not-girlfriend | jake peralta x reader

a/n: short and stupid and sweet but i hope you like it! warnings: not my usual writing style, really short, not proofread

The briefing room is louder than usual.

The overlap of night shift and day shift has brought double the cops and triple the ego, and Captain Holt looks about one more sarcastic comment away from walking into traffic.

“Let’s try this again,” he says, tone clipped as always. “The precinct is short-staffed due to the commissioner’s inexplicable decision to approve simultaneous leave requests, so the night shift and day shift will be operating as one until further notice. That means cooperation, communication, and no turf wars.”

A hand shoots up.

“No, Detective Boyle, this is not an opportunity to suggest ‘team-building lasagna.’”

Boyle lowers his hand slowly. “Copy that, sir.”

Jake leans back in his chair, trying to look casual. He nudges your knee under the table.

“You know this is gonna be a disaster, right?” he whispers. “Night shift people are weird. They’re like raccoons. Shifty, unpredictable, probably hiding trash in their lockers.”

You grin. “They’re not that bad. And you have trash in your locker.”

Just then, the door swings open.

And in strolls Detective Cole.

Night shift. Leather jacket. Perfectly gelled hair. The kind of smile that knows it’s been complimented before. He scans the room and lands squarely on you.

“Well,” he says, voice like he thinks it’s charming, “day shift just got a whole lot more interesting.”

Jake chokes on his coffee.

Boyle pats his back.

“I got you, buddy.”

Cole ignores the commotion entirely and slides into the empty seat beside you—your usual spot next to Jake now inconveniently blocked by smirking smugness and cologne.

“So,” Cole says, turning to you with that same perfectly polished grin. “You got a name, or should I just keep calling you 'trouble'?”

You blink. You’ve barely spoken to the guy, and already he’s laying it on thick.

“Uh—Y/N. Detective Y/L/N,” you manage, trying to sound neutral. “Day shift.”

Jake snorts from behind his coffee cup. “Yeah, she’s not in the market for whatever noir fantasy you’ve got going on, man.”

Cole doesn’t miss a beat. “Relax, Peralta. Just being friendly.”

Boyle leans toward Rosa. “This feels illegal. Should we tase him?”

Rosa nods, deadpan. “Let’s give him five more minutes.”

Amy whispers to Holt, “Should we intervene?”

Holt, without looking up from his notes, replies, “Only if someone dies. Or worse, makes a pun.”

You shoot Jake a glance. He looks… not mad. Just slightly feral. Like he’s trying to figure out if 'accidentally' spilling hot coffee on Cole would be considered assault or a workplace hazard.

You turn back to  Detective Cole. “Appreciate the enthusiasm,” you say. “But maybe let’s focus on the briefing?”

Jake mouths 'thank you' at you.

Cole just smiles wider.

When the meeting finally ends, Holt dismisses everyone with a dry “Do not disappoint me,” and the room scatters.

You stand to stretch, and before you can even grab your notepad, Cole’s already hovering.

“So, Y/L/N,” he says, leaning just a little too close. “You got any plans after shift? Because I know a diner down the block with terrible service and excellent pie.”

Jake is behind you in a second.

“She does have plans,” he says cheerfully. “With me. We’re watching Die Hard and making aggressively mediocre spaghetti. Very romantic.”

You glance at Jake, confused but amused. “Since when?”

“Since… now,” Jake says, voice going high-pitched at the end. “Right now.”

Cole raises an eyebrow. “Ah. Got it. Work partners and dinner dates. Cute.”

He walks off, finally, and you turn to Jake, who is absolutely not making eye contact.

“Jake?” you say slowly.

“Hmm?” he replies, inspecting a nearby pencil like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

“You okay?”

“Yep. Totally fine. Not jealous at all. That guy’s hair is definitely not better than mine. Why would I be jealous?”

Boyle strolls past with perfect timing. “He’s extremely jealous.”

The rest of the day only gets worse—for Jake, anyway.

Cole is everywhere. At the vending machine when you’re getting your usual afternoon candy bar. Offering to carry files that don’t even belong to him. Laughing too hard at your jokes, even the terrible ones. He even volunteers to accompany you to the evidence locker, which makes Jake nearly implode.

"I'll go too," Jake blurts. "You know. For backup. Because some of those boxes are heavy. And emotionally unstable. Like me."

Rosa watches him tail the both of you down the hallway and mutters, "This is either going to end in a fistfight or a kiss."

By the time night falls, Jake’s nerves are frayed. He’s pacing in the break room, talking mostly to himself while Boyle nods encouragingly.

"I mean, maybe she's into that stupid hair gel. Maybe I’m just her coworker-slash-Die-Hard-buddy. Maybe I hallucinated that time she touched my arm for like three seconds straight."

Boyle hums. “You should probably just tell her how you feel, man.”

Jake stops. “No. No way. That’s ridiculous.”

But the traveling sound of you laughing at something Detective Cole said is starting to convince him otherwise.

Jake storms out of the break room, marches over, and inserts himself right between the two of you.

"Hey. Quick question," he says. "Are you hitting on my not-girlfriend? Because if you are, I have a very long and very unnecessary PowerPoint explaining why that’s not allowed."

Cole raises both brows. "Your what?"

Jake turns to you, cheeks a little pink. "My not-girlfriend. Who I maybe—definitely—like. A lot. And have for a while. And maybe want to take on a real date. If she's into that. Which she might not be. And that’s okay. Unless it’s not."

You blink at him.

Then smile.

"Jake."

"Yeah?"

"You’re an idiot. But yes."

You grab him by his stupid collar and pull him into a kiss.

Across the bullpen, Amy silently high-fives Rosa, who then walks over and slips Cole a twenty.

Boyle blinks. "What’s that for?"

"I asked him to do it," Rosa says, not looking up from her report. "Told him to flirt with Y/L/N until Jake cracked. Honestly thought it’d take longer."

Cole chuckles, folding the bill. “Glad to help. You’re welcome for the emotional growth.”

Jake gapes. "You set me up?"

Rosa smirks. “And you’re welcome.”

-----

Absolutely love your work!

flour and flowers | george weasley x reader

a/n: writing a bunch today to distract myself from the day's events. thank you for the request and your kindness! hope you like it :)

warnings: a cross between implied smut and actual smut, mentions of grief, not proofread

The first time George Weasley saw you, you were balancing a tray of teacups in one hand and flicking a disobedient curl out of your eyes with the other. Your fingers moved with the practiced grace of someone who knew how to carry comfort in porcelain. The sunlight caught the edges of your hair and made your smile look warmer than the tea you were serving. You stood outside the village café—chipped pastel paint, a hand-drawn chalkboard sign still smudged with yesterday’s specials, and the smell of something sweet curling through the air like it was trying to lure people inside.

