[SUITS/WHITE COLLAR CROSSOVER FIC: "Catch & Release"]
Hahaha oh dear. So. There's this new show that's airing on USA Network, called Suits, that I -- and many other people I know -- have gone completely insane over. It's amazingly fun and banter-y, boasts an impressive cast of fantastic female characters played by some very talented ladies (two words: GINA TORRES), has the best soundtrack I've heard in a long time, and routinely throws down more blatant homoeroticism than you can shake a stick at (USA NETWORK: BROMANCE OR BUST). If you need any more convincing, check this quote-heavy pimp post, you won't regret it.
I say all this, of course, completely ignoring the best part of this fucking show: Harvey Specter, law genius and asshole extraordinaire, played by the ohhhh so fine Gabriel Macht. Harvey is a winner. He likes expensive suits and expensive cars and expensive apartments. He likes jazz, and vendor hotdogs, and does a mean Stallone. He's also a Trekkie, and styles his hair in a way that almost no one but him could ever hope to pull off and still look like a stone cold badass. He also likes to pretend he cares about no one but himself, though we all know that's a huge fucking lie.
But I digress.
In the course of watching the show with my cabal of Vancouver fangirls, the idea was tossed around that Suits is practically tailor made (har har har) for a crossover with USA's other show featuring a fast-talking, smooth as silk playboy who's got expensive taste in menswear, White Collar.
And then gypsy_sunday said, "OH MY GOD CAN YOU IMAGINE IF HARVEY AND NEAL HAD SEX. CAN. YOU. IMAGINE." And then we all lost a few minutes contemplating what that would be like.
So when I realized gypsy_sunday's birthday was about to roll around, I decided to write her that fic. And 7,800 odd words later -- about half of which is shameless, filthy porn -- this is what happened. Honestly, If I am forced to forever suffer under the burden of knowledge that Harvey is a fictional character and thus will never bang ME as hard as a screen door in a hurricane, then by god, you bet your ass I'm gonna write about what such an experience might theoretically entail, as verbosely and explicitly as possible.
Dear Neal Caffrey: YOU'RE WELCOME
Catch & Release
Harvey Specter/Neal Caffrey
Suits/White Collar Crossover
NC-17
7,850 words
Warnings: Some slight D/s elements, but nothing really formal.
Summary: The first time Harvey meets Neal Caffrey, he’s wearing a wrinkled slacks and dress-shirt combo that doesn’t fit his frame, and gives no name other than Nick. It’s a terrible first impression.
The second time, he learns that Nick is really Neal, and that first impressions aren’t everything.
A lot can change in five years, apparently.
The first time Harvey meets Neal Caffrey, he’s wearing a wrinkled slacks and dress-shirt combo that doesn’t fit his frame, and gives no name other than Nick. It’s a terrible first impression.
He slinks up to where Harvey’s sitting alone at the hotel bar, just settling the tab after a successful round of evening drinks with his newest client, and Harvey misses the approach but doesn’t miss the studiously casual way he fetches up against Harvey’s side and makes a calculated grab for the wallet he’s just slid back into his inside jacket pocket. Harvey’s the only one at the bar; it’s not the subtlest move he’s ever been witness to.
He lets him have the wallet, though, for a moment.
“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry --!” The guy sways on his feet rather convincingly, eyes shocked and wide and almost too blue to be real. “One too many for me, I think. I just -- my name’s Nick, I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. I hope I didn’t spill anything on you...?”
He starts patting down Harvey’s shoulders and chest, hands lingering longer than they should. Harvey grabs one slender wrist, and uses the guy’s momentary shock to steer him up against the bar. Maneuvering himself a little, he leans in and says, “You know what I think, Nick?”
Nick blinks at him, a flash of stone cold sobriety before the veneer slams down again. He’s trembling a little in Harvey’s grip, and it’s almost disappointing, how quickly he’s starting to crumble. Almost as soon as he realizes it, though, the trembling stops -- either he’s warming to the con, shaking off his nerves and settling in, or he senses that Harvey’s about to call his bluff. He pulls his arm free and squares up so they’re facing each other evenly, only taking a moment to steady himself against the bar.
“What do you think?” He’s nailing that perfect mix of bravado and intrinsic fight-or-flight wariness that is so familiar to anyone who’s ever spent a significant amount of time around drunk people. It’s pretty compelling. Perhaps Harvey needs to revise his initial opinion.
All the same, he offers Nick one of his sharpest smiles, and rather enjoys the way Nick almost winces, as if preparing himself.
“I think you should give me my wallet back,” Harvey says, low and even. No need to attract any attention other than the kind he wants from Nick. Which he has now, he’s sure of it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” Nick insists, and he’s started slurring his words some. It seems a little forced; maybe he’s not used to confrontation, isn’t as practiced at slipping out of situations as cleanly as he inserts himself into them. His eyes, especially -- yes, there’s that flash of sobriety again, clear as day.
Harvey decides to put him out of his misery. He snakes his arm around Nick’s waist and palms the high curve of his ass, right over the slim shape of Harvey’s wallet sitting in his back pocket. Nick goes perfectly still, the con falling away like dirt under a clean sluice of water, and his breath whistles quick and shallow when Harvey crooks thumb and forefinger and extracts the wallet with a flick of his wrist, holding it up in the narrow space between them.
To Nick’s credit, he doesn’t even attempt to prevaricate.
“I needed the money,” he says, simple, a little shiver of fear in his tone. If only more of Harvey’s clients were as refreshingly forthright.
Except -- no. Harvey blinks, backpedals. He’s lying.
It’s not often that Harvey is surprised -- working at Pearson-Hardman impressed upon him early on the importance of making sure that never happens -- but he didn’t see this swing coming. His distaste for liars making his job harder than it needs to be is rather storied and extensive, but people who lie when they have no reason to just make his fucking teeth ache.
“I don’t know why you’re lying to me,” he snaps, “but if that’s the story you’re sticking with, fine. I won’t waste my time.”
And now Nick is smiling at him. Except it’s not a smile, it’s a condescendingly indulgent half-grin that tugs up one corner of his lush mouth, as if he’s the one that’s got Harvey pegged. “You’re a smart guy, clearly,” he says. “Care to make a guess?”
Harvey feels his blood start to rush, thrumming hot beneath the skin. He’s more used to macho posturing games in situations like this, dealing with clients who want to tell him what he can or cannot do, not this -- this sly turn of hard-to-get Nick is suddenly pulling. It’ll serve, though. For all that he’s probably only a handful of years younger than Harvey himself, he looks like a kid, too small for his clothes and too pretty by half. Harvey is almost surprised by the sudden need he has to just...destroy him. Lay waste.
So he catches Nick’s gaze, holds it, and begins.
“See, I think you really do need the money, but you’re too proud to admit it to anyone, let alone a mark. You probably had money, and a lot of it, but now the well has gone dry and you’re stuck. The fact that I can smell you is a bit of a giveaway. The particular blend of sweat and cigarette smoke you’re currently stewing in is pretty hard to fake, and somehow I get the impression you’re not that much of a method actor that you’d prepare three days in advance to lift a wallet from some guy in a hotel bar.
Your problem is you’ve got expensive tastes; you’ll never take the easy out when it’s the least attractive option. You’ve been spending a lot of time in bars a lot less nice than this one, but you’re tired of just taking enough petty cash to get a room in another nameless, flea-infested motel when you could be here instead, robbing some Wall Street douchebag blind. Badly, though, I should add.”
He leans a little closer, angling his body inwards, and savors the way Nick bristles at his proximity. He’s right. He’s knows he’s right, and the thrill of it is heady in all kinds of interesting ways.
“Your other problem, though,” he continues, low and intimate, “is that I’m not some clueless Wall Street douchebag. I’m the guy that caught you -- that was going to catch you no matter how slick you were planning to be -- and the longer you jerk me around the less willing I’m going to be to let you go.”
Nick’s eyes flash, and his whole body tenses as if preparing for flight.
“What is it, exactly, that you want me to say?”
Harvey lets himself smile, his full smile, and laughs softly. “Well now that’s the easy part, Nick. Just tell me I’m right, because I know I am. That’s all.”
Nick laughs right back at him. “Oh, I see. So this is about your ego, then.”
“You’re damn right it is,” Harvey counters, sharp and amused. He’s heartened to see Nick’s still got some fight left in him, enough to make this interesting. Harvey doesn’t like it when things are too easy.
“All right, well, should I call you ‘Sir’ too while I’m at it? You know, just so we can get this whole power trip thing you’ve got going out of the way first.”
A bolt of heat hits him low in the stomach, and he thinks yes, you should do that. He doesn’t say it, although the possible look on his face might just say it for him, if the way Nick responds to it is any indication. Curiouser and curiouser.
“Now, see, that was certainly an interesting direction to steer the conversation in. I have to admit, I’m getting some mixed signals here, Nick. Do you want to call me ‘Sir’? Because I’m not so sure you don’t.”
That shuts him up quick enough. He opens his mouth, and then appears to lose his train of thought altogether, throat working around words that just won’t come. He’s blushing, Harvey belatedly realizes, and then he can’t seem to look away from the points of hectic colour high on his cheeks, sweeping down the arch of his neck. In the next moment, he thinks, I want to fuck him, and it doesn’t surprise him maybe as much as it should.
And then Harvey’s cell phone rings.
The way Nick jerks, eyes cutting away, it might as well be a gunshot. Harvey has to answer; it could be Jessica, it could always be Jessica, and it’s part of his job to be prepared for that eventuality. The moment is ruined anyway. He spares an quick second for a small twinge of regret before he glances down to fish the device out of his pocket, checking the display.
The trill of the ringer shuts off abruptly on its second iteration. He doesn’t recognize the number.
When he looks up again, Nick is gone.
Annoyance, more than any other emotion, is what steals over him first. At Nick, primarily, for wasting his time. At himself, for allowing that to happen. At himself again, for...any number of other reasons. If he decides to tell Jessica about this, she should be able to think of at least a few, easily.
