Chapter Text
Of all the strange things that Mike has witness in New York, and even Brooklyn, this is by far, the weirdest. Something he imagined only happened either in movies, or maybe New Orleans. You know, since that place is a little whimsical and all.
But well, it starts with a new client. A client that Jessica hands to Harvey with an enigmatic ‘Have fun’ and involves an old man –incredibly old– that wants to distribute his assets accordingly between his huge family; investments, businesses, and so on. The tricky part is that this desire appeared after the shaman that works for him had a dream about disease or danger or something something –they aren’t given much context– the old man being bedridden and whatever –Mike didn’t paid that much attention either– he was too busy thinking that rich people seriously had issues normal people would never even think about.
The shaman, a woman in her fifties perhaps, definitively not as old as the client himself, looks very ominous and dangerous to Mike. Not dangerous in the sense that she could cause damage or hurt someone, but that she may know more than what she lets on about not only the man’s affairs but his family as a whole, which is not surprising, from what Mike heard, the woman has been the family shaman for around 30 or so years and have never put in jeopardy the family business or the family itself.
The man’s kids – already old enough to have kids and grandkids of their own– are all obvious leeches that have to be handled very carefully with tweezers. They can’t all be in the same room or else they will start a fight about why one brother or sister gets this or that, bringing up when the father financed this or that business to one or more of his kids and so on. Why do the family needs to be involved, Mike doesn’t know. Seems like the man is very indulgent with them, and even more protective over the youngest of his kids which is around Mike’s age and a graphic designer working as a freelance and has said several times he doesn’t want to get involved in anything related to the fathers business, which is why Harvey and him have to manage the liquidity of assets to move to certain accounts and put them in the name of said son, since “the others would just try to fight and steal whichever business he decided to leave for him”.
Besides the obvious family drama involved in all this, the man being like 100 years old and the shaman that never leaves his side, Mike thinks this is the most straightforward client they have handled this month.
He barely has to assist Harvey on the case, except to make sure everything is airtight enough that no other family member can fight any of the clauses or specific bequests in the case the old man indeed goes to a better life. Not Orlando.
Maybe the trickiest thing is the last-minute changes the old man requests whenever the shaman whispers this or that in his ear and Harvey and Mike just share a look and brace themselves, going along because, well, the guy is loaded. He can do anything he wants as long as the billables are high enough to make Harvey and Mike look good to the firm.
The shaman in the end, ends up being a nice lady. Wise beyond her years and very demure. Only speaks when spoken, unless she is confiding in the old man, then she has free reign to talk to him and give her advice.
Does Mike trust her? Not really, there is something unsettling in the way she smiles, eyes almost always in barely opened slits when looking at him, as if she can see inside his soul and mind and all his secrets are exposed. For a moment he fears she has realized he is a fraud, but there is no comment or dramatic exposure done at any time. The woman always keeps to herself when in the office, trailing behind the old man like his shadow but very attentive, that Mike can attest.
Either way, one day when coming back from lunch –a very quickly inhaled dry pretzel from a vendor outside– he decides to be considerate enough with Harvey, and Donna, and perhaps the clients that have been nothing if not nice, for the kind of people they are –grossly rich– so makes a quick stop at a cafe nearby that he knows Harvey approves and gets drinks for everyone. Some coffees and teas to choose from, making sure to keep Harvey’s, Donna’s and Rachel’s beverages in a separate carton.
Whistling completely chill on his way up, he is thinking what he’s going to do once the day ends. He will definitively finish proofreading all the briefs that Louis left on his desk the previous night –dick–, so he can make an early exit at around 8 and get some cheese crusted pizza for dinner, and watch a movie with a beer or maybe start with the new case that Harvey wanted him to look at before noon the next day. Having this much time for himself –which is not a lot really– to decide what to do makes him giddy and can’t help it if he ends up sending a wink and a big smile towards Rachel when dropping her tea at her office, ignoring the perfectly sculpted raised eyebrow and amused smile.
His next target is Donna, as usual, elegantly dressed and typing away, diligently working but still noticing him from far away. Yet, she doesn’t acknowledge him until he is propped on the edge of the wall surrounding her desk area.
“Mike, to what do I owe this pleasure?” she asks, all sweet and enchanting, but suspicious none the less. Mike shrugs.
“I’m feeling benevolent today. Also, you look gorgeous, you deserve a treat.” Donna smiles at him, her eyes crinkling in amusement and accepts the drink, taking a sip of the sweet coffee, a nod of approval following right after.
“I always deserve a treat.” She clarifies, and winks.
He chuckles and agrees. If only because he knows she refers to the inordinate amount of bags and shoes she gets for herself on Harvey’s corporate credit card.
His eyes scan Harvey’s empty office for a second, and then he turns to Donna again, getting ready to move along on his journey of distributing well-earned beverages.
“Is Harvey already on the conference room with Mr. Wammy?” he asks, walking backwards and ready to bolt.
Donna nods and smirks at him. “You are late puppy.”
Mike groans at the comment, but still hurries, mood slightly wilted but no less motivated, and feeling confident Harvey won’t chew him out once he sees Mike’s token of dedication and affection in the form of coffee. A simple espresso, quad shot; perfect as a pick-me-up after lunch hour.
Lucky him, Harvey is on the phone when he reaches the conference room, and even if he sends a warning glare towards him, he takes the coffee and nods at him in silent appreciation. Mike beams at him and continues towards the conference room, where the old man and his shaman are already waiting, reviewing the latest documentation with the added updates they discussed the last time.
“I brought some tea and coffee, in case someone needs it.” Mike places the cardboard drink carrier on the long oak table dividing the room, offering a breezy, professional smile. “One black Americano, one latte, a green tea, and a black tea. I wasn’t entirely sure what your preferences were, but if none of these hit the spot, I can always get you some water.”
“How attentive of you.” the shaman says, looking at him with a smile, and her light grey eyes are unblinking and strangely captivating, locking onto him with a sudden, intense focus.
Mike nods with a smile, a little peeved at the way the woman stares at him, as if he is a puzzle that she has already solved.
She reaches out, grabbing the green tea and sips it slightly, then looks at the other beverages and chooses the Americano to hand to Mr. Wammy, who takes it without looking up, eyes still focused on the paperwork and looking unnaturally large behind his thick glasses.
Then the shaman looks back at Mike while he takes a seat in front of her across the table. She smiles.
Her eyes flick quickly towards Harvey, still outside pacing the hallway in a heated conversation with who-knows-who while waving a hand aggressively to emphasize a point, and then back to Mike. Her smile sharpens.
“You enjoy the work you do here?” she asks.
Mike is a little taken aback. Never did she ever engage in conversation with him. Or Harvey. And the older man next to her doesn’t seem to pay her any mind, too busy reading and mumbling to himself.
“Of course, I love it. It's high stakes, fast-pace and mentally stimulating... wouldn't trade it for anything.” He answers, shrugging, an easy smile stretching his lips.
“Your boss is remarkably demanding.” She adds as an afterthought, voice lowering slightly. Mike snorts, still smiling.
“That’s putting it slightly, but he is the best at what he does. And expects me to be on his level. It keeps me on my toes.”
“You admire him deeply.”
Mike raises an eyebrow at the weirdly worded statement. It isn't standard corporate small talk, but it isn't exactly a secret either. He nods either way, like it isn’t obvious. “Anyone who works with Harvey admires him.” Except those who end up being his enemies for whatever reason of course.
The shaman smiles wider at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. Suddenly a hand of hers grabs one of his and he is startled at the sudden contact.
“There is much more to it than admiration,” she whispers, her eyes boring into his. “I can feel the true depth of your feelings for him. A profound, aching devotion. One that you choose to lock away.”
Mike gapes not knowing what to say, mind blank, instead his body reacts when a sudden heat rushes to his cheeks, making them burn hotly. He knows he should pull his hand away, ask her to refrain from talking about anything personal due to the working relationship they have, or maybe just excuse himself and walk out, but the sheer kindness and terrifying understanding in her gaze pins him on the spot.
“Not sure what you mean.” He stutters out, his brilliant brain suddenly short-circuiting. “We’re just... it’s all purely professional.”
“Your relationship is built on a foundation of unyielding secrets,” she counters softly, her grip tightening just enough to send a shiver straight down his spine. “You crave to be closer to him. Your soul bends towards his, wishing to surrender the burdens you carry, wishing to be truly held by the man who commands your world.”
Mike’s heart hammers against his ribs, mouth twisting in discomfort at the words. “Look, lady, I don't know what kind of vibe you think you're picking up, but—”
“You hide behind a brilliant mind and a man's pride,” she interrupts, her voice carrying a strange, echoing weight that seems to dull the ambient noise of the bullpen outside. “But your spirit is crying out for a different path. A vessel that allows you to feel the full weight of his possession. To receive him completely, without the armor you wear so tightly.”
“Okay, you know what? I think we should probably get back to the contracts,” Mike stammers, finally yanking his wrist back. His skin tingly where she had touched him.
The shaman doesn’t look offended. She simply rests her hands in her lap, her expression serene and knowing. “Do not fear the shift, Michael. Sometimes, the body must change its shape to reveal the truth of the heart. Tomorrow, the armor falls away.”
Before Mike can ask what the hell that means, the glass door opens. Harvey steps back into the room, tucking his phone into his breast pocket, entirely radiating power and irritation.
“Alright, Vincent, we got the extension for the liquidity asset division of the properties you requested, but we’re on a tight clock,” Harvey snaps, completely oblivious to the thick, bizarre tension in the room. He walks right up to Mike, clapping a heavy, commanding hand on his shoulder. “Mike, I need you to run back to the file room and pull the 2008 precedent on the Moriarty asset division. Now.”
The heavy weight of Harvey’s hand on his shoulder sends a sudden jolt of pure heat straight to Mike’s groin, making him gasp quietly.
Harvey frowns down at him, noticing the flushed cheeks. “You alright? You look like you’re running a fever.”
“I’m fine,” Mike chokes out, stealing one last, panicked look at the shaman. She is sipping her green tea, looking thoroughly amused. “Just... a lot of coffee. I’ll get those files.”
He practically sprints out of the room, ignoring the lingering warmth in his wrist, and completely unaware that it would be the very last day he would ever walk into the office as himself.
++++
Maybe Mike should have realized something was wrong sooner rather than later, but he couldn’t be blamed. He had like 3 or less hours of sleep, his alarm was blaring loudly somewhere next to him, and the memory of Harvey urging him to deliver some proofed briefs on his desk by 8 AM had him jumping up from his bed in a heady rush, the lightness between his legs not catching up to him until he was fiddling with the shower knobs to get at least 5 minutes of hot water for his quick shower.
He’s moving back, quickly raising his shirt over his head, stepping through the still open bathroom door to throw the garment on top of his couch to use again later that night, when the movement of his legs makes him stop, brain catching up. His underwear feels bigger. Well, not bigger, empty actually. Airy and damp, sticking to his skin.
Something’s missing, and before he can conjure any questions or theories, he just quickly shoves the boxer briefs down, eyes widening in horror at the terrifying realization that his dick—his dick—and his balls are gone. Truly, utterly gone. Not like they suddenly fall off, no. Replaced. His overactive imagination tells him before he can truly process it. His frantic fingers slid down past his pubic hair, lower and lower, desperately searching for his member and finding only a terrifying confirmation of his worst fears.
He is met with wetness. Soft, slick, intricate folds that absolutely do not belong on him. Do not belong to him. His breath hitches, his chest tightening as his vision begins to blur at the edges. Is he going to pass out? He feels faint. Can someone have a heart attack by losing their dick? If not, he is feeling like he could be the first. His clammy back makes contact with the cold tile of his bathroom, fingers still busy caressing what just replaced his beloved cock...
A long time goes by, he is sure, because is the obnoxious ringtone of his phone that snaps him out of his stupor, now making him realize that he had been pulling his hair all this time with the hand that is not between his legs, scalp burning once he comes to himself and releases the strands.
As fast as he can, he heads back towards his room, trying not to trip with the underwear around his ankles, and grabs the phone from between the sheets, buck naked and incredibly self-conscious of the weird friction between his legs now that he doesn’t have any balls or dick to dingle around. His soul almost leaves his body when he sees Harvey’s name on the caller ID, fear clutching at his heart and stomach dropping.
With as much fake calmness as he can muster, he answers.
“Hey Harvey.” His voice cracks on the last syllable. Mike winces, his eyes involuntarily drifting down to his toes curled tight against the floorboards, because there was absolutely nothing else on the way down to interrupt the view. A muted, pathetic whimper escapes his lips, and he clamps his teeth down on his lower lip to stifle it.
“Where exactly are you, Mike?” Harvey’s voice cuts through the line, dripping with trademark, razor-sharp annoyance.
“On my way,” Mike lies instantly, desperate to hang up so he can resume his meltdown before pulling himself together.
“You better be,” Harvey snaps. “Move your ass.”
Then the line goes dead.
Mike’s heart is pounding so hard he feels it might burst from his chest. He can still hear Harvey’s voice, and he knows the man is going to tear him a new one for the lateness. A second new one, his mind supplies.
In a jerky move, he drops his phone and hurries to take his 5-minute shower with now cold water. He is lucky he still has any water though, so he just hurries to clean himself thoroughly, pretending the lack of balls and dick is nothing more than another normal Wednesday for him, and as soon as he deems himself clean enough, he gets out, dries and dresses at the speed of light.
If he pretends the issue is not there, then it doesn’t exist, right?
A maniacal giggle may have escape him on the way down from his apartment because one of his neighbours just stares after him. His fingers tremble when putting on his helmet and he barely pays attention to the road once he is finally on the way to work.
The journey is...something else. And it forces him to definitively not be able to pretend everything is alright, not when the narrow hard leather seat of his trusty bike digs and slides deliciously against his brand-new anatomy with every pedal stroke. The friction is maddening and at a red light, he even lets his hips just move on their own, as if curious of the tingling that it creates down there. His lip is bleeding by the time he finally sees the building of Pearson Hardman get closer into view, his teeth viciously chewing on it while trying not to outright moan while surreptitiously rutting against his bike like he is on heat. But it’s just so new, and so different. So sensitive and pulsing in a way that he can’t help but want to zero on it.
He is blushing and feeling damp between the legs by the time he is on the elevator, the wristwatch on his left hand telling him he is 15 minutes late and Harvey will definitively have his head on a silver platter.
Without bothering to drop his stuff first on his cubicle, he quickly makes his way to Harvey’s office, heart beating loud in his chest and hands sweating once he catches sight of Donna staring at him from afar, a severe look on her face that clearly screams Harvey will chew him out.
“Fifteen minutes, Mike,” Donna says, her voice smooth but dangerous. “Harvey has already snapped twice to Louis and threatened to fire three associates. What happened to you? You look like you just survived a high-speed chase on a tricycle.”
“Traffic,” Mike wheezes, his thighs clenching together tightly as a fresh wave of wetness pools inside his boxer briefs when he caughts sight of Harvey’s angry frown. “And the... the chain came off my bike. Can I come in?”
Donna’s sharp eyes track the way he is shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, her gaze narrowing with clinical curiosity. “You should. And if I were you, I’d lead with the briefs and keep your mouth shut. He’s in a mood.”
Mike nods frantically, gripping the glass door handle, and slides into Harvey’s office, for once, not daring to start with excuses. He knows that won’t help his case.
Harvey doesn’t even look up from his desk. He is aggressively signing a stack of documents, the gold nib of his pen scratching loudly against the paper.
“You’re late,” Harvey says, his tone low, flat, and lethal. “And don’t give me the bike chain excuse. I don't care if your wheels fell off, Mike, when I say eight o’clock, I mean eight o’clock.”
“I have the briefs,” Mike blurts out, stepping closer to the desk. He holds out the grey folder, but as he moves, the fabric of his underwear rubs awkwardly against his hyper-sensitive folds. A sharp, electric jolt shots straight up his spine, making his knees buckle slightly. He lets out a choked, breathless gasp.
Harvey stops signing. His sharp eyes snap up, instantly taking in Mike’s disheveled and flat hair, his bitten bloody lip, and the deep, dark flush staining his skin. He stands, eyes narrowing and methodically buttoning his suit jacket as he walks around the desk, towering over Mike with an intimidating, suffocating proximity.
“What is wrong with you?” Harvey demands, his gaze raking over Mike’s trembling frame. “You’re sweating. Your eyes are completely blown out. Did you spend the night smoking something you shouldn’t have, or are you having a panic attack?”
“Neither,” Mike squeaks, taking a desperate step back, only for his thighs to rub together again. He feels a heavy, pulsing ache right at his core, the slickness soaking through his underwear. Listening to Harvey’s deep, dominant voice is making the pulsing ten times worse. How interesting. “I’m fine. I just... I haven’t slept. Here are the briefs. I’m going to go to my cubicle and start on the other files.”
“Mike.” Harvey steps into his path, his hand shooting out to stop Mike with a hand on his chest.
The sudden physical contact is the final straw. The heat of Harvey’s palm through his shirt sends a violent throb straight to Mike’s groin. He whimpers openly, his hips jerking slightly before he catches himself.
Harvey’s brow furrows now, his grip tightening. He looks down at Mike’s legs, noticing how tightly his knees are locked together. “You’re acting like a lunatic. Leave the files on the table and go get some coffee. If you drop the ball on this case because you can’t keep your head straight, I will personally fire you.”
“Right. Coffee. Files. Got it,” Mike babbles, dropping the folder onto the round table next to Harvey’s desk with trembling hands. He turns and practically bolts out of the office, ignoring Donna’s incredibly suspicious, lingering stare as he blows past her desk.
He doesn’t stop until he slams into the associate's bathroom, ducking into the farthest, most private stall and locking the door with a loud, metallic click.
Leaning his back against the stall door, Mike lets out a shaky, ragged exhale, knees trembling due to the adrenaline cursing through him. After a while, only the raw, throbbing reality of his situation is left behind. He is at Pearson Hardman, and right beneath the pristine zipper of his suit slacks, his dick is now completely gone.
Not only gone but replaced with something familiar and known, yet at the same time, disorientating for the mere reason that the external knowledge he has gathered so far from past girlfriends, he now has to re-learn with his own sensory feelings. The familiar weight and presence he is used to having between his legs is now replaced by the smooth folds of a vulva alongside the brand-new internal space that go all the way to an also new vagina, while still having the effect of a phantom limb.
He feels incredibly exposed and vulnerable down there for some reason. Not only in the sense of his body having suddenly changed, but everything that comes along with it. He has only the basics regarding the maintenance of such parts, like he knows from all discourse online that they wipe front to back, but what about the constant wetness he feels? Is that the discharge he has heard about, or is it something else? Is he going to have a period? If yes, when? In which day of the whole menstrual cycle phases is his new vagina on? Should he go to a gynecologist or a regular doctor?
Like, suddenly waking without a dick is of course an anomaly, but should he then just embrace this change or have scientists check him out and tell him what is going on?
Now, all that in regards to the anatomical changes that are plain visible, but the sensory ones are also worrying to him. The nerve endings down there feel new yet familiar. He isn’t unfamiliar with the feeling of arousal but with this new thing, it feels oh so different. The friction for example, although accidental during his bike ride, felt incredibly good, he can’t deny it. Even now, just by thinking about it, he starts to tingle and throb making him clench unconsciously and groan.
Although the fear to the unknown is at the forefront of his mind, his curiosity is greater so he unfastens his belt and lowers his pants and underwear enough to get his moist new cunt in the air, his fingers quickly sliding down to caress the soft slightly damp curls until he feels the soft wet lips that he got to touch earlier that morning in the privacy of his bathroom.
He knows what to do, has done it lots of times to women, but doing it now to himself is jarring in a very overwhelming sense.
Even more so because he is in the bathroom of his workplace feeling like a pervert while his hand and fingers move on their own, fingers sliding up and down the wet slit, and making him whimper at the friction. Before he can make even more embarrassing noises, he shoves his tie into his mouth and then continues touching himself down there, rubbing with two fingers the swollen clit at the top and shaking all over at the feel of that slight pressure.
Every caress makes him wetter, and his folds throb and clench even more, as if begging for him to shove something even deeper down there, inside. He can’t resist it, even if he feels ashamed of his behavior right now, he slides his wet fingers down more and more, legs parting to give way to his hand in between his legs until he can slip the tip of one finger inside almost recoiling at the softness and wetness he finds there.
It’s maddening to feel all this, it’s his body now, his pleasure, his sensitive parts pulsing and throbbing the more he touches, the tip of his finger shyly dipping in and out making him clench his teeth so hard it hurts his jaw; his breath is ragged and harsh, too loud in the silent bathroom. There is the fear of someone getting in to pee or wash their hands and the idea of someone hearing him makes his face flame but he can’t get himself to stop, not when it feels so good, his fingers sliding all over the wetness in between his folds to rub again and again at the swollen clit and then sliding down once more and dipping now two fingers inside to the first knuckle, feeling the wetness drip down to his hand. A certain movement of his fingers rub against the inside of his clit, and he arches forward at the sudden pleasure coursing through him, whole body shaking, toes curling, and tears gathering at the corners of his eyes while his passage tightens around his fingers sporadically and his sight blanks momentarily, fingers not stopping moving in and out, and all over the lips and swollen clit.
After a while, he comes down from his high, the wetness of his tears sliding down his cheeks and clarity clearing his head slowly.
That was certainly an intense orgasm, if the shame and laxness he feels afterwards is any indication.
He is entirely too self-conscious now, the feeling of his wet fingers still inside him, and his wet hand all warm and hot against his groin. With as much nonchalance as he can muster, he removes his fingers, wincing slightly at the way his insides kind of clamp down around them as if not wanting to let go, and then grabs a bunch of toilet paper and cleans himself as best as he can starting with his guilty hand and then proceeding to do the same to the inside of his thighs, all wet with his fluids and sweat.
A deep flush heats his cheeks the more time he spends grabbing bunches of toilet paper and cleaning the evidence of what he did, the toilet overflowing by the time he is done. The intense smell of sex doesn’t help with the embarrassment, so he makes sure to wash his hands thoroughly all over and under the nails, with lots of soap as if he is about to operate on someone.
Still, when he smells his fingers, he can still detect the now muted scent of his musk.
His reflection on the mirror is filled with shame and incredulity. After all, he just masturbated in the bathroom, with his new pussy. Not only that, but he also definitively enjoyed it, the memory making him clench his legs together and lick his lips.
He wants to laugh or cry, maybe hyperventilate himself to a panic attack like Harvey had suspected earlier but he can’t do that. There is work to do, briefs to proof, contracts to review, changes to make, mistakes to highlight and overall, be a fucking adult. So, he takes a deep breath, slaps his face a few times and tries all over again to pretend nothing is wrong with him. The urge to touch himself has decreased after…that, so he can go back to being Mike Ross, Harvey’s genius associate.
Crisis averted.
For now.
++++
The solitude of his cubicle among the chaos of the bullpen is surprisingly grounding. Kyle is an annoying dick, Harold is a stuttering nervous mess and Louis acts like the usual prick, handing him tons of work even when Mike explicitly tells him he’s got Harvey’s own work to focus on.
Yesterday seems so far away now, when everything had seemed bright and normal, him finishing work early, having his fav pizza for dinner and a late night beer. Today? It’s purgatory, his own body betraying him, everyone being annoying as fuck, both Donna and Harvey also acting highly suspicious of him.
The only comfort is Rachel, and he wonders if he should tell her maybe. She is not only a woman herself, but also a friend. Still the idea is highly embarrassing.
Undressing in front of her with the purpose of…what? Get an assessment? ‘Indeed, you now lack a dick’.
He already knows that, thank you very much.
He decides against that in the end. Their friendship is rocky at best now after their almost something; he can’t dump something like that on her.
So, the day only drags slower than usual, his body feeling all jittery and wound up. It gets worse when Harvey comes to his cubicle to either check in on him or pick up some case files from him. Whenever Harvey leans down to snatch a completed motion from his desk, the heavy, expensive scent of his cologne washes over Mike like a physical wave. It is extremely dizzying. Heady. Mike ends up involuntarily inhaling, his eyes glassing over as a terrifyingly familiar throb blossoms between his thighs all over again.
Has he always smelt this good?
It’s a complete assault on his senses. The warm weight of Harvey’s hand squeezing his shoulder. The sharp, clinical concern cutting through Harvey’s dark eyes. The arrogant, sideways smirk Harvey gives him when Mike manages a shaky, intelligent reply. Just… Harvey.
It’s maddening. The man is just existing, just being himself, but it’s single-handedly causing Mike’s new anatomy to gush. He can feel the slick, wet heat soaking into the cotton of his underwear, a damp, heavy reminder of his body’s betrayal. All throughout his torment he chews the inside of his cheek until tasting copper, the anxiety curling tightly in his chest.
Should he get up? Go back to the associate's bathroom and rub himself again while moaning and panting into his tie? Or should he just sit here, frozen, and praying nobody notices the desperate way he is clenching his thighs together?
He doesn’t understand why his body is doing this to him, why it is reacting so strongly practically begging for his boss with every breath he takes. On a normal day, Mike can admit that Harvey is attractive, he isn’t blind nor is he stupid. And he is confident enough with his masculinity to accept that if the older man asked, Mike would bend forwards for him in less than a second. However, for the sake of their professional relationship, those are thoughts that Mike keeps locked up inside a box.
He has better auto control than that, but this new change is just betraying all that and leaving him exposed to everyone to notice. If they know where to look at.
The helplessness soon becomes into a simmering annoyance Mike has to tightly control so he doesn’t snap. That is, until another godforsaken interruption comes in the form of a shadow suddenly falling across his desk.
"Well, well. Look at you," the nasal and condescending voice sneers, a little bit of spit escaping.
Mike snaps his head up, jaw clenching. Louis Litt is perched on the plastic wall of his cubicle, looking down on him, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent.