He’d just popped down from the Burrow to run an errand for Molly, not expecting anything more exciting than a loaf of bread and a scolding for forgetting the milk last time. But then he saw you—sunlight on your shoulders, shoes scuffed from too much walking, your laugh spilling out like it belonged in the air.

You didn’t notice him at first. Just another stranger with freckled hands and storm-worn eyes. But when your gazes met—something in your chest fluttered. Like the world paused to see what you’d say first.

He slowed down, just slightly. Told himself it was curiosity.

Told himself a lot of things that day.

You noticed him, of course. Tall, red-haired, freckled all over with that vaguely chaotic glint in his eyes—the kind of man who didn’t exactly blend in. You offered him a smile out of politeness. He blinked like he hadn’t expected it.

“Tea?” you asked, voice light. “Or are you more of a coffee and chaos type?”

He huffed a laugh. “What gave me away?”

You shrugged. “The hair. The grin. The air of impending mischief.”

He took a step closer, nodding toward the tray. “Those for customers or is one of them a peace offering?”

“Depends,” you said. “You planning to stay a while or just here for the bread and doom?”

George smiled. Fully. The kind that showed teeth and softened him around the edges.

“Maybe both,” he said. “But if I’m going to be doomed, might as well be with a cup of something sweet.”

From that moment on, George only ever stopped at one place to pick up bread.

Didn’t matter if the other shop was closer. Or cheaper. Or didn’t make him feel like his chest might cave in every time you smiled at him from behind the counter. He came back anyway.

Sometimes he bought things he didn’t need—an extra croissant, a jar of local jam, a scone you said turned out too flat but still tasted fine. But mostly, he came for the way your voice smoothed out the sharp edges in his head. The way your laughter cut through the fog he still lived in, even years later. Sometimes he didn’t buy anything at all. Just sat out front with a cup of tea and let you talk to him about things that had nothing to do with magic or war or anything that had broken him before. He listened closely. Memorized the shape of your sentences, the way you tapped your fingers when you were excited, the soft hum you made when you stirred your drink. And with every word, every passing moment, something unnamed began to stitch itself back together inside him.

You didn’t know who he was. Not really. And he liked it that way.

Still, there were things you noticed.

He always stood with one shoulder tilted just slightly forward, like he was shielding something—or had once been forced to. There was a soft scar tucked behind the mess of curls on the right side of his head, where one ear should’ve been. You never asked about it.

The air around him always felt... different. Like it held a memory you couldn’t name. Like the warmth of his smile came from somewhere far away, carried on something heavier than it looked.

He laughed with you. Teased you. Rolled his eyes dramatically when you forgot his favorite muffin. But behind every grin, there was a flicker of something else. Grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or the echo of a name he hadn’t spoken out loud in a long time.

He came in more often as the weeks went by. Never said why. Just appeared like the wind—one minute the café was quiet, the next, the bell above the door chimed and there he was with a smirk and a sarcastic comment about your apron.

Sometimes you’d catch him staring out the window with a far-off look, like the village wasn’t quite real to him yet. Like he was still waiting for something—or someone—to tug him back into the storm.

Once, when it rained and no one else came in, you let him linger long after closing. You talked about stupid things: the worst thing you’d ever baked, his distaste for mint in desserts, a goat from the next village over who kept escaping. He laughed, really laughed, and then went quiet, like it surprised him.

Another time, he brought you a flower he swore he didn’t pick on purpose. It was crushed, a little muddy, and stuffed inside a napkin.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said.

But you kept it anyway. Pressed it between the pages of your recipe book. Every time you caught a glimpse of the browned, brittle petals, you smiled. Your fingers would sometimes linger on the page longer than necessary, tracing the soft edges as if they still held the warmth of his hand. It made your stomach twist, in that way beginnings always do—nervous and hopeful and quietly sweet.

The more he came around, the more he softened. Not all at once. Not loudly. But in small, steady ways.

He started fixing things—your sticky back door hinge, the café’s squeaky chalkboard sign, the wobbly stool by the window he always claimed as his. He never asked. Just noticed. Just did. And when you caught him at it, sleeves rolled to the elbows, wand tucked out of sight but clearly used, he’d shrug like it didn’t matter—like it hadn’t taken him an hour and a half to charm the latch back into place just right. Once, you found a small stack of napkins folded to level the back table leg. On one, he’d doodled a tiny magpie.

He started asking things, too. Quietly, like it cost him something. If you’d always lived here. If you ever wanted to leave. If you were scared to be alone at night. What your favorite song was. What your worst day looked like.

You caught him humming once. Under his breath, half-conscious of it. A melody that didn’t belong to the radio or the street—just something he was keeping close. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to scare it away. But something about the sound of it—gentle, aimless, half-happy—stayed with you. It echoed in your chest long after he left that evening, like the warmth of it had threaded into your ribs and settled there. You wondered what memory it belonged to. Or if maybe… it had something to do with you.

And slowly, you became part of the way he healed. Not by doing anything big, not by demanding he be different—but just by being there. Being warm. Being constant.

He stopped bracing when you touched his arm. He started remembering how you took your tea. He stayed longer. Looked lighter.

You weren’t magic. Not like him. But you felt like a kind of spell anyway.

---

He realized it on a Tuesday.

He’d been walking down the main lane into town, already half-smiling at the thought of seeing you, maybe teasing you for your questionable muffin-of-the-day choice—when he saw it.

The café was dark.

The lights were off. The chairs inside still up on tables. The chalkboard sign outside had been knocked over, lying face-down in the dirt.

Something in his chest snapped to attention.

He picked up his pace without thinking, scanning the windows, checking for movement. Nothing. No soft music, no scent of baking, no warm hum in the air that usually buzzed with your presence.

Then he heard it—from a passerby at the grocer’s doorstep.

“Shame about the café. Robbed last night, I heard. Poor girl must’ve been scared out of her mind.”

He didn’t hear the rest. Not really.

His hands were already shaking.

Because he didn’t know where you were.

Didn’t know if you’d been hurt. If you’d cried. If you were alone when it happened. If you were still alone now.

And that helpless, breathless ache clawed its way back through him.

Because the last time he’d loved someone enough to fear losing them, he had.

He didn’t think. Didn’t stop. Just moved.

Through the square. Past the post. His boots hit the pavement too hard, his breath shallow, heart thudding loud enough it might as well have been shouting your name.

The baker saw him and called something out—he didn’t hear it.

He rounded the corner toward your flat above the café, his hand already on the railing of the steps before his brain caught up. One breath. Two. Then he knocked.

