192. {c} [suits] (harvey/donna) six degrees of separation [4/prologue+6+epilogue]
six degrees of separation ; r ; 2,523 words ;
you gonna think that you fixed yourself
they aren't okay but they'll both pretend anyway
a/n: this is for abvj who donated to fandomaid
They don't fit together right.
Her hands are hot on the back of his neck, the outlines of her fingers burning into his skin and making it turn red beneath her touch only to make it flush out in a yellowish hue around it. Donna's lips on his aren't like any other woman's; they are warm, strange on contradictory to everything he's ever known because they are lips that he's spent the most time in his life looking at but not touching. He can't say that he's ever really known them. He wonders now, after all this time, if he's ever really known her before now.
His thumbs press into her hipbones, the ridged feeling of her bones cutting into his fingertips. Her mouth is warm, her hair hugs her face and tickles at his collarbone as the end of it is drawn to her cleavage - every inch of him aches for her. His fingers stretch out for the hem of her dress and he becomes more aware of just how short it has really been all along.
Her tongue touches his and it's then that he realizes that she has the upperhand, the power, and she's been guiding them through this journey all along and he's just always been at her mercy. It's then that he decides to open his mouth a bit wider and plunge his tongue into hers. It's then, it's then, it's then...it's then that they rewind and repeat, replaying the featured moment over and over again as his nails dig into the back her thighs and her fingers grasp onto him like she's begging for this.
He gets it, she doesn't have to say anything because he gets her movements and her touch her without her having to voice her actual thoughts - no words are necessary between them, all of the things that are unsaid will remain unsaid. The point is - they don't fit together right because her hands are here and there but everywhere at the same time, and his mouth feels like it doesn't belong but it's never really felt like it belonged before. He thinks it's in his head, that it's because he knows he's supposed to be kissing someone else and she's supposed to be kissing someone else but all he wants is her.
His fingers spread out against her skin, grasping her hamstrings as he uses the strength he can muster; her tongue winds around his, her smooth palette feeling rough against his as he pushes himself towards her. His weight shifts and pulls him, gravity taking over and sending his chest into hers forcing him to step forward to keep his balance. His weight seems to double and her back hits the wall with a thud, steps away from his bedroom; a gasp escapes her lips, their mouths parting and his teeth tugging on her slightly swollen lips.
All of the muscles in his fingers activate, push into her thighs as he lifts her from the floor and pushes his hips forward to pin her against the wall. Her nails press into his skin, glide over his shoulders until they dig in and leave red streaks as her movements continue down his chest. He groans and her pressure loosens around his ribcage, touch becoming featherlight as his hands ease the hem of her dress upwards. Their breath mingles in the space between them, one hand sliding to the small of her back as she arches into him and the other finding her hair.
He swallows like he wants to say something, like he's trying to form words, but instead is distracted by the sound of one of her stilletos dropping to the floor. He lifts his head, nose brushing over hers as his gaze meets her, and her breathing speeds up - it's faster and harder, like she can't get her shit together, like she's stuck in the in between and can't decide if this is something that she does want or doesn't want. It lingers, they linger, their movements halt and everything seems to hang in limbo for what feels like an eternity.
Harvey thinks, I'm in love with you because I need you -
but he says nothing.
The roots of her hair is soft, tickles his fingertips as the red locks curl around his hand and the bridge of her nose brushes the tip of his. For a brief moment, he thinks he should say something, that she needs him to say something, because most women want him to make polite conversation during foreplay, but he remembers that this Donna and she is not most women. Donna doesn't need words to communicate and she has no difficulty understanding him by any means; she can read him like an open book and he supposes he's always had trouble being closed to her.
Her heels dig into the base of his spine, her hair wrapping around his fingers and making him absently tug on her hair. Her neck tilts backwards with the movement, exposing more of her neck, and he just has to put his mouth there. His tongue and lips touch her skin at the same time, tasting the hollows of her throat as the distinct smell of her perfume being translated into taste; his tastebuds scream out to taste more, like what he's been given isn't quite enough and she's already lingering in his mouth.
He hears a noise fall out of her mouth and it makes him thrust his hips upward in response. He expels a breath against her skin, her fingers digging into his hair and his eyes drift closed at the realization that her hands are everywhere at the same time. Her touch lingers on his hands, on his chest, along his ribcage - her fingers pinching the ends of his slightly too long hair as she pulls his neck back to mimic hers.
He wonders if it's a power thing, if she wants to watch him react to her, but this is what he feels - her fingers pressing on his forehead as she arches her torso into his and her chin bumping against his as she blindly seeks his lips out with her own. He admits to himself that he is in love with her, that this is only the foreplay and he can feel her ribs against his, and he groans awkwardly into her mouth. He feels her lips curl upwards into a smirk against his and it makes sense that she'd love this, that she'd thrive on having a blind power over him.
His mouth parts beneath hers, his fingertips slipping beneath the loose fabric of her dress and pressing into the arch of her spine as he takes a half step backwards. He braces her in his arms, no longer having the help of the wall to keep her upright and he narrowly misses the sharp edge of her heel. His tongue flits against hers, the tumbling motion inside of his mouth sliding against her tongue - her fingers are strong and delicate, tightly grasped around the ends of his hair as her painted nails dig into his scalp.
His hands push up her spine, the hem of her dress brushing over skin as it rides up with his movement. It's black, expensive, probably something that she bought with a bonus or with his credit card. He doesn't tend to ask questions because she takes care of his livelihood; he doesn't ask and she doesn't tell -
her breath lingers on his lips, trails over the cracks in them as her warmth surrounds him.
As her nails dig into his skin, some need compels his want, and he tugs on her dress from the hem. He listens carefully for any kind of noise to come from the material, but whatever he could be heard is drowned out by a sigh eliciting from her lips as they part. He tosses the black silky feeling material across his bedroom, the bare flesh of her stomach pressing against his.
He finds her to be weightless in his arms, her hair lightened by the soft glow from the street sneaking in through the windows, and for a moment they lock eyes. Neither of them speak, neither of them ask questions, it's simply moments hanging there as her fingers press into his shoulder blades and a groan falls out of his mouth. He can feel himself growing hard, his hands smoothing over the expanse of her back as his fingers pause at the clasp of her bra.
The metal feels cold beneath his fingertips, like a rush of memories and almosts that should stop him dead in his tracks if it weren't for the harsh reality that he has been actively not thinking about this for a very long time and he has been very much not in love with Donna for almost as long
(but the word almost actually translates to: has been thinking about it while actively pretending as though he isn't and has probably been in love with Donna not too long after).
Donna does not offer Harvey lenience, does not allow him moments to sulk or second guess himself. Harvey has always been a man who does not second guess himself, and Donna has always been a sure thing. They've just known better than to play with the invisible, undefined line that's been drawn between them.
He believes that they've spent years playing in the sand, building a sandcastle with ironclad walls around them, surrounding them to keep the other out, and it's been successful until now. The waves now are too strong, cannot be fortified against and cannot be ignored. Those waves come in the form of want and need and desire, placating the can't haves and the do wants and the give me nows, the epitome of everything they've pretended didn't exist between them but both silently know do.
But as her mouth slides against his, he forgets the structure of their castles. He doesn't remember how fine the material was, the intricate detail fitted into their work, the intense amount of work put into each and every minimal task. He can't remember anything in this moment beyond the taste of her mouth, the way her frame feels beneath his fingers, the amount of temperature that seeps out of her pores, or the way her vertebrae dips along the curve of her back. He can't remember anything but the sound of her pleas, the way that her weight slowly but surely shifts onto his fingertips and captures his hands as the mattress meets his thighs, or the insane possibility that the way she is looking at him now is the way he's always wanted her to look at him.
He wants to ask her if she could ever love him, if she could ever need him how he needs her, but instead he bites his tongue.
