Work Text:
Mike hadn’t exactly planned on ending his night like this.
It had been a long day, the kind that didn’t leave you with a sense of accomplishment, just a buzzing, residual headache from pretending to care about junior associates whining over filing protocols. Harvey had barked something about "standards, Rookie," while casually fixing his cufflinks like a goddamn Bond villain, and Mike had nodded like a good little protégé, feeling that familiar pinch of something like awe—or maybe longing—tighten in his chest.
So now he was here. Alone. Loosely drunk on cheap scotch from the bodega down the block, slouched on his too-small couch with his laptop perched on his thighs, a pizza crust balanced precariously on an old LSAT textbook. The internet was an abyss and Mike had surrendered willingly, clicking his way from basketball highlights to a thirty-minute video essay on the evolution of Batman's voice. And then, predictably, to porn.
He didn’t even think about it. That itchy, restless kind of arousal that came when he was tipsy and stuck in his own head too long—it had to go somewhere. He typed in some generic site, clicked on the first link with a thumbnail that didn't look like it was filmed in a gas station bathroom, and leaned back.
Then froze.
At first it was just the jawline that made his stomach jolt. Then the voice—rougher, higher-pitched, younger—but unmistakably his. And when the camera panned down, bare chest rising and falling with breathy gasps, lit by harsh, clinical lighting, Mike nearly dropped his laptop.
Harvey.
Except not Harvey-now. Harvey-younger. Way younger. Couldn’t be more than twenty-three, lean and rawboned, his hair a bit longer and wilder, his face flushed in that overexposed, amateur sort of way. There was a tattoo on his left hip Mike had never seen, probably long since removed. His legs were splayed open on a bare mattress, knees drawn up, vulnerability and want twisted together in every line of his body.
Mike’s mouth went dry. The guy with him—a dude maybe in his thirties, stocky, hands gripping Harvey’s thighs—was going down on him like he hadn’t eaten in days. Harvey’s head tossed back. He moaned, high and sweet and fucked-out, hips rocking desperately.
Mike didn’t mean to watch it. Not really. But his hand hovered over the trackpad, frozen, unable to click away.
Harvey was into it. Into himself, his pleasure, into being taken apart. Mike couldn’t stop staring at the way he bit his own wrist to keep from screaming, or how he begged when the guy pulled back, only to shove fingers inside him and start all over again.
The shame didn't come until later. Not until the video was over, and he realized what he'd done, and his stomach twisted like he’d swallowed glass. He stared at the dark screen, hand limp in his lap, breath still shallow, and said aloud, "Oh my God."
He slammed the laptop shut like that might help, like the darkness could erase the memory already burning itself into his brain.
He’d jerked off to Harvey.
Not just Harvey. Harvey-in-a-porn Harvey. Harvey getting railed, no, begging to be railed, with that wild look in his eyes that Mike had never even dreamed of seeing. And yeah, maybe he had a bit of a crush before—okay, more than a bit—but that was private. That was manageable. It was part of the hazy background radiation of his life: Harvey’s smirks, his cologne, the way he moved through the office like he owned it and made Mike feel like he might one day own it too, if he just followed close enough.
This was something else. This was nuclear.
Mike pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and groaned. "Fucking idiot. You absolute fucking idiot."
He could never look Harvey in the eye again. He was sure of it. The image was burned into his retinas, permanent, like he’d been branded. Harvey with his legs spread, Harvey writhing, Harvey moaning someone else’s name.
And he was trans? Since when? Mike’s brain was still glitching on that part, like it couldn’t get the code to compile. It made sense, in a weird, internal way. Explained little things he never questioned—Harvey’s calculated privacy, his casual deflections, the unflinching way he handled his own narrative like it was just another negotiation.
But Jesus. Jesus.
He’d just watched the most private, exposed, intimate version of the man he spent every day trying not to accidentally flirt with in the elevator. And he’d gotten off to it. Not a little. Not as an accident. He’d leaned into it, chased it.
He scrubbed a hand down his face and let his head fall back against the couch. The ceiling stared down at him, unmoved.
What the hell was he going to do?
"Just don’t be weird," he muttered, already knowing that was impossible. "Just walk in and be normal. Say good morning, file the briefs, pretend you didn’t masturbate to your boss getting railed by some random dude from the early 2000s."
Yeah. That’d go great.
He stood up too fast and nearly tripped over his own feet, pacing in a tight, miserable circle around the living room. There was no one to talk to about this. Not Rachel—especially not Rachel. Not Donna, god, she’d read it on his face in five seconds. And if Louis found out? He’d probably subpoena Mike’s browser history and hold it over him for the next decade.
Mike ended up standing in front of his bathroom mirror, staring at his own reflection like maybe it could slap some sense into him. His hair was a mess, his shirt rumpled and stained with pizza grease, his eyes wide and panicked.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, like it was a curse. "Tomorrow I have to sit in his office and act like nothing happened."
Harvey was going to say something cool. Something sharp. Something perfectly timed and probably basketball-related. And Mike would blink at him like a deer in headlights, like someone who had seen behind the curtain and couldn’t unsee it.
He thought of Harvey’s face in the video again—his mouth open, his eyes fluttering, the edge of something wild and desperate in his voice. Not like the man who stood in corner offices and made million-dollar decisions before lunch. No, this version was stripped bare, needy, soft.
Jesus Christ.
He needed more alcohol. Or a lobotomy. Maybe both.
Mike turned off the bathroom light and went back to the couch, already dreading the sound of Harvey’s voice in the morning. Because he knew, deep in his bones, that no matter how hard he tried—
He’d never hear it the same way again.
Mike lasted until exactly 11:32 A.M.
Up until then, he did a decent job of pretending to be a functioning adult. He ducked into offices he didn’t need to be in. Took the stairs instead of the elevator in case he might accidentally breathe the same air as Harvey. Hid in the file room long enough that Louis shot him a look and said, "Unless those folders owe you money, Ross, get out of my damn way."
But 11:32 was when Harvey stepped out of his office, tie already loosened, flipping through a contract, and said casually, "Rookie, I need you on the memo for—what the hell, where is he?"
Mike had bolted. Not overtly. Just enough of a sidestep and sharp turn to make it look like he had somewhere to be. Somewhere urgent. Like a court date. Or maybe a heart transplant.
He spent the rest of the day fielding suspicious glares from Donna and kicking himself. Because it wasn’t just that he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to. It was how he’d seen it. How it had carved itself into the back of his brain with heat and color and sound.
Those sounds.
Every time Harvey opened his mouth, even just a dry quip about someone’s tie or a smug "You missed a comma," Mike’s skin lit up like a shame-sparked fuse. Because he remembered. Not hypothetically. Not from his imagination. No, he remembered with precision.
He remembered the way Harvey had gasped into his wrist. The way his hips had jerked when that guy—no, not going to remember him—had hit just the right spot. And worst of all, the way Harvey’s voice had broken open, sweet and high, like he wasn’t just getting off but unraveling.
Mike managed to stumble through the day without anyone calling him on his weirdness, which was a minor miracle. But when he finally made it home, collapsed on the couch, and stared at his laptop... the temptation started to itch under his skin again.
He told himself not to.
He opened it anyway.
The site was still in his history. Like a traitor. He clicked.
There it was. The page. The thumbnails. Too many of them.
He hadn’t expected there to be so many. Different angles, different partners, different dynamics. Harvey had apparently been prolific. And comfortable. And really, really into it.
Mike scrolled past thumbnails like they might bite him. There was one where Harvey was tied to a chair, blindfolded, his mouth open and flushed. Another where he was laughing into the camera before things started. One with two people involved—nope.
Then he saw the runtime.
Two hours. Same room. Same bed. Same Harvey. He was blindfolded, lying half on his side, one hand bound to the headboard, the other free. His thigh was strapped with something small and blinking. The title was vague: "Play Until He Breaks #4".
Mike blinked. Sat back. Rubbed his hands down his face.
This was a bad idea.
He clicked it anyway.