"Louis," Mike forces out, his voice tight. He subtly shifts in his chair, trying to ease the agonizing friction of his damp underwear against his hyper-sensitive core. "I'm a little busy with Harvey's Async briefs right now."
"Are you?" Louis rounds his cubicle, until he is standing next to him, forcing Mike to turn on his chair awkwardly to address him directly while keeping his lower body out of sight and still under the desk. Louis crowds into the small space, leaning over the desk and peering down at Mike with intense, creepy scrutiny. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're spacing out. You haven't flipped a page in five minutes, your cheeks are bright red, and you're slouching like a teenager with a guilty conscience."
"I'm fine, Louis. It's just warm in the bullpen today," Mike shots back. "And my slouching is completely normal given the fact I’m busy reading confidential files."
Louis’s eyes narrow into slits, his chest puffing out in outrage. "Don't you dare use that arrogant, Specter-like tone with me, Mike. You think because you sit in Harvey's shadow, you're untouchable? You look completely undone. Your eyes are completely unfocused. Quite frankly, you look like you're running a fever or hiding contraband." Louis steps even closer, his eyes dropping to the lower half of Mike's body, which is pinned tightly beneath the desk. "What are you hiding?"
Panic spikes cold in Mike's gut, a sudden, horrifying image of Louis demanding he stand up flashing through his mind. Noticing the lack of something there. "I'm not hiding anything, Louis! Just leave me alone!"
"What is going on here?"
The deep, authoritative baritone cuts through the cubicle like a knife. Louis jumps, spinning around to find Harvey standing in the corridor. Harvey's hands deep in his pockets, his posture imposing, and his expression is completely unreadable—but his dark eyes are locked onto the way Louis is currently crowding Mike’s space.
"Harvey," Louis stammers, his bravado instantly melting into panicked surprise. "I was just doing a routine check on your associate. He's clearly incompetent today. He's sweating, he's disrespectful, and he's barely focusing on his work."
Harvey doesn’t even look at Louis. His eyes flicking down to Mike, taking in the clenched jaw, the flushed skin, and the wild, breathless look of relief in his associate's eyes. Harvey's jaw tightens, a hard, possessive glint overtaking his features.
"Louis, get out of his cubicle," Harvey commands, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register.
"Harvey, I am the manager of the associates, and if I think—"
"I don't care what you think," Harvey interrupts, stepping into the cubicle and effectively blocking Mike from Louis’s view. "Mike is on my clock, on my cases, and right now, he's doing exactly what I need him to do. If you have a problem with that, go cry to Jessica. Otherwise, step away from his desk."
Louis huffs, his face crunching up in annoyance. He opens his mouth to argue, but the sheer, territorial dominance radiating off Harvey silences him. With one last, suspicious glare towards Mike, he scurries out of the cubicle and disappears down the hallway.
The second Louis is gone the heavy silence returns. Harvey turns around, looking down at Mike.
"Get your notepad, a pen, and all the files I gave you this morning." Harvey mutters, his voice tight, his eyes burning with a dark, heavy intensity as he takes in the way Mike is practically panting under his breath. "We're going to my office. Now."
Mike can barely nod, head swimming the instant he got a whiff of Harve’s scent. He forces himself to stand up from the chair, his knees shaking slightly. As he stands fully upright, he surreptitiously tries to move his slacks to stop digging into his aching core. The raw, agonizing reminder of his lack of a dick, slams into him all over again, making him bite his lip to choke back a whimper as he falls into step right behind Harvey's broad, retreating shoulders.
He really hopes Harvey doesn’t question him further about his strange behavior. He isn’t sure what he can tell the older man about his current predicament without sounding like he lost his mind. Or worse, create a situation where visual evidence is needed.
The heavy glass door to Harvey’s office slides shut behind them, cutting off the low murmur of the rest of the office. Harvey doesn’t sit down at his desk. He walks further inside, straight to the center of the room, turns on his heel, and unbuttons his suit jacket, removing it and tossing it onto the leather sofa while staring down Mike.
"Alright, out with it," Harvey barks, crossing his arms and pinning Mike with a glare that usually makes any seasoned senior partner break out in a sweat. "Louis is an idiot, but he wasn’t wrong about one thing—you look like you’re about to jump out of your own skin. Are you high, Mike? Because if you are, I will throw you out of a window."
"I'm not high!" Mike blurts out, his voice cracking slightly as a fresh, agonizing wave of moisture pools in his underwear. The sheer dominance in Harvey's voice is making his new anatomy pulse rhythmically, a deep, internal heat that makes him feel entirely undone. He grips the folders in his arms tighter against his groin area. "I swear to you, Harvey, I’m clean. I just... I didn’t sleep last night working on those briefs you wanted. And today I have a weird stomach bug. A really, really bad one with cramps and all that. It’s making it hard to exist."
Harvey's eyes narrow, tracking the tight, defensive line of Mike's shoulders and the way his thighs are locked together like a vice. He steps closer, tilting his head with dangerous curiosity. "A stomach bug. That’s your excuse? You're a genius Mike, you can come up with a better lie than that. You’ve been biting your lip so hard it’s practically bleeding. If you're being blackmailed, or if Trevor is back in town—"
"Trevor isn't back!" Mike interrupts, his heart hammering against his ribs as he scrambles for a distraction. He needs to get out of this office before his body betrays him completely. "Look, I have the Async assets mapped out. See? Page four, the indemnification clauses are completely void under New York state law. I did the work, Harvey. My brain is fine. My stomach is just turning itself inside out. If you let me go use the restroom and grab some ginger ale from the breakroom, I’ll be back in five minutes, and I won’t miss a single comma on whatever other case you give me. I swear."
Harvey stars at him for a long, agonizing beat, weighing the frantic, desperate sincerity in Mike's eyes against the undeniable physical wreck standing before him. Finally, Harvey lets out a sharp, impatient breath.
"Five minutes," Harvey warns, pointing a commanding finger at him. "You clear your head, you handle your stomach, and you get back in here. If you're not back by the time I’m done updating Jessica on yesterday’s client, I'm tracking you down."
"Five minutes. Thank you," Mike wheezes.
They both exit Harve’s office, Harvey striding with purposeful steps towards Jessica’s office and Mike standing there awkwardly deciding what to do.
The cold reality of his physical situation catches up to him. He is gushing. He can feel the slickness beginning to seep through the cotton of his briefs, threatening to ruin his expensive slacks. He can’t just go to the bathroom and masturbate again; he needs protection for the rest of the day. He needs a barrier.
He turns towards Donna's desk, pensively looking at her.
Donna doesn’t look up from her monitor, but her fingers stop typing. Slowly, she turns her head, with her sharp, all-knowing eyes raking over Mike’s pale, sweating face and his tightly clenched posture.
"He didn't fire you, so why do you look like you're about to faint, Mike?" Donna asks, her voice dropping into a rare, gentler tone of genuine concern.
Mike swallows hard, looking around the corridor to ensure no other associates are within earshot and then leans over her desk conspiratorially, his hands trembling against the edge of the blue partition. He feels an overwhelming wave of humiliation, but desperation overrides his pride.
"Donna," Mike whispers in a trembling voice. "I need... I need a favor. A really big, completely confidential, no-questions-asked favor."
Donna raises an eyebrow, leaning back in her ergonomic chair. "Mike, I am the keeper of all secrets in this firm. What do you need?"
Mike closes his eyes, his face burning a bright, furious crimson. "Do you... do you happen to have a... a feminine pad? A heavy-duty pad, ideally. Right now."
The silence that follows is deafening. Donna stares at him, her usual brilliant wit momentarily faltering as her brain processes the request. She looks at his flushed face, his panicked eyes, and the subtle, awkward way he seems to fidget in place.
For a split second, Mike thinks she is going to laugh, or demand an explanation, or call security. But Donna, being Donna, reads the absolute, life-or-death terror radiating off him. She doesn’t blink or question him on whether the pad is for Rachel, or a secret girlfriend, or a prank.
Without a single word, Donna slides open her bottom desk drawer, her hand reaching inside to smoothly retrieve a wrapped, discreet adhesive pad from her personal stash. She keeps it low, hidden beneath the palm of her hand, and slides it into Mike's trembling hand.
"Go." Donna says softly, her eyes holding his with an intense, unreadable mixture of deep curiosity and fierce loyalty.
"Thank you," Mike chokes out, slipping the pad into his suit pocket like it is a piece of contraband.
He turns and bolts towards the associate's bathroom, his heart in his throat, completely aware that this makeshift solution is only going to buy him a few hours of temporary calm before the real storm begins.
++++
Enduring the rest of the day with a pad between his legs is uncomfortable at best, and incredibly annoying at worst. He tries to sit manspreading on Harvey’s couch to avoid the textured feel of the pad against him but at the same time, the thing still rubs against him with every little movement. At least his underwear won’t suffer through the consequences of that weird friction. What makes it worse, is that Harvey requests him—no, demands Mike works at his office the rest of the day, so he has to endure the stares and the silent questions lurking behind his dark chocolate eyes while having to pretend he isn’t losing his head at the constant wetness he knows it’s dripping from his cunt.
Color him not amused while dealing with this predicament.
Not even during lunch does Harvey lets him out of his sight, and the conversation is stilted and weird with Mike grunting and answering with monosyllabic responses unless he must elaborate on his arguments. Otherwise, he doesn’t even dare to make eye contact, quietly chewing on his street-cart hot dog.
He wonders if every day starting from today will be like this. All weird and confusing for Mike, making it just unbearable for them both. Maybe with time he could get to learn to live like this, but right now, that seems like a faraway wish.
With luck on his side, Harvey ends up disappearing after 7 to meet a client with Jessica, and even though Mike knows Harvey doesn’t want to, he dismisses him once he is done with his job. Demands he rests and behaves normally the next day. Mike only curtly nods and as soon as Harvey is out of sight, grabs his things and runs, thanking the heavens that the day is finally over.
The ride home on his bike is better than it was that morning but still agonizing, and his brain is just going on loops repeatedly thinking if he should continue exploring his new anatomy for research purposes or maybe seek the help of a professional. He isn’t quite sure there is an actual solution to this particular problem of his, so why involve a third party? In the end he just tries to go about his night in a normal way.
He gets some left-over pizza and eats it cold over the sink, staring at nothing while his mind keeps replaying over the whole day, more importantly, his shameful behavior in the bathroom and the incredible suspicious attitude he showed that even Louis noticed. If it hadn’t been for Harvey… Mike doesn’t know what could have happened.
With a sigh he finishes the rest of his pizza and washes down the remains with a large gulp of beer, suddenly the weight of it all, so heavy on him. He feels disheartened. He hadn’t appreciated his dick enough when he had it and now it was gone. And this new cunt of his was viciously horny. Everything made it wet, throb, clench, or pulse.
More importantly, Harvey only exacerbated those feelings and sensations, for some reason.
So even if he wanted not to address it, it was very difficult.
Mike just wanted the day to be over and was kind of hoping that once he woke up the next day, he could perhaps have gone back to how he was.
It didn’t hurt to dream.
His attention is quickly stolen by the twitching way his pussy literally begs for attention, so he removes his suit and carefully hangs it on his closet, then discards his red tie and button up shirt on the basket with dirty clothes and pulls on the t-shirt he wore last night to sleep. A non-descriptive, faded band shirt with the logo almost entirely washed away.
He doesn’t bother pulling on his pajama pants, just heads to the couch and lays down, a wave of heavy shame invading him when he slips his hand into his underwear and starts touching himself, his knuckles brushing against the damp cotton of the pad still sticking to his boxer briefs. He feels like a teenager all over again, doing something forbidden, and he can’t help but feel apprehensive, like someone could just appear out of nowhere with a loud ‘AHA!’ and catch him in the act. But he lives alone, the door is locked and the curtains are down, there is no way someone could possibly know Mike Ross is candidly rubbing his brand-new pussy.
And God, it feels good. So good.
Even better than when he did it on the bathroom, now that there is no panic and the frenzy of being done, he can actually take his time to slide his fingers up and down slowly, spreading the sticky moisture all around his soft lips, then circling the swollen nub at the top immediately feeling his inner walls clench at the blinding pleasure that curses through him, guided by the external knowledge he accumulated with the girlfriends he had the past years, now bizarrely translating that onto himself. If this feels so good, he thinks dazed, how can women not do this all the goddamn time? Or do they?
There’s hesitancy with his movements, shame at being reduced to this horny sorry excuse of himself. He had never had amazing libido to start with, and now, it seems he can’t get enough of this pleasure for some reason.
But it’s so easy, and he is already so wet his fingers slide up and down smoothly messing in the slickness coming out of him. His clit pulses and hurts and his cunt clenches with every pleasurable shudder he gets with the building friction.
His intrusive thoughts don’t help, conjuring the dark questioning looks Harvey sent him throughout the day, the way he got close to stare him down, assessing, lips pressed in annoyance and worry. His hand moves frantically now, legs spreading awkwardly against the couch, picturing Harvey fingering him hard and fast, probably annoyed that Mike can’t keep it together but cocky for having him begging for him. His overactive imagination helps him to build pleasure with every passing second; it’s so good he can even remember Harvey’s scent and taste it in the back of his teeth. He shoves his other hand into his boxers and quickly slides two fingers inside himself groaning out loud at the feel of his walls clenching hard around them and for a moment he wishes it was something bigger and hotter and preferably attached to Harvey Specter.
He comes so hard and mind-blowingly just by the idea, walls clenching wetly around his fingers and back curving forward, his teeth clenching hard, whole-body trembling with the aftershocks, the last images of his conjured fantasy still very present in his mind.
Shame and embarrassment do not come late to the party and soon he is feeling his chest tightened with anxiety. One thing is to masturbate hornily because…well, because his body begs for it. But another one is to use his boss as masturbation material.
He feels sick with himself and does his best to cleanse himself by washing his hands thoroughly and changing his underwear after wiping himself as best as he can, wrapping the pad in paper and disposing of it in the trash. He considers taking a shower, but his body feels wrung out like a dirty towel, so just conforms with some wet wipes and gets in bed, trying to get out of his mind what he just did.
Although the tiredness clings heavily to him, his mind seems unable to rest, thinking about everything and nothing.
That morning, his whole life changed.
Is this his new life? Is there a reason for all this to be happening to him specifically? Is it a curse or something else? Are there any gods up there mocking him and laughing at his expense? Suddenly, someone’s words echo in his mind: “Do not fear the shift, Michael. Sometimes, the body must change its shape to reveal the truth of the heart. Tomorrow, the armor falls away.”
He sits upright so fast he almost falls sideways at the sudden memory. The shaman. Her words. They had been weird and he didn’t pay much attention but now, after this huge shift in his body, it all seems to make sense now. Had she cursed him or something? He needs to talk to her like yesterday. Suddenly his body is jittery with unanswered questions and the need to do something but at —his sights strays to his alarm clock— 20 minutes past 11 he doubts he can get any satisfactory answers, so he forces himself to lie down and close his eyes making a mental strategy for the next day.
He only needs to have a little chat with that shaman to know what happened and what to do to fix it.
Easy enough.
++++
The next day, Mike decides to take a cab to work, not loving the idea of getting there already dripping and horny just because he rubbed a good one on the way while riding his bike.
So, he gets there early, the bullpen completely empty and takes a calming breath, ready to start the day and thinking how to accomplish his plan.
When he takes a sit at his desk and opens the top drawer to pull some half proof briefs he needs to complete, he finds another pad, like the one Donna gave him the prior day. There is a snickers bar next to it and a little post it that only has a winky face scribbled on it. He chuckles at the gesture and feels incredibly grateful, not wasting any more time running to the bathroom to get the pad in place.
Maybe he should have detoured last night and bought some himself to avoid this. Think ahead and all that, right?
Once done, he gets back and starts his work.
He is just finishing the last page of the over 400 pages contract for the new merger Harvey asked him to review, when the man himself comes strolling into the bullpen looking all proper and put together.
“Mike, I’m heading to meet with Mr. Wammy to discuss the pending topic we had on Tuesday, finish the MAG merger contract—”
“I already did.” Interrupts Mike, then bites his lip at the annoyance seeping into Harvey’s features at the interruption. “Can I go with you?”
“Why do you want to go? It’s just a formality for the finishing touches of the last changes he signed on Tuesday.” Harvey asks, head tilting questioningly.
“Well, erm, just want to make sure everything is airtight.” He shrugs, trying to sound nonchalant but vibrating inwardly.
Harvey stares him down for a second then rolls his eyes.
“Come on rookie, don’t make me be late.”
And Mike follows him eagerly, excited that he is getting closer to getting some answers.
After getting in Harvey’s car, Ray driving them to their destination, he wonders if he may have thrown himself headfirst unknowingly into the wolf’s den. He is in an enclosed space with Harvey. He can very easily feel the other man’s body heat and smell his suffocating mouth-watering cologne. The leather seats of the car, smooth under him, only add to it. He can’t help but fantasize a thousand things.
Him getting on Harvey’s lap and rubbing his swollen cunt on Harvey’s covered cock until he comes. Or getting on his knees for Harvey. Or having Harvey on his knees for him. The more he lets his mind wander, the more heat he feels spread to his face and the discomfort grows within him. He ends up crossing and twisting his legs like a pretzel while sitting rigidly praying for time to go faster.
If Harvey notices his weird behavior he doesn’t comment, but Mike knows he is making a spectacle of himself.
Once they reach the client’s mansion, he forces his legs to stride naturally behind Harvey, hands shaking at his sides.
Underneath his crisp suit slacks, the heavy-duty cotton pad he’d lined his briefs with is already warm and damp. Every step is a terrifying exercise in self-control. His new anatomy is a hyper-sensitive, pulsing weight, leaking slow, constant slickness with every shift of his hips.
"Get it together, Mike," Harvey snaps, not slowing his pace as they near the double doors of Mr. Wammy’s home office. Harvey pauses, turning a sharp, analytical gaze onto his associate. "You still look like you're running a fever. If you crash and burn in front of the client—"
"I'm fine, Harvey," Mike interrupts quickly, his voice a little tight. "A stomach bug isn't going to keep me out of the game."
Harvey stares at him for a long, calculating beat, his eyes dropping briefly to the rigid, locked way Mike is holding himself before snapping back up. "Fine. But keep your mouth shut unless I ask you to speak."
When they enter the room, Mr. Wammy is already buried under an avalanche of financial ledgers. Standing right beside him, completely detached everything, is the shaman. She is nursing a cup of tea, her light grey eyes slitting with immediate, sharp amusement, the second Mike walks through the door.
The first forty minutes of the meeting are a blur of financial numbers and legal jargon. Mike barely pays attention. His entire body is vibrating. Sitting right next to Harvey—watching the smooth, confident movement of Harvey's mouth as he argues a point, catching the rich, amber scent of his cologne—is causing Mike’s new anatomy to throb rhythmically, his fantasy at the forefront of his mind. He has to clench his teeth so hard his jaw aches, fighting the desperate urge to rub his thighs together.
When Mr. Wammy excuses himself to make a necessary call to his accountant, Harvey immediately stands up to follow him out, intent on cornering the old man in the hallway.
This is Mike’s chance.
The moment the heavy wooden doors click shut behind Harvey, Mike stands up and walks around the desk to stand in front of the shaman, who so far, hasn’t moved at all from where she is standing.
"What did you do to me?" Mike demands, his voice dropping into a fierce, trembling whisper.
The shaman doesn’t look up immediately. She takes a slow, deliberate sip of her tea, her expression serene. When she finally raises her grey eyes to meet him, her smile widens knowingly, entirely stripped of surprise.
"I did nothing, Michael," she replies softly, her voice carrying that same eerie, echoing weight from the day before. "The world merely adapted to accommodate what you refuse to acknowledge."
"Don't give me that mystical garbage!" Mike hisses, leaning closer, eyes frantically looking towards the still closed door. "I woke up yesterday morning and my parts were... they were completely gone! Replaced! I am currently walking around with a... with lady-parts. You did this. Fix it. Tell me how to change it right now."
The shaman lets out a low, melodic laugh that makes the hair on the back of Mike’s neck stand up. She reaches out, her fingers hovering just inches away from his shoulder, though she doesn’t touch him this time.
"The physical form is a rigid vessel, but it is deeply obedient to the spirit," she murmurs, her eyes boring into his blown-out, panicked pupils. "You wear your manhood like armor, Michael. You use it to stand tall, to argue, to pretend you are a man apart from him. But your spirit has grown tired of the distance. It craves a vessel that allows you to be fully taken. To be filled. To surrender the heavy secrets you carry to the only man who commands your world."
"I don't want to surrender anything to anyone!" Mike shrieks defensively, his voice cracking with sheer humiliation as a hot flush crawls up his throat. "I just want my body back!"
"Then you must seek the cure where the question was asked," the shaman counters, her expression turning sharp and unyielding. "The magic is real, but the solution belongs entirely to you. I will not wave a hand and undo the truth of your heart."
"What does that mean?" Mike pleads, his demanding facade completely shattering into raw panic. "Just give me the terms! What do I have to do?"
The shaman leans back away from him slightly, staring intently at his face. Her light grey eyes slitting into twin crescents of profound amusement. "The cure lies in confronting your internal desires, not running from them. Stop fighting the tide, Michael. Only when your body has received exactly what it transformed to take... will the scales balance."
"What do you want me to... what does that even —" Mike’s breath hitches, confusion seeping into his mind, at the cryptic way the shaman speaks.
"You know what it means." the shaman whispers, glancing towards the door.
Mike jolts back, quickly straightening his posture and yanking his suit jacket down just as the double doors open. Harvey steps back into the room, entirely radiating power, irritation, and dominance. He falters slightly, at the close proximity between Mike and the shaman, but recovers fast enough.
"It’s done," Harvey snaps, walking right next to Mike, his hand brushing heavily against Mike's shoulder and staring down the shaman. "Let’s get back.”
The heavy weight of Harvey's hand against his shoulder both grounds him and makes him shudder, the possessive hold tightening while Mike scrambles to say something.
“Yeah, okay.”
Harvey sends a parting nod towards the shaman, and pulls Mike with him, arm enclosing Mike’s shoulders to guide him out of the office. Mike just lets himself be pulled away, sending a last confused look at the shaman, who is still calmly sipping her tea.
++++
Mike loses himself on the words of the shaman.
It all sounded very confusing, but he is smart, no, he is a genius. He can decipher it.
First, she said something about the armor he wore. His manhood.
It didn’t make much sense because Mike didn’t hide himself in the fact he was a man. But she also said that he did it to pretend he was a man apart from another. Who? His eyes stray to look at Harvey, busy on his phone, mask of indifference and intense focus already in place.
Mike gulps.
She also said the body was just a rigid vessel and destined to obey his spirit.
So, for some reason his spirit wants Mike to be a woman, because by being a man he hides himself and his desires to be…filled. His face heats at the implication, eyes once again straying to look at Harvey’s profile for a second before snapping back to stare through the window and the quickly passing scenery outside.
He clears his throat and dries his sweaty hands.
There is no need for him to overthink the issue right now and get himself in an even more uncomfortable position with Harvey, so he locks away the conversation with the shaman to later dissect in the confines of his home and tries to ground himself, get his brain in work-mode.
It’s no less difficult than the previous day, to keep it together, but at least there is the knowledge that he may be closer to fixing the issue? If only he can unravel the weird things the shaman told him.
Harvey starts their workday by keeping a tight leash on Mike again, barely keeping him out of sight. It’s annoying but endearing at the same time. Mike knows Harvey is just worried even if the older man won’t even accept it.
And if in the end Mike is saved from suffering from Louis’s stares and his mountains of work, then so be it. Also, Donna occasionally comes by with teacups for him and curious glances. She may not know what exactly is wrong with him, but it’s obvious she can notice how under the weather he actually is.
Rachel texts him in the afternoon, asking for his whereabouts and he is only a little sheepish at confessing he has been sequestered in Harvey’s office. The sad emoticon she sends with a question about lunch makes Mike sigh and practically fight with Harvey to let him go and have a normal lunch with a friend. Of course, Harvey rolls his eyes and tells him that he better not let that ‘pretty paralegal’ affect the focus he worked so hard to build during that morning.
Mike does take offense on that but snorts either way at the usual nickname Harvey uses to still refer to Rachel. With a little bit more lightness on his step, he meets Rachel downstairs, and together they head towards a small and recently new restaurant that Rachel enjoys visiting on the regular.
The restaurant is small, packed with the mid-day midtown rush, but sitting across from Rachel in a quiet corner booth feels like a brief, necessary escape from the suffocating pressure of Pearson Hardman. For the first time all day, Mike isn’t dealing with Harvey’s imposing, impeccably tailored presence dictating his every breath, nor does he have to stare at a mountain of merger files.
Rachel smiles warmly, setting her menu down and leaning her chin on her hand as she looks at him. "You know, when you texted me saying you were sequestered in Harvey's office, I half-expected you to decline lunch with me," she teases, her eyes crinkling with genuine affection. "I’m glad you managed to fight your way out for an hour. You've been working so hard lately, Mike, you deserve a normal lunch with a friend."
"Are you kidding? I practically had to stage a mutiny just to step foot out of the glass doors," Mike snorts, a genuine, relaxed laugh escaping him as he unbuttons his suit jacket and settles back into the booth. "Harvey rolled his eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck, and then he gave me this whole speech about how I better not let the 'pretty paralegal' ruin the focus I built this morning."
Rachel let out a melodious laugh, shaking her head. "Of course he did. God forbid you have a social life that doesn't revolve around corporate law. And he's still calling me that?"
"Always," Mike smiles, checking his watch out of pure, engrained habit before intentionally dropping his hand. "But honestly, it’s just really good to sit down and talk about literally anything that isn't cross-collateralized clauses or asset division. How have your classes been going? Are you surviving the prep for the LSATs?"
"Barely," Rachel sighs, though her expression is bright as she begins to detail her latest study schedule. "My apartment is currently eighty percent flashcards and twenty percent old coffee cups. But I think I'm finally nailing the logical reasoning sections..."
As Rachel talks, the heavy, hyper-focused tension that had been gripping Mike’s shoulders all morning finally begins to bleed away. Listening to her familiar, grounded voice complaining about standard law school stress allows him to just breathe. For a few fleeting minutes, the chaotic uncertainty of his life recedes into the background, replaced by the simple, comforting rhythm of a standard lunch with one of the few people at the firm who truly care about him as a person.
They order their food, trading easy, practiced banter about the eccentricities of the senior partners, the latest office gossip Donna had subtly dropped, and the absolute absurdity of Louis Litt's dictatorial approach to the associate pool. It was a perfect, ordinary moment of calm.
But the reprieve, as always at Pearson Hardman, is short-lived.
The second the waiter drops off the check, Mike's cell phone buzzes violently against the wood of the table. He doesn't even have to look at the caller ID to know who it is. The sharp, abrupt reminder of the office slamming back into him, and the heavy stress of the afternoon rushes in like a tidal wave.
"Harvey?" Rachel asks sympathetically, watching the way Mike's posture instantly goes rigid again.
"Who else?" Mike confirms with a dry, slightly breathless smile as he throws down his half of the cash. "His five-minute grace period is officially over. The MEG merger briefs are calling."
"Go save the world, Mike," Rachel chuckles, sliding out of the booth to give him a quick, encouraging hug. "Don't let him work you to death."
"I'll try," Mike murmurs, gripping his messenger bag tightly against his hip.
The walk back to the glass towers is an absolute blur of returning anxiety. The moment he steps back into the elevator, the heavy, suffocating pressure of his secret and his responsibilities settle right back over his chest. For the rest of the afternoon, Mike sits on Harvey’s office couch in a state of high-voltage stress, the peaceful memory of lunch completely swallowed by the agonizing, ticking clock of the cases building on the coffee table and the demanding, dark-eyed presence of the man watching him from across the office.
Still with half his mind melting out of sheer panic and fear, he is able to complete everything Harvey throws at him. He may have been acting way more jittery, as if on his 12th red bull, but still, he does incredibly well. Harvey in the end, acknowledges the same, patting him on the back with a small smile at around 8 at night. Mike sort of flinches at the touch, feeling strung out after several hours enclosed in the same space as Harvey. If Harvey notices, he doesn’t say anything, just dismisses him early again.
Mike leaves, half fearing what the next day may entail for him and half starting to get resigned to it all. The way his new parts constantly gush and throb with every dark glare Harvey throws his way, or at the deepened pitch his voice takes when he is talking on the phone with a particularly difficult client. It’s not ideal, but he can get the gist of it and deal with it.
At least, while he guesses what the shaman told him and reverses the situation.
He also can’t deny that what he gets from it isn’t the worst for him. It’s embarrassing of course, to admit how horny he gets just by thinking of touching himself – or thinking about a certain someone touching him – but in the privacy of his home, everything is allowed, so as soon as he reaches his apartment, he undresses to his underwear, disposes of the used pad, and takes a comfortable seat on the couch, lowering his boxer briefs to his ankles and placing his feet on top of the coffee table.
There is a certain sense of him doing something forbidden still, like he still can’t wrap his mind entirely on the fact that he now has a pussy; that the change is a mistake, he shouldn’t abuse it, but his man brain that highlights the pleasure he gets out of it overpowers that, so without hesitating, he spreads his legs and starts touching himself in earnest, almost laughing at his eagerness.
It’s no less intense as the first time, and in to time his fingers are almost dripping with his slick, thumb rubbing hard against his clit and the tip of a finger slowly getting in and out of his opening until he is down to the last knuckle, ass sliding even lower on the couch, legs spreading even more, his other hand spreading his lips to aid on the addition of a second finger, teeth clamping hard on his lower lip. He is sure the neighbors won’t hear him, or at least, won’t mind if they do, but still, the shame of what he does makes him clamp his mouth shut, only letting soft gasps and tiny moans escape him every now and then.
The pleasure builds more and more, the friction of his fingers against his inner walls maddeningly good. And he chases it desperately, toes curling and fingers spreading and curling viciously inside him while he rubs his clit with abandon until it all implodes behind his eyelids – unsure of the moment he closed his eyes – body tensing all over, he can almost feel a cramp forming on one of his legs with the way his muscles lock on tight.
The waves come and come, washing down and letting him down of his high slowly in such a pleasant way.
The sudden heavy banging on his door snaps him out of his post-orgasmic haze, making him scramble in a panic and remove his hands from between his legs, a gasp escaping him loudly.
“Mike! Open the door!”
Harvey’s voice. Loud, demanding, and completely uninvited.
"H-Harvey?!" Mike squeaks in surprise, scrambling off the couch. He looks down at his bare legs and the wet mess between his legs, sheer terror freezing him in place. "I'm—I'm sleeping, Harvey! Go away!"
"Like hell you are." Harvey barks from the hallway. "Open the door in three seconds, or I’m calling the super and telling him you’re overdosing. One. Two—"
“Wait!”
In a panic, Mike rushes to the bathroom, rapidly washing his hands and then wiping quickly with some toilet paper before pulling up his boxers again before stomping over to the door and throwing it open. He doesn’t even care that he is panting, flushed, and only in his underwear. That’s on Harvey, not him.
Harvey stands in the doorway, still in his flawless three-piece suit, his coat slung over his forearm. He looks ready to tear Mike a new one, but the moment the door swung wide, Harvey froze. His eyes taking in the sorry state his associate is in.
Harvey steps inside, slamming the door shut behind him. "What the hell is going on, Mike? You look like a wreck. You were acting strange the whole day. Even now I can tell something is going on. Talk to me. Right now." His eyes look around the small apartment, as if trying to find something incriminating.
The sheer authority in Harvey's voice, combined with the heavy, familiar scent of his cologne floods Mike’s sense, sending an immediate, violent throb right to his core. Again?
In a desperate attempt to put some distance and not give himself away he turns and walks towards his small living room, pacing the small space while messing his hair violently with his hands.
“There is nothing going on Harvey, why can’t you just leave me alone.”
He sounds desperate and pleading, and knows Harvey won’t ever buy it, but he can at least let some of his embarrassment translate into anger and take it out on Harvey. Who made his day 10 times worse than it already was just by existing and being perfect.
“What did you just say to me?” Harvey follows him with an incredulous expression, assessing his jittery self, walking around the coffee table. When Mike turns to pin him with a hardening, hateful look, Harvey is just looking at him with clear worry now, and Mike visibly deflates. For someone that swears up and down doesn’t have a care in the world for other people, Harvey is really looking worried for him.
The intensity in his eyes has always taken Mike’s breath away but now, it also makes him wet himself. How infuriating. He just came like, 2 minutes ago.
The frustration, the humiliation, and the absolute exhaustion of the last two days finally break him.
“All I ask is for you to trust me. But you can’t even do that.” It’s unfair, to say something like that when Harvey hasn’t been anything if not fiercely loyal to Mike during the past 2 years working together, but he knows it’s a sensitive topic for the other man and hopes it will make him stop insisting there is something wrong.
Harvey’s nostrils flare, clearly furious with the comment but he still doesn’t say anything. Is as if he knows Mike is baiting him into a fight to get this over with and Mike feels nervous at the idea. Maybe Harvey knows him better than he thought.
“Don’t ever question my trust in you.” Harvey says, calmly, head dangerously tilted to the side, fists clenched. “I know something is wrong with you because this,” he addresses Mike with a vague move of his hand, “is not how you behave. Hasn’t been for a long time.”
Mike crosses his arms protectively in front of his chest and looks down, body curved slightly forward trying to hide on himself.
“I don’t have to tell you everything that happens in my life.” He murmurs in defiance. A last resort, even if it makes him sound like a rebelling teenager.
“It affects you professionally, which means it becomes my business. Tell me what is going on. I may be able to help. If it’s money issues, or Trevor or someone else—”
“No, for fuck’s sake. It’s not Trevor, it’s not drugs, it’s nothing as mundane and stupid as that. Is my life going up in flames and me unable to do anything about it!” Mike yells, irritated to no end at the insistence of Harvey suggesting Mike would even think of breaking his promise about doing drugs and all that. He would never.
“And what exactly is it that could turn your life up-side down from one day to the other if it’s not something like drugs or money? You were fine on Monday, goddammit.”
Now they are really shouting at each other, and Mike really prays his neighbors don’t mind the ruckus.
“Why should I tell you if you won’t even believe me? You can’t even possibly help either.”
“Why wouldn’t I believe you?” he asks, his tone suddenly shifting from anger to genuine confusion and skepticism. “And why are you so sure I can’t help? There are a lot of things I can handle, and you know it.”
Mike doesn’t want to say it, but he feels overflowing with rage, embarrassment and fear of being alone in this weird ass situation.
“How could you believe it? It’s ridiculous! I lost my dick yesterday, Harvey! It’s gone!” he half yells in between a laugh and a sob.
Harvey is about to retort to his comment with a sharp retort, no doubt, until the meaning of the words computes enough to make him stop dead on his tracks, going rigid, and wonder aloud, “What?”
“I woke up with no dick is what I’m saying, you asshole.” States Mike flatly, while shoving his underwear down and kicking it to the side in a reckless, frantic motion to get the humiliation over with. Harvey’s eyes automatically slide down, to in between his legs, but just as quickly look away.
“Hey wait—" then as if his brain just catches up with the sight of…nothing hanging there, he looks back, head tilting even more in question and eyebrows rising in surprise. “What the fuck?” he asks now, at a loss for better words.
“Exactly. Now tell me how you can fix this.” Mike feels vindicated at seeing Harvey now squirm in obvious discomfort at the turn the conversation took. Serves him right for minding other people’s businesses.
“If you don’t—then what, do you—” words fail Harvey, but Mike gets the gist of what he is trying to say and so, lifts one bare leg and rests his foot firmly on the cushion of the couch, parting himself wide to expose the glistening, pulsing anatomy that had replaced his manhood.
“I have lady parts now. A fucking pussy, Harvey.” he says, just in case Harvey doesn’t understand what he is looking at.
By the blank face he has, that seems to be the case. It’s understandable, that was exactly what Mike felt the previous morning when he himself realized what was going on.
The silence stretches, and Mike is now regretting doing this. The evidence of what he did is still fresh, he barely got rid of it. His face instantly burns in realization, but he doesn’t dare to move.
Harvey is still staring, a little agape, face going completely blank as the sheer reality of the situation sinks in. But where Mike expected him to panic, or mock him, or back away in disgust, Harvey does something entirely unexpected. He takes a slow, deep breath, and the stunned shock on his face instantly hardens into something intensely focused.
The corporate fixer is stepping back into the room, as if this is a difficult situation with a client that needs his abilities as closer.
Harvey tosses his overcoat onto the armchair, unbuttons his suit jacket, and slowly closes the distance between them. He doesn’t look away from the sight in between Mike’s legs. Instead, he steps right in front of him, his eyes narrowing with a sharp, clinical assessment as he leans down slightly, treating the impossible anatomical shift with the exact same focus he uses to dissect a hostile corporate merger.
"Keep your leg up," Harvey commands, his voice dropping into a low, steady, and thoroughly professional register that brooks absolutely no argument.
Mike blinks, his breath catching in his throat as Harvey quietly kneels down on one knee right in front of him, getting entirely eye-level with Mike's bare lap.
"Harvey, what are you doing?" Mike squeaks, his cheeks burning a furious crimson, parted leg immediately moving to cross over himself and cover his parts, but Harvey’s hands stop him.
"I'm assessing the situation, so I know exactly what kind of specialist we need to call," Harvey replies evenly, his tone completely objective, though his dark eyes burn with a heavy intensity. His large, warm hands set firmly onto Mike’s inner thighs, using his fingers to gently spread the flesh a fraction wider.
Mike lets out a sharp, trembling gasp at the contact, his hips twitching involuntarily. The heat of Harvey's palms sent an immediate, electricity-like jolt straight to his core.
"Calm down and breathe," Harvey murmurs, his thumb smoothing over Mike's trembling thigh to steady him. He leans in closer, his sharp eyes meticulously scanning the soft, intricate folds. "Anatomically speaking... from a purely objective standpoint based on my experience with women, it looks entirely normal, Mike. Perfectly formed. If I didn't know for a fact that René measured you for a Tom Ford suit two months ago, I'd say you were born with it."
"Normal?!" Mike echoes hysterically, his head dropping back dramatically, while his hands cover his eyes, hoping that this is just a weird dream and not real life. "Harvey, it is not normal! It's been doing things all day!"
"I can see that," Harvey notes, his voice remaining remarkably disciplined, though his jaw is clenched tight as he stares directly at the pearlescent moisture glistening along the inner folds. He watches as the delicate flesh flutters and pulses in a rhythmic, hyper-aroused swell, entirely reactive to his proximity and his touch. "It's remarkably wet. Is it painful, or is it just functional?"
He didn’t just ask that.
Mike can’t believe this is his life now.
"It works incredibly okay, if that's what you mean." Mike answers in a snappish tone, a defensive, breathless whine slipping past his teeth as his leg trembles against Harvey's hand.
Harvey looks at him with such dark eyes; Mike has to look away for the sake of his sanity.
“I’m not telling you how I know.” He whispers, arms crossing over his chest again and fists clenching tight.
Harvey’s hands tighten on Mike’s thighs, his thumbs digging into the soft skin with a sudden, fierce possessiveness that completely contradicts his professional tone.
“Yesterday?” he asks, eyes back towards Mike’s cunt as if he can’t get enough.
Mike swallows and nods.
“It was suddenly like this. It’s like it’s alive. All it does is throb and gush nonstop.” He confesses, a little relieved, that he can at least tell someone what he is going through. Although he would have preferred it wasn’t his boss, on which he has a huge, weird crush. “Had to ask Donna for some pads to avoid staining my pants.”
"Good to know the plumbing is fully operational," Harvey murmurs in what ends up being a flat joke, since his voice drops an octave, and becomes rougher around the edges as he slowly stands up, towering over an entirely bare and flushed Mike, that wastes no time in pulling on his underwear again to try and salvage some of his decorum. Harvey reaches into his breast pocket and smoothly pulls out his phone, his fingers already flying and typing. "We are going to handle this the way we handle everything else."
"Handle it how?" Mike asks, his body is still vibrating from the intense scrutiny.
"I'm getting an appointment with a doctor I know in the city," Harvey says, his sharp eyes locking onto Mike with unshakeable certainty. "She’s highly discreet, handles high-profile medical anomalies for elite clients, and her non-disclosure agreements are ironclad. No one at the firm is going to find out about this, and no one is going to touch you but her. I’m getting you an assessment in the morning."
Harvey tucks the phone again into his breast pocket, his posture radiating absolute control and some sympathy. Or so it seems.
“I don’t think that’s going to solve anything.” Mumbles Mike, frowning. He already knows the change his body overwent is not related to anything biological or medical.
“We can get a professional assessment on your new…equipment.” Harvey’s eyes trail down again towards Mike’s crotch; the baggy part of his boxers sucked in due to the emptiness there. “You do know that if you have a vulva, most likely you have a uterus as well and that entails too many things that neither you, nor me, are equipped to either predict or treat without the help of google. Or Donna. Which I assume you do not want to get involved. Better to get a doctor check you out and tell us everything there is to know.”
Mike stares blankly, thinking. Harvey’s right. Pretty much the most important things he feared once he realized this changed were periods and pregnancy. It wouldn’t hurt to know more about his new body in general, just to make sure everything is all right. And if he is already going to put himself out there with this doctor, perhaps he could ask about the constant arousal.
“Right. Of course. The least I want is to get a period in the middle of court because I can’t keep track of my cycle.” Mike snorts, a little as a joke, and a little in distress. Harvey’s nose flares, eyes widening, most likely picturing the whole thing.
A pregnant pause settles then, Harvey staring at Mike with pressed lips and Mike evading Harvey’s eyes while remembering he is still pretty much half naked.
“So, at what time?” he asks, trying to dispel the awkwardness of the whole ordeal.
“8 AM. I will send Ray to pick you up.”
Mike’s eyebrow rises questioningly. “You are not coming?” he asks tentatively.
Harvey tilts his head, face neutral. “Do you want me to?”
The question sounds simple but feels loaded.
Mike doesn’t actually know what to say. He assumed that since Harvey made the appointment and was in ‘fixer’ mode, he would want or more likly demand to be there, but it seems there is a line about this whole thing that Harvey is respectfully not crossing without Mike’s explicit consent. Which, mind you, could have included that mortifying moment when he all but put his face in front of Mike’s naked cunt, but no, apparently that specific interaction was within their usual ‘boundaries’. Of course Mike was the first to cross it, what with his sudden dropping of underwear and leg spreading.
He bites his lips at the memory, face heating slightly.
“I should definitively go by myself. I don’t know how long I will be there, and you are needed at the firm.”
Harvey nods in agreement, then looks around.
“Be ready by 7.30 AM so you get there on time.”
Mike nods and crosses his arms, staring pointedly at the door every now and then.
“See you tomorrow then.” Adds Mike, in clear dismissal. Harvey stands there for a moment longer, then nods once, picks up his coat and turns to leave, opening the door and stepping out without another word.
The sigh Mike lets out sounds as if he were a deflated balloon.
He had been thinking about telling Harvey about the possible culprit of what happened to him but isn’t sure how to broach the subject so he just keeps that little nugget of info to himself for now.