His lips part involuntarily as her hands leave his shoulders, trail down his chest, trace the outlines of his ribs, hover over the waistband of his sweatpants. He silently reminds himself to breathe, that he is on the verge of getting to know what it feels like to be between her thighs if only he does everything right. Her skin is hot and cold beneath his fingertips, everything that she embodies translating into beauty before his very eyes.
He feels her fingers slip beneath the elastic band around his waist, the material stretching and hugging his hipbones at her movement. His fingers unhook her bra with a certain amount of poise, over thought and hesitation coming together with a shaky expulsion of breath as his eyes lock on hers. If there is silent protest in her eyes, he cannot see it; all he can see is a certain submission as her hair spreads out on his sheets and she looks so incredibly bare before him, a state of her which he has never seen and a vulnerability that she rarely wears.
His dick throbs as her breath warms his skin, her mouth lowering to just above his hipbone and her tongue pressing against flesh. A sigh leaves his mouth as his fingers are buried in her hair, her teeth nipping along his waistline. The air escapes him and he can't keep the distance between them for much longer, her silhouette everything and nothing he'd ever thought it would be.
His fingers circle the back of her neck. He reluctantly disconnects his torso from her mouth, bending down to press his mouth against hers. His tongue sweeps over her slightly parted lips, her weight shifting predominately to the bed as his fingers loop around the waistband of her silky underwear. Her breath hitches on his mouth and her hands glide down his sides, mimicking his motions as they both become relieved of their clothes.
"Do you have?" Her question is left unfinished but it has been asked and understood, the mere sound of her voice small and quiet in the darkness of their surroundings.
He does a firm nod of his head, the movement swallowed in the shadows as he hears her move towards the middle of the mattress; "yeah."
It takes a few quiet moments of blindly feeling in the dark before his hand finds hers, her fingers easily sliding between his, and he follows her movements onto the mattress. He sinks on top of her, falls into her, and she swallows him whole. Her grasp on his hand tightens, her lips part in anticipation, and everything that they've held on to but never laid out bare becomes obvious and important.
Her skin is cold, her calves pressing against the back of his thighs as she wraps her legs around him. Their hot breath entwines in the space between them, the movements sloppy and rushed as a sigh falls from her mouth. Her fingers grasp and release his hand, her nails digging into his skin in response to his hips thrusting against her thighs.
He can feel the muscles in her legs flex and release against his hips, his breath hitching in his throat as a groan jumps out of his mouth. He can see her tuck her bottom lip between her teeth in the glow sneaking in through the windows and it makes him pause, his thrusts slowing down as their eyes lock. She doesn't say anything, just lets a quiet moan elicit from her throat as her mouth parts; he takes it as an open invitation, as a silent plea, and covers her mouth with his.
Her spine arches, her thrusts meeting his in a way that makes him wonder if this is just the beginning of something or if it's the end. All of the lines have blurred, all of the ways they've defined what they are and aren't suddenly become an afterthought. Their mouths part, her breaths becoming deeper and much more audible, so much so that he can't help but follow her lead.
Everything that they are and aren't is swallowed in the space between them;
he doesn't tell her that he loves her again.
you gonna think that you fixed yourself
they aren't okay but they'll both pretend anyway
a/n: this is for abvj who donated to fandomaid
They don't fit together right.
Her hands are hot on the back of his neck, the outlines of her fingers burning into his skin and making it turn red beneath her touch only to make it flush out in a yellowish hue around it. Donna's lips on his aren't like any other woman's; they are warm, strange on contradictory to everything he's ever known because they are lips that he's spent the most time in his life looking at but not touching. He can't say that he's ever really known them. He wonders now, after all this time, if he's ever really known her before now.
His thumbs press into her hipbones, the ridged feeling of her bones cutting into his fingertips. Her mouth is warm, her hair hugs her face and tickles at his collarbone as the end of it is drawn to her cleavage - every inch of him aches for her. His fingers stretch out for the hem of her dress and he becomes more aware of just how short it has really been all along.
Her tongue touches his and it's then that he realizes that she has the upperhand, the power, and she's been guiding them through this journey all along and he's just always been at her mercy. It's then that he decides to open his mouth a bit wider and plunge his tongue into hers. It's then, it's then, it's then...it's then that they rewind and repeat, replaying the featured moment over and over again as his nails dig into the back her thighs and her fingers grasp onto him like she's begging for this.
He gets it, she doesn't have to say anything because he gets her movements and her touch her without her having to voice her actual thoughts - no words are necessary between them, all of the things that are unsaid will remain unsaid. The point is - they don't fit together right because her hands are here and there but everywhere at the same time, and his mouth feels like it doesn't belong but it's never really felt like it belonged before. He thinks it's in his head, that it's because he knows he's supposed to be kissing someone else and she's supposed to be kissing someone else but all he wants is her.
His fingers spread out against her skin, grasping her hamstrings as he uses the strength he can muster; her tongue winds around his, her smooth palette feeling rough against his as he pushes himself towards her. His weight shifts and pulls him, gravity taking over and sending his chest into hers forcing him to step forward to keep his balance. His weight seems to double and her back hits the wall with a thud, steps away from his bedroom; a gasp escapes her lips, their mouths parting and his teeth tugging on her slightly swollen lips.
All of the muscles in his fingers activate, push into her thighs as he lifts her from the floor and pushes his hips forward to pin her against the wall. Her nails press into his skin, glide over his shoulders until they dig in and leave red streaks as her movements continue down his chest. He groans and her pressure loosens around his ribcage, touch becoming featherlight as his hands ease the hem of her dress upwards. Their breath mingles in the space between them, one hand sliding to the small of her back as she arches into him and the other finding her hair.
He swallows like he wants to say something, like he's trying to form words, but instead is distracted by the sound of one of her stilletos dropping to the floor. He lifts his head, nose brushing over hers as his gaze meets her, and her breathing speeds up - it's faster and harder, like she can't get her shit together, like she's stuck in the in between and can't decide if this is something that she does want or doesn't want. It lingers, they linger, their movements halt and everything seems to hang in limbo for what feels like an eternity.
Harvey thinks, I'm in love with you because I need you -
but he says nothing.
The roots of her hair is soft, tickles his fingertips as the red locks curl around his hand and the bridge of her nose brushes the tip of his. For a brief moment, he thinks he should say something, that she needs him to say something, because most women want him to make polite conversation during foreplay, but he remembers that this Donna and she is not most women. Donna doesn't need words to communicate and she has no difficulty understanding him by any means; she can read him like an open book and he supposes he's always had trouble being closed to her.
Her heels dig into the base of his spine, her hair wrapping around his fingers and making him absently tug on her hair. Her neck tilts backwards with the movement, exposing more of her neck, and he just has to put his mouth there. His tongue and lips touch her skin at the same time, tasting the hollows of her throat as the distinct smell of her perfume being translated into taste; his tastebuds scream out to taste more, like what he's been given isn't quite enough and she's already lingering in his mouth.
He hears a noise fall out of her mouth and it makes him thrust his hips upward in response. He expels a breath against her skin, her fingers digging into his hair and his eyes drift closed at the realization that her hands are everywhere at the same time. Her touch lingers on his hands, on his chest, along his ribcage - her fingers pinching the ends of his slightly too long hair as she pulls his neck back to mimic hers.
He wonders if it's a power thing, if she wants to watch him react to her, but this is what he feels - her fingers pressing on his forehead as she arches her torso into his and her chin bumping against his as she blindly seeks his lips out with her own. He admits to himself that he is in love with her, that this is only the foreplay and he can feel her ribs against his, and he groans awkwardly into her mouth. He feels her lips curl upwards into a smirk against his and it makes sense that she'd love this, that she'd thrive on having a blind power over him.
His mouth parts beneath hers, his fingertips slipping beneath the loose fabric of her dress and pressing into the arch of her spine as he takes a half step backwards. He braces her in his arms, no longer having the help of the wall to keep her upright and he narrowly misses the sharp edge of her heel. His tongue flits against hers, the tumbling motion inside of his mouth sliding against her tongue - her fingers are strong and delicate, tightly grasped around the ends of his hair as her painted nails dig into his scalp.