The opening was soft. No music. No staging. Just Harvey, already spread out and trembling, the low hum of a toy audible beneath his soft breathing. The camera zoomed slowly, showing the vibrator pressed right against him, the tight buckles holding it in place, the slick shine of arousal already gathering there.
Mike swallowed. Hard.
He jumped ahead on the timeline, random ten-second skips. The lighting didn’t change, but Harvey did.
At twenty-three minutes, he was panting. Mumbling. Writhing slightly, but not enough to shake the toy.
At forty-six, he came again, whole body jolting, and let out a shuddery, high moan that sounded suspiciously like a sob.
At an hour and thirty, his legs were shaking and the bed was soaked. He was still bound, the toy still on, and his voice was nearly gone, rasping out little "please"s between gasps and moans.
Mike sat there, hypnotized and horrified and—yeah, fine, hard. Again. His pants felt tight, his skin hot, but he didn’t even touch himself this time. Just watched, frowning, heart beating in some twisted mix of arousal and confusion.
Because what really got him wasn’t the moans or the orgasms or the glistening mess of Harvey’s thighs. It was the ending.
At the two-hour mark, the camera angle shifted. A man stepped in—not the same one from the last video. Older maybe, calm. He turned off the vibrator and reached for Harvey with practiced gentleness. Wiped him down with a soft towel. Whispered something too quiet for the mic. And Harvey...
Harvey melted.
He curled toward the touch like a cat. Let himself be kissed on the forehead, slow and sweet. Nuzzled into the man’s shoulder and mumbled something that sounded like "thank you" with a breathless little sigh, and God—
God, that’s what did it.
Not the fucking. Not the moaning. Not the endless parade of orgasms.
It was the after. The tenderness. The way Harvey—so tough and composed and unshakable in real life—had clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him afloat.
Mike sat there long after the video ended, the screen faded to black.
His thoughts were racing, a looping, broken pattern.
So that’s what Harvey liked. That’s what he needed.
Praise. Care. Affection.
Being told he was good.
Mike dragged a hand through his hair. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, hoarse.
He should close the laptop. Clear his browser. Throw it out the window. Maybe move to a different city. A different continent.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he sat there, still hard, still aching, mind replaying the image of Harvey curling up into someone’s arms, soft and pliant and safe.
And for the first time, Mike didn’t just feel horny or ashamed. He felt curious.
About what Harvey liked. What made him tick. What else there was under all those perfect suits and killer smirks.
About what it might be like if it were his hands taking the toy off. His lips murmuring how good Harvey was. His arms pulling him close.
He groaned and flopped back onto the couch, dragging a pillow over his face.
"I have got to get off the internet."
He wasn’t supposed to click anything.
That was the plan. He told himself—swore to himself—that after last night’s accidental emotional striptease in front of his laptop screen, he was done. No more deep dives into the vintage, grainy porn archives starring his incredibly hot, incredibly off-limits boss.
But morning came. Then lunch. And somewhere between pretending to read a brief on SEC compliance and trying not to think about the way Harvey had looked, Mike cracked.
Completely.
Shame was a low hum in the background now. A companion. A roommate. He opened the site like someone might check the weather. Clicked through the older uploads with a dead-eyed kind of curiosity and a sick throb in his stomach.
The video was titled "Two For One". It was thirty-five minutes long, low-res, and from the same room, same setup. Bare mattress. Rough walls. Harvey on his back, legs wide and shaking, his hair damp with sweat.
There were two men this time. One behind him, thrusting slow and deep, and the other in front, mouth pressed to Harvey’s throat as he whispered something too quiet to catch. Harvey looked wrecked. Fully, gloriously wrecked. One hand was clenched around the sheets, the other gripping the wrist of the man in front of him like he needed something to hold onto or he’d float away.
And the sounds. God, the fucking sounds. Little bitten-off cries. Moans edged with laughter. Harsh gasps every time they asked—
"Is this good?"
"You want more?"
"You can take it, right?"
And Harvey nodded. Every time. Desperate for it. Hungry. Blissed out in a way Mike had never seen him, not in the office, not even in that endless string of videos before. Like he thrived on it. On being asked, on being taken care of by being used, on being made to feel—what? Useful? Special?
Mike had to pause it halfway through. Not because he couldn’t take it. But because he could, and that scared the hell out of him.
He slammed the laptop shut and stared at the wall.
What the hell was he doing?
What the actual hell?
This wasn’t just crossing a line. He’d passed the line five videos ago and was now somewhere off the moral grid entirely, wandering in circles with a tent pitched in Creepy Fantasyland. And yet, he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to be one of those guys. To see Harvey come apart like that. To be trusted that much.
It wasn’t even about the sex anymore. Well. Not only about the sex.
And then—because his self-destructive streak apparently had a thirst for novelty—he noticed the tiny gray hyperlink under the video player.
It read: "Interested in booking a session? Click here."
Mike stared at it. That was all he did. For maybe three whole minutes, he just looked at it, like it might blink or disappear or call the police.
Then he clicked.
The page that loaded was ancient. HTML straight out of 2003. Broken fonts, no styling, just black text on white background. A warning message, a field for a screen name, a list of checkboxes. The whole thing felt so dusty he half-expected Netscape Navigator to launch itself in the background.
There were options. Roles. Preferences. Times. Tags.
Mike scrolled. Scrolled again.
And then, just for shits and giggles—which was how every one of his worst decisions began—he filled it out.
Screen name: justhere4research
Date: Next Friday
Partner: Submissive
Kinks: Blindfolded, praise, overstimulation
Comments: First time. Curious.
He didn’t even use his real email. Just a burner address from college he still used when signing up for mailing lists and fantasy football.
Then he clicked Submit, laughed out loud in disbelief, and shut the browser with the satisfaction of a man who had done something profoundly stupid and now got to forget it existed forever.
Except.
In the morning, there it was.
Session confirmed.
Mike stared at the notification on his phone with the kind of horror usually reserved for medical results or your mom finding your browser history.
He read it again. Then again. Then out loud.
"Session confirmed for June 7th, 9PM. Location and partner details will be sent morning-of. Cancellation fees apply. ID check at the door."
He had to sit down. On the toilet lid, because that was the closest thing available.
What the hell was this? A joke? Some messed-up remnant of the site’s backend confirming old links like a ghost from the past? There was no way Harvey Specter, managing partner of Pearson Hardman, was still taking appointments from a porn site that looked like it was coded during the Bush administration.
Right?
Right?
Mike closed his eyes and remembered the end of the last video. The way Harvey had arched when they told him he was doing so well. The sweet, almost needy way he’d murmured thank you when they held him after. The contentment written across every line of his body, every flicker of his face.
The soft.
The safe.
Harvey, in the office, was cutting and perfect and powerful. Harvey, in those videos, was honest. Raw. Open. He looked like someone who loved being wanted. Like someone who needed something he couldn’t get any other way.
And now Mike was... what? Signed up? Slotted into the schedule like some pervert with a coupon?
He flopped back on his bed and groaned. "This is so, so bad."
But the worst part—the absolute worst part—was the sliver of curiosity slicing through all the panic.
Because what if it was real?
What if Harvey had kept this secret life tucked away all this time?
And what if—just maybe—Mike wanted to know more? Wanted to be someone Harvey could let go with. Someone he could trust.
He stared at the message on his phone one more time.
Session confirmed.
Great.
Just fucking great.
Mike had never been more aware of his heartbeat. Not during the bar exam. Not during his first court appearance. Not even the time Harvey casually tossed him a million-dollar file and said, "Try not to embarrass me."
The week had been hell.
A week of cold sweats, terrible Google searches like is accidentally paying for sex with your boss a fireable offense, and long nights lying awake in bed staring at the ceiling, whispering to himself, "You’re not going. You are not going."
And now he was here.
In a building that looked more like a boutique hotel than a sex club, tucked away on some anonymous street in SoHo. Discreet signage. Discreet lighting. Discreet everything. The receptionist wore a matte black mask and spoke in a voice so pleasant and neutral it could've belonged to an AI.
