of the Sierra Madre."
Mike stepped back slightly, and the movement felt strangely disappointing.
"Humphrey Bogart. Gold prospectors. Entirely avoidable disaster caused by men making progressively worse decisions because they think they're smarter than everybody else."
Harvey's brow furrowed. "That's an incredibly niche reference."
"Thank you."
"No, seriously."
"I'm a film nerd."
"You're twenty-one years old."
"And?"
"And nobody our age has seen that movie."
Mike pointed the antiseptic-soaked cotton pad at him. "I have."
"Of course you have."
The familiar rhythm returned immediately, settling over them like a lifeline. Harvey could practically feel them both grabbing hold of it, retreating toward safer ground.
Mike, perhaps deciding that Harvey looked altogether too pleased with himself, pressed firmly against the bruise along his cheek.
Pain exploded across Harvey's face.
"Goddamn it—"
"There we go," Mike said with obvious satisfaction. "I was wondering when reality was going to catch up with you."
Harvey glared up at him while Mike attempted—and failed—to suppress a grin.
The moment had passed. Or perhaps it hadn't. Perhaps it had merely shifted shape, settling quietly beneath the surface where neither of them would acknowledge it.
Either way, when Mike reached forward again to continue cleaning the cuts on his face, Harvey found himself sitting unusually still, and Mike found himself unusually careful.
Neither of them mentioned the fact that, for one dangerous second, they'd both forgotten how to breathe.
I could say that realizing every artist's dream of completing a project like this wasn't easy, and while it's true, I must thank you all once again for encouraging me with your sweet comments and messages. It's thanks to you that a one-part punchline became a full 202 pages (!!!) story.
Now that it's over and if you still aren't tired of my shenanigans, you can follow my main blog (and see my yearly Snowlin Halloween illustration soon!).
As for the Magic Omens AU, please give me a moment to catch my breath and I'll start preparing the digital release (with bonus drawings) that will be downloadable from kofi!
To the Merlin fans who are keeping the fandom alive, to the Good Omens fans (I'm sure the 90 minutes finale will be great, even if we won't get a full season! stay hopeful!!) and to the fans of both shows for constantly enabling my silly idea,
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming