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Mike stood in the doorway looking like he'd been launched into the building rather than entering through conventional means, his hair as though he'd lost a fight with a hurricane, his shirt untucked on one side, his messenger bag hanging halfway off one shoulder. Most concerning of all, he looked unbelievably pleased with himself, and that expression never meant anything good. Ever.
Harvey slowly lowered the document in his hand. "Morning."
Mike grinned wider. "Beautiful boyfriend, brilliant barrister."
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Or, Mike takes a bet and suffers for it. -
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What happened instead was Harvey saying, very evenly, "Get out of my office," and when Mike had opened his mouth, "No. Out. Done. You're banned."
"You can't ban me from your office."
"Watch me."
And that had been that.
The thing was, Harvey had clearly expected the ban to function the way bans conventionally functioned, which was to say he had expected it to keep Mike out of his office.
This was a reasonable expectation to have about a ban. It was the kind of expectation that worked on normal people, on associates who had something to lose, on anyone with a functional sense of professional self-preservation. Mike had a lot of things. A functional sense of professional self-preservation was not really among them.
So.
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Or, Harvey tries to ban Mike from his office. Mike totally takes it as an emotionally mature adult. -
park that car, drop that phone (dream about me) by TrashyPandas (BlueJayFan)
Fandoms: Suits (US TV 2011)
08 Jun 2026
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The thing about deciding you're going to die is that it makes everything else remarkably simple.
Harvey hadn't arrived at the decision the way he imagined people did in movies—not in a single devastating moment, not with a particular song playing in the background or rain streaking down a window while he stood in silhouette.
It had been more gradual than that, more like water finding the lowest point in a room. You don't notice it happening until your socks are wet and by then it's already everywhere. He'd spent the better part of his forty-eighth year watching things go and watching himself watch them go, and somewhere in the wreckage of all that watching, the math had just started to make a different kind of sense.
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Or, Harvey decides he has no interest in seeing his fiftieth birthday. -
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The wings had been bothering Harvey for months.
He hadn't said anything.
He hadn't said anything because there was a version of this conversation that could go sideways very quickly, a version where Mike looked at him with those blue eyes and understood something Harvey hadn't quite finished understanding himself, and that version wasn't one Harvey Specter intended to live through. So he said nothing. He focused on depositions and billing hours and the very correct, very professional issue of what exactly his associate's disaster of a wingspan was doing to the firm's image.
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Or, Harvey takes care of Mike's wings for entirely professional reasons.Series
- Part 1 of Flight Patterns
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The quiet of the apartment was a heavy, expectant thing, broken only by the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the hall and the occasional creak of the leather sofa as Harvey shifted his weight. He sat in his usual armchair, the one that faced the windows and the city lights beyond, but tonight he wasn't looking at the skyline. His eyes were fixed on Mike, who stood a few feet away, hands clasped loosely behind his back, head bowed slightly. It was a pose that was both familiar and foreign—Mike, who never stayed still, who always fidgeted or paced or talked with his hands, now motionless, waiting.
Harvey let the silence stretch, feeling the weight of it between them. He knew this ritual. They had done it before, on nights when the guilt gnawed at Mike's insides, when the weight of his lies or his perceived failures became too much to carry alone. Harvey was not a priest, had never set foot in a confessional, but he understood absolution. He understood power. And he understood that Mike needed to give it to him, to kneel and offer his devotion in the only language that made sense to them both.
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Or, Harvey and Mike found a way to communicate.Series
- Part 1 of Absolution
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Mike’s gaze drifted toward Harvey again.
Harvey was focused, expression sharp, one hand resting against his jaw while he read. Tie loosened slightly. Sleeves rolled just so.
An absolutely terrible idea occurred to Mike.
The thing about terrible ideas was that Mike usually experienced them the way normal people experienced sneezes. There was a brief moment where prevention might theoretically be possible, followed by immediate inevitability.
So before his brain caught up with him, Mike leaned forward and poked Harvey directly in the cheek.
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Or, Mike finds a new hobby. -
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For a few seconds, he didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe deeply. Just stared at the pale gray light bleeding through the gaps in the curtains and listened to the unfamiliar sound of another person sleeping in his bed.
Mike was warm against him. Entirely, distractingly warm. One of Harvey’s arms was trapped around his waist, Mike’s back pressed to his chest, their legs tangled somewhere under the sheets in a way that would’ve annoyed Harvey under literally any other circumstances. Usually he hated sleeping wrapped around someone. Usually he woke up halfway through the night and peeled himself away before the other person could start thinking this meant something.
Usually he didn’t wake up feeling like his ribcage had been replaced with wet cement.
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Or, Harvey spirals a little after finally spending the night with Mike. -
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The first time Mike broke into Harvey Specter’s apartment, it was for an extremely valid and professionally responsible reason.
Which was exactly what he told himself while kneeling in the hallway outside Harvey’s door at eleven-thirty at night with a bent paperclip in one hand and six hundred pages of merger documents tucked under his arm.
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Or, Mike develops a new bad habit. -
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The drive from the police station to the nearest motel was silent, thick with something neither of them dared name. Hotch’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his jaw set so tight that Reid could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. Spencer had his bag on his lap, fingers drumming absently against the canvas, watching the streetlights slide over Hotch’s face in alternating bands of orange and shadow.
He knew he should say something—should break the tension with a statistic or a quote, something clinical to distance himself from the raw, pulsing need that had started coiling low in his belly the moment Hotch had asked, point-blank, if he was offering. And he had nodded. Like an idiot. Or a genius. He hadn’t quite decided yet.
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Or, Reid offers, provokes, and gets exactly what he asks for. -
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The quiet between Hotch and Rossi wasn’t strained. If anything, it was remarkably ordinary.
Nothing had changed. Why would it?
Hotch didn’t wake up alone in his own bed back in D.C. feeling like something was missing. He didn’t lie there thinking about the steady weight of another person at his back or the grounding rhythm of shared breathing.
Rossi didn’t sit in his kitchen late at night replaying the moment he’d reached out and pulled Aaron closer in that narrow motel bed. He didn’t wonder if it meant something that Aaron had relaxed almost immediately, like muscle memory.
They were fine.
Perfectly fine.
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Or, Hotch and Rossi’s night in Montana had somehow lit a fuse neither of them is willing to acknowledge.Series
- Part 2 of Once, before
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The case had been a nightmare of paperwork and stubborn opposing counsel, dragging on for weeks past its natural expiration date, and he'd finally hammered out a settlement that left everyone just miserable enough to accept it. His shoulders ached, his neck was a knot of tension, and all he wanted was to crawl into bed and wrap himself around the warm, irreverent presence that had somehow become the center of his evenings.
He toed off his shoes in the entryway, loosening his tie with methodical tugs, and padded through the darkened living room on socked feet. The city lights bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in shades of blue and gold, and he expected to find Mike sprawled across the sheets in that boneless way he slept, mouth slightly open, limbs taking up far more than his fair share of the bed.
But as Harvey rounded the corner into the short hallway that led to the bedroom, he noticed a thin strip of light beneath the door, warm and amber.
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Or, Harvey catches Mike having fun, and decides to join in. -
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Hotch woke slowly, the way someone did when their body knew something was off before their mind caught up. The first thing he registered was the sensation: small, insistent pokes landing with unwavering determination against his cheek, his nose, his forehead. Not random. Methodical. Purposeful.
Poke. Poke. Poke.
The second thing was the weight. Not heavy, but definite. A small body sprawled across his chest like it had every right to be there, knees digging in slightly, shifting with each enthusiastic jab.
The third thing came in a relentless, cheerful chant that threaded through the haze of sleep.
"Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy—"
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Or, Hotch gets a rare late morning with Jack. -
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Flour dusted every available surface in a fine, ghostly layer, as if the cabinets themselves had aged ten years in the span of an afternoon. There were three mixing bowls in the sink, two on the counter, and one balanced precariously on top of the toaster like it had simply given up trying to belong anywhere sensible.
Greg stood in the middle of it all, sleeves rolled, tie abandoned somewhere behind him, staring down at a measuring cup as if it had personally betrayed him.
He poured sugar into a bowl. Then paused. Then added more. Then frowned and dumped a little back. Then added a little more again, because you couldn’t be too precise about these things, even if you had no idea what these things actually were anymore.
This was not about sugar.
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Or, after learning happy news, Greg spirals a bit. -
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Harvey woke to a sound that took a few seconds to register.
It wasn’t light. That alone was disorienting. No phone beam boring into his skull, no harsh glow cutting through the dark. The room was dim, the city outside muted and distant, the clock on the nightstand casting a faint red blur he didn’t bother to focus on.
The sound came again. Soft. Wet. Broken.
Sniffling.
