#scottie

Can I request a Harvey Specter x female reader?

I was thinking something like, the reader was Donna's substitute when she was fired, and she actually impressed Harvey. When Donna came back she realized that because of the subtle ways he always found to keep the reader around even after Donna was fully back.

At some point he confesses his feelings and he starts dating the reader. After some months she comes back home to Harvey's and she finds Scottie there (Harvey gave her a key way back as he says in season 2) because she didn't know Harvey was in a relationship and wanted to surprise him.

After that the reader gets insecure because she knows Harvey's fame, maybe asks for some time or whatever you think fits better and he reassures her.

Feel free to add something hot after that if you like

Thank you ❤️

Trying to destroy me with this one. 😭 Because we all know Harvey Specter hates change.

NOTE: I've been working on this for a little bit now, trying to make sure it goes exactly how I wanted it to. I did turn up the heat... just a little at the end for ya 💝

Stepping into Donna Paulsen’s shoes was widely considered a suicide mission. When Donna was briefly fired over the Coastal Motors fiasco, the firm needed a temporary replacement for Harvey Specter immediately.

You got the call. You expected a demanding, arrogant closer who would bark orders and dismiss you within an hour. Instead, you gave him exactly what he didn't know he needed. Sharp wit, flawless organization, and a refusal to be intimidated by his sharp tongue. By day three, you weren't just keeping up with Harvey; you were anticipating his next move. You genuinely impressed him.

When Donna finally returned to her rightful place, everyone assumed you’d be sent packing. But Harvey had other plans.

It started with small things. Harvey suddenly required a "special project coordinator" for his high-profile trials. Then, he insisted that Jessica needed a dedicated floating associate who specifically knew his workflow. Every time your contract was nearing its end, a new, highly lucrative position within the firm miraculously opened up, always keeping your desk just a few hallways away from his glass office.

Donna cornered him about it one evening, pouring two glasses of scotch. "Harvey. The temp? Still here?"

Harvey didn't look up from his files. "She’s efficient, Donna. The firm needs good people."

Donna let out a knowing, low laugh. "She is efficient. But you don't keep people around just because they’re efficient. You keep them around because you like looking at them. And because you miss her when she’s not outside your door."

It took another three weeks for Harvey to act on Donna's words. It happened late one rainy night in his office. You were handing him a finalized brief, your fingers brushing against his. He didn't let go.

Looking into your eyes with an intensity that made your breath hitch, he admitted he couldn't imagine the firm or his life—without you anymore. That night, the professional boundaries shattered.

------

Six months later, you were officially dating, and things were blissful. You had your own drawer at his apartment, a key to his place, and a sense of security you never thought you'd find with New York's most eligible bachelor.

Until tonight.

You unlocked the door, expecting an empty apartment since Harvey was stuck in a late deposition. Instead, the lights were dim, and a woman was standing by the kitchen island, pouring herself a glass of wine.

Gorgeous. Dark hair.

Scottie.

You froze. She spun around, equally surprised, her eyes scanning you from head to toe.

"Oh," Scottie said, lowering her glass. "Who are you?"

"I live here. Well, partly," you stammered, your chest tightening. "Who are you? And how did you get in?"

Scottie sighed, a look of realization crossing her face. She held up a silver key. "Harvey gave me this a long time ago... whatever we were. I wanted to surprise him. I didn't realize he was... seeing someone."

Just then, the front door clicked open again. Harvey walked in, loosening his tie. He stopped dead in his tracks, his gaze darting between you, Scottie, and the key in her hand.

"Scottie," Harvey said, his voice dropping an octave. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you. But clearly, I should have called," Scottie said smoothly, though her eyes held a hint of defeat. She set her glass down, grabbed her coat, and looked at you. "I'll let myself out."

The silence after the door clicked shut was deafening. You stood near the kitchen, your mind racing. Harvey’s past wasn't a secret, but seeing it manifest in the form of a gorgeous, brilliant lawyer who held a literal key to his apartment made the insecurity you'd been suppressing burn with humiliation.

And worse, Scottie looked like she belonged here.

You suddenly felt stupid for ever believing you did too.

So you left.

------

Three days.

Three days of ignored calls, unread texts, and Harvey apparently terrorizing everyone at Pearson Specter because he was in a mood.

Donna finally cornered you in the archives room.

“You’re being an idiot,” she informed you bluntly.

“Thanks, Donna.”

“She meant nothing.”

“You don’t know that.”

Donna softened slightly. “That man is in love with you. Which is honestly terrifying for the rest of us.”

That night, you decide to go back to Harvey's apartment. Not to see him, but to get the rest of your things.

You push the door open, steeling yourself against the familiar scent of his apartment. Leather, coffee, that particular warmth that clings to the walls. The living room is dim, lit only by the city glow through the wide windows, and Harvey is already standing, rising from the couch the moment he hears you.

“You came back,” he says, his voice low, almost careful.

You don’t meet his eyes. Instead, you head for the bedroom. “I just need to grab the rest of my stuff. It’ll be quick.”

He follows, hovering by the doorframe, arms loose at his sides. There’s a tension in his jaw, the kind he gets when he’s fighting to keep control. “She just showed up, out of the blue. I didn’t invite her here.”

You still refuse to look at him. “It doesn’t matter. I saw what I saw. Scottie, in your apartment, looking comfortable.”

"He steps closer, his voice dropping. “I told you before, it’s you. It’s only ever been you since we started this.”

Your hands still. The air between you feels charged, heavy with everything unsaid.

“Harvey—”

“Look at me.” His hand closes gently around your wrist, tugging until you turn. His eyes are dark, earnest, searching yours. “I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone else. I want you. Here. In this apartment. In my life. And I’ll say it as many times as it takes for you to believe me.”

Your breath catches. He’s so close now, his thumb stroking slow circles on the inside of your wrist.

“Prove it,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

His mouth curves, just a little.

He cups your face, tilts your chin up, and kisses you deeply, deliberate, like he’s trying to pour every unspoken promise into it. Your back meets the wall, his body pressing against yours, warm and solid. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer.

Every movement deliberate. Intentional. Like he was trying to erase every doubt from your head one kiss at a time.

His lips trace down your jaw, your throat, murmuring against your skin, “Stay. Please. Stay tonight. Stay forever. I don’t care, just stay.”

You don’t answer with words. You pull him back to the bed. Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging him down as you fall backwards onto the mattress. He follows, covering you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other already sliding under the hem of your shirt. His palm is warm and rough against the bare skin of your waist, and you arch into the touch, gasping against his mouth.

He breaks the kiss to drag his lips down your throat, slower now, hotter, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your pulse point until your breath comes in shallow, uneven hitches. You feel the fabric of your shirt bunching as he pushes it up.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your collarbone, but his voice is thick, strained. He doesn't want you to.

You don't. You reach down, fingers finding the hem of his shirt, tugging it up until he pulls back just long enough to yank it over his head. Then he's back, skin against skin. His mouth claims yours again, hungrier this time, more demanding, and your hands roam over the muscles of his back, nails raking lightly.

The room grows warmer, the air thick with the sound of breathing, rustling sheets, the soft click of a belt unbuckling. Shadows shift across the ceiling as the city lights flicker outside.

Some doodles.

#3264. Biscottie