And when you opened the door, eyes puffy, sweater too big, hair undone from what must’ve been a long and sleepless night—he couldn’t speak.

You blinked at him, then tried to smile. “Hi.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re okay.”

You nodded. “I’m okay.”

And then he was pulling you in, arms wrapped tight around your shoulders, his face buried in your neck like the world had stopped spinning and he needed to feel gravity again.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Not yet.

Inside, the flat is dim—curtains drawn, a half-finished cup of tea gone cold on the table. You close the door behind him, the latch clicking into place like a sigh. Neither of you speaks at first.

He doesn’t let go.

Not until your hands come up to rest on his back, and even then, only enough to pull away and look at you—really look.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks, low. Rough.

You shake your head. “No. Just broke a window. Took the till. Some stock. I wasn’t here.”

Relief floods him so fast it feels like weakness. He sinks onto the edge of your couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

You watch him for a moment. Then sit beside him. “George?”

He looks up. His eyes are too bright.

“I—I didn’t know where you were,” he says, and it’s like the words rip something open.

“I thought—God, I thought I was going to lose you, and I didn’t even—”

He stops himself. But his hands find yours. Threaded. Tight.

“I don’t think I can do that again,” he admits. “Lose someone I—”

You squeeze his fingers.

“I'm here,” you whisper.

And this time, when he leans in, it’s not with panic. It’s with promise.

His lips brush yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. Gentle. Testing. But once you respond, his restraint slips, just a little—your mouths part, meet again, deeper this time. His fingers knot themselves in your hair, and your hands find the edge of his shirt, anchoring him to you.

The kiss turns hungry in a heartbeat, built from everything unspoken and aching. Your bodies shift closer, knees bumping, breath warm and shared, and when he moans softly into your mouth, it sends a bolt of heat down your spine. You gasp against him, fingers curling at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up, needing more—needing him.

His thumb grazes the underside of your jaw as he pulls back for only a second, eyes searching yours, glazed with want. “Is this going to be okay?” he murmurs.

You’ve wanted him for so long it feels like it’s woven into your blood. Like every soft glance and crooked grin and half-step closer was a stitch, and now you’re coming apart to make room for him. Your body aches for him, not just with need—but with something fuller. Something that feels dangerously close to love.

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

And you kiss him like it’s the answer to every question he never dared to ask.

You’re not sure who exhales first, but the sigh between you is shared, warm, heavy with everything you haven’t said aloud.

When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His forehead rests against yours. His thumb still moves in slow circles at your side.

“Tell me this isn’t nothing,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, barely breathing. “It’s everything.”

He kisses you again.

Not tentative this time—there’s a hunger to it now, an ache that’s been building under every laugh, every shared cup of tea, every moment you made him feel like someone whole. His fingers slide under the hem of your sweater, slow and reverent, like he’s asking permission. Like he’s afraid if he rushes, it’ll all disappear.

You nod before he even says a word.

That night is soft. You take your time, like the two of you are learning a new language written in breath and bare skin. He kisses the slope of your shoulder, the bend of your knee, murmurs something indecipherable against your stomach that sounds like worship. You drag your fingers through his hair, pull him back to your mouth, feel his weight press into you like he’s trying to be rewritten by your body alone. The rhythm you find together is slow, reverent—like memory, like healing. He touches you like he doesn’t believe he’s allowed.

You let him.

You tell him he is.

And in the morning, the sun paints gold across your floorboards, catching on the curls at the base of his neck where he sleeps, half-tangled in your sheets.

You wake before him. Watch his chest rise and fall, slow and steady, one hand curled loosely beneath his chin. He looks younger in the light—unguarded, almost boyish, like the weight he carries has finally been set down for a while.

Something in your chest swells. You press a kiss to his shoulder, light as air, and whisper his name just to be sure it’s real.

He stirs. Wakes slowly. Stretches. Blinks at you like he’s still dreaming.

“I want to try something,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Try what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just slips out of bed, bare feet padding over wood, and reaches for his wand from where it rests on the windowsill. You sit up, blanket clutched to your chest, watching as he steps into the patch of sunlight by your window.

He closes his eyes. Breathes.

He thinks about the way you looked at him last night. About your hands in his hair. The sound you made when he whispered that you mattered. The way it felt to finally, finally be held without fear.

When he opens his eyes, he lifts the wand and speaks—clear, quiet, certain.

“Expecto Patronum.”

And for the first time since Fred, something silver and stunning bursts from the tip—light and wild and alive.

It takes the shape of a magpie.

He turns to you, eyes glassy, smile trembling.

You don’t say anything. Just reach for him.

And he comes home to you all over again.

-----

nightcap | harvey specter x reader

a/n: i got incredibly carried away i am so sorry i love harvey specter

warnings: SMUT 18+, like way more than i usually write... read at your own risk, cursing, drinking, not proofread

You leave the office with your heels in one hand and your patience in the other.

It’s nearly midnight. The glow of New York is indifferent and loud, but the stretch of pavement between Pearson Hardman and your favorite bar is quiet. Familiar. Just enough space to shake the courtroom adrenaline from your spine.

You don’t even look at the menu. Just slide onto your usual stool and nod at the bartender.

“Neat,” you say. “Whatever’s strongest.”

may i request..... may i request a grumpy!rosa diaz x sunshine!reader......... you get free rein with everything... everything and anything..... pleak i love you i heart you thank you

plus one | rosa diaz x reader

a/n: for my angels @blastzachilles and @jordiemeow! hope you enjoy!

warnings: SMUT 18+, cursing, grumpy x sunshine trope, not proofread

Rosa doesn't ask for favors. She issues commands, makes demands, disappears before anyone can say yes or no.

So when she knocks on your door at half past ten on a Wednesday night—leather jacket zipped, helmet in hand, jaw tighter than usual—you already know something’s off.

You open the door with a smile already in place. “Wow. You look like a noir detective and a thunderstorm had a baby. Come in, I’ll make tea.”

She doesn’t sit. Just stands there in the middle of your kitchen like she's thinking of running back out. You watch her watch the tiles.

"I need a plus-one," she says, finally.

You blink. “To what? A stakeout wedding?”

Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost.

“Jocelyn’s getting married,” she says, voice flat, like it's just another case file.

Your breath hitches. Not from surprise—everyone at the precinct’s known for weeks. But Rosa? She’s been a fortress. Locked down, eyes sharp, jokes sharp enough to cut.

You step closer, just enough for the kitchen light to catch the warmth in your eyes. “And you want me to go with you.”

It isn’t really a question. She nods anyway.

“Why me?” you ask, gentle.

Rosa shrugs, and it’s so unlike her. “You’re the only one who won’t make it weird.”

Your lips curve. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She glares, but you catch the flush under her cheekbones. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She doesn’t stay long. You don’t ask what Jocelyn’s fiancé looks like or if it still stings. You just watch her leave, headlights disappearing into the quiet night.

You don’t know it yet, but somewhere deep in Rosa’s chest, something fragile and furious is already unraveling.

---

“You’re taking her?” Jake says, eyes wide like you’ve just told him Rosa’s adopting a kitten. “You sure that’s not a tactical misstep, Diaz?”

Rosa sharpens her glare like a blade. “Say one more word and I’ll crash your next date night.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Terry’s still trying to fix the drywall from last time.”

Terry walks in mid-conversation, arms full of yogurt. “What did I hear about drywall?”

“Nothing,” Rosa says.

“She’s taking Y/N to Jocelyn’s wedding,” Jake stage-whispers.

Terry blinks. “Bold move. But good choice. Y/N’s like... emotional Kevlar.”

Amy leans over her desk, beaming. “Oh my god, do you two have outfits planned? Are you color coordinating? Do you need me to layout a color scheme?!”

Rosa grunts. “It’s not a real date.”

“But everyone there is gonna think it is,” Jake says, grinning like a child who’s been handed popcorn and front row seats to drama.

You walk into the bullpen, coffee in hand. “What are we all smiling about?”

The room turns toward you like you’ve just walked onstage.

“Nothing,” Rosa says too fast.

“Rosa’s definitely not taking you to her ex’s wedding where everyone will think you’re together,” Jake says helpfully.

Your brows lift. “Oh? That’s news to me," you grin, sarcasm shining bright through your smile.

Rosa looks like she wants to teleport into the floor.

You just smile, gentle and kind, and tuck a loose strand of hair behind Rosa’s ear without thinking. “Guess we better make it convincing, huh?”

Rosa blinks. Once. Twice.

She’s so screwed.

---

The day of the wedding arrives like a storm Rosa’s been trying to outrun. And now she’s in your apartment, pacing the floor while you finish your makeup.

You step out of the bedroom in your robe and stop short.

Rosa’s in a dress.

It’s black—of course it’s black—but the cut is soft where you expected sharp, hugging her waist and flaring just enough at her hips. Sleeveless, high-necked, sleek but quietly devastating. Her hair is swept up, a few strands loose and rebelliously soft around her face.

“You’re staring,” she mutters.

“Only because I’ve never seen you like this,” you say, and it comes out breathier than you mean. “You look…” You search for the right word. Settle on, “Beautiful. You’re setting an unfair standard for wedding guests. It’s rude, honestly.”

Rosa scoffs, looking away. “It was Amy’s idea.”

You smile. “Amy has good taste.”

“I hate it.”

“You don’t.”

She doesn’t respond. Just folds her arms and waits as you slip into your dress, turning your back to her.

“Can you help me zip this?”

There’s a beat. Then the brush of her fingers.

She’s slower than usual—she’s good with zippers, you’ve seen her pick locks in seconds—but this is different.

The sound is soft. Teeth of the zipper catching fabric, inching upward. Her knuckles graze your spine. You don’t move.

“You okay?” you ask, voice quiet.

She exhales, long and low. “Yeah.”

You turn, catching her eyes before she can look away. “You clean up nice.”

“So do you,” she says, like the words were dragged out of her throat.

You reach for your shoes. She watches you like you’re some puzzle she’ll never solve.

Outside, the car’s waiting. But neither of you reach for the door just yet.

Because for a moment, the silence isn’t awkward—it’s charged. Unspoken. Heavy with something you’re both too scared to name.

---

The venue is already buzzing by the time you arrive.

Twinkle lights dangle from the rafters, soft music filtering through the air like a sigh. Everything smells like champagne and roses, and there’s a faint chill that clings to your skin despite the layers.

You walk in side by side. Rosa’s arm brushes yours once. Then again.

Then she takes your hand.

She does it like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean anything at all. But her palm is warm, her grip just a little too tight, and when a few heads turn to look, she doesn’t let go.

The room notices.

People smile. Nod. Whisper.

You hear someone murmur, “They make such a beautiful couple.”

Rosa doesn’t react. But her jaw ticks.

“You okay?” you ask under your breath.

“Peachy,” she says. It’s not convincing.

You give her hand a soft squeeze. “Just breathe. You’re not alone in this.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t let go either.

And when Jocelyn walks in across the room—radiant, glowing, hand in hand with her new partner—Rosa’s breath catches. You feel it more than hear it.

You curl your arm through hers. “We can find a seat, yeah?”

She nods once, silent.

You guide her gently toward the chairs, the hush of the crowd beginning to settle like mist as the ceremony edges closer. People are still trickling in, finding their places, dabbing at eyes already brimming with sentimentality. You both slide into your row near the back.

But you can feel it.

Beneath the black dress and the sharp eyes and the don’t-mess-with-me stance—Rosa Diaz is quietly breaking.

---

After the ceremony, the reception is already in full swing.

There’s a hum of champagne laughter, clinking glasses, the scent of buttercream and slow roses in bloom. You stand beside Rosa near the bar, watching her watch the crowd like she’s waiting for someone to pounce.

She hasn’t spoken in a while.

You nudge her gently with your elbow. “So… are we dancing? Or are we continuing our commitment to brooding in formalwear?”

She huffs. “Pretty sure I look too hot to brood.”

“You do,” you agree, and sip your drink. “But you also look like you’re about to flee the country.”

Before Rosa can respond, someone approaches. Blonde. Tall. The sharp smile gives her away before you even hear the name.

“Rosa,” Jocelyn says, voice like sugar and venom. “You made it.”

Rosa stiffens. Her grip on your hand tightens like a vice.

“And you brought someone,” Jocelyn adds, turning her gaze to you with the kind of condescending curiosity that makes your skin prickle. “You must be the emotional support girlfriend.”

You smile. Soft. Sweet. “Hi, I’m Y/N. And you must be the bride. Congratulations.”

Something in Jocelyn’s eyes flickers. You’re not defensive. You’re not biting. You’re just… disarming.

Rosa doesn’t say a word. You don’t need her to.

You keep your gaze steady. “It’s a beautiful wedding.”

Jocelyn blinks. “Thank you.” Then to Rosa, “I’m glad you came. Really.”

She walks away before either of you can call her bluff.

Rosa exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the ceremony.

You glance up at her. “You good?”

“Still peachy,” she mutters, but there’s a flicker of amusement under it now.

You hand her your drink. “Hold this. I’m dragging you to the dance floor next.”

She gives you a look. “I don’t dance.”

“You will.”

And she does.

At first, it’s awkward. Rosa stands stiffly, like she’s expecting to be judged, or maybe just resisting the urge to bolt. The music is soft, jazzy—something old enough to sway to. You loop your arms around her neck with a kind of easy intimacy she doesn’t know how to handle.

She keeps her hands at your waist, tense and unsure.

“You’re allowed to relax,” you murmur.

“Not in public,” she says. But the corner of her mouth twitches.

You press your cheek to hers, soft and warm. “Then fake it with me.”

And she tries. She lets you guide the rhythm, your bodies finding the sway together. Your fingers trail lazily along the back of her neck. Her hands slide a little lower, more sure.

You laugh quietly when she finally exhales.

“See?” you whisper. “You’re not terrible at this.”

She growls under her breath, but there’s no heat behind it. “You’re impossible.”

And you—still smiling, still soft—whisper, “But you like me anyway.”

Her eyes flash, sharp and dark, and something flickers between you.

Too much.

Too close.

Too many things left unsaid.

She pulls away first.

“We need air,” she mutters.

You don’t question it. You follow her past the tables, past the lights and the clinking glasses, through a side door and down a quiet hallway lined with coat hooks and flower petals someone forgot to sweep.

She stops only when the music is a heartbeat behind the wall.

Then she turns.

And she kisses you like she’s trying to erase every moment that came before it.

It’s messy. Her hands are in your hair, at your waist, tugging you impossibly close. But there’s nothing soft about it—just heat and tension and months of things unsaid pressing into your skin.

You kiss her back, of course you do. But when you part—barely, breathless—you look at her. Really look at her.

“Rosa—”

“Don’t,” she cuts in, voice rough.

You blink. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t ruin it by talking.”

You pause. “I wasn’t going to ruin it. I just—”

She kisses you again, harder this time, like she’s trying to keep your words at bay.

But it’s there. That ache. That need to understand.

You pull back gently. “I need to know this means something to you. That I’m not just a placeholder in a pretty dress tonight.”

Rosa’s jaw tightens. She looks away.

“I didn’t ask you because I needed a placeholder,” she says eventually, voice quiet but not kind.

You wait.

She doesn’t elaborate.

You nod, stepping back just an inch. Enough to give her space, even if it hurts.

“I don’t need a confession,” you say softly. “But I’m not good at pretending, Rosa.”

She swallows hard.

Then, finally, her fingers find yours again.

“Then don’t pretend,” she murmurs. “Just... stay.”

You do.

She glances down the hallway—then grabs your hand and pulls you through the nearest door. A bathroom, dimly lit and thankfully empty. The music is muffled, the walls tiled, the air thick with the kind of privacy that begs for crossed lines.

She pushes you gently against the counter, lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw to the hollow of your throat like she’s starving. There’s no finesse—just want. Just Rosa unspooling.

You tangle your fingers in her hair, tilt your head back to let her in, let her take.

She mutters your name like a curse. Like a prayer.

Her hands roam. Down your sides, over your hips, bunching your dress up higher, higher—until her fingers brush skin and she exhales like she’s been holding that breath all night.

You gasp when her thigh slips between yours, grounding you, anchoring you to the moment. To her.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs against your skin.

“So are you.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for both of you to realize how far this has gone. How far it’s going.

Then you pull her in again.

There’s no going slow. Not here. Not tonight.

It’s a slow, aching build—hands ghosting over ribs and thighs, mouths grazing instead of devouring. Her kiss turns languid, heated, a silent question that you answer by curling your fingers into the front of her dress and tugging her closer.

Rosa’s hands find your thighs, parting them with a reverence that betrays her usual sharpness. Her knee slips between yours again, but this time it’s purposeful. Her lips drag across your collarbone, and she exhales like the sound costs her something.

When her hand dips beneath the hem of your dress, it’s with shaking fingers. Not clumsy, but careful. Like she’s memorizing. Like this might be the only time she gets to touch you this way.

And when her mouth finds your ear—soft breath, quiet groan—you think you might burn alive.

She murmurs something unintelligible, something dark and dizzying, and the sound alone makes your knees weaken.

Rosa moans low in your ear and you swear it lights every nerve in your body on fire.

You guide her hand lower. She doesn’t hesitate. Not anymore.

And when she finally touches you, it’s not gentle. It’s not tentative.

It’s deep, deliberate—her fingers slipping beneath silk, parting you with a quiet gasp as she finds just how wet you are for her. Her breath stutters at the discovery. She kisses you harder, hand braced at your hip while her other slips in slow, dragging strokes through your folds, drawing a broken sound from your throat.

“Fuck,” she mutters. “You’re soaked.”

Her thumb finds your clit, circling softly. You whimper, legs parting wider without thought. She groans into your neck like she can’t believe how responsive you are—how undone she’s already made you.

“Rosa—please,” you breathe.

That’s all she needs. She sinks two fingers inside you, slow but firm, curling just right, watching the way your mouth falls open. She starts a rhythm—steady, relentless—and you bite your lip to keep from crying out.

The sound of slick, the wet heat of your body swallowing her knuckles, the way her name leaves your lips again and again—it’s all too much and still not enough.

Her lips graze your ear. “You feel so good. So tight around me.”

You choke out a moan as she thrusts deeper, faster, your hips chasing every motion. She moves like she’s been waiting for this. Like she’s thought about it too many times not to know exactly how to wreck you.

Your dress is bunched around your waist, panties long forgotten somewhere near your ankle, one heel kicked off, the other dangling by a strap. She presses her palm against your pelvis, grounding you, controlling you. Owning you.

“Let go for me,” she growls.

And you do.

You come apart around her hand, thighs shaking, head thrown back against the mirror, mouth open in a silent scream. It crashes over you—hot, shattering, blinding—and she doesn’t stop. Not until you're trembling and gasping, tugging at her wrist.

She pulls out slowly, deliberately, then lifts her fingers to her lips and sucks them clean, dark eyes locked on yours.

You can't speak.

She steps close again, presses her forehead to yours.

Neither of you says it.

But in that breathless, burning silence, you both know.

You’re hers.

And she’s already yours.

---

The next morning at the precinct is as ordinary as it gets.

The coffee machine is sputtering, Jake is already annoying Amy with half-baked theories, and Terry’s buried in protein bar wrappers and paperwork. But the second you walk in—with Rosa trailing just a few steps behind you—something shifts.

Not outwardly. Not exactly.

But Jake pauses. Amy glances up. Even Holt raises a single, knowing eyebrow as he passes.

Rosa says nothing. Neither do you.

You go to your desk like it’s any other day. Boot up your computer. Sip your coffee.

But Rosa stops at your chair.

She pauses by your desk just long enough for her fingers to brush the edge of your coffee cup.

"You good?" you murmur, not looking up.

"I’m fine," she says, but it’s softer than usual.

You glance up, and the way she looks at you—it’s different. Not guarded. Not sharp. Just… quiet. Familiar.

She sets a bracelet down on your desk. "You forgot this yesterday."

"Thanks," you say.

"It fell off in the bathroom," she adds, and her eyes hold yours for a moment too long.

Jake strolls by then, perfectly oblivious. "Morning, lovebirds. Wait—are you guys smiling? Are you broken?"

Rosa doesn’t miss a beat. "Keep walking, Peralta."

And then she does too, her shoulders relaxed, something close to content curling in the air she leaves behind.

Jake appears beside you a moment later, staring after her. “Okay. I’m just gonna say it—what the hell is going on with you two?”

You beam, clearly glowing. “Just a little workplace joy, Jake. Nothing to report.”

-----

Harvey Specter, anything with Harvey

This man has me on my knees

also: following up harvey x reader ask maybe they’re both lawyers at different firms and dating and it’s an at home thing after a long day or before the day starts even ANYTHING i’m really bad at this x

morning routine | harvey specter x reader

a/n: short little blurb for loml harvey specter

warnings: SMUT 18+, wife!reader, cursing, hastily written and proofread, literally microscopic lol

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet.

Soft, pale gold light spilled in through the curtains, casting everything in that hushed glow that only existed before the world started moving. It was the kind of quiet that made you want to stay still. Breathe slower. Hold onto the moment just a little longer.

You stood at the kitchen counter in nothing but Harvey’s white dress shirt, sleeves rolled, hem brushing the tops of your thighs. The smell of coffee filled the air. His coffee. Rich, dark, perfect.

You were just about to pour it when you felt him.

Strong arms sliding around your waist, a firm chest pressed to your back, a lazy kiss dropped onto your shoulder.

"Morning, Mrs. Specter," Harvey murmured against your skin, voice still rough with sleep.

You smiled, leaning into his warmth. "Morning. You’re up early."

"Didn’t sleep well."

"Why not?"

His hands dipped lower, fingers hooking into the edge of the shirt. "Kept dreaming about you."

You laughed softly. "Was I in court, destroying you with yet another flawless closing argument?"

"No," he said, sliding one hand between your thighs, voice curling into something darker. "You were doing this."

You let out a quiet gasp, hand bracing against the counter as he teased you with slow, deliberate touches.

"Harvey—"

"Shh. Let me."

He kissed the side of your neck, his free hand covering yours on the counter, anchoring you in place. He was patient, tender. Worshipful. Like the morning belonged to the two of you and no one else.

When he finally turned you to face him, his eyes were soft but burning.

"You know you’re not going to make it out of here on time, right?"

You smiled as he lifted you onto the counter, mouth already trailing kisses down your collarbone. "Neither are you."

He spread your thighs with his hands, sliding your body forward until you were right at the edge of the counter. The shirt had already ridden up, leaving you bare beneath it, and he groaned when he saw just how ready you were for him.

"Fuck, baby," he whispered, dragging his fingers through your slick folds. "You were waiting for this."

"I always am," you breathed, hands curling into the collar of his t-shirt.

He dropped to his knees with reverence. Not rushed. Not teasing. Just pure devotion. His tongue found you like it belonged there—broad strokes, slow pressure, the kind that had you gasping and trembling in seconds.

Harvey gripped your thighs and pulled you closer, eating you out like a man obsessed, like this was his favorite part of every day. He sucked your clit gently, then harder when you moaned his name, humming into you just to feel the way you twitched in his hands.

"God—Harvey, don’t stop—"

He didn’t. Not until you were unraveling, thighs tight around his head, breath shattering as you came on his mouth. He kept going through it, soft and slow until you whimpered from the sensitivity.

When he stood, his lips were glistening, his eyes impossibly dark.

"Come here."

You pulled him in by the waistband of his pajama pants, pushed them down with shaking fingers. He hissed when you wrapped your hand around his cock, hard and heavy and already leaking for you.

"Need you," you whispered, breath ghosting against his jaw.

He guided himself to your entrance, sliding in with a low, broken groan. The stretch was slow, deep, perfect. You clung to his shoulders as he rocked into you, each thrust deliberate, every movement designed to make you feel everything.

His forehead rested against yours, breath hot between kisses.

"You feel like heaven," he said, voice raw.

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, rolling your hips in time with his.

"Faster, Harvey—please."

He gave you exactly what you asked for.

The slap of skin, the gasps, the sweet burn of pleasure blooming inside you again—he gave you all of it.

And when you came for the second time, he followed with a quiet curse, holding you tight like he didn’t want to let go.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The coffee was still cold. The sun was just beginning to rise. And Harvey Specter kissed your temple like the day didn’t matter... as long as it started with you.

-----

deserved | mike ross x reader

a/n: ahh my first suits fic!!! how exciting! thank you for the request, i hope you enjoy! this is loosely based off of s5e7, "hitting home". as a disclaimer, the extent of what i know about the law is capped off at what they portray in suits, so... take this with a grain of salt. let me know what you think!

warnings: SMUT 18+, mention of weed, cursing, i can't write anything happy so this is just pure angst, honestly not my best work but i am new to writing for suits so... it will get better!

The gavel hasn’t even fallen before the tension in the courtroom snaps like an overdrawn violin string. You stand there, motionless, victorious, your breath still caught somewhere between your ribs and the space between triumph and fury. The opposition’s final objection is overruled, your client is grinning ear to ear, and the judge’s ruling seals it: an absolute slaughter in your favor.

It isn’t just a win. It’s your win. A seismic moment in a case that’s been bleeding in and out of your sleep for weeks, and you make it look like a walk in Central Park on a Sunday morning. Effortless. Inevitable. Cataclysmic.

Your heels echo against the marble as you exit, head held high, not smug—but with that glint in your eye that only the truly dangerous possess. You are hot shit, and everyone in that courtroom knew it. The whispers follow you into the hallway, part reverence, part fear.

You can feel his presence before you even see him, that skinny tie and brainy smirk radiating toward you.

Mike Ross, golden boy of the Upper West Side courtroom scene, Harvey Specter’s hand-picked prodigy, leans against the far wall with that crooked smile he wears like armor. He has that unreadable thing in his eyes again—half admiration, half something else, something volatile. He claps, slow. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Remind me never to go against you in court,” he says, pushing off the wall like gravity doesn’t apply to him.

You smirk, the corner of your mouth curving with practiced restraint. “You wouldn’t last ten minutes.”

There it is again—that delicious undercurrent. Rivals, yes. But also something else. Something you both refuse to name.

“Not the way you win, anyway,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice, not quite bitterness, not quite awe. “You didn’t even blink.”

“I don’t need to,” you say, brushing past him, the scent of victory—and maybe a whisper of your perfume—lingering between you.

“So what happens if I win it?” he asks, voice light, but there’s something behind it—something biting.

You don’t look at him. “Win what?”

“The promotion.”

You snort. “You won’t.”

“But if I do?”

You slow just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. “Loser buys dinner. Pricey. Something with that wine that Donna likes. The good shit.”

Mike tilts his head. “And if you win?”

“Then you’ll buy,” you say. “But we both know I prefer whiskey.”

His grin is slow, crooked, infuriating. “Don’t worry. It’ll be my drink of choice on your dime.”

While Mike Ross is Harvey’s shadow, you are Louis Litt’s firestorm. And for all their differences, you and Mike? You are the ones to watch. The two brightest meteors in Pearson Specter Litt’s sky—bound to crash, or burn, or… both.

You make your way back to the office like you’re gliding—high on the win, high on the recognition. The entire floor practically vibrates with something electric… jealousy, awe, maybe even a little fear. You like it. You deserve it.

Louis catches up to you near the bullpen, practically bouncing on his heels. “Did you see his face?” he asks, referring to the opposing counsel. “Absolutely gutted. Like someone stole his cat and peed on his briefcase.”

You don’t even blink. Just grin. “Thanks for the image, Louis.”

“No, thank you, Y/N, for another thing to add to my list of why I’m better than Harvey.” He scurries off, practically humming.

You continue through the corridors, collecting stares like accolades—until you walk straight into the last person you want to give you one: Harvey Specter.

“I heard about your win,” he says, arms crossed like judgment incarnate.

“Thanks,” you reply. “But don’t try to hide the fact that you’re sizing me up behind a half-assed compliment.”

“I’m not sizing you up.”

“So you’re not here to pick at me, gather intel, and report back to your precious baby so he gets junior partner?”

“I’m here to give you your flowers.”

“Sure. With a dagger between the stems.”

Harvey narrows his eyes. Then—barely—a smirk. “Watch your back.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you didn’t want Mike to have this.”

He doesn’t deny it. Not exactly. “It’s not about what I want. There’s more at stake than you know.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

And for once, you have nothing clever to say back.

You don’t think about it until the next day, when the break room becomes a confession booth for two idiots who haven’t learned to keep their voices down.

“Someone said Soloff’s pushing for Ross. Can’t believe it.”

“He’s good. And Harvey doesn't seem to be doing it, so why not? Come on, man. It’s going to be him.”

You freeze. Your fingers grip the paper coffee cup so tight it crumples. You back out of the room like it’s on fire, heart hammering against your ribs. You just won a case bigger than any associate has in the last ten years, and Mike’s name is still floating around for the junior partnership? The thought sits with you for the rest of the day, swimming between the lines of all the paperwork you’re trying to focus on. It’s a distraction, an obstruction in the view of the crown you know you deserve.

That night, you make a mistake. The kind you never make. You misfile a critical document and can’t find it in the system. You tear through records, hands trembling, and by the time it’s 1 a.m., you’re on the floor of the file room, crying.

Of course, it’s just your luck that Mike finds you there. You’re too tired to bother wiping your tears. It’s useless, anyway.

“Go ahead and start thinking about thinking about dinner,” you say coolly, your voice thick with the weight of your actions. You can kiss that promotion goodbye.

Mike doesn’t ask questions. Not right away. He doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t offer comfort wrapped in sarcasm. He just sits there beside you, the paper silence of the file room folding around both of you like a second skin.

The tears come harder before they stop. You hate that he sees you like this. Hate more that it’s not the first time he’s seen you bruised by something intangible—expectation, pressure, fear.

“I’m fucked,” you finally mutter, voice raw. “I ruined my chances.”

“No,” he says gently. “You didn’t.”

You let out a hollow laugh, more breath than sound. “Tell that to Louis when he shows up in five hours and doesn’t have the brief for the Morland review.”

Mike leans back against the cabinet, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve done everything right since you got here. One mistake isn’t going to erase that.”

You look over at him. His eyes meet yours—steady, kind, too understanding.

“Easy for you to say,” you murmur. “You’ve never had to claw your way into a seat at the table.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t contradict you.

“No,” he says softly. “I guess I haven’t.”

That night doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t even feel like a turning point. But it plants something—an ache, a pull, a splintered kind of closeness that neither of you wants to name.

You don’t tell him to leave. And he doesn’t.

The next morning, Mike is called into Jessica’s office.

“You wanted to see me?”

Jessica doesn’t look away from the view beyond her office windows, the entire city of New York beneath her. “Do you know how hard I worked to get a view like this?”

Mike stands still, silent.

“Full scholarship to Vassar. Three years at Harvard Law. First Black woman to clerk in the Third Circuit.” She finally looks at him, gaze sharp as a scalpel. “And I’m not going to waste all that just to let someone take everything away.”

“Jessica,” he says, “as far as I can tell, Soloff’s holding up his end of the bargain.”

“He’s doing more than that,” she replies. “He just sent out an email nominating you for junior partner.”

He freezes.

“And you’re going to figure out a way to turn it down.”

“What?”

“Go ahead. Take a minute. Congratulations—you’ve earned it. Maybe aside from Y/N Y/L/N, you are the best associate I’ve ever seen.”

He stares at her. “Then why—?”

“These are your options,” she says, cutting him off. “Medical issues. Family emergency. You’re not ready. Whatever it is, you cannot accept a junior partnership at this time.”

“Jessica, no one turns down partner.”

“Well, they do now.”

“Then don’t send out the press release.”

“You’re not hearing me.”

“No, you’re not hearing me. What do you think happens when word gets out that I was offered the one thing every associate dreams of—and I said no?”

“Nothing,” Jessica says. “Because you’re going to put your mind to finding a good reason with as much enthusiasm as you did bullshitting your way into this job in the first place.”

Mike says nothing, just turns away, walking slowly to the exit with his mind running a mile a minute.

“Oh, and Mike?” Jessica adds. “If, for some insane reason, you decide not to do the right thing here, you cannot expect this to get handed to you. I may not have enough time to sway the partners out of voting for you, but I may not even have two. You weren’t the only associate nominated today.”

A few days later, when Louis gives you the news, your ears ring. You, Y/N Y/L/N, Junior Partner. A shiny new office and a golden nameplate, the bow wrapped around the gift of the title and the congratulations pouring in from every corner of the building. For some reason, though, you can’t celebrate. Can’t breathe. You think of Mike—how he’d been so dead set on a competition on those courthouse steps, how he rubbed your back in the file room when you told him he had pretty much earned the position. Something is wrong.

Later that evening, you find him sitting alone in a darkened conference room.

“Why?” you ask.

He doesn’t even look surprised.

“You think I threw it.”

“Didn’t you?”

He turns, finally meeting your gaze. “You earned it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He stands, slow and quiet. “It’s the only one you’re getting.”

He brushes past you, but you can’t let it lie. Not this time.

“If it had been you,” you say to his back, “I wouldn’t have questioned it.”

You don’t miss the way his entire body tenses for a moment. “But it wasn’t me,” he says, voice low. And then he’s gone.

Two days later, you stand in front of his apartment door, soaked through with rain and something darker. You don’t knock. You pound, your knuckles red with the pressure behind your rap.

He opens it after a beat, eyes bloodshot, wearing sweatpants and the smell of weed.

"You gave it to me," you say, pushing your way inside. "You handed it to me like I was a fucking consolation prize."

Mike shuts the door behind you, groaning. "It’s been two days, Y/N, why can’t you just take the fucking win?"

You glare at him, poking a finger into his chest. “Tell me you threw it. Tell me the truth.”

“I didn’t—”

"Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me. You were supposed to be my competition."

"I was."

"You were the frontrunner. Everyone knew it. Even after I won that case. But then you just... disappeared. I’ve spent every goddamn second since wondering if I finally beat you. If I actually earned it. But I didn’t, because there’s no way they’d just hand it to me after I fucked up with Louis's case the other night."

Mike steps forward, frustratedly running a hand through his unruly hair. "You deserved it just as much as I would’ve!"

You let out a bitter laugh. "What was it? Did you feel bad when you found me crying? Is that it? I'm not a fucking baby, Mike, I can take a loss when I know I've earned it. Was that why you were in Jessica's office the other day?"

"That's not it—"

"Then why!?" you snap.

"Because I never went to Harvard. I never went to law school."

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t move.

"You’re lying."

"I wish I was."

You stare at him. The silence between you isn’t quiet. It’s screaming.

"You let me kill myself to beat someone who wasn’t even eligible."

"I didn’t know Soloff was going to nominate me."

"But you knew the truth. And you didn’t think I deserved to."

"I didn’t want to hurt you."

"You did hurt me, goddamnit!"

You shove him, chest heaving, and he stumbles back. "You lied to everyone. But me? You watched me suffer for something you already knew couldn’t be yours."

"I didn’t know what to do."

"No. You just didn’t want to do the hard thing."

His hands fist at his sides. "You think I don’t live every day wondering when the lie’s going to catch up with me?"

"I don’t care about the goddamn lie." Your voice cracks again. "I care that you didn’t trust me with it. That you watched me go to war and stood there silent."

"I was trying to protect you."

"No," you say. "You were trying to protect yourself. And now we’re both bleeding for it."

The words hit like shrapnel. He takes a step forward. So do you.

"I hate you for this," you whisper.

"I hate myself more."

And then you grab him by the collar and kiss him like you mean to end him.

He kisses you back like he means to survive.

It isn’t slow. It isn’t careful. It’s a collision—months of resentment and rage igniting in a kiss that’s more claw than caress. You push him backward, teeth grazing his lip, hands tangled in his hair, because if you don’t hold on this tight, you might break something worse than pride.

"You let me bleed for something you knew I’d never get clean," you bite out, nails dragging across his shoulder blades.

"You think I didn’t want to tell you?" he growls, breath hot against your cheek. "I fucking choked on it every time you looked at me like I was the only one who understood how you felt. Now we’re both living nightmares that look like dreams."

"You let me believe I earned it," you hiss, pushing his pants down as he rips at your blouse. "I sold pieces of myself for that vote."

"You got it because you deserved it!" he snaps. "I gave it up because I had to."

"Shut up." You shove him toward the bed.

"Make me."

You kiss him again—rough, violent, full of every word you can’t say. He grabs your thighs, drags you down onto the mattress, climbs over you with hands that know your body like regret.

He doesn’t ask.

He just shoves your legs apart and drags your underwear down with a rough tug, his mouth still wet from kissing you like punishment. You gasp when he slides into you—fast, hard, no patience, no pretense.

You claw at his back, pull his hair, bite his jaw. "Is this how you fuck someone you gave your promotion to?"

His laugh is breathless and cruel. "I didn’t give you anything. I took it away from myself."

"Same thing," you spit, nails sinking in. "You couldn’t even give me the truth."

His thrusts get meaner.

"You want the truth?" he growls, fucking into you like it’s the only thing he has left. "I thought about you every goddamn day I had to keep my mouth shut. I watched you kill yourself for it."

"And you said nothing."

"Because I was afraid you'd look at me like this."

You wrap your legs tighter around him. "Well, I am. And now you’re gonna have to fucking live with it."

He slams into you so deep you nearly sob.

"Good," he breathes. "Then hate me properly."

"I do."

Your voice cracks around it. You mean every word.

He fucks you like it might undo the damage. You take him like it might make sense of it.

No softness. No forgiveness. Just sweat and skin and fury. Moans muffled against shoulders. Hands holding too tight. Nothing between you but the truth.

You come with a curse and a gasp, hips jerking, thighs trembling. He follows with a groan buried in your neck, collapsing over you, shaking.

Any words you could think to say at this point would only make things worse. So you keep them to yourself.

And still, neither of you move.

You stay like that for a long time. Skin on skin. Rage cooling into something heavier. He shifts once, like he’s about to speak, but doesn’t. Doesn’t dare.

You stare at the ceiling.

"I didn’t want to win like this," you say finally.

His hand twitches against your side.

"I know."

You turn your head, meet his eyes. They’re red-rimmed. Hollow.

"But you let me."

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t explain. He just looks at you like he already knows there’ll never be enough sorry in the world to fix what’s broken.

"I’m not asking you to forgive me," he murmurs. "I just... didn’t want to lie to you anymore."

You nod slowly. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.

You roll away from him, spine to spine, staring into the dark.

Not touching. Not speaking.

But neither of you leave.

Not yet.

-----

but harvey specter + pussy eating ;)

pls delete if the other one went through lol

SMUT 18+

harvey who comes home after the most frustrating day ever—louis made a massive fuckup, a client made a stupid decision without consulting him, jessica made a move on one of his cases without clearing it with him, and so much more. he's spent the entire day being undermined and disrespected by those around him. he's desperate to get some ounce of control back.

being with harvey in law school and going up against him in mock trial... but harvey loves a wager, especially when it comes to winnings that are taken in the bedroom.