Harvey’s body went still in that particular way it did when his brain was already sprinting ahead of him, cataloguing possibilities he didn’t like. Mike didn’t cry quietly. Mike cried with hiccups and sharp breaths and a complete lack of shame. This was restrained. Contained. Like he was trying very hard not to be noticed.
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Or, Mike read a study, Harvey deals with the consequences.Series
- Part 13 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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Spencer had always believed he understood patterns. That was, in fact, the foundation of his entire life. People behaved in predictable ways, even when they thought they didn’t. Love, statistically speaking, followed certain trends too. There were attachment styles, behavioral shifts, measurable changes in language and proximity. He knew all of that.
What he hadn’t accounted for was Aaron laughing into his shoulder over something completely ridiculous Jack had said about dinosaurs wearing hats.
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Or, Spencer discovers how Hotch acts when he's in love. -
Protocols Are Meant To Be... by TrashyPandas (BlueJayFan)
Fandoms: Criminal Minds (US TV)
06 Apr 2026
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"You’re the one who said we should do it first thing," JJ said quietly.
"Yeah, well, I thought that meant, like, eight. Maybe nine. Something with sunlight. Birds chirping. Hope."
JJ huffed out a soft breath that might have been a laugh if she weren’t so tense. "You also said we shouldn’t put it off."
Emily shifted her weight, glancing toward Hotch’s office. The blinds were still closed, the door shut. Untouched. For now.
"That was before I remembered who we were telling," she said. "And what we’re telling him."
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Or, JJ and Emily go to tell Hotch they’re in a relationship… or maybe they aren't? -
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Haley didn’t bother calling out when she got home. The house answered in its usual way anyway, quiet and warm and faintly smelling like detergent, like something safe. Her backpack slipped from her shoulder to the floor by the stairs with a soft thud, but she didn’t stop to pick it up. She didn’t stop for anything.
He hadn’t been at school.
That sat heavy in her chest all day, like something sharp and lodged just under her ribs. It wasn’t new. It wasn’t even surprising. But it never got easier, that empty desk, that too-casual shrug from the teacher when attendance was called, like it didn’t matter, like he was just another kid skipping class.
Haley knew better.
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Or, Haley takes care of Aaron.Series
- Part 1 of Scar(r)ed
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The thing about Harvey Specter was that he didn’t do anything halfway. He didn’t half-win, he didn’t half-argue, and apparently—Mike learned on a Wednesday night after a particularly brutal week of litigation—he didn’t half-sing either.
The bar was packed, buzzing with the kind of reckless energy that only came after lawyers celebrated making an opposing counsel cry in open court. Harvey wasn’t exactly the karaoke type—he was more the sip scotch in a corner while smirking type—but Mike, two and a half beers past reasonable judgment, had decided this was the night.
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Or, Mike dares Harvey to sing karaoke, learns that he can actually sing, and it spirals from there. -
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The fern appeared on Mike’s desk on a Tuesday morning, small enough to be mistaken for a forgotten prop, its fronds a tentative green that seemed unsure whether it belonged in the harsh fluorescent light of the bullpen. No one paid it much attention at first. Associates brought in plants sometimes, hopeful gestures that wilted as predictably as their sleep schedules.
Mike set it down with a kind of quiet ceremony, adjusting the cheap plastic pot until it sat just right beside his keyboard. He stared at it for a moment longer than necessary, like he was waiting for it to do something. Then he nodded once, satisfied, and got back to work.
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Or, Mike buys a plant after Grammy's death and it goes only downhill from there. -
A (Co-Authored) Guide: How To Survive Planning A Wedding For A Houseplant And A Puppy by Donna Paulsen and Rachel Zane by TrashyPandas (BlueJayFan)
Fandoms: Suits (US TV 2011)
25 Mar 2026
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Okay. So here’s the thing about Mike Ross and Harvey Specter getting married.
It was never a question of if.
If you’ve spent even five consecutive minutes in a room with them—and I have spent several years, which frankly deserves a medal—you understand that those two idiots have been orbiting that outcome like stubborn satellites for a very long time. Mike fell first, obviously. Harvey spent a respectable amount of time pretending he hadn’t noticed before emotionally tripping over his own feelings like a very expensive brick wall.
Eventually they got there.
The problem was never the love.
The problem was logistics.
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Or, exactly what it says on the tin—a (co-authored) guide that will help your friends actually get married, courtesy of Donna Paulsen & Rachel Zane.Series
- Part 3 of Guides To Plants & Puppies