He’s got his wallet, though. That’s got to count for something.
||
The second time, he learns that Nick is really Neal, and that first impressions aren’t everything.
A lot can change in five years, apparently.
It’s another hotel, but not in New York. He’s in D.C. following up on an old deal with one of Pearson-Hardman’s long-term clients at Jessica’s behest, and despite several invitations to events around town, he chooses instead to spend his last night nursing a pint of truly spectacular German beer, casually chatting with the bartender. The space is more crowded than he would expect for a Wednesday night, and the ebb and flow of conversation around him gives a sense of much needed isolation, even as he allows himself to be drawn out now and then for a few seconds of back-and-forth. Nina, the bartender, has been patiently eyeing him all evening, and he’s been considering her in return in the idle way he sometimes does -- lacking urgency, but willing, should the situation present itself.
She’s down at the other end of the bar, laughing with a pair of younger girls, when Nick announces himself with a hand on the small of Harvey’s back and a mouth at his ear, murmuring, “We have to stop meeting like this, Harvey. Think of the scandal.”
Then he twists away and falls elegantly into the seat next to him, signaling for a drink.
Nina makes her way over, and the two of them exchange some light, flirtatious banter after Nick makes his order. Not that Harvey notices, or particularly cares.
Nick is both instantly familiar and dramatically changed, almost a stranger -- even more of a stranger -- in the low light, wearing the sharpest suit Harvey’s ever seen on someone who isn’t himself. He looks sleek and well fed, and maybe even a little taller, although it’s difficult to tell for sure by the way he’s draped over the bar. Every long, lean inch of him is an invitation; it’s almost...indecent.
Harvey lets himself look his fill. He gets the feeling that Nick would be disappointed if he didn’t.
When Nick finally turns to acknowledge him, Harvey makes his decision. He reaches into his jacket pocket, retrieves his cell phone, and turns it off. Nick watches him do it, face impassive, then does the same with a small smile.
Harvey’s not going to waste any time wondering how he knows his name, if Nick finding him here is the chance meeting they’re both going to pretend it is anyway. In all likelihood, he won’t get a straight answer no matter what questions he decides to ask. Maybe it’s better that way. It’s certainly easier.
“Look who’s moved up in the world,” he says instead. “Do I dare ask after the provenance of the...very fine suit you are currently wearing?”
“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you it fell off the back of a truck, would you?”
Harvey grins. “Can’t say that I would.”
“Worth a try.” Nick’s eyes are sparkling with subdued humor, and something a little darker. He takes a small sip of his drink, watching Harvey over the rim of the glass. “I guess we’ll always have our secrets.”
“I guess so.”
In the last five years, Harvey has thought about Nick only twice, and one of those times was an hour after Nick disappeared from the bar, when he came home to his dark, empty apartment and decided to lie in bed and lazily jerk off instead of feeling sorry for himself. It was a moderately pleasant way to pass the evening.
The second time was just as mildly seedy as the first: at a fundraising event a year previous, he had two drinks more than he ever does in public and ended up fucking a waiter -- who, upon later reflection, really only bore a passing resemblance to Nick after all -- in one of the host’s private bathrooms. It was colossally dumb, and the sex itself was hardly worth mentioning anyway. He preferred not to think about it at all.
Harvey was one hundred percent resigned to never seeing Nick again the instant he made his escape, and moved on with his life accordingly. Encountering him here, though, in a place where no one knows his face or reputation, and with no pressing commitments on the near horizon -- it’s the most glaringly obvious gift he’s ever been given. And Harvey is well versed in receiving his gifts with good grace.
So it’s with this in mind that he drains what’s left of his beer -- taking pleasure in the way Nick’s eyes follow the dip of his throat -- and makes his proposition.
“Look, I’m going to cut to the chase here and save us some time,” he begins, speaking soft and quick, forcing Nick to lean close to catch his words. “It’s my impression that we have a certain amount of...unfinished business between us. Would you agree?”
Nick’s mouth quirks. “I would.”
“Did you approach me just now with the intention to resolve that particular business?”
“I can’t say that it didn’t cross my mind.” He tilts his face closer to Harvey’s. “I’ve gotta ask, though, should my lawyer be here? This is all starting to sound very official.”
Harvey rolls his eyes.
“Ha ha. That’s funny because I’m a lawyer, right? Tell me another one.”
Nick laughs softly, and moves to brush his fingers over Harvey’s wrist where it’s propped against the bar. “Aren’t you going to ask how I suddenly know all these things about you?”
“How you get your information, or your suits, or that thousand dollar watch on your wrist, for that matter? Yeah, I am so much less interested in knowing that than you could possibly imagine.”
Nick takes another slow sip of his drink. “Smart man.”
Harvey tips his head in acknowledgement and then stands to start shrugging back into his jacket.
“So, long story short: we seem to share some mutual interest in picking up where we left off, and I’m not at all interested in going to bed alone tonight. I’ll leave you to fill in the blanks.”
“And people say romance is dead,” Nick drawls.
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for efficiency.” He turns to wave Nina over. “Now, I’m going to settle my tab and go upstairs. Whether or not you join me is entirely up to you.”
“Well I guess you’ll be needing this then,” Nick says, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth innocent, and slides Harvey’s wallet back into the front pocket of his slacks. His long, nimble fingers flirt up against the side of his fly, and Harvey has to physically restrain himself from arching after them as they fall away.
“Oh, very good.” He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, hoarse and half-choked, or the strange pride that settles to a dull throb in his chest. Nick’s smile makes every hair on his body stand at attention, and as he gets to his feet he sways close enough that Harvey can smell the sharp, pleasant tang of his cologne.
“I know all kinds of fun tricks now,” he says, and gives an exaggerated wink.
Harvey sighs, lets the pleasant tingle of anticipation wash over him. “I don’t doubt it.”
Settling the tab takes only a matter of minutes, but it feels like much longer with Nick pressed tight against his side from shoulder to hip. Nick resumes his friendly patter with Nina, and when he’s signing his bill with what appears to be an entirely unnecessary flourish, she glances over to Harvey, a question in her eyes. Harvey shrugs an apology -- not tonight -- and after a considering beat, she returns it -- too bad for me.
Nick allows himself to be led away by Harvey’s hand pressed to the small of his back, and they ride the elevator up to Harvey’s floor in silence, each keeping to their own side but turned to face the other. In the more dramatic light of the elevator car Nick is a mix of shadows and sharply limned features -- he seems almost unreal, but the eyes, the eyes are the same. A little older, maybe -- five years is a lot longer than one might think -- but still that same arresting blue. There’s a stillness to him now that he didn’t quite have before, self-assured and contained, not so easily put off his guard; Harvey would stake his life on it.
Good, he thinks, I like a challenge.
The reality of having Nick in his room, though, is one he needs a moment to savor. Nick beelines straight for the giant picture window once they’re through the door, shucking his jacket and draping it over a chair as he goes. Harvey follows at a more sedate pace, watching the way Nick moves, his silhouette against the glass.
“Nice view.”
Harvey makes a small, distracted noise of agreement. He’s too busy contemplating the narrow line of Nick’s waist and hips, the obliging way his waistcoat hugs close, seams straining ever so slightly around his torso as he breathes. Harvey wants to peel him out of it, undo each button with care and spread him full across his bed. He imagines how Nick might look, laid out for him to touch. It’s a very compelling picture.
But there are other avenues to explore first. Harvey is nothing if not a traditionalist when and where it counts.
He draws up behind Nick and settles one hand at the trim dip of his waist, turning his face into the hollow where throat meets jaw. “If we weren’t interrupted, last time, would this have happened?” he asks, tugs a little to urge Nick against him. He balks somewhat at the direction, but settles after a brief, perfunctory struggle. His ass snugs up tight against Harvey’s crotch, and Harvey is treated to a full sensory and technicolour recollection of how the firm swell of it had felt against his palm, all those years ago. This is...better.
“Are we being honest, now?” Nick asks, sounding oddly subdued.
“It’s just a question.”
“Is it my fault that most of your questions come with several pages of implied legal documentation attached to them?”
Harvey’s fingers flex, and Nick makes a small, breathy noise.
“Mmm, point taken. However--” He props his free hand against the glass above their heads, his whole body curled around Nick now, mouth brushing the delicate shell of his ear. “--this would be another one of those ‘feed Harvey’s ego’ moments. I’m not asking you how many lifted wallets it takes to buy a suit as nice as the one you’re somehow still wearing. All I want is for you to tell me how very ready you were back then to suck my dick, and how that readiness has not at all diminished with time.”
The indistinct reflection of the glass makes Nick’s smile difficult to measure. Smug, maybe; amused, definitely -- but something else too.
“And what if that isn’t true?”
It drops like a stone between them. Harvey goes still, considering.
“Well,” he hedges, “it certainly wouldn’t be the first time, but then again I’m not often wrong. About anything.”
“All right, then. Short answer: no, this would not have happened. Long answer: I don’t know why you’re still talking about something that didn’t happen when I’m right here--” Nick touches the hand Harvey still has gripped around his hip, coaxing it over to splay across his lower belly, fingers dipping down to tease between slacks and the fine cotton of his shirt “--and maybe if you stopped verbally fellating yourself for two seconds we could get down to the business of me actually sucking your dick. How’s that work for you?”
“Hey, you’re the one that took off the first time. I’m just trying to find out why I’ve had to wait five years to get you on your knees for me.”
He means it to be flippant, but somewhere between his brain and mouth the words take a detour through the mess of frustrated lust churning in his gut, coming out jagged-edged and dark. Nick’s whole body shudders against him, and it’s wonderful, unexpected, perfect. Harvey lets the momentum of the moment carry him along, gives in to the pressing need he suddenly has to put his mouth to skin. He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the hinge of Nick’s jaw, the side of his neck, sucking until Nick makes a sound that’s hardly a sound at all, like he’s trying to take a breath but can’t.
“See, you say you’d like me to stop talking, but I’m not sure I believe you,” he says, lips dragging across skin. “I wonder what might happen if I told you how much I wanted to fuck you, all those years ago. I would have bent you over the bar if I could have, taken you right there.” Nick makes another noise, a strangled unh that shoots straight to Harvey’s cock. He feels galvanized, unstoppable. “We should go back, actually. I bet they’d let me do it now. All the work I’ve done for the owner of that hotel, it’s practically half mine anyway.”
Nick twists frantically in the circle of his arms, and Harvey relaxes his hold enough that he’s able to turn and slump back against the glass, dragging Harvey in closer. He’s laughing and shaking his head, eyes shut. “Oh my god, please stop talking. I want to tell you something.”
Harvey refrains from violently expressing his irritation at the interruption only through a supreme act of will. He doesn’t even say anything, just grits his jaw and bites his tongue and waits for Nick to continue. He should get a fucking medal for this.
Nick reaches up and cards one hand through Harvey’s hair, settles it on the nape of his neck, thumb stroking behind his ear. The touch settles the impatience buzzing beneath his skin, slows the scene. He stands for Nick’s careful scrutiny, eyes roving back and forth across Harvey’s face, lets him look as long as he needs to. And then he draws Harvey down, and breathes into his mouth, “My name, my real name, is Neal. Not Nick. That’s what I want you to call me.”
Harvey’s never thought of him as anything other than Nick, even as he knew, instinctively, that it was a false name. That it had to be. But being told this, now, is like watching an image that always seemed a little off snap into sudden, sharp focus. It fits.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asks, because even as he thrills at knowing, the information feels dangerous and unsafe in his hands. All the other secrets he’s allowed Neal to keep seem meaningless in the face of having it.
The look Neal gives him is resigned, but not altogether unhappy. Harvey’s not sure what to make of it.
“Because it’s not often that I get to be a real person,” Neal says. “I’ve learned not to waste my opportunities.”
Before Harvey can even begin trying to understand what that’s supposed to mean Neal moves the final deciding inch and kisses him, the hand at his nape squeezing hard and insistent. Harvey lets it linger, waiting, feels possibilities spiraling outward in all directions, so many different ways this could shake out. He knows what he wants, but Neal keeps tripping him up, changing the tenor of things, and he’s sick of being unsure.
He keeps the kiss close-mouthed for long enough that Neal makes the kind of noise that can really only be classified as begging and starts to suck at Harvey’s bottom lip, breathing harshly through his nose. So Harvey obliges him, fits the hand he had propped against the glass to the side of Neal’s throat and tilts his face to the right angle for their mouths to slide together, open, wet.
And then Neal surprises him, again, by the way he trembles and just...falls into it, hips canting and neck arching like a plea, every inch of him suddenly pliable to the slightest suggestion. Harvey’s never felt anything like it. He’s had women before -- some men too, though not as many -- who whine and keen for him, go limp at the first sign of dominant force, like the extent of all he could ever need or desire is someone who will stay still so he can use their body like a blank canvas, lifeless and waiting for him to leave his marks. Not like this. Not like the way Neal’s body moves under his hands, practically leaping at a touch, the smallest shift in pressure, anticipating and responding before Harvey even quite knows what he wants himself. Like he’s being given something.
The effect has Harvey reeling under a gut punch of lust, nearly blind from it. He surges into Neal, forcing his mouth to open even wider under the slick thrust of his tongue, and swallows every high, eager noise he makes. He remembers that feeling he had, all those years ago, that needy compulsion to watch Neal fall apart, break him down to his component parts. It’s satisfying and invigorating to realize that desire has not gone away, is if anything stronger now. It narrows his focus, gives him something to strive for. Harvey’s nothing if not a goal oriented guy.
Neal’s hands somehow migrated down to Harvey’s waist when he wasn’t paying attention, and as they start tugging his shirt free Harvey breaks away.
“Ah ah, not yet.” He sounds breathless, wrecked, and Neal doesn’t look that much better. Harvey walks backwards, sits on the edge of the bed, and starts working his tie loose, crooking his finger for Neal to approach. When he’s standing in the vee of Harvey’s spread legs, Harvey places a proprietary hand along Neal’s thigh, dragging his thumb up the inseam til he’s nudging just under the straining bulge of his cock. “Strip, but don’t make it a show. Then get on your knees.”
He watches as Neal takes that in, absorbing it like a blow, then starts to unbutton his waist-coat with quick, efficient motions. He shrugs it off, tossing it onto the chair behind him without turning -- an impressive show of spatial awareness -- before moving on to belt-buckle, cuff links, shirt, shoes, socks and slacks. He doesn’t linger any longer than necessary over any one item, but Harvey revels in it anyway, appreciating the lean play of muscle in every brisk, economic motion. Neal stares right back at him the entire time, his face a rictus of barely controlled desire. Harvey’s cock aches to see how he worries at his bottom lip, the way his chest hitches for breath.
When Neal finally sinks down at his feet, Harvey rasps, “Come here,” and groans low in his throat as Neal instantly curls over his lap, presses forward to mouth at where the fabric of his trousers tents outward. Harvey can’t stop himself from palming the back of Neal’s skull, grabbing a fistful of hair and just pushing, hips twitching upward in fitful little jerks. Neal takes it without protest. He looks transported, the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheek, the small furrow between his brows. Like he’s in agony.
Harvey uses the hand not still curled desperately in Neal’s hair to undo his belt, fingers fumbling between the leather and the wet invitation of Neal’s open mouth. They shake as he thumbs the button and draws the zipper down, almost numb. It’s a wonder he has any semblance of fine motor control left at all.
Neal’s lips move erratically against the back of his hand, and it takes a few seconds for it to penetrate that he’s speaking, barely more than a half-vocalized whisper.
Let me. P-please, let me--
Harvey freezes, and Neal uses his moment of arousal-stupid shock to insinuate his own grasping hands, pushing Harvey’s away. He peels Harvey’s trousers to either side, belt-buckle clinking, pulls everything down just enough that his cock can bob up into the still air between them. Harvey jerks like he’s been punched in the gut, choking on an indrawn breath.
Neal doesn’t even break stride. He leans in and licks a long, slick line from root to tip, making the sweetest sound of satisfaction Harvey has ever heard, and he nearly loses it right then and there.
“Shit.” It explodes into the silence like a thunderclap, almost a shout. Between his legs Neal looks up at him with bright, dazed eyes, grinning wild like he’s just won some kind of award. Under normal circumstances, Harvey would have at least a dozen things to say in answer to the kind of smug challenge writ large across Neal’s face -- but, present circumstances being what they are, he fails to summon a single word.
And then Neal brackets Harvey’s hips in a fierce, two-handed grip and swallows his cock almost whole, and it’s all he can do to keep what little control he has left from abandoning him completely.
Neal doesn’t appear particularly concerned either way. He urges Harvey forward, encourages the slow roll of his hips, and who is he to deny the man what he wants? He starts fucking into Neal’s mouth with what little leverage he’s got, coaxing his head forward again and again, one hand braced behind himself and the other still buried in the soft mass of Neal’s hair. Neal moans and twists, and Harvey is mesmerized by the sight of his gorgeously tapered back moving between Harvey’s legs, his ass arched out like he’s begging for something else entirely.
Harvey’s vision goes spotty, another wave of intense, searing lust rolling over him. He stops moving and drags Neal slowly off his cock, relishing the tight suction and flirting flicks of tongue before Neal disengages and looks up at Harvey in question. His lips gleam a wet cherry red, slick with saliva and Harvey’s own fluids. It’s obscene. He rocks back on his heels, knees splayed wide for balance, as though he’s presenting himself for Harvey. His cock juts up flushed and slicked by his own arousal, untouched. Painfully so, Harvey thinks. It has to be, by now.
Harvey wants to put his hands all over him, stroke him with a tight, quick fist until he’s squirming. Or maybe just fuck him, hard and precise enough that he comes on Harvey’s cock, a panting, sobbing mess. It would be so easy.
Wreck. Ruin. Destroy.
Something of his desire to touch must show on his face, because Neal suddenly launches himself forward like a loosed spring, climbs onto Harvey’s lap and seats his bared ass against Harvey’s dick. Harvey clutches at his back, moans low and broken as Neal starts grinding down in tight little circles, seeking out Harvey’s mouth for another kiss. Harvey leans away.
“I want to fuck you,” he grits out, “but this is going to be over very quick if you keep doing that.”
Neal acquiesces, settles, while Harvey grits his teeth and attempts to regain a little equilibrium. He nudges Neal over and onto the bed properly, then stands on shaky, untrustworthy legs. He toes off his shoes and socks, removes his cufflinks and slips them into his trouser pocket, shucks the rest of his clothes methodically. Neal watches him with darkly hooded eyes, takes in each inch of bare skin as it’s revealed, breath heavy and ragged.
When he’s finally naked, he knees onto the mattress and moves over Neal where’s he’s lying sprawled against the pillows. Neal tugs him down, takes the kiss he was denied before, strokes along Harvey’s back and over his ass. He can taste himself on Neal’s tongue, and the knowledge of it makes him shudder and twitch with the need to stake other claims, force himself into Neal’s body in other ways. His hands move over Neal’s chest, down to the firm flatness of his belly, around his back, and grip as he passes over his ass to the back of his thighs, urging them to lift and part with a hungry insistence. Neal shivers and does so, legs coming up to bracket Harvey’s sides. They slot together like that, and Harvey reaches down to curl his fingers around Neal’s cock for the first time; starts a slow, teasing rhythm. Neal gasps and writhes, breathing harshly through his nose, but matches Harvey’s rhythm nonetheless. The sleek muscles of his stomach and thighs strain as he tries to move, thrusting up into the slick channel of Harvey’s fist.
He brings Neal to the edge with torturous care, because he can. Because the sight of Neal slowly falling apart makes his blood burn, and it’s so easy to get him there, like Harvey’s hands on him are the only thing he’ll ever need.
He has to wonder if it isn’t, at least in part, a show. For all their lively banter and mutual attraction, they are still little more than strangers. Harvey doesn’t know what Neal’s lines are, how much he lets people in, what walls and smokescreens he erects to keep them out. He doesn’t know who he lets have the whole of him, if anyone can claim that privilege. Harvey can guess enough of what his life entails that it isn’t hard to believe Neal might keep the entire world at a distance because he doesn’t know how not to, is incapable of separating himself from the role of performer that he wears so effortlessly.
It makes Harvey want to find the pieces of him that are real, press and stroke and bite and force himself under his skin to seek out the truths of his body. Harvey has always been greedy. He balks at being denied, can’t stop himself from using his instincts like a finely honed surgical tool to get what he wants. As in all things, the more he knows, the better he can be.
When Harvey pulls away, yet one more time, Neal makes a pitiful noise and almost jackknifes in half, eyes squeezed shut. His reflexively raised hands twitch as if he’s desperate to touch himself and pick up where Harvey left off.
“Jesus, why are you --”
Harvey shuts him up with a deep, claiming kiss, reaching blindly for the bedside table, ripping open the drawer. There’s an urgency building in the pit of his stomach that makes every movement that much harder, needier, more decisive. He’s never felt more aware of his own body, of the strain as he gets to his knees, the cool wetness at the tips of his fingers as he slicks them with lube, how the muscles in his shoulder and bicep bunch as he hooks behind Neal’s knee and bends his leg back, pinning it there. It’s like tunnel vision, everything is so clear and so necessary. He feels almost unstoppable.
“I’m going to put my fingers in you now,” he rasps into the hot, close air between their faces, blunt and dirty and amazingly crass. It’s probably the single most ridiculous thing that’s ever voluntarily come out of his mouth; but Neal just trembles and lifts his hips, a dare in his eyes and shadows of a smile creeping in at the corners of his mouth. Like he’s got Harvey’s number. Again.
Harvey doesn’t even slow down. He circles one slick digit around Neal’s hole, massages the muscle until Neal is shoving his ass down in desperate little bursts in a fruitless attempt to get closer, get more. Only then does Harvey start to slide it in, and from there things begin to escalate at a rapid pace. He leans hard on the thigh he’s got pinned and fingers Neal ruthlessly, fucking into him with each snap of his wrist, stretching him with one, two, and finally three. Neal just moans, twisting slow and exaggerated like he’s trying to chase every tiny spark of sensation, arching into the brutal thrusts of Harvey’s hand.
Just as the noises spilling out of Neal’s mouth start spiraling higher, frantic little unh unh unhs that make his cock twitch and swell, Harvey decides enough is enough. He slides his fingers free and grabs the condom he’d placed next to them on the sheets, rips it open with his teeth and slides it down. He contemplates the sprawl of Neal’s body under him with a lazy, appreciative eye, and adds more lube to his already shining hand, strips his cock a few times to get it slick. Then he grips both of Neal’s legs and pulls him closer, hoisting him up enough that he can nudge the head of his cock right where Neal is wet and open.
“Ready?” Harvey rasps, and Neal barks out a bright, jubilant laugh.
“This has been five years in the making, Harvey,” he says. His voice is shot, rough and shaking with desire. “How about you put us both out of our misery sometime this decade?”
Harvey gives him a wild grin in return, holds one of Neal’s legs up to his chest. “Gladly.”
And then he pushes in, rolls his hips in short pulses that have Neal gasping, overwhelmed, throwing his arms over his head to brace against the flat of the headboard.
“Yeah, g-god yeah, unh--”
Harvey tries to block out the sounds spilling from Neal’s mouth, if only in the interest of pure self-preservation. He heaves in a long, steadying breath, tries to get used to the feeling of Neal clenching hot and sweet around him as he slides in to the hilt. It’s a losing battle, really. Even Harvey can admit that.
Christ, he’s tight.
Harvey leans over as far as he’s able and braces his arm under the arch of Neal’s back, his other hand still clenched tight around Neal’s thigh where it’s hiked up against his chest. He finally starts moving, falling into an unforgiving rhythm of deep dragging thrusts, using Neal’s body as leverage. He groans every time he bottoms out, struggles to keep his eyes open to watch as Neal pushes up to meet him, eyelashes a dark, fluttering smudge against the high colour of his cheeks. One soft wave of hair has fallen across his forehead, and something in Harvey’s chest squeezes, tells him to brush it back.
He doesn’t. Instead, he hauls Neal closer, changes the angle and fucks him harder, bends him in half and thrusts until Neal is almost sobbing yeah, fuck, fuck, Harvey, clawing at his back.
Hearing Neal say his name is like a kick in the stomach. All of a sudden he can feel his orgasm barreling towards him, and he groans, trying to stave it off. It’s no use though. He’s not going to last. He just isn’t.
Harvey lets Neal’s leg fall in favor of clutching at the top of the headboard, pressing with his other hand against Neal’s lower back so it arches in a more exaggerated curve. Then he lowers his head to Neal’s sternum, breathes open-mouthed against the slick skin of his chest, and rides the sweet ebb and flow of his body as hard as he can, shoving in in in. Neal moans like it’s being punched out of him, oh oh oh, and then all at once it’s too much.
Harvey makes a long, low wounded noise and comes violently, as if he’s been kicked in the back of the head. His vision goes magnesium bright but his hips still jerk and grind and circle of their own accord until he’s pressed up as tight and close to Neal as he can possibly get. For a handful of long, blurred seconds he mouths at Neal’s skin and fights for breath, then pulls out slowly to deal with the condom.
The urgency is still singing under his skin, though, almost worse than it was mere moments ago. Harvey takes it as the message it is.
He knows what he wants. He hasn’t gotten it yet.
Which is how he finds himself turning Neal over onto shaking knees and unsteady elbows, spreading the cheeks of his ass to lean in and lick at where he’s still loose and wet, works his tongue in slow pulses against the swollen, abused ring of muscle. The sound Neal makes is unclassifiable, tinged with surprise and a touch of shame. Harvey groans, pleased, the residual heat in his stomach flaring.
He moves away and starts kissing up Neal’s spine, reaching under to pinch and tug at his nipples, slides one broad hand down until his knuckles are brushing against Neal’s cock. Leaving one last sucking kiss on the wing of his shoulder, Harvey curls forward and licks along the curve of Neal’s ear, murmurs, Do you want to come for me?
Neal shudders violently, chokes out an explosive Yes.
“Then come,” Harvey says, and slots three fingers into Neal’s ass, twisting.
He comes, untouched, with a high, keening whine, goes rigid and shoots all over the hand Harvey has splayed against his stomach, clenching erratically around the other. Harvey holds him through it, then slides his fingers free.
It takes a long time for Neal to come down, aftershocks quaking through him in waves. Harvey draws him up and back into his lap, one arm a supporting band across Neal’s chest, the other draped across his hip, fingers stroking in soothing circles around the taut, shivering skin below his navel. After he finally calms, Neal’s head lolls back to Harvey’s shoulder and he plucks the hand still covered in come from his chest, brings it to his mouth to lick it clean with long, lingering sweeps of his tongue. Harvey’s soft cock twitches and throbs in protest. Jesus.
When he can tell the slight tremor in Neal’s limbs has more to do with exhaustion than anything else, he lets him loose to flop onto his back and lay still. He looks up at Harvey with hazy, sated eyes, and Harvey looks back. Smug satisfaction winds through him, and some of it must show on his face because Neal groans, teeth flashing in a small, exasperated smile before he reaches for Harvey, murmuring, “Come here. And try not to look so pleased with yourself.”
Harvey smirks, shakes his head.
“Impossible,” he says, and allows Neal to draw him down.
||
Sometime much later Harvey snaps awake. He opens his eyes.
The room is mostly dark, brightened from black to a fuzzy indigo by the soft glow of pre-dawn light. Harvey lies still, attempting to discern what pulled him out of sleep, and hears a faint rustle and clink behind him. He rolls over and sees Neal standing hip-shot in front of the vanity mirror, in the process of doing up his belt. He’s fully dressed except for his suit jacket, but his hair still falls in disarray across his forehead. Once again, Harvey’s fingers itch to brush it back.
“Planning to steal away in the night?”
His voice sounds like gravel, still hoarse from sleep and the evening’s other exertions.
Neal doesn’t startle, and Harvey wonders if he should feel proud. He can’t make out Neal’s expression when he turns to face the bed, but he suspects it’s nothing less than perfectly composed.
“I wasn’t going to steal your wallet, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Your restraint is admirable, and appreciated.”
Neal seems to pause, as if trying to decide something, and then moves forward to click on the lamp beside the bed. They both wince a little at the sudden light, and Neal sits gingerly on the side of the bed.
“I have to go soon,” he says.
Harvey takes Neal’s wrist and turns his watch face to catch the light. “Mmm, so do I.” He rubs the inside corners of his eyes with thumb and forefinger, and takes a small breath.
“I suppose it would be pointless of me to ask if I’m ever going to see you again,” Harvey remarks. It’s not quite a question, kept that way by his unwillingness to fully commit to that kind of blatant sentimentality.
Neal takes it as one anyway, makes a small considering noise.
“You might,” he says. “We do sort of run in the same circles.”
Harvey waits to hear the lie in it -- so cynical and certain -- but it never happens, and the surprise he feels is like a leaf unfurling slowly inside his chest. He thinks back to other truths: the way Neal had gasped his name, desperate and overcome; the gift of his own name, offered freely. Small things, but enough to satisfy.
“Good to know,” Harvey says, then hooks a finger into Neal’s waistcoat and pulls him in, kisses him softly. “Probably better if I don’t, though.”
Neal nods, mouth wry. “Probably.”
They lapse into silence. Harvey lets Neal go and he moves away to retrieve his jacket, slides it on. Harvey tries to think of something else to say, feels the time running down, but he’s always been bad at this. None of his lines seems right, nothing seems to fit.
Then suddenly Neal is reaching for the door, and he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Was it worth the wait?” He finds himself laughing a little as he says it, shaking his head. He could have done so much better. He’s never going to live this down.
But Neal just ducks his head, smiling wide. When he looks back up, his blue, blue eyes glint warmly with recollection.
“Every single second,” he says.
And then he’s gone.
||
I say all this, of course, completely ignoring the best part of this fucking show: Harvey Specter, law genius and asshole extraordinaire, played by the ohhhh so fine Gabriel Macht. Harvey is a winner. He likes expensive suits and expensive cars and expensive apartments. He likes jazz, and vendor hotdogs, and does a mean Stallone. He's also a Trekkie, and styles his hair in a way that almost no one but him could ever hope to pull off and still look like a stone cold badass. He also likes to pretend he cares about no one but himself, though we all know that's a huge fucking lie.
But I digress.
In the course of watching the show with my cabal of Vancouver fangirls, the idea was tossed around that Suits is practically tailor made (har har har) for a crossover with USA's other show featuring a fast-talking, smooth as silk playboy who's got expensive taste in menswear, White Collar.
And then gypsy_sunday said, "OH MY GOD CAN YOU IMAGINE IF HARVEY AND NEAL HAD SEX. CAN. YOU. IMAGINE." And then we all lost a few minutes contemplating what that would be like.
So when I realized gypsy_sunday's birthday was about to roll around, I decided to write her that fic. And 7,800 odd words later -- about half of which is shameless, filthy porn -- this is what happened. Honestly, If I am forced to forever suffer under the burden of knowledge that Harvey is a fictional character and thus will never bang ME as hard as a screen door in a hurricane, then by god, you bet your ass I'm gonna write about what such an experience might theoretically entail, as verbosely and explicitly as possible.
Dear Neal Caffrey: YOU'RE WELCOME
Catch & Release
Harvey Specter/Neal Caffrey
Suits/White Collar Crossover
NC-17
7,850 words
Warnings: Some slight D/s elements, but nothing really formal.
Summary: The first time Harvey meets Neal Caffrey, he’s wearing a wrinkled slacks and dress-shirt combo that doesn’t fit his frame, and gives no name other than Nick. It’s a terrible first impression.
The second time, he learns that Nick is really Neal, and that first impressions aren’t everything.
A lot can change in five years, apparently.
The first time Harvey meets Neal Caffrey, he’s wearing a wrinkled slacks and dress-shirt combo that doesn’t fit his frame, and gives no name other than Nick. It’s a terrible first impression.
He slinks up to where Harvey’s sitting alone at the hotel bar, just settling the tab after a successful round of evening drinks with his newest client, and Harvey misses the approach but doesn’t miss the studiously casual way he fetches up against Harvey’s side and makes a calculated grab for the wallet he’s just slid back into his inside jacket pocket. Harvey’s the only one at the bar; it’s not the subtlest move he’s ever been witness to.
He lets him have the wallet, though, for a moment.
“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry --!” The guy sways on his feet rather convincingly, eyes shocked and wide and almost too blue to be real. “One too many for me, I think. I just -- my name’s Nick, I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. I hope I didn’t spill anything on you...?”
He starts patting down Harvey’s shoulders and chest, hands lingering longer than they should. Harvey grabs one slender wrist, and uses the guy’s momentary shock to steer him up against the bar. Maneuvering himself a little, he leans in and says, “You know what I think, Nick?”
Nick blinks at him, a flash of stone cold sobriety before the veneer slams down again. He’s trembling a little in Harvey’s grip, and it’s almost disappointing, how quickly he’s starting to crumble. Almost as soon as he realizes it, though, the trembling stops -- either he’s warming to the con, shaking off his nerves and settling in, or he senses that Harvey’s about to call his bluff. He pulls his arm free and squares up so they’re facing each other evenly, only taking a moment to steady himself against the bar.
“What do you think?” He’s nailing that perfect mix of bravado and intrinsic fight-or-flight wariness that is so familiar to anyone who’s ever spent a significant amount of time around drunk people. It’s pretty compelling. Perhaps Harvey needs to revise his initial opinion.
All the same, he offers Nick one of his sharpest smiles, and rather enjoys the way Nick almost winces, as if preparing himself.
“I think you should give me my wallet back,” Harvey says, low and even. No need to attract any attention other than the kind he wants from Nick. Which he has now, he’s sure of it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” Nick insists, and he’s started slurring his words some. It seems a little forced; maybe he’s not used to confrontation, isn’t as practiced at slipping out of situations as cleanly as he inserts himself into them. His eyes, especially -- yes, there’s that flash of sobriety again, clear as day.
Harvey decides to put him out of his misery. He snakes his arm around Nick’s waist and palms the high curve of his ass, right over the slim shape of Harvey’s wallet sitting in his back pocket. Nick goes perfectly still, the con falling away like dirt under a clean sluice of water, and his breath whistles quick and shallow when Harvey crooks thumb and forefinger and extracts the wallet with a flick of his wrist, holding it up in the narrow space between them.
To Nick’s credit, he doesn’t even attempt to prevaricate.
“I needed the money,” he says, simple, a little shiver of fear in his tone. If only more of Harvey’s clients were as refreshingly forthright.
Except -- no. Harvey blinks, backpedals. He’s lying.
It’s not often that Harvey is surprised -- working at Pearson-Hardman impressed upon him early on the importance of making sure that never happens -- but he didn’t see this swing coming. His distaste for liars making his job harder than it needs to be is rather storied and extensive, but people who lie when they have no reason to just make his fucking teeth ache.
“I don’t know why you’re lying to me,” he snaps, “but if that’s the story you’re sticking with, fine. I won’t waste my time.”
And now Nick is smiling at him. Except it’s not a smile, it’s a condescendingly indulgent half-grin that tugs up one corner of his lush mouth, as if he’s the one that’s got Harvey pegged. “You’re a smart guy, clearly,” he says. “Care to make a guess?”
Harvey feels his blood start to rush, thrumming hot beneath the skin. He’s more used to macho posturing games in situations like this, dealing with clients who want to tell him what he can or cannot do, not this -- this sly turn of hard-to-get Nick is suddenly pulling. It’ll serve, though. For all that he’s probably only a handful of years younger than Harvey himself, he looks like a kid, too small for his clothes and too pretty by half. Harvey is almost surprised by the sudden need he has to just...destroy him. Lay waste.
So he catches Nick’s gaze, holds it, and begins.
“See, I think you really do need the money, but you’re too proud to admit it to anyone, let alone a mark. You probably had money, and a lot of it, but now the well has gone dry and you’re stuck. The fact that I can smell you is a bit of a giveaway. The particular blend of sweat and cigarette smoke you’re currently stewing in is pretty hard to fake, and somehow I get the impression you’re not that much of a method actor that you’d prepare three days in advance to lift a wallet from some guy in a hotel bar.
Your problem is you’ve got expensive tastes; you’ll never take the easy out when it’s the least attractive option. You’ve been spending a lot of time in bars a lot less nice than this one, but you’re tired of just taking enough petty cash to get a room in another nameless, flea-infested motel when you could be here instead, robbing some Wall Street douchebag blind. Badly, though, I should add.”
He leans a little closer, angling his body inwards, and savors the way Nick bristles at his proximity. He’s right. He’s knows he’s right, and the thrill of it is heady in all kinds of interesting ways.
“Your other problem, though,” he continues, low and intimate, “is that I’m not some clueless Wall Street douchebag. I’m the guy that caught you -- that was going to catch you no matter how slick you were planning to be -- and the longer you jerk me around the less willing I’m going to be to let you go.”
Nick’s eyes flash, and his whole body tenses as if preparing for flight.
“What is it, exactly, that you want me to say?”
Harvey lets himself smile, his full smile, and laughs softly. “Well now that’s the easy part, Nick. Just tell me I’m right, because I know I am. That’s all.”
Nick laughs right back at him. “Oh, I see. So this is about your ego, then.”
“You’re damn right it is,” Harvey counters, sharp and amused. He’s heartened to see Nick’s still got some fight left in him, enough to make this interesting. Harvey doesn’t like it when things are too easy.
“All right, well, should I call you ‘Sir’ too while I’m at it? You know, just so we can get this whole power trip thing you’ve got going out of the way first.”
A bolt of heat hits him low in the stomach, and he thinks yes, you should do that. He doesn’t say it, although the possible look on his face might just say it for him, if the way Nick responds to it is any indication. Curiouser and curiouser.
“Now, see, that was certainly an interesting direction to steer the conversation in. I have to admit, I’m getting some mixed signals here, Nick. Do you want to call me ‘Sir’? Because I’m not so sure you don’t.”
That shuts him up quick enough. He opens his mouth, and then appears to lose his train of thought altogether, throat working around words that just won’t come. He’s blushing, Harvey belatedly realizes, and then he can’t seem to look away from the points of hectic colour high on his cheeks, sweeping down the arch of his neck. In the next moment, he thinks, I want to fuck him, and it doesn’t surprise him maybe as much as it should.
And then Harvey’s cell phone rings.
The way Nick jerks, eyes cutting away, it might as well be a gunshot. Harvey has to answer; it could be Jessica, it could always be Jessica, and it’s part of his job to be prepared for that eventuality. The moment is ruined anyway. He spares an quick second for a small twinge of regret before he glances down to fish the device out of his pocket, checking the display.
The trill of the ringer shuts off abruptly on its second iteration. He doesn’t recognize the number.
When he looks up again, Nick is gone.
Annoyance, more than any other emotion, is what steals over him first. At Nick, primarily, for wasting his time. At himself, for allowing that to happen. At himself again, for...any number of other reasons. If he decides to tell Jessica about this, she should be able to think of at least a few, easily.
He’s got his wallet, though. That’s got to count for something.
||
The second time, he learns that Nick is really Neal, and that first impressions aren’t everything.
A lot can change in five years, apparently.