His hands push up her spine, the hem of her dress brushing over skin as it rides up with his movement. It's black, expensive, probably something that she bought with a bonus or with his credit card. He doesn't tend to ask questions because she takes care of his livelihood; he doesn't ask and she doesn't tell -
her breath lingers on his lips, trails over the cracks in them as her warmth surrounds him.
As her nails dig into his skin, some need compels his want, and he tugs on her dress from the hem. He listens carefully for any kind of noise to come from the material, but whatever he could be heard is drowned out by a sigh eliciting from her lips as they part. He tosses the black silky feeling material across his bedroom, the bare flesh of her stomach pressing against his.
He finds her to be weightless in his arms, her hair lightened by the soft glow from the street sneaking in through the windows, and for a moment they lock eyes. Neither of them speak, neither of them ask questions, it's simply moments hanging there as her fingers press into his shoulder blades and a groan falls out of his mouth. He can feel himself growing hard, his hands smoothing over the expanse of her back as his fingers pause at the clasp of her bra.
The metal feels cold beneath his fingertips, like a rush of memories and almosts that should stop him dead in his tracks if it weren't for the harsh reality that he has been actively not thinking about this for a very long time and he has been very much not in love with Donna for almost as long
(but the word almost actually translates to: has been thinking about it while actively pretending as though he isn't and has probably been in love with Donna not too long after).
Donna does not offer Harvey lenience, does not allow him moments to sulk or second guess himself. Harvey has always been a man who does not second guess himself, and Donna has always been a sure thing. They've just known better than to play with the invisible, undefined line that's been drawn between them.
He believes that they've spent years playing in the sand, building a sandcastle with ironclad walls around them, surrounding them to keep the other out, and it's been successful until now. The waves now are too strong, cannot be fortified against and cannot be ignored. Those waves come in the form of want and need and desire, placating the can't haves and the do wants and the give me nows, the epitome of everything they've pretended didn't exist between them but both silently know do.
But as her mouth slides against his, he forgets the structure of their castles. He doesn't remember how fine the material was, the intricate detail fitted into their work, the intense amount of work put into each and every minimal task. He can't remember anything in this moment beyond the taste of her mouth, the way her frame feels beneath his fingers, the amount of temperature that seeps out of her pores, or the way her vertebrae dips along the curve of her back. He can't remember anything but the sound of her pleas, the way that her weight slowly but surely shifts onto his fingertips and captures his hands as the mattress meets his thighs, or the insane possibility that the way she is looking at him now is the way he's always wanted her to look at him.
He wants to ask her if she could ever love him, if she could ever need him how he needs her, but instead he bites his tongue.
His lips part involuntarily as her hands leave his shoulders, trail down his chest, trace the outlines of his ribs, hover over the waistband of his sweatpants. He silently reminds himself to breathe, that he is on the verge of getting to know what it feels like to be between her thighs if only he does everything right. Her skin is hot and cold beneath his fingertips, everything that she embodies translating into beauty before his very eyes.
He feels her fingers slip beneath the elastic band around his waist, the material stretching and hugging his hipbones at her movement. His fingers unhook her bra with a certain amount of poise, over thought and hesitation coming together with a shaky expulsion of breath as his eyes lock on hers. If there is silent protest in her eyes, he cannot see it; all he can see is a certain submission as her hair spreads out on his sheets and she looks so incredibly bare before him, a state of her which he has never seen and a vulnerability that she rarely wears.
His dick throbs as her breath warms his skin, her mouth lowering to just above his hipbone and her tongue pressing against flesh. A sigh leaves his mouth as his fingers are buried in her hair, her teeth nipping along his waistline. The air escapes him and he can't keep the distance between them for much longer, her silhouette everything and nothing he'd ever thought it would be.
His fingers circle the back of her neck. He reluctantly disconnects his torso from her mouth, bending down to press his mouth against hers. His tongue sweeps over her slightly parted lips, her weight shifting predominately to the bed as his fingers loop around the waistband of her silky underