all in (cause we're both going to win)

Title: all in (cause we're both going to win)
Pairing: Harvey/Mike
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3,100
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: Nobody loses at strip poker.

A/N: Written for this prompt. I, uh. Don’t know much about poker, despite numerous attempts to teach me so there you go. Unbetaed, all mistakes are mine.

Also, you should totally check out the art inspired by this fic. By

xhiro_xhiro It's gorgeous!

Mike's tie is on the table, one end hanging over the side. His shoes have been kicked off, long since abandoned, and he's down to one sock. His watch, his phone - Mike's buy in, after he'd won the lengthy argument whether it counted as clothing - both gone.

Counting cards is a parlor trick with a memory like Mike's. He'd read a book on it once, learned the algorithms, done it once or twice to impress Trevor and Jenny, and thing is, if this were a different game, a game with more players and more time to use more cards, like Gin Rummy or Hearts - Mike is aces at Hearts - or Bullshit, which even his grandma refuses to play with him anymore, he's pretty sure this would be going a completely different direction.

But you can't play those games with only two people. And Harvey insisted on poker.

Harvey lays his cards down.

Two jacks. Three nines.

Full house.

Mike's own measly pair mocks him, two red queens that stare up at him resentfully; he tosses them in the middle of the table.

"Are you cheating?"

The corner of Harvey's mouth is amused, fond even, though Mike will never get him to admit to that, and his tone is mild, gloating somehow under all that lawyer swagger Harvey's so good at. "Mike," he says, patiently, as if he's ever patient with Mike, except in his weird, bizarro way. "Being good at poker is a lot like being a good lawyer.”

"And we both know how awesome a lawyer you are. Somehow I doubt this is for the clients." Then, thinking of Wyatt, "Do you let them win, too?"

Harvey makes the connection without any context clues. He's gotten better at deciphering the decidedly non-direct approach Mike's thoughts take sometimes. Looking down at his nearly empty glass, Mike feels warm, thinking about that.

"When it helps you land them, sometimes." Harvey's smile grows sharp over his cards. "Then you take them for what they're worth."

"Noted," Mike says; he sacrifices his last sock, pulling it off by the toe. He pushes back his chair, possibly scratching the floor, if the sudden comma at the corner of Harvey's mouth is any indication. "I need another drink."

"You leave the table, you have to buy in again," Harvey says, shuffling the cards, eyes on Mike. "And you're running out of assets."

Mike pauses, halfway out of his seat. He has: Pants. Shirt. Underwear. Belt. He's had to make do with less before, but Harvey will certainly haggle for the shirt, at least; there's no way he'd settle for the belt, and there's something about the way he's still smirking at Mike, shuffling the cards like it's no big deal, that leads Mike to believe that given the choice, Harvey won't take his underwear until the very last.

“Harvey-”

“You know the rules. You helped set them.”

Flushed, he settles his weight back in his chair. "Deal," Mike says, voice a little shaky, wondering how he got into this in the first place. This was not how he planned to spend the first early night he's had since he started working for Harvey. He thought, maybe, read something for fun, go out for drinks and still manage a full six hours of sleep. Not this. Not losing his clothing gradually, piece by piece while Harvey's only missing his coat. Except not really, because he won it back three rounds ago, and he’s been keeping it off: Harvey’s subtle form of gloating.

Not that Mike’s honestly complaining. He practically jumped when Harvey offered earlier.

Harvey deals without taking his eyes off him, and Mike doesn’t watch his hands gather up his cards, the plastic slick under his fingers as he fans them out in front of him. When he looks, he jerks a little, blinking three times and attempting to cover his surprise with something that’s half-cough half-clearing his throat. Mike licks his mouth, thumb sliding over his cards; the odds of a hand like this, right off the bat-

“You have tells a mile wide,” Harvey says, mild, making Mike jump in his chair. “Don’t ever be this obvious in court.”

For a second, he’s unable to meet Harvey’s eyes, certain there’s no way he can bluff his way through this, but then he grins, looking up. “Do I?”

It doesn’t work. Harvey folds right then and there.

“Yes. It’s painful. And pathetic.”

“Isn’t being a lawyer as much about presenting the case as it is about the facts? Maybe I’m just presenting it in a more positive light than it deserves.”

“That you’re bluffing that you’re bluffing? Some players could do it, but nice try champ.”

“Jesus, Harvey. That was the best hand I had all night.” Mike narrows his eyes. “Maybe I should deal.”

Harvey sets the deck in the middle of the table, and then leans back in his chair. “If you think it will do you any good, then by all means," he says, waving his hand, unconcerned.

Mike takes the cards, still frowning. He shuffles two times, then adds a third, just for good measure.

“Stalling isn’t going to buy you new clothes,” Harvey says. “Or get you to win.”

Mike scowls and deals the cards. “And here I thought it was a prized tactic by lawyers everywhere,” he says. “Oh, my misinformed youth.”

“It’s an excellent tactic,” Harvey says, picking up his cards. He smiles. “When you don’t have a case.”

Mike gathers his cards with one hand, and once again, fans them out in front of him.

One. Two. Three.

Jesus.

His mind supplies the numbers: probability of two point eleven percent, odds of forty-six point five to one and the combined odds of improving his hand if he discards-

Oh right.

He purposefully slumps a little in his chair, shoulders rounding in, just a touch. He lets his mouth curl downward and then purposefully looks up, slight scowl still in place.

Harvey’s watching him; Mike forces his face blank.

He plays the round carefully, asking for two cards. Which yields him nothing, unfortunately. Harvey asks for one, making it easy to pretend to be jitterier than normal, fighting the urge to make eye contact, running his mouth a little until Harvey lays down his cards.

Two nines, two sixes.

“That’s-” Mike says. “That’s a pretty good hand.”

“You’re really running out of options, Mike,” Harvey says, as smooth as the alcohol still in his glass, smoother than any Mike’s ever had before, even since he started at Pearson Hardman. “But I think I want the shirt.”

“I guess I am,” he says, shrugging. “Except, you know, I’m pretty sure that book I read on poker says three of a kind beats two pair so you’re just gonna have to wait on my shirt.” He lays his cards down in one smooth arc, grinning widely. “Look at that, who’s got game? That’s right, I do.” He raises his arms, spread wide in victory.

Harvey looks down at Mike’s cards, eyebrow raised, then back up at Mike. He smirks. “Good for you. Do you want a sock back?”

“That’s very tempting, Harvey,” Mike says, lowering his arms. He pretends to think about it for exactly three seconds. “But I think I want your tie.”

“You think?”

“You’re so fond of them.”

“Ah,” Harvey says as he lifts his hand.

Mike’s mouth goes dry when Harvey’s finger slips behind the knot, knuckle pressing against the hollow of his throat. He works it out slowly, possibly solely to keep from damaging it, but Mike’s betting it’s not the only reason.

He’s probably still smirking, too, but Mike’s not looking at his face. He’s watching the knot loosen, the fabric slide around Harvey’s neck, Harvey’s fingers slip down to undo one of his shirt buttons, then another.

Harvey holds the tie over the table, and for a long moment, Mike doesn’t move, heart beating twice against his chest.

They don’t touch when Mike reaches out to take it. There’s no brushing of fingers or any lingering touch. The silk is soft in his fingers, cool against the heat of his skin, and he finally, finally lifts his eyes to meet Harvey’s.

They're dark.

“That was a gift from Donna. You wreck that, I’ll make you proof the Pelger briefs.”

Mike swallows, smoothing the tie out in his lap, working it between his fingers briefly. “You were gonna make me do that anyway,” he says, eyes skittering away, then back, then away again.

“I’ll make you do it on your day off.”

He suddenly really needs a drink. “Should be enough of a buy in for you then,” he says, winding it around his fingers. Under the table, of course. He’s not willing to suffer Harvey’s indignation at the reality of very possible future tie mangling.

Pushing his chair back, tie still firmly wrapped around his fist, Mike gets to his feet. It’s not exactly running away. Not really. It’s strategic retreat, though it’s the exact opposite of what Harvey’s been trying to teach him for months.

He stands in the kitchen for a long moment, flushed all the way down his neck. He can feel Harvey's eyes on him from across the room, but Mike stands there, running runs the tie through his hands, once, twice, three times, absently, mind racing in the silence.

He’s not stupid. He knows what tonight’s about. He knows what they’re both thinking, what he’s been thinking since day one, since Harvey gave him a chance that Mike wants to deserve more than anything.

This is. He’s thought about this in between cases and legal paperwork, while doing research late into the night, accompanied by his highlighters and Red Bull and the random assortment of music on his iPod.

But the things he wants, Mike’s never been very good at just taking them, even before his life went off track faster than even he could process, those moments of hesitance, times when he actively chose pot over homework, girls over productivity, Trevor’s insane trouble over his own future.

Mike rubs his mouth, hand cupping his jaw, the fabric of Harvey's tie cool against his skin.

Harvey’s a lot more together, in general and not just this, not the mess that Mike is, was when they met. He’s the kind of guy that knows what he wants and goes after it. He’s not sure what this poker game is, besides possibly the weirdest and least necessary seduction Mike’s ever been involved with, but then, maybe Harvey’s treating him like a skittish horse, a kid that doesn’t know what he wants.

Mike knows what he wants.

“Get a little lost?” Harvey says, close. Mike flinches, just a little. “It’s a good thing I don’t need you for your sense of direction.”

”Were you trying to seduce me and teach me a lesson?” Mike asks suddenly, done with ignoring the elephant. He turns around and raises an eyebrow. “Harvey.”

“Mike-”

And just like that, he’s done with talking. Mike rests his hand, tie still wrapped around it, on Harvey’s chest, tucking his thumb in the slot between buttons, sliding it in until he has skin. Then he tugs, just a little, careful not to rip off a button - though he’s thought about it, ripping open one of Harvey’s suits to get at the skin beneath, buttons spilling over the floor, like one of the trashy novels he used to read aloud to Trever when they were way too high to do much else.

Harvey steps closer, his hand coming up to rest on Mike’s waist, the other slipping around to the front; in seconds, he has the button undone, and he’s reaching for the zipper when Mike says, throat tight and stupid, “You haven’t won my pants yet.”

Harvey pulls away, just a fraction. “That’s going to be the problem?”

Mike licks his mouth, grinning when Harvey’s eyes slip down to watch it. “I can foresee it being an issue in the future.”

“Well,” Harvey says. “I’m excellent at building cases with very little substance to go on.”

“It’s probably because you have an awesome associate that does a lot of grunt work for you,” he says, working the button above his thumb open.

“No, I’m just that good,” he says, pressing his palm flat against Mike’s stomach, sliding his fingers inside the waistband and down. The sound Mike makes is probably going to come back to haunt him later, embarrassing, arching into Harvey’s hand, head knocking back against the fridge.

Harvey's tie slips from his hand, puddling on the floor at their feet. Mike swallows, catching his breath and watching Harvey’s eyes, bright even in the darkness of the kitchen. “I’m not sure this conversation even makes sense anymore.”

“Why are you still talking,” Harvey says, but the rawness undercuts the edge he’d normally have so Mike fits his hand around the back of Harvey’s neck, and then they’re kissing, mouths sliding together; Mike opens his and slips his tongue across to touch against Harvey’s, and he breaks the kiss when he grins a little: making out with Harvey Spector, right in his kitchen. Awesome.

Harvey Spector, who has his hand in Mike’s pants, working his dick, thumb confident and sure, fingers nudging back to touch Mike’s balls. He gasps against Harvey’s neck, sweat slick on his forehead. His fingers fumble on Harvey’s belt, his hand a little sweaty as he slips it inside and palms the head. Harvey rocks his hips, forcing his cock further into Mike’s hand.

It's hot and feels heavy in his hand and Harvey’s bedroom is right over there, just on the other side of the room, but Mike’s more than okay with right here, right against the fridge. His breathing is ragged, almost painful, a bite in his chest each time it stutters to match the movement of Harvey’s hand, each time Harvey twists his wrist. It’s a tight fit with Mike’s pants still zipped, but, god, god-

“Mike,” Harvey says, thick and close, almost against his mouth, pushing his hips forward at the same time. “Keep up.”

“Yeah, right, yes.” Mike tightens his slackened hand, curling his fingers and getting back a rhythm that almost matches Harvey’s. “I, Jesus, Harvey-”

Harvey kisses him, stopping the stuttering. They’re the same height, give or take, but Mike spreads his knees wider, slouching down and tilting his head back. God, the angles, and Harvey shifts, slipping his thigh between Mike's, pressing him back against the cool surface of the fridge.

His hips jerk; it’s not going to take long, not with Harvey’s thigh between his own, not with how he’s been keyed up and ready all night, losing hand after hand and stripping off one article of clothing after another, Harvey’s eyes watching, heavy and bright, and definitely not when he’s lost in the rhythm of Harvey’s hand and Harvey’s mouth on his, leaning back against the fridge, cool against his elbows. His shirt is untucked, fabric spilling over his waistband and Harvey’s arm, so even when he does look down, Mike only sees the movement underneath.

It’s a bit like sensory disconnect, feeling and not seeing, and it’s already too much; it's way too much. Mike buries his face in the hollow of Harvey’s throat, teeth catching the skin once, followed by his mouth, open and wet. His shoulders shaking, Mike’s free hand crumples Harvey’s vest, pulling him closer as he twists, pushing his cock further into the heat of Harvey’s hand as he comes.

After a long moment, Mike presses his nose against Harvey’s neck, tongue slipping out to taste his skin, salty and perfect for leaving a bright, vivid mark. Mike thinks about it - Harvey would be so pissed - all thoughts blurred except for the idea of those expensive ties covering all evidence of Mike, all evidence of this, except Mike would know and Harvey would know, and that’s pretty much all the incentive Mike needs to do it.

Except Harvey cups the back of his head and pulls Mike’s mouth up to his, thrusting into Mike’s slack fingers, head of his cock bumping against Mike’s palm. He opens his mouth, letting Harvey’s tongue slide over his, and he curls his fingers and helps hims along until Harvey’s mouth pauses against his own and his hips jerk, uncontrolled and so unlike his usual demeanor - Mike’s cock twitches at that - spilling all over Mike’s hand.

Mike lists backward, pressing tighter against the cool metal at his back, feeling oddly energetic, if sated. For now. They both have a day off tomorrow and most of the night left.

Harvey makes a face, his first real show of exasperation of the evening, even more so when he started realizing how much Mike sucked at poker. "Pick up my tie," he says.

Mike looks down at it. "My buy in, your game; I think it's your responsibility now," he says. Then he tilts his head back and grins widely, fingers still tucked into the waistband of Harvey’s pants, though the fabric is loose around his fingers.

He'll pick it up; he just wants to see-

Harvey pulls away, and then he starts washing his hands in the sink. “We’re going to have to work on you being so easy to read," he says and then tosses a washcloth at him.

Mike catches it against his chest, water soaking through his shirt, a few drops slipping over his wrist and down his arm. After looking at it for a moment, he shrugs and drops it on the counter. “Is that what the poker game was about?”

“Maybe I just wanted to school you."

“School,” Mike says. “Does anyone even say that anymore? Except, you know, old people?”

“Old people,” Harvey says, and there's that exasperation, but his eyes follow Mike’s hands as Mike pushes his pants off his hips, taking the underwear with, and he steps out of them.

"What are you doing?"

Mike counts it as a victory that Harvey’s voice is a little hoarse. He pauses, looking up. "Calling your bluff," he says, unbuttoning his shirt. When the last button is free, he starts walking backward toward Harvey’s bed, shirt hanging open. Once in the doorway, he holds his hands out, shimmies a little, gratified when Harvey’s eyes drop down.

Even Harvey has tells, and Mike's learning them quicker than they both realize. Flushed and feeling higher than any joint could get him, he shrugs off his shirt, dropping it to the ground. Harvey's bed is just a few feet behind him and he's stepping forward, following Mike in.

When Harvey's close enough to touch, Mike reaches out, grinning brightly, asking, "Aren't you glad you let me win that hand?"