It’s another hotel, but not in New York. He’s in D.C. following up on an old deal with one of Pearson-Hardman’s long-term clients at Jessica’s behest, and despite several invitations to events around town, he chooses instead to spend his last night nursing a pint of truly spectacular German beer, casually chatting with the bartender. The space is more crowded than he would expect for a Wednesday night, and the ebb and flow of conversation around him gives a sense of much needed isolation, even as he allows himself to be drawn out now and then for a few seconds of back-and-forth. Nina, the bartender, has been patiently eyeing him all evening, and he’s been considering her in return in the idle way he sometimes does -- lacking urgency, but willing, should the situation present itself.
She’s down at the other end of the bar, laughing with a pair of younger girls, when Nick announces himself with a hand on the small of Harvey’s back and a mouth at his ear, murmuring, “We have to stop meeting like this, Harvey. Think of the scandal.”
Then he twists away and falls elegantly into the seat next to him, signaling for a drink.
Nina makes her way over, and the two of them exchange some light, flirtatious banter after Nick makes his order. Not that Harvey notices, or particularly cares.
Nick is both instantly familiar and dramatically changed, almost a stranger -- even more of a stranger -- in the low light, wearing the sharpest suit Harvey’s ever seen on someone who isn’t himself. He looks sleek and well fed, and maybe even a little taller, although it’s difficult to tell for sure by the way he’s draped over the bar. Every long, lean inch of him is an invitation; it’s almost...indecent.
Harvey lets himself look his fill. He gets the feeling that Nick would be disappointed if he didn’t.
When Nick finally turns to acknowledge him, Harvey makes his decision. He reaches into his jacket pocket, retrieves his cell phone, and turns it off. Nick watches him do it, face impassive, then does the same with a small smile.
Harvey’s not going to waste any time wondering how he knows his name, if Nick finding him here is the chance meeting they’re both going to pretend it is anyway. In all likelihood, he won’t get a straight answer no matter what questions he decides to ask. Maybe it’s better that way. It’s certainly easier.
“Look who’s moved up in the world,” he says instead. “Do I dare ask after the provenance of the...very fine suit you are currently wearing?”
“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you it fell off the back of a truck, would you?”
Harvey grins. “Can’t say that I would.”
“Worth a try.” Nick’s eyes are sparkling with subdued humor, and something a little darker. He takes a small sip of his drink, watching Harvey over the rim of the glass. “I guess we’ll always have our secrets.”
“I guess so.”
In the last five years, Harvey has thought about Nick only twice, and one of those times was an hour after Nick disappeared from the bar, when he came home to his dark, empty apartment and decided to lie in bed and lazily jerk off instead of feeling sorry for himself. It was a moderately pleasant way to pass the evening.
The second time was just as mildly seedy as the first: at a fundraising event a year previous, he had two drinks more than he ever does in public and ended up fucking a waiter -- who, upon later reflection, really only bore a passing resemblance to Nick after all -- in one of the host’s private bathrooms. It was colossally dumb, and the sex itself was hardly worth mentioning anyway. He preferred not to think about it at all.
Harvey was one hundred percent resigned to never seeing Nick again the instant he made his escape, and moved on with his life accordingly. Encountering him here, though, in a place where no one knows his face or reputation, and with no pressing commitments on the near horizon -- it’s the most glaringly obvious gift he’s ever been given. And Harvey is well versed in receiving his gifts with good grace.
So it’s with this in mind that he drains what’s left of his beer -- taking pleasure in the way Nick’s eyes follow the dip of his throat -- and makes his proposition.
“Look, I’m going to cut to the chase here and save us some time,” he begins, speaking soft and quick, forcing Nick to lean close to catch his words. “It’s my impression that we have a certain amount of...unfinished business between us. Would you agree?”
Nick’s mouth quirks. “I would.”
“Did you approach me just now with the intention to resolve that particular business?”
“I can’t say that it didn’t cross my mind.” He tilts his face closer to Harvey’s. “I’ve gotta ask, though, should my lawyer be here? This is all starting to sound very official.”
Harvey rolls his eyes.
“Ha ha. That’s funny because I’m a lawyer, right? Tell me another one.”
Nick laughs softly, and moves to brush his fingers over Harvey’s wrist where it’s propped against the bar. “Aren’t you going to ask how I suddenly know all these things about you?”
“How you get your information, or your suits, or that thousand dollar watch on your wrist, for that matter? Yeah, I am so much less interested in knowing that than you could possibly imagine.”
Nick takes another slow sip of his drink. “Smart man.”
Harvey tips his head in acknowledgement and then stands to start shrugging back into his jacket.
“So, long story short: we seem to share some mutual interest in picking up where we left off, and I’m not at all interested in going to bed alone tonight. I’ll leave you to fill in the blanks.”
“And people say romance is dead,” Nick drawls.
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for efficiency.” He turns to wave Nina over. “Now, I’m going to settle my tab and go upstairs. Whether or not you join me is entirely up to you.”
“Well I guess you’ll be needing this then,” Nick says, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth innocent, and slides Harvey’s wallet back into the front pocket of his slacks. His long, nimble fingers flirt up against the side of his fly, and Harvey has to physically restrain himself from arching after them as they fall away.
“Oh, very good.” He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, hoarse and half-choked, or the strange pride that settles to a dull throb in his chest. Nick’s smile makes every hair on his body stand at attention, and as he gets to his feet he sways close enough that Harvey can smell the sharp, pleasant tang of his cologne.
“I know all kinds of fun tricks now,” he says, and gives an exaggerated wink.
Harvey sighs, lets the pleasant tingle of anticipation wash over him. “I don’t doubt it.”
Settling the tab takes only a matter of minutes, but it feels like much longer with Nick pressed tight against his side from shoulder to hip. Nick resumes his friendly patter with Nina, and when he’s signing his bill with what appears to be an entirely unnecessary flourish, she glances over to Harvey, a question in her eyes. Harvey shrugs an apology -- not tonight -- and after a considering beat, she returns it -- too bad for me.
Nick allows himself to be led away by Harvey’s hand pressed to the small of his back, and they ride the elevator up to Harvey’s floor in silence, each keeping to their own side but turned to face the other. In the more dramatic light of the elevator car Nick is a mix of shadows and sharply limned features -- he seems almost unreal, but the eyes, the eyes are the same. A little older, maybe -- five years is a lot longer than one might think -- but still that same arresting blue. There’s a stillness to him now that he didn’t quite have before, self-assured and contained, not so easily put off his guard; Harvey would stake his life on it.
Good, he thinks, I like a challenge.
The reality of having Nick in his room, though, is one he needs a moment to savor. Nick beelines straight for the giant picture window once they’re through the door, shucking his jacket and draping it over a chair as he goes. Harvey follows at a more sedate pace, watching the way Nick moves, his silhouette against the glass.
“Nice view.”
Harvey makes a small, distracted noise of agreement. He’s too busy contemplating the narrow line of Nick’s waist and hips, the obliging way his waistcoat hugs close, seams straining ever so slightly around his torso as he breathes. Harvey wants to peel him out of it, undo each button with care and spread him full across his bed. He imagines how Nick might look, laid out for him to touch. It’s a very compelling picture.
But there are other avenues to explore first. Harvey is nothing if not a traditionalist when and where it counts.
He draws up behind Nick and settles one hand at the trim dip of his waist, turning his face into the hollow where throat meets jaw. “If we weren’t interrupted, last time, would this have happened?” he asks, tugs a little to urge Nick against him. He balks somewhat at the direction, but settles after a brief, perfunctory struggle. His ass snugs up tight against Harvey’s crotch, and Harvey is treated to a full sensory and technicolour recollection of how the firm swell of it had felt against his palm, all those years ago. This is...better.
“Are we being honest, now?” Nick asks, sounding oddly subdued.
“It’s just a question.”
“Is it my fault that most of your questions come with several pages of implied legal documentation attached to them?”
Harvey’s fingers flex, and Nick makes a small, breathy noise.
“Mmm, point taken. However--” He props his free hand against the glass above their heads, his whole body curled around Nick now, mouth brushing the delicate shell of his ear. “--this would be another one of those ‘feed Harvey’s ego’ moments. I’m not asking you how many lifted wallets it takes to buy a suit as nice as the one you’re somehow still wearing. All I want is for you to tell me how very ready you were back then to suck my dick, and how that readiness has not at all diminished with time.”
The indistinct reflection of the glass makes Nick’s smile difficult to measure. Smug, maybe; amused, definitely -- but something else too.
“And what if that isn’t true?”
It drops like a stone between them. Harvey goes still, considering.
“Well,” he hedges, “it certainly wouldn’t be the first time, but then again I’m not often wrong. About anything.”
“All right, then. Short answer: no, this would not have happened. Long answer: I don’t know why you’re still talking about something that didn’t happen when I’m right here--” Nick touches the hand Harvey still has gripped around his hip, coaxing it over to splay across his lower belly, fingers dipping down to tease between slacks and the fine cotton of his shirt “--and maybe if you stopped verbally fellating yourself for two seconds we could get down to the business of me actually sucking your dick. How’s that work for you?”
“Hey, you’re the one that took off the first time. I’m just trying to find out why I’ve had to wait five years to get you on your knees for me.”
He means it to be flippant, but somewhere between his brain and mouth the words take a detour through the mess of frustrated lust churning in his gut, coming out jagged-edged and dark. Nick’s whole body shudders against him, and it’s wonderful, unexpected, perfect. Harvey lets the momentum of the moment carry him along, gives in to the pressing need he suddenly has to put his mouth to skin. He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the hinge of Nick’s jaw, the side of his neck, sucking until Nick makes a sound that’s hardly a sound at all, like he’s trying to take a breath but can’t.
“See, you say you’d like me to stop talking, but I’m not sure I believe you,” he says, lips dragging across skin. “I wonder what might happen if I told you how much I wanted to fuck you, all those years ago. I would have bent you over the bar if I could have, taken you right there.” Nick makes another noise, a strangled unh that shoots straight to Harvey’s cock. He feels galvanized, unstoppable. “We should go back, actually. I bet they’d let me do it now. All the work I’ve done for the owner of that hotel, it’s practically half mine anyway.”
Nick twists frantically in the circle of his arms, and Harvey relaxes his hold enough that he’s able to turn and slump back against the glass, dragging Harvey in closer. He’s laughing and shaking his head, eyes shut. “Oh my god, please stop talking. I want to tell you something.”
Harvey refrains from violently expressing his irritation at the interruption only through a supreme act of will. He doesn’t even say anything, just grits his jaw and bites his tongue and waits for Nick to continue. He should get a fucking medal for this.
Nick reaches up and cards one hand through Harvey’s hair, settles it on the nape of his neck, thumb stroking behind his ear. The touch settles the impatience buzzing beneath his skin, slows the scene. He stands for Nick’s careful scrutiny, eyes roving back and forth across Harvey’s face, lets him look as long as he needs to. And then he draws Harvey down, and breathes into his mouth, “My name, my real name, is Neal. Not Nick. That’s what I want you to call me.”
Harvey’s never thought of him as anything other than Nick, even as he knew, instinctively, that it was a false name. That it had to be. But being told this, now, is like watching an image that always seemed a little off snap into sudden, sharp focus. It fits.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asks, because even as he thrills at knowing, the information feels dangerous and unsafe in his hands. All the other secrets he’s allowed Neal to keep seem meaningless in the face of having it.
The look Neal gives him is resigned, but not altogether unhappy. Harvey’s not sure what to make of it.
“Because it’s not often that I get to be a real person,” Neal says. “I’ve learned not to waste my opportunities.”
Before Harvey can even begin trying to understand what that’s supposed to mean Neal moves the final deciding inch and kisses him, the hand at his nape squeezing hard and insistent. Harvey lets it linger, waiting, feels possibilities spiraling outward in all directions, so many different ways this could shake out. He knows what he wants, but Neal keeps tripping him up, changing the tenor of things, and he’s sick of being unsure.
He keeps the kiss close-mouthed for long enough that Neal makes the kind of noise that can really only be classified as begging and starts to suck at Harvey’s bottom lip, breathing harshly through his nose. So Harvey obliges him, fits the hand he had propped against the glass to the side of Neal’s throat and tilts his face to the right angle for their mouths to slide together, open, wet.
And then Neal surprises him, again, by the way he trembles and just...falls into it, hips canting and neck arching like a plea, every inch of him suddenly pliable to the slightest suggestion. Harvey’s never felt anything like it. He’s had women before -- some men too, though not as many -- who whine and keen for him, go limp at the first sign of dominant force, like the extent of all he could ever need or desire is someone who will stay still so he can use their body like a blank canvas, lifeless and waiting for him to leave his marks. Not like this. Not like the way Neal’s body moves under his hands, practically leaping at a touch, the smallest shift in pressure, anticipating and responding before Harvey even quite knows what he wants himself. Like he’s being given something.
The effect has Harvey reeling under a gut punch of lust, nearly blind from it. He surges into Neal, forcing his mouth to open even wider under the slick thrust of his tongue, and swallows every high, eager noise he makes. He remembers that feeling he had, all those years ago, that needy compulsion to watch Neal fall apart, break him down to his component parts. It’s satisfying and invigorating to realize that desire has not gone away, is if anything stronger now. It narrows his focus, gives him something to strive for. Harvey’s nothing if not a goal oriented guy.
Neal’s hands somehow migrated down to Harvey’s waist when he wasn’t paying attention, and as they start tugging his shirt free Harvey breaks away.
“Ah ah, not yet.” He sounds breathless, wrecked, and Neal doesn’t look that much better. Harvey walks backwards, sits on the edge of the bed, and starts working his tie loose, crooking his finger for Neal to approach. When he’s standing in the vee of Harvey’s spread legs, Harvey places a proprietary hand along Neal’s thigh, dragging his thumb up the inseam til he’s nudging just under the straining bulge of his cock. “Strip, but don’t make it a show. Then get on your knees.”
He watches as Neal takes that in, absorbing it like a blow, then starts to unbutton his waist-coat with quick, efficient motions. He shrugs it off, tossing it onto the chair behind him without turning -- an impressive show of spatial awareness -- before moving on to belt-buckle, cuff links, shirt, shoes, socks and slacks. He doesn’t linger any longer than necessary over any one item, but Harvey revels in it anyway, appreciating the lean play of muscle in every brisk, economic motion. Neal stares right back at him the entire time, his face a rictus of barely controlled desire. Harvey’s cock aches to see how he worries at his bottom lip, the way his chest hitches for breath.
When Neal finally sinks down at his feet, Harvey rasps, “Come here,” and groans low in his throat as Neal instantly curls over his lap, presses forward to mouth at where the fabric of his trousers tents outward. Harvey can’t stop himself from palming the back of Neal’s skull, grabbing a fistful of hair and just pushing, hips twitching upward in fitful little jerks. Neal takes it without protest. He looks transported, the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheek, the small furrow between his brows. Like he’s in agony.
Harvey uses the hand not still curled desperately in Neal’s hair to undo his belt, fingers fumbling between the leather and the wet invitation of Neal’s open mouth. They shake as he thumbs the button and draws the zipper down, almost numb. It’s a wonder he has any semblance of fine motor control left at all.
Neal’s lips move erratically against the back of his hand, and it takes a few seconds for it to penetrate that he’s speaking, barely more than a half-vocalized whisper.
Let me. P-please, let me--
Harvey freezes, and Neal uses his moment of arousal-stupid shock to insinuate his own grasping hands, pushing Harvey’s away. He peels Harvey’s trousers to either side, belt-buckle clinking, pulls everything down just enough that his cock can bob up into the still air between them. Harvey jerks like he’s been punched in the gut, choking on an indrawn breath.
Neal doesn’t even break stride. He leans in and licks a long, slick line from root to tip, making the sweetest sound of satisfaction Harvey has ever heard, and he nearly loses it right then and there.
“Shit.” It explodes into the silence like a thunderclap, almost a shout. Between his legs Neal looks up at him with bright, dazed eyes, grinning wild like he’s just won some kind of award. Under normal circumstances, Harvey would have at least a dozen things to say in answer to the kind of smug challenge writ large across Neal’s face -- but, present circumstances being what they are, he fails to summon a single word.
And then Neal brackets Harvey’s hips in a fierce, two-handed grip and swallows his cock almost whole, and it’s all he can do to keep what little control he has left from abandoning him completely.
Neal doesn’t appear particularly concerned either way. He urges Harvey forward, encourages the slow roll of his hips, and who is he to deny the man what he wants? He starts fucking into Neal’s mouth with what little leverage he’s got, coaxing his head forward again and again, one hand braced behind himself and the other still buried in the soft mass of Neal’s hair. Neal moans and twists, and Harvey is mesmerized by the sight of his gorgeously tapered back moving between Harvey’s legs, his ass arched out like he’s begging for something else entirely.
Harvey’s vision goes spotty, another wave of intense, searing lust rolling over him. He stops moving and drags Neal slowly off his cock, relishing the tight suction and flirting flicks of tongue before Neal disengages and looks up at Harvey in question. His lips gleam a wet cherry red, slick with saliva and Harvey’s own fluids. It’s obscene. He rocks back on his heels, knees splayed wide for balance, as though he’s presenting himself for Harvey. His cock juts up flushed and slicked by his own arousal, untouched. Painfully so, Harvey thinks. It has to be, by now.
Harvey wants to put his hands all over him, stroke him with a tight, quick fist until he’s squirming. Or maybe just fuck him, hard and precise enough that he comes on Harvey’s cock, a panting, sobbing mess. It would be so easy.
Wreck. Ruin. Destroy.
Something of his desire to touch must show on his face, because Neal suddenly launches himself forward like a loosed spring, climbs onto Harvey’s lap and seats his bared ass against Harvey’s dick. Harvey clutches at his back, moans low and broken as Neal starts grinding down in tight little circles, seeking out Harvey’s mouth for another kiss. Harvey leans away.
“I want to fuck you,” he grits out, “but this is going to be over very quick if you keep doing that.”
Neal acquiesces, settles, while Harvey grits his teeth and attempts to regain a little equilibrium. He nudges Neal over and onto the bed properly, then stands on shaky, untrustworthy legs. He toes off his shoes and socks, removes his cufflinks and slips them into his trouser pocket, shucks the rest of his clothes methodically. Neal watches him with darkly hooded eyes, takes in each inch of bare skin as it’s revealed, breath heavy and ragged.
When he’s finally naked, he knees onto the mattress and moves over Neal where’s he’s lying sprawled against the pillows. Neal tugs him down, takes the kiss he was denied before, strokes along Harvey’s back and over his ass. He can taste himself on Neal’s tongue, and the knowledge of it makes him shudder and twitch with the need to stake other claims, force himself into Neal’s body in other ways. His hands move over Neal’s chest, down to the firm flatness of his belly, around his back, and grip as he passes over his ass to the back of his thighs, urging them to lift and part with a hungry insistence. Neal shivers and does so, legs coming up to bracket Harvey’s sides. They slot together like that, and Harvey reaches down to curl his fingers around Neal’s cock for the first time; starts a slow, teasing rhythm. Neal gasps and writhes, breathing harshly through his nose, but matches Harvey’s rhythm nonetheless. The sleek muscles of his stomach and thighs strain as he tries to move, thrusting up into the slick channel of Harvey’s fist.
He brings Neal to the edge with torturous care, because he can. Because the sight of Neal slowly falling apart makes his blood burn, and it’s so easy to get him there, like Harvey’s hands on him are the only thing he’ll ever need.
He has to wonder if it isn’t, at least in part, a show. For all their lively banter and mutual attraction, they are still little more than strangers. Harvey doesn’t know what Neal’s lines are, how much he lets people in, what walls and smokescreens he erects to keep them out. He doesn’t know who he lets have the whole of him, if anyone can claim that privilege. Harvey can guess enough of what his life entails that it isn’t hard to believe Neal might keep the entire world at a distance because he doesn’t know how not to, is incapable of separating himself from the role of performer that he wears so effortlessly.
It makes Harvey want to find the pieces of him that are real, press and stroke and bite and force himself under his skin to seek out the truths of his body. Harvey has always been greedy. He balks at being denied, can’t stop himself from using his instincts like a finely honed surgical tool to get what he wants. As in all things, the more he knows, the better he can be.
When Harvey pulls away, yet one more time, Neal makes a pitiful noise and almost jackknifes in half, eyes squeezed shut. His reflexively raised hands twitch as if he’s desperate to touch himself and pick up where Harvey left off.
“Jesus, why are you --”
Harvey shuts him up with a deep, claiming kiss, reaching blindly for the bedside table, ripping open the drawer. There’s an urgency building in the pit of his stomach that makes every movement that much harder, needier, more decisive. He’s never felt more aware of his own body, of the strain as he gets to his knees, the cool wetness at the tips of his fingers as he slicks them with lube, how the muscles in his shoulder and bicep bunch as he hooks behind Neal’s knee and bends his leg back, pinning it there. It’s like tunnel vision, everything is so clear and so necessary. He feels almost unstoppable.
“I’m going to put my fingers in you now,” he rasps into the hot, close air between their faces, blunt and dirty and amazingly crass. It’s probably the single most ridiculous thing that’s ever voluntarily come out of his mouth; but Neal just trembles and lifts his hips, a dare in his eyes and shadows of a smile creeping in at the corners of his mouth. Like he’s got Harvey’s number. Again.
Harvey doesn’t even slow down. He circles one slick digit around Neal’s hole, massages the muscle until Neal is shoving his ass down in desperate little bursts in a fruitless attempt to get closer, get more. Only then does Harvey start to slide it in, and from there things begin to escalate at a rapid pace. He leans hard on the thigh he’s got pinned and fingers Neal ruthlessly, fucking into him with each snap of his wrist, stretching him with one, two, and finally three. Neal just moans, twisting slow and exaggerated like he’s trying to chase every tiny spark of sensation, arching into the brutal thrusts of Harvey’s hand.
Just as the noises spilling out of Neal’s mouth start spiraling higher, frantic little unh unh unhs that make his cock twitch and swell, Harvey decides enough is enough. He slides his fingers free and grabs the condom he’d placed next to them on the sheets, rips it open with his teeth and slides it down. He contemplates the sprawl of Neal’s body under him with a lazy, appreciative eye, and adds more lube to his already shining hand, strips his cock a few times to get it slick. Then he grips both of Neal’s legs and pulls him closer, hoisting him up enough that he can nudge the head of his cock right where Neal is wet and open.
“Ready?” Harvey rasps, and Neal barks out a bright, jubilant laugh.
“This has been five years in the making, Harvey,” he says. His voice is shot, rough and shaking with desire. “How about you put us both out of our misery sometime this decade?”
Harvey gives him a wild grin in return, holds one of Neal’s legs up to his chest. “Gladly.”
And then he pushes in, rolls his hips in short pulses that have Neal gasping, overwhelmed, throwing his arms over his head to brace against the flat of the headboard.
“Yeah, g-god yeah, unh--”
Harvey tries to block out the sounds spilling from Neal’s mouth, if only in the interest of pure self-preservation. He heaves in a long, steadying breath, tries to get used to the feeling of Neal clenching hot and sweet around him as he slides in to the hilt. It’s a losing battle, really. Even Harvey can admit that.
Christ, he’s tight.
Harvey leans over as far as he’s able and braces his arm under the arch of Neal’s back, his other hand still clenched tight around Neal’s thigh where it’s hiked up against his chest. He finally starts moving, falling into an unforgiving rhythm of deep dragging thrusts, using Neal’s body as leverage. He groans every time he bottoms out, struggles to keep his eyes open to watch as Neal pushes up to meet him, eyelashes a dark, fluttering smudge against the high colour of his cheeks. One soft wave of hair has fallen across his forehead, and something in Harvey’s chest squeezes, tells him to brush it back.
He doesn’t. Instead, he hauls Neal closer, changes the angle and fucks him harder, bends him in half and thrusts until Neal is almost sobbing yeah, fuck, fuck, Harvey, clawing at his back.
Hearing Neal say his name is like a kick in the stomach. All of a sudden he can feel his orgasm barreling towards him, and he groans, trying to stave it off. It’s no use though. He’s not going to last. He just isn’t.
Harvey lets Neal’s leg fall in favor of clutching at the top of the headboard, pressing with his other hand against Neal’s lower back so it arches in a more exaggerated curve. Then he lowers his head to Neal’s sternum, breathes open-mouthed against the slick skin of his chest, and rides the sweet ebb and flow of his body as hard as he can, shoving in in in. Neal moans like it’s being punched out of him, oh oh oh, and then all at once it’s too much.
Harvey makes a long, low wounded noise and comes violently, as if he’s been kicked in the back of the head. His vision goes magnesium bright but his hips still jerk and grind and circle of their own accord until he’s pressed up as tight and close to Neal as he can possibly get. For a handful of long, blurred seconds he mouths at Neal’s skin and fights for breath, then pulls out slowly to deal with the condom.
The urgency is still singing under his skin, though, almost worse than it was mere moments ago. Harvey takes it as the message it is.
He knows what he wants. He hasn’t gotten it yet.
Which is how he finds himself turning Neal over onto shaking knees and unsteady elbows, spreading the cheeks of his ass to lean in and lick at where he’s still loose and wet, works his tongue in slow pulses against the swollen, abused ring of muscle. The sound Neal makes is unclassifiable, tinged with surprise and a touch of shame. Harvey groans, pleased, the residual heat in his stomach flaring.
He moves away and starts kissing up Neal’s spine, reaching under to pinch and tug at his nipples, slides one broad hand down until his knuckles are brushing against Neal’s cock. Leaving one last sucking kiss on the wing of his shoulder, Harvey curls forward and licks along the curve of Neal’s ear, murmurs, Do you want to come for me?
Neal shudders violently, chokes out an explosive Yes.
“Then come,” Harvey says, and slots three fingers into Neal’s ass, twisting.
He comes, untouched, with a high, keening whine, goes rigid and shoots all over the hand Harvey has splayed against his stomach, clenching erratically around the other. Harvey holds him through it, then slides his fingers free.
It takes a long time for Neal to come down, aftershocks quaking through him in waves. Harvey draws him up and back into his lap, one arm a supporting band across Neal’s chest, the other draped across his hip, fingers stroking in soothing circles around the taut, shivering skin below his navel. After he finally calms, Neal’s head lolls back to Harvey’s shoulder and he plucks the hand still covered in come from his chest, brings it to his mouth to lick it clean with long, lingering sweeps of his tongue. Harvey’s soft cock twitches and throbs in protest. Jesus.
When he can tell the slight tremor in Neal’s limbs has more to do with exhaustion than anything else, he lets him loose to flop onto his back and lay still. He looks up at Harvey with hazy, sated eyes, and Harvey looks back. Smug satisfaction winds through him, and some of it must show on his face because Neal groans, teeth flashing in a small, exasperated smile before he reaches for Harvey, murmuring, “Come here. And try not to look so pleased with yourself.”
Harvey smirks, shakes his head.
“Impossible,” he says, and allows Neal to draw him down.
||
Sometime much later Harvey snaps awake. He opens his eyes.
The room is mostly dark, brightened from black to a fuzzy indigo by the soft glow of pre-dawn light. Harvey lies still, attempting to discern what pulled him out of sleep, and hears a faint rustle and clink behind him. He rolls over and sees Neal standing hip-shot in front of the vanity mirror, in the process of doing up his belt. He’s fully dressed except for his suit jacket, but his hair still falls in disarray across his forehead. Once again, Harvey’s fingers itch to brush it back.
“Planning to steal away in the night?”
His voice sounds like gravel, still hoarse from sleep and the evening’s other exertions.
Neal doesn’t startle, and Harvey wonders if he should feel proud. He can’t make out Neal’s expression when he turns to face the bed, but he suspects it’s nothing less than perfectly composed.
“I wasn’t going to steal your wallet, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Your restraint is admirable, and appreciated.”
Neal seems to pause, as if trying to decide something, and then moves forward to click on the lamp beside the bed. They both wince a little at the sudden light, and Neal sits gingerly on the side of the bed.
“I have to go soon,” he says.
Harvey takes Neal’s wrist and turns his watch face to catch the light. “Mmm, so do I.” He rubs the inside corners of his eyes with thumb and forefinger, and takes a small breath.
“I suppose it would be pointless of me to ask if I’m ever going to see you again,” Harvey remarks. It’s not quite a question, kept that way by his unwillingness to fully commit to that kind of blatant sentimentality.
Neal takes it as one anyway, makes a small considering noise.
“You might,” he says. “We do sort of run in the same circles.”
Harvey waits to hear the lie in it -- so cynical and certain -- but it never happens, and the surprise he feels is like a leaf unfurling slowly inside his chest. He thinks back to other truths: the way Neal had gasped his name, desperate and overcome; the gift of his own name, offered freely. Small things, but enough to satisfy.
“Good to know,” Harvey says, then hooks a finger into Neal’s waistcoat and pulls him in, kisses him softly. “Probably better if I don’t, though.”
Neal nods, mouth wry. “Probably.”
They lapse into silence. Harvey lets Neal go and he moves away to retrieve his jacket, slides it on. Harvey tries to think of something else to say, feels the time running down, but he’s always been bad at this. None of his lines seems right, nothing seems to fit.
Then suddenly Neal is reaching for the door, and he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Was it worth the wait?” He finds himself laughing a little as he says it, shaking his head. He could have done so much better. He’s never going to live this down.
But Neal just ducks his head, smiling wide. When he looks back up, his blue, blue eyes glint warmly with recollection.
“Every single second,” he says.
And then he’s gone.
||