"Name?" they asked, clipboard in hand.
Mike cleared his throat. "Uh… justhere4research?"
Not his proudest moment.
The receptionist didn’t flinch. "Right. One moment." Their fingers danced over a tablet. "We’ll need to check your ID. Standard background check. Nothing is saved, it’s just for the actors’ safety."
Mike handed it over with trembling fingers. The receptionist scanned it, nodded once, and handed it back. "You’re good. Now, before we begin…"
There were forms. Of course there were forms. Digital signatures, a quick rundown of the club’s policies—consent, confidentiality, hygiene, the emergency protocol. A polite explanation of the red/yellow/green system, and Harvey’s specific safeword, which Mike tried very hard not to overthink. Really? That’s what he picked? Classic.
There was something… weirdly reassuring about the structure. The professionalism. This wasn’t some creepy basement or sketchy Craigslist ad. This was clean. Regulated. Safe. Every part of it designed to protect the people involved.
Which only made the gnawing pit of dread in Mike’s stomach feel sharper.
Because he was still doing this. Still walking into a room to meet a blindfolded, naked man who happened to be the only person in the world Mike respected and wanted to climb like a tree.
A staff member—tall, polite, also masked—gestured toward a hallway. "Room eight. Your session’s been prepped. You have one hour. You can leave at any time. Remember the safewords. And, most importantly, have fun."
Have fun, Mike thought, stepping through the door like it might explode under his feet. Yeah, okay, sure, fun. That’s what this is.
Room Eight wasn’t what he expected. No harsh lights. No video camera setup. It was warm, softly lit, like a very expensive spa suite—minus the massage oils and plus a very full, very intimidating basket of condoms and lube on the nightstand.
His eyes tracked across the space—plush carpet, dark wood accents, padded walls for soundproofing—and landed on the bed.
Harvey was already there.
Spread out on his back like he owned the damn place. Because of course he did.
Naked. Blindfolded. One arm loosely cuffed to the headboard, the other left free, just like the videos. His chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. He wasn’t stiff or nervous—he looked comfortable. Like this was just another Friday night. Like he was waiting.
And somehow—somehow—he looked smug.
Even blindfolded. Even bare.
Mike stopped just inside the doorway, frozen.
What the fuck was he doing?
Every part of his brain screamed to run. That this was insane. That he’d never survive being this close to Harvey like this. That he should walk out before he said something, did something, breathed wrong and gave himself away.
But his feet didn’t move.
Harvey shifted slightly on the bed, head turning toward the sound of the door. "Mmm," he hummed. Lazy. Teasing. "You’re quiet."
Mike clenched his jaw. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. If he opened his mouth, Harvey would know. Instantly. He’d hear something, feel something. Mike wasn’t confident Harvey didn’t have some sixth sense for bullshit and guilt—especially when it was wrapped around Mike Ross’s vocal cords.
So he stayed silent.
Harvey didn’t seem to mind. He smiled—smiled—like this was already going exactly how he wanted. His legs shifted, spreading just a little wider. Like an invitation.
"Don’t worry," Harvey said, soft, smug as hell. "You can look all you want. That’s part of the fun, right?"
Mike’s hands twitched at his sides.
He had looked. He’d spent the last week watching Harvey—watching his face fall apart, his thighs shake, his voice break on pleasure—and he still wasn’t ready for the real thing. For the raw presence of him. The way he took up space. Even like this—especially like this—Harvey commanded the room.
And he was trusting Mike with that.
Even if he didn’t know it.
Mike took a slow step forward. Then another. His pulse thundered. His mouth was dry. His jeans felt too tight. The lighting cast soft shadows across Harvey’s stomach, his hips, the lines of his thighs.
Harvey tilted his head again. "Not the talkative type, huh?" he said, still easy. Playful.
Mike nearly answered. Nearly said, Only when I’m not trying to hide that I jerked off to you six times this week and also you’re my boss and also what the fuck is my life.
Instead, he reached for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. More to give his hands something to do than anything else. Because this was real. This was happening.
And he had no idea what the hell he was going to do with that.
Ten minutes.
Ten whole minutes of silence, stillness, and Mike trying to regulate his breathing like he wasn’t slowly combusting from the inside out.
Harvey hadn’t said another word. He just lay there, cuffed, blindfolded, his body a living contradiction—completely relaxed but brimming with this undercurrent of tension, like he was waiting to be touched and knew it was coming. Like it wasn’t a matter of if, just when.
Mike paced twice. Sat on the edge of the bed once, then bolted upright like he’d sat on a live wire. His palms were sweating. His brain kept looping the same question: What the fuck am I doing?
He wasn’t here to do anything, really. He just wanted to see if it was real. To see. But now Harvey was here, right there, and he smelled like clean skin and maybe vanilla-scented soap, and Mike was unraveling.
Eventually, Harvey tilted his head again and let out a soft, amused sigh. "Did you fall asleep or something?"
That broke him.
Mike didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Instead, he moved.
He leaned in slowly, giving himself a second to back out. He didn’t. He kissed Harvey’s jaw—light, careful. Not the mouth. Not that intimate. That would cross a line he couldn't uncross.
Harvey shifted. Just a fraction. But Mike felt it.
He kissed lower. Down the side of Harvey’s throat. Over his collarbone. Down the center of his chest. Slow, deliberate, like maybe if he kissed enough skin, he could make sense of any of this.
And Harvey—Harvey just breathed. Not gasps, not groans. Not yet. But his breathing deepened, softened. Like he was sinking into it. Into Mike.
It wasn’t until Mike's mouth trailed down Harvey’s stomach and he knelt between his legs that he realized he had made a decision without thinking. That was dangerous.
But then he looked up—looked at Harvey’s hands clenching the sheets, the pink flush painting his chest, the way his hips lifted just slightly, seeking—and Mike couldn’t make himself stop.
He kissed the inside of Harvey’s thigh. Then the other. Then he went down on him.
It wasn’t about getting off. It wasn’t even about turning Harvey into the noises Mike remembered from those videos—though, god, that did happen. No, it was about making it good for him. About watching his body react, watching his mouth part in shock, his free hand flying to his hair and staying there like it was the only solid thing in the world.
The first time Harvey came, it was with a gasping, open-mouthed sound that made Mike's stomach twist in a dangerous way. The kind of sound you didn’t fake. The kind of sound someone trusted you with.
Mike didn’t stop.
Not when Harvey begged with breathy whimpers. Not when he arched up into it again, thighs trembling. Not when he came a second time with a sob and his head thrown back, chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon.
Mike used his fingers next. Lube slicked, careful. Two at first. Then three. Curling them just so, watching how Harvey broke for it, how he gasped for it, how he came again so hard he pulled at the cuff and cried out something raw that might’ve been a name—thankfully not his.
There were several minutes left.
Mike leaned back, shaking. He was hard as hell, throbbing, aching, but when he looked at Harvey—blindfolded, wrecked, flushed, the sheets wet beneath him—fucking him felt wrong. Like it would mean too much. Like it would break whatever fragile, fucked-up pocket of time they were existing in.
So instead, he reached for one of the toys. Picked a slim, curved plug that looked similar to what had wrecked Harvey in the overstimulation video. Slicked it up. Pressed the base to Harvey’s entrance, slow and steady, watched his lips part again and his back arch off the mattress.
Mike moved it carefully. Listened to the sounds Harvey made—desperate little gasps, pleas, moans that hit Mike’s nerves like a drug. And when Harvey choked out a high, "Please, more," like he needed it, Mike gave it to him.
Watched.
Felt.
And it was—God. It was beautiful. Intimate. Devastating.
Harvey fell apart around the toy a fourth time, body jerking, voice raw. And when it was done, he collapsed back against the sheets, chest heaving, sweat-slicked and glowing. He looked… happy. Loose. Like someone who’d just been given exactly what they needed.
Mike cleaned him up slowly. Gently. The way he’d seen in the videos. A warm towel from the nightstand. A bottle of water pressed lightly to Harvey’s lips. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch Harvey’s face. Didn’t press a kiss to his temple like he wanted to.
Because if he did, Harvey would know.
He left the room twenty minutes later, walking like a man in a trance. His legs felt like they didn’t belong to him. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
Outside, the air was cold. Brutal. Sharp in a way he hadn’t expected.
He stood on the sidewalk for a long time, letting it sting his skin, trying to breathe. Trying to forget. But every breath tasted like Harvey. Every flash of memory was skin and slick and the heat of someone letting go beneath his hands.
He wanted to book again.
So badly it hurt.
But instead, he went home. Stripped off his clothes like they might be contaminated. Stood under an ice-cold shower until his jaw clenched and his fingertips went numb.
Then he lay in bed. Staring at the ceiling. Blank sheets. Bare skin. Everything feeling wrong.
His mouth was dry. His chest was tight.
I know how he tastes, he thought, one hand pressed to his forehead like it might keep the thought from leaking out.
I know how he shakes when he’s close. I know the noise he makes when he breaks. I know what makes him feel safe. How the fuck is that my life now?
No answers came.
Just the echo of Harvey’s voice.
And the realization that nothing was going to be the same again.
The week after the session was, hands down, the worst of Mike’s adult life.
He’d survived drug dealers, law school scams, Louis Litt’s morning breath, and that one time he’d accidentally deleted six hours of due diligence. But this—this—was a special kind of hell.
He couldn’t focus. Not at all. Not even a little. He tried. He really did. Printed out briefs, annotated documents, stared blankly at spreadsheets while pretending to care about some merger Harvey had casually tossed onto his desk Monday morning.
But every time he saw Harvey? Every time he heard Harvey?
Game over.
His brain lit up like a Christmas tree with all the wrong images: Harvey gasping around Mike’s fingers, the taste of him slick and clean on his tongue, the way he arched under that toy like he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to use it just right. The trembling in his thighs. The whispered pleas. That blindfolded, smug smile. And after—God, after—the softness of his breath as he melted into the mattress like he’d never felt safer.
Mike found himself avoiding him, again. Not as dramatically as before. He couldn’t afford to run this time, not after Harvey already looked at him with those suspicious eyes like he knew Mike was holding onto something too sharp. But still—he took the long way around the office. Ducking into Donna’s desk orbit like she might be a safe zone.
It didn’t help. Nothing helped.
Because how was he supposed to function like normal when he knew? When he had felt Harvey break apart around him? And the worst part—the actual worst—was that he wanted to do it again.
Desperately.
It was toxic. Dangerous. Probably the beginning of some terminal spiral where he lost his job, his mind, and any remaining shreds of moral decency. But that didn’t stop him from opening his phone in the bathroom stall on Wednesday, just to look at the confirmation email.
Just to see it.
Just to remember that it really happened.
And then, as if the universe hadn’t already kicked him in the balls hard enough, he got that message.
The subject line was innocuous. Boring, even.
Thanks for visiting — we’d love to hear from you again.
He was two seconds away from deleting it when he noticed the little note underneath. A new feature.
Now available: Direct Chat with Your Past Partners. Anonymous, secure, for your comfort. Curious? Click here.
Mike stared at the screen. Blinked.
His finger hovered. Then tapped.
It was a clean interface. Bare. Clinical. A simple login. A short disclaimer. And then:
You’ve been matched with: Mercury
Last session: 1 week ago. Option for anonymous message thread now active.
Mercury.
Of course Harvey used a name like that. Vaguely mysterious, sharp, just enough ego to sound like a Greek god without being obvious.
Mike stared at the blinking cursor in the message field for a full five minutes.
This was a terrible idea. Possibly the worst of them all.
He typed anyway.
Client7:
hey. didn’t expect this to work. hope it’s not weird
He hovered again. Hovered like a coward.
Then hit send.
The message sat there. One tick. No reply.
He shoved his phone into his pocket and cursed into his hands.
It was hours later. Half-past midnight. Mike was sitting on the floor in his apartment, eating peanut butter from the jar and pretending he hadn’t just checked the chat for the fifth time when his phone buzzed.
Mercury:
It’s not weird.
Unless you want it to be weird?
Mike snorted. Out loud. It was so Harvey, even behind the mask. Dry. Smug. Sharp enough to slice through glass.
He typed back quickly.
Client7:
Definitely not trying to make it weird. Just… didn’t think this would be a thing.
Also: heyMercury:
Hey.
So what made you click? Curiosity or the fact you’re still jerking off to the memory of last Friday?
Mike choked on his own breath. Sat there, stunned, one hand halfway to his mouth.
Client7:
wow. okay. coming in hotMercury:
Tell me I’m wrong.
Mike swallowed. Licked peanut butter off his thumb and stared at the screen for a long time. He didn’t want to admit it. But he didn’t want to lie either.
Client7:
...you’re notMercury:
Figured.
You were good.
Really good.
Most first-timers try too hard. You didn’t. You even actually listened.
Mike’s chest did something tight and stupid. Heat curled somewhere under his ribs.
Client7:
yeah well. hard not to listen when someone sounds like thatMercury:
Flatterer.
Keep going.
He could practically hear Harvey’s voice now. That amused lilt. The knowing smirk. God, this wasn’t helping.
Client7:
i didn’t expect you to be that... open that soft. you were like.
i don’t know.
you made it feel real
A long pause.
He regretted it the second he hit send. Too much. Too honest.
But the reply came anyway.
Mercury:
That’s the point, right?
It’s not fake for me.
When I’m like that… it’s not a performance.
I need that.
Like breathing.
Mike stared at those words until his eyes burned.
He typed:
Client7:
that night fucked me up. i haven’t stopped thinking about you. about it
Another pause.
Then:
Mercury:
Book another one.
If you want.
If you’re serious.
Mike’s breath caught.
He knew he shouldn’t.
He knew this wasn’t sustainable.
He knew it could all crash down around him.
But his fingers were already moving.
Client7:
next friday. same timeMercury:
Looking forward to it.
and hey—
Next time, don’t wait ten minutes to touch me. I was bored as hell.
Mike laughed. It bubbled out of him unexpectedly, half-crazy, half-shocked, the edge of his shame dulled by how easy this felt. By how natural it was.
He was in deep.
Too deep.
But for now…he let it happen.
Mike showed up again. Of course he did.
Same building. Same cool, sterile lighting in the lobby. Same masked receptionist who gave him a polite nod, scanned his ID, and gestured to the digital waiver as if Mike wasn’t signing away his composure and, possibly, his entire grip on reality. Again.
He knew the drill now. Knew the safewords. The red-yellow-green spectrum. Knew that "Mercury" was already in the room, already waiting.
And, most disturbingly, knew that it wasn’t a fluke last time—because the burn in his chest had not gone away. He’d stared at his phone too many nights this week, watching that stupid anonymous chat box like it might offer him something that wasn’t just dirty and dangerous but true.
He kept thinking: This will pass.
But it wasn’t passing. It was sinking into his bones.
The staffer led him down the familiar hall, gestured to Room Eight, and gave him the same line as before: "One hour, safewords in effect, exit whenever you like. Have fun."
Mike didn’t laugh this time. He wasn’t nervous. He was… ready.
The room looked the same as last time—dim, warm, and deceptively tranquil, like it wasn’t a place where his sanity came to get diced up like sushi. The bed was made up in soft grays and navy blues, pillows fluffed like this was the world’s most fucked-up luxury suite.
And there he was.
Harvey.
Blindfolded. Not tied, not restrained—just sprawled on his back with one knee bent, one hand resting across his stomach like he had all the time in the world. His mouth was curved into a knowing little half-smile.
Mike closed the door and didn’t waste a second.
His fingers were on Harvey immediately, brushing over his arm, his ribs, his thigh. Slow. Light. The way he’d wanted to touch him from the first moment last time but hadn’t let himself. He didn’t speak—still afraid his voice might shatter the spell—but his hands said plenty. Reverent. Curious. Needy, maybe.
Harvey shifted into the touch almost unconsciously, a soft sigh escaping his lips.
Mike let his fingertips drag down over Harvey’s stomach, teasing the trail of hair that led down to where he was already slick. God, so slick. He didn’t know how Harvey could be this wet already, untouched, but he could feel it under his fingers, the heat of him, the want practically radiating from his skin.
He made a soft noise, and Harvey huffed a laugh.
"See? Much better," Harvey murmured. "I was about to die of boredom last time."
Mike didn’t answer. He leaned in, kissed Harvey’s stomach, then lower. He kissed the inside of his thigh again, slower this time, no hesitation, breathing him in like he needed it more than air.
And then he went down on him. No teasing. No warm-up. Just his mouth, his tongue, the focused determination of someone who had thought about doing this every goddamn night since that Friday.
Harvey arched, let out a stuttering breath, and muttered something that sounded dangerously like fuck, you’re back.
Mike didn’t know if Harvey remembered him between sessions or if it was just his body recognizing what it liked, but either way, it didn’t matter.
All that mattered was the way Harvey moaned.
And God, he moaned. High, breathy, raw. So much need. Mike felt his whole body respond to it, his cock hard and aching against his jeans as he licked and sucked and pushed two fingers in—then three—watching Harvey fall apart.
He made him come once, then again, fast and messy, Harvey’s thighs shaking, his hand clenched in the sheets.
And then—stupidly, inevitably—Mike reached down and started jerking himself off. He wasn’t planning to. He wasn’t even thinking, really. Just reacting. Needing something, anything, to take the edge off because the sound of Harvey’s voice while he came was threatening to pull Mike’s sanity out of his skin.
And that’s when Harvey’s hand reached out blindly and found him.
Mike froze.
Harvey’s palm landed on his thigh, then slid up, warm and steady. When his fingers wrapped around Mike’s cock, Mike made a noise that wasn’t exactly dignified. Not that dignity had any real place here.
"Fuck," Mike muttered, the word punched out of him.
Harvey’s grip was sure, practiced. He didn’t even need to see—his hand just worked him slowly, firmly, like he already knew what Mike liked. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
Mike bucked into it without meaning to, his own fingers clenching around Harvey’s hip, nails digging in as he tried—failed—to stay quiet.
He came into Harvey’s hand, breath ragged, dizzy with it, the edges of the world fuzzy and loose.
And then they just… breathed.
For a long minute, the only sound in the room was the rustle of sheets, the quiet, uneven rise and fall of their chests.
Mike eventually peeled himself off the mattress, hands still shaking a little, and reached for the water bottle. He helped Harvey drink. Wiped him down with a warm towel like before, still gentle, still quiet. Harvey looked relaxed, blissed-out, lips parted, hair a mess against the pillow.
Mike didn’t kiss him. He wanted to. But that felt like something else. Something he couldn’t let himself do yet.
So instead, he got dressed. Left the room without saying a word. Just one last glance.
Out in the cold, his brain finally caught up to him.
He’d let Harvey touch him. Let him jerk him off. After eating him out again. After watching him come again and again, soft and messy and trusting.
And it wasn’t stopping. That much was clear.
He got home. Showered in silence. Didn’t bother with the ice this time. What was the point? He wasn’t cooling off. Not anymore.
Then he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling again, jaw tight, heart thudding like it didn’t know whether to be thrilled or terrified.
He knew how Harvey tasted.
And now he knew how his hand felt.
Mike Ross, you are so fucking screwed.
Mike really should have known better than to open the chat app at work.
But it was Tuesday, he was deep in a pit of contract review so dry it made desert sand seem like an oasis, and Harvey had been a walking, talking reminder of everything Mike shouldn’t want but couldn’t stop wanting all morning.
Harvey had sauntered into the bullpen three times already, smirking like sin and chaos in a $12,000 suit, and every time Mike looked up, his brain just supplied the wrongest possible memories. Harvey’s knees shaking. His fingers curling into Mike’s hair. His voice—wrecked and gasping—saying, "Please."
So yeah, maybe Mike needed a little distraction.
He pulled out his phone like a man about to commit a crime, thumb hovering over the chat app icon like it was a detonator.
Then, finally, he tapped in.
Client7:
so… not even pretending this stops, huh?
A few seconds passed. Then:
Mercury:
That wasn’t even a question.
Mike grinned in spite of himself.
Client7:
okay, smartass. next time. what do you want?
The dots appeared, stopped, then reappeared. Like Harvey—Mercury—was actually thinking. Or trying to be careful. Which Mike didn’t believe for a second.
Mercury:
I want to blow you.
Mike’s mouth went dry instantly. He reread it three times. Then he blinked and nearly choked on his own spit.
Client7:
excuse me??Mercury:
You heard me.Client7:
i read you. while sitting in my open-plan office. surrounded by people. i think I just aspirated a piece of my dignityMercury:
Your fault for opening the app mid-workday. I’m just a humble service provider.Client7:
humble my assMercury:
You seemed pretty fond of my ass, actually.
Anyway. Fair’s fair. You’re good with your mouth. Let me return the favor. I want to feel you lose it.
Mike dropped his phone into his lap and covered his face with both hands.
Jesus Christ. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t.
He glanced around the bullpen like he was being watched, but Rachel was deep in a phone call, Louis was yelling about font sizes in his office, and Harvey—blessedly—was not in sight.
He snatched the phone back up.
Client7:
you trying to put me in an early grave??Mercury:
Only if I can blow you at the funeral.
Mike swore under his breath.
And then—because apparently Mercury was on a mission to end him—another message popped up.
Mercury:
Also.
Wouldn’t mind if you fucked me.
Mike’s soul left his body.
Client7:
WHAT.Mercury:
You heard me again.
You’ve been good. You earned it.
Don’t worry—I can take care of virgins. ;)
Mike stared at the screen in complete disbelief. His brain short-circuited, ran through every "no fraternization" policy in the employee handbook, every ethical rule, every legal reason this was a terrible, catastrophic, career-ending idea—and none of it mattered.
Because all he could think about was that last session. The way Harvey’s thighs had trembled. The way he’d reached out blind and needy. The way he’d worked Mike’s cock with his hand like he was doing Mike a favor, like he enjoyed it, like it meant something.
And now he was offering more. Wanting more.
Harvey Specter—Mercury—wanted him to fuck him.
Mike wasn’t an idiot. He knew there were probably a hundred guys who’d been in that room before him. But something about the way Harvey said it, the way he teased it out—just for him—felt like he was being invited into something more personal. Something rawer.
He was hard. Right there in his office chair. Which was not ideal, given that Donna could pop over at any second demanding coffee or, worse, answers.
He shifted uncomfortably, typing back with shaking hands.
Client7:
do you always send these kinds of texts during a work day? or are you just trying to ruin my day?Mercury:
Ruin it? I thought I was making it better.Client7:
you’re making it impossible to walkMercury:
Then sit still and fantasize. You’re good at that, I bet.
Mike was so deeply, irrevocably screwed.
He typed something. Deleted it. Typed something else.
Then, finally:
Client7:
next Friday. again .
and you better mean it.
The response was instant.
Mercury:
Trust me.
I’ll be on my knees.
Blindfold optional.
Condoms not.
Mike turned off his phone, shoved it into his desk drawer, and stood up so fast his chair rolled backward into the wall behind him.
He needed a walk.
Or a drink.
Or six.
Or maybe a prayer circle.
Because one thing was clear: this wasn’t ending. Not now. Not with Harvey Specter offering himself up on a silver platter like some kind of wet dream with a legal license.
And Mike? Mike was going to go back. Of course he was. He was going to step into that room, look down at Harvey blindfolded or not, and lose himself all over again.
He already knew how Harvey tasted.
Now, he was going to find out how he felt.
And there was no coming back from that.
Friday hit Mike like a loaded gun: slow, cold, and loaded with consequences.
All week, he told himself he wasn’t going to show up. That this had gone too far. That he was playing with a line so blurred it might as well not exist anymore. He’d looked himself in the mirror, bleary-eyed and half-hard, whispering, you cannot keep doing this.
And yet.
There he was again. Back in the damn building. Signing the same waiver, nodding at the same masked staffer, walking the same path down the dim hallway toward Room Eight like it was his own personal confession booth.
He didn’t know what to expect when he opened the door this time.
He definitely didn’t expect that.
Harvey was already kneeling in the center of the bed.
Blindfolded. Hands on his thighs. Back straight. Breathing steady.
Like a fucking statue in a museum of devilish temptations.
Or a worshipper. Waiting for something divine.
Mike stood there, frozen, barely inside the threshold. His cock stirred instantly, thickening in his pants, but his brain was running in circles.
Because it wasn’t just hot.
It was unfair.
Because all he could think about—looking at Harvey like this, beautiful and composed and vulnerable as hell—was how many others had seen him this way. How many had walked into this same room, licked their lips, and thought, mine for the hour.
How many men had taken this same body? These same sighs? These same moans Mike had thought were special.
How many gave a shit if Harvey was okay afterward?
How many even saw him—not just the body, the show, the role?
The thought made Mike’s stomach twist.
He knew it wasn’t fair. This was what Harvey wanted. Chose. But it still left a taste in Mike’s mouth like blood.
Harvey tilted his head a little, sensing the silence. "You’re quiet again," he murmured. "You always get quiet before you touch me. Are you just soaking it in?"
Mike didn’t answer.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe right.
Harvey smiled, just barely. "You’re allowed to take what you want, you know. That’s the deal. I’m yours for the hour."
That did it.
Mike stepped forward, slowly. Quietly.
Harvey stayed still.
Mike knelt in front of him.
He didn’t speak. Just leaned in and kissed him—soft, light, just barely a press of lips against lips. He told himself it was okay. Harvey wouldn’t know it was him. Couldn’t know.
Harvey made a sound, surprised, like he hadn’t expected that. Not there. Not first.
Mike kissed him again. A little firmer. Then lower—his jaw, his throat, the corner of his mouth. Gentle kisses. Not rushed. Not hungry.
Worship.
Harvey tilted his face toward the touch like a plant toward sunlight. "You’re different tonight," he whispered.
Mike didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight.
He stood, planting his feet back on the floor, unzipped his pants, and let his cock free—hard already, aching—but even then, he didn’t grab Harvey’s head. Didn’t guide. Just waited.
And Harvey, blindfolded and patient, leaned forward and took him into his mouth like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
Mike had to brace himself on the bed.
It was slow. Wet. Perfect.
Harvey didn’t rush. He just…savored. Let his tongue glide, his mouth suck and release, teasing him, working him in ways that felt like they were designed to break him down molecule by molecule.
And the whole time, Mike watched.
Watched those blindfolded eyes, the pretty lines of his face, the way he kept shifting to get deeper, like he wanted it.
Wanted him.
Eventually, Mike pulled away.
Harvey made a soft, disappointed sound.
"Lie down," Mike said hoarsely.
Harvey obeyed.
Spread out on the bed like a gift, legs open, chest rising in small, steady breaths.
Mike took his time. Undressed fully. Got the lube. Slipped on a condom.
Then he crawled on top.
And paused.
Harvey’s lips parted beneath him. "What?"
Mike kissed him. On the mouth.
Really kissed him.
Harvey inhaled sharply through his nose. Didn’t pull away.
Mike kissed his way down his throat again, his collarbone, his sternum.
Then he lined up.
Slow. So slow.
He pushed inside, inch by inch, feeling Harvey stretch around him, warm and wet and so fucking tight.
Harvey moaned, long and low, tilting his hips to help.
Mike froze once he was fully inside.
He couldn’t move.
Could barely think.
All he could feel was how right it was. How terrifyingly right.
He started moving slowly, one hand under Harvey’s thigh, the other stroking up his ribs, soft and soothing. His hips rolled in shallow, gentle thrusts, chasing the softest friction. He didn’t want to hurt him. Didn’t want to use him.
He wanted to give.
Harvey whispered things. Sweet, wrecked things. "So good," and "yes," and "feels perfect," and "you feel so good inside me."
Mike kissed his lips again. His cheek. His jaw.
Every movement was a surrender.
Every sound from Harvey made him fall deeper.
He used to laugh at people who said make love.
It always sounded ridiculous. Mushy. Unreal.
But this—this—wasn’t just sex.
It was slow and reverent and aching.
When Harvey came, he came with a sharp gasp, his whole body tightening around Mike.
And Mike followed a minute later, biting down on a soft moan into Harvey’s shoulder.
He stayed inside him until the last tremor passed. Then pulled out carefully.
Cleaned them both up again.
Fed Harvey water from the bottle on the nightstand.
Watched him drink, still blindfolded, looking utterly content.
Like he’d been given something that mattered.
Mike’s throat burned.
He dressed in silence.
Paused at the door.
Didn’t look back.
Because if he did, he’d never leave.
Mike didn’t go the next Friday.
He told himself it was the smart thing to do. A break. A reset. Some room to breathe, to remember who he was before all of this—before the kneeling, the blindfolds, the wet, soft noises that still haunted the back of his throat.
He told himself he was pulling back. Getting perspective.
But that was a lie.
Because instead of walking away, he did the worst thing imaginable.
He opened the site again.
Not the chat. Not the booking page.
The videos.
Old ones, mostly. Stuff he hadn’t watched yet. He told himself it was curiosity, research, like peeking through someone’s old yearbooks. But deep down, he knew exactly what he was looking for.
It didn’t take long to find it.
The title was nothing special: Mercury: Group Play (3 M / 1 FtM)
Forty-seven minutes. Black thumbnail. Same room. Same bed. But Harvey—Harvey looked younger in the preview still. Softer. Bright-eyed and open-mouthed, like he didn’t yet know what was coming. Or maybe he did. And that was the whole point.
Mike clicked.
The video opened not on the scene, but on Harvey. Twenty-three, maybe. Sitting on the edge of the bed in a loose robe, legs swinging, hair a little longer than it was now. There was a mic on him, clipped to the collar. No background noise. Just him and the camera.
"I’m Mercury," he said, smiling nervously. "I’m twenty-three, trans, and today’s my first gangbang." A little laugh. "Well—first on camera. I’ve done, like, threesomes before. And orgies. But this’ll be a little more intense, I guess."
Mike couldn’t stop watching him.
The way his mouth moved. The way his hands fidgeted, then stilled. The way he grinned after saying something filthy like he was letting the secret slip just for fun.
"I like being used," Harvey continued, unblinking. "Not like, degraded, not unless I ask for it, but… I like feeling wanted. I like when people want to make me come over and over again. When they ask if they can, like, fill me up." He laughed again. "Yeah, that sounds stupid. Whatever. I’m excited."
The cut to the actual scene was abrupt.
Harvey was on all fours at first, hands braced, already moaning. There were hands everywhere—on his hips, in his hair, gripping his throat lightly as someone fucked into him from behind. One of the men moved to his mouth, and Harvey opened without hesitation, taking him deep, choking a little but pushing forward for more.
It was rough. Intense. One of the men held a wand vibrator against his clit while someone fingered him from behind, and Mike watched, helpless, as Harvey squirted around them, legs shaking. The camera zoomed in, catching every slick inch, every twitch of muscle.
And the dirty talk.
"You love this, don’t you?"
"Can’t even keep count of how many times you’ve come."
"Fucking soaking. God, she’s soaking."
"Is this what you wanted, Mercury? To be our toy?"
And Harvey—laughing, gasping, nodding between kisses and thrusts and choked-off moans—kept saying, yes. Over and over again. Sometimes slurred. Sometimes whispered.
Mike had a hand down his pants before he realized it. Jerking himself slowly, shame coiling deep in his gut.
Because he wasn’t just turned on.
He was jealous.
Not of them. Not exactly. Not of what they were doing.
But of what came after.
Because after the credits, there was another clip.
Harvey again. Same room. Same day. Same robe—half off one shoulder, clinging to his damp skin. He was lying on the bed now, legs spread, face flushed, and one of the crew was gently wiping him down with a soft cloth. Another was holding a bottle of water to his lips, coaxing him to drink.
"How was it?" the cameraman asked.
Harvey smiled like he was floating. "So good," he said, voice raw. "Like. I don’t even know what planet I’m on. My whole body’s vibrating."
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Just, like… full. In the best way." He looked directly into the lens. "Thanks. I really mean that."
Mike closed the laptop slowly. His breath caught in his throat, too tight to swallow.
He wanted to take care of him.
More than the sex. More than the blindfolds and praise and the heat of Harvey’s mouth around him.
He wanted that. The afterward. The warmth. The closeness.
He wanted to be the one gently cleaning him up. Kissing his shoulder while he drank water. Stroking his hair. Saying you did so well, and meaning it with every goddamn cell in his body.
Mike ran both hands down his face. His chest ached. His dick was still hard, but it didn’t matter. This wasn’t about getting off anymore.
It was about him. The way Harvey trusted so easily. Gave so much.
It hit Mike like a truck.
I’m irrevocably in love with him.
He let the words sit in his mind like poison.
Not just turned on. Not just curious. Not just dangerously obsessed.
He was in love with Harvey Specter.
Which made this—the videos, the sessions, the fantasy—feel like a house built on top of a minefield.
He couldn’t stop.
But he was already breaking.
Because every part of him wanted more.
And not the kind of more that could be booked online.
It was well past midnight when Mike’s phone buzzed.
He was still sitting on his couch, shirtless, half-wrung out emotionally and not even pretending to try sleeping. The video was paused on his laptop—Harvey's face frozen in that post-scene glow, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, a towel wrapped loosely around his shoulders.
Mike hadn’t pressed play again. He didn’t need to.
That after look, the softness—it had been carved into his brain like scripture.
He glanced at his phone and saw the name that now made his pulse spike with equal parts excitement and guilt.
Mercury:
You missed tonight. Thought we had a standing appointment ;)
Mike stared at it. His heart thumped once. Then again.
He thought about answering honestly—I watched an old video of you getting railed by three guys and realized I’m in love with you and now I don’t know how to breathe properly. But that felt… aggressive.
So instead, he typed:
Client7:
yeah, sorry. my boss is kind of a dick.
last minute fire to put out
A pause.
Then:
Client7:
did you have other clients tonight?
The second message hung in the thread like a bead of sweat.
He didn’t know why he’d asked. Maybe he was looking to punish himself. Maybe he wanted confirmation that this thing between them wasn’t unique, wasn’t real. That it was still just a game Harvey played with strangers in dark rooms under fake names.
Harvey didn’t answer for a minute.
Then:
Mercury:
Mhm. Had a couple earlier.
Regulars. Man and woman.
They like when I’m the toy they pass back and forth. Today was light. Some overstimulation, a little bondage. She made me come with a plug in while he filmed it.
Mike’s brain short-circuited.
He wasn’t even touching himself, and he was already hard and so close.
Fuck.
Client7:
jesus.
you okay?Mercury:
More than.
They were sweet. Aftercare was solid.
Why, jealous?
Mike hesitated.
Then, fingers moving like they didn’t belong to him:
Client7:
a little. yeah.
wish it was me.
The typing bubble popped up, paused, disappeared.
Then his phone rang.
Not the chat app.
His phone.
Mike froze.
The name on the screen read Harvey Specter.
His real name.
Real number.
No hiding.
Heart hammering, he picked it up. "Hello?"
"Hey," Harvey said, voice low and dark and utterly, utterly recognizable. "Thought I’d help you out since you didn’t show tonight. Bet you’re already hard."
Mike’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Harvey chuckled. "That’s a yes. Good."
Mike sucked in a breath, already dizzy. "Harvey, I—"
"No," Harvey cut in. "Not right now. You’re going to listen."
Mike shut up. Because of course he did.
"I’m going to tell you exactly what they did to me," Harvey continued, calm and firm like he was reading off a deposition. "And you’re going to jerk off. And when you come, you’re going to say my name. Got it?"
Mike nodded.
Then remembered that didn’t work on the phone. "Yeah," he croaked. "Got it."
Harvey’s voice dropped another octave, silky and commanding. "Good boy."
Mike fumbled with his sweats, shoving them down, cock already aching from just hearing him.
Harvey started to speak, slow and deliberate.
"She came in first. Put me on my knees. Said I looked pretty like that. She kissed me and made me sit still while she tied the plug in. Then she called him in and told him to watch while I fucked myself on it."
Mike hissed through his teeth, hand wrapping around himself, slow strokes just to keep up with the mental picture.
Harvey kept going, no hesitation.
"He sat on the bed. She pushed me down on my back and used her fingers until I was dripping all over the sheets. Then she made me come while looking at him. Made me say his name. Begged him to fuck me. And when he did—God, Mike—when he pushed in, I was already shaking."
Mike’s hips jerked. His hand tightened.
"Keep going," he gasped.
"He fucked me while she played with my clit. Said I was their perfect little thing. Said I was made to be shared. You should’ve seen the way I moaned for them. You would’ve lost your fucking mind."
"I already am," Mike muttered. "Fuck, Harvey…"
"Are you close?"
"Yeah."
"Say my name when you come."
That was all it took.
Mike came with a groan, Harvey’s name spilling from his lips, head falling back against the couch cushions.
He heard Harvey breathe out on the other end. Quiet. Pleased.
"Good," he said. "Now get dressed."
Mike blinked. "Wait. What?"
"You’re coming to my place," Harvey said. "We need to talk."
That should have sobered him up. But instead, it lit something in him. A raw anticipation. Terror edged with a sharp, needy thrill.
"Now?"
"Now."
"Should I bring—"
"Just you," Harvey said. "And maybe a change of clothes. You might stay the night."
And then the line went dead.
Mike stared at the phone in his hand.
His legs were still shaky. His chest still rising and falling too fast.
Harvey wants to talk.
Yeah.
Right.
This was going to be one hell of a talk.
Mike had never felt more aware of his heartbeat than he did standing outside Harvey’s condo.
Every inch of him was buzzing, like the sidewalk under his feet was wired with live current. He’d barely taken the time to change, just thrown on jeans, a half-decent shirt, and shoved a toothbrush into his pocket like it was going to stop him from committing moral collapse.
And then he knocked.
The door opened two seconds later.
Harvey stood in the doorway.
Naked.
Not shirtless. Not in a robe. Naked.
Every inch of him on display—soft skin, lean muscle, chest hair curling across his sternum, and—
Mike’s brain screeched to a halt.
There was a toy inside him.
A small one, discreet enough that it didn’t scream for attention, but there, peeking just out from between his legs, nestled up front against his clit, gleaming faintly under the hall light. Subtle and obscene all at once.
Mike swallowed so hard it hurt.
Harvey smiled, like he hadn’t just short-circuited Mike’s ability to speak. "You coming in or just planning to combust in the hallway?"
"Right. Yeah." Mike stepped in. "Totally normal Friday night. Just—sure."
Harvey shut the door behind him and sauntered to the bar like he wasn’t wearing a toy that made Mike want to drop to his knees and repent. He poured a single glass of bourbon, placed it on the counter in front of Mike with all the flourish of a magician, and said, "You get one. You’re not using alcohol as an excuse for anything that happens tonight."
Mike nodded. Wordlessly. Then knocked the drink back in one long, desperate swallow.
He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye—Harvey bending forward, a slow, graceful stretch of his spine—and there it was again. The toy. The delicate shift of it as his hips moved.
Mike gripped the counter, white-knuckled.
"Thirsty?" Harvey asked, eyebrows raised.
"Not for the drink," Mike muttered, voice rough.
Harvey chuckled and sat on the couch like a man entirely at ease with himself, legs spread, body open, toying idly with the end of the plug like it was just another casual conversation prop.
"Alright," Harvey said. "Let’s get into it."
Mike blinked. "Into…?"
"The part where you admit when you first found my videos."
Mike hesitated. "You want honesty or plausible deniability?"
Harvey raised a brow.
"Okay," Mike muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Few weeks ago. I was—look, I was drunk, okay? I clicked something random, and then...there you were."
Harvey tilted his head. "And you kept watching."
Mike sighed. "Yeah."
"Why?"
Mike laughed, a sharp, self-deprecating sound. "Because you were hot. Because you sounded like—fuck, Harvey—you sounded so good. And it wasn’t just the sex, it was you. You liked it. You looked happy. I couldn’t stop."
Harvey didn’t speak for a moment. He just watched him. Still playing absently with the toy, rotating it slightly, probably just to watch Mike twitch.
Then: "Were you jealous?"
"Of every guy in every video," Mike said, no hesitation. "Of anyone who got to be near you like that. To make you feel good. Of anyone who got to clean you up after."
Harvey’s expression softened, but not much. "You thought I had other clients."
"You said you had a couple," Mike said, then paused. "Wait. Didn't you?"
Harvey smiled faintly. "That scene I described? That was from a twenty year old video."
Mike blinked. "What."
"I haven’t taken another client in over a decade," Harvey said, calm. "Haven’t wanted to."
Mike sat back slowly, staring. "So why me?"
Harvey gave him a look. "Come on. You really think I didn’t know it was you from the start?"
Mike groaned. "Fuck me."
"Maybe later," Harvey quipped. "You’re lucky I don’t sue your ass."
"Yeah, no, I was…incredibly worried about that part."
Harvey shrugged. "You’re not the first to recognize me. You are the first to book me."
That made Mike pause.
"What?"
Harvey looked him in the eye, voice low. "I recognized your presence. You didn’t say a word, but it was you. The way you hesitated. The way you touched me. I knew."
Mike felt a slow flush rise in his chest. He didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to hold it.
"Why didn’t you stop it?" he asked.
Harvey looked down at the toy, fingers still circling its base.
"Because I wanted you," he said simply. "And because I wanted you to want me. The real me. Not just Mercury."
Mike was quiet.
Then Harvey looked up again, lips curled faintly. "So. What was your favorite video?"
Mike laughed, but it came out shaky. "Jesus, we’re really doing this, huh?"
Harvey grinned. "Full transparency. Come on. Pick one."
Mike hesitated. He could lie. Say it was one of the tamer ones. The solo scenes. Something easy.
But he didn’t.
"The one with the interview," he said. "The gangbang. You were twenty-three. It was rough, but you were… God, you were glowing afterward."
Harvey’s smile turned thoughtful.
"I remember that day," he said quietly. "One of my best scenes. It wasn’t just about the fucking. It was that they cared. They stayed after. They washed me, fed me, held me until I stopped shaking."
Mike swallowed hard.
"I want that part," he said, almost too quiet to hear.
Harvey looked at him.
"I want to do that part," Mike said, louder, certain. "I want to take care of you. Not just fuck you. Not just watch you come. I want to hold you after. Every time."
There was a long pause.
Then Harvey stood.
Walked across the room.
Took Mike’s face in his hands and kissed him. Soft, warm, real.
When he pulled back, his voice was barely a whisper.
"Then stay."
Mike didn’t answer with words.
When Harvey said stay, it wasn’t just an invitation. It was an offer. A hand extended across months of tension, heat, unspoken longing, and about ten metric tons of repressed emotion.
And Mike took it. Not with some grand declaration. Just a nod, small and quiet, but solid. Grounded.
Then they kissed again, deeper this time. Less tentative. More like the kind of kiss that says, I want this. I want you. I want everything.
It didn’t take long for Harvey to lead them to the bedroom.
It was big—of course it was. All dark sheets and low lighting, a space made for privacy, indulgence. A place where shadows softened every edge.
But Mike didn’t want shadows.
He wanted Harvey.
Harvey sat on the edge of the bed, naked still, the plug now gone, legs parted in a quiet, unconscious offer. Mike stepped between them and sank to his knees, like it wasn’t even a choice.
It wasn’t. Not really.
Because this—Harvey, open and waiting, eyes steady, thighs soft under Mike’s palms—this was where he belonged. Where he’d always belonged, even when he hadn’t known it.
And then he was there. Mouth pressed to warm skin. Kissing along the inside of one thigh, then the other, moving deliberately slow. Every touch worshipful. Every flick of his tongue a soft promise.
Harvey sighed, leaning back on his elbows. "Fuck. You make it hard to think straight."
"That’s the point," Mike murmured, before licking a long stripe through his folds, tongue circling his clit with perfect pressure.
Harvey jolted, hips twitching.
Mike smiled against him. Then buried himself deeper.
He took his time. No rush. No performance. Just presence. He let his tongue glide, lips suctioning gently, fingers teasing until Harvey was panting and clenching the sheets, already close. And when he felt Harvey start to shake, he didn’t let up—he pressed in harder, adding two fingers and curling them just right until Harvey came with a helpless moan.
And then Mike kept going.
Again. And again.
Pushing Harvey through waves of pleasure, each crest higher than the last. He felt him squirt once, sudden and sharp, thighs trembling, breath hitched in his throat.
"Jesus, Mike," Harvey gasped, voice raw. "Fuck, are you trying to kill me?"
Mike grinned, not pulling back. "Just trying to make sure you remember me in the morning."
"Oh, I’m going to remember you in six months," Harvey said, groaning as another orgasm rocked through him.
By the time Mike finally rose from between his legs, his mouth was wet, his jaw sore, and his cock aching.
Harvey blinked up at him, dazed and flushed and beautiful in a way that made Mike’s chest hurt. "You’re a menace."
"Want me to stop?"
Harvey narrowed his eyes. "Touch me with your dick or I’m calling the cops."
Mike didn’t need to be told twice.
He slicked on a condom with shaking hands and guided himself in with one smooth thrust, sliding into Harvey’s soaked, clenching heat like he was made for it.
They both groaned.
"Fuck," Mike breathed, nearly shaking from how good it felt. How right. "You feel—Jesus, Harvey—"
"Move," Harvey growled, wrapping his legs around Mike’s waist.
So Mike moved.
Hard. Fast. Desperate. But never rough. Always holding something back—something gentle under his hunger.
Harvey met every thrust like he was chasing a high, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open on moans that got softer and sweeter the longer it went on. Every now and then, Mike leaned down and kissed him—on his cheek, his jaw, his lips. Soft, messy kisses, as if he needed the reassurance, needed the contact to keep from floating away.
"Gonna make me fall for you," Harvey murmured between kisses.
"Already too late for me," Mike whispered back.
Harvey came again, gasping, voice cracked and shaky, his whole body clenching tight around Mike and dragging him right over the edge too. Mike came hard, groaning into the space between Harvey’s neck and shoulder, burying himself as deep as he could.
For a long time, they just breathed.
Eventually, Mike pulled out gently, tied off the condom, and padded to the bathroom to grab a warm cloth. When he came back, Harvey was half-asleep, limbs loose, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.
Mike cleaned him carefully, whispering, I got you, as he worked. Every pass of the cloth was slow, careful, like Harvey might break under anything rougher. Then he eased into bed beside him, grabbed a water bottle from the nightstand—because of course there was one—and coaxed Harvey into sipping.
"You’re going to spoil me," Harvey said sleepily.
"Good," Mike said, setting the bottle down. "You deserve it."
Then, finally—finally—he got to hold him.
Harvey curled into his chest without hesitation, one arm slung over Mike’s stomach, breath warming his skin.
Mike exhaled, deep and slow, fingers trailing lightly up and down Harvey’s spine.
This. This was it.
The sex was incredible, yeah. The moans, the begging, the way Harvey looked wrecked and radiant at the same time. But this—this quiet, post-storm intimacy—was what Mike had been starving for without even knowing it.
"You’re not going home tonight," Harvey mumbled, half-asleep already.
Mike smiled against his hair. "Didn’t plan to."
"Good," Harvey murmured, voice slurred and soft.
Mike didn’t answer. Just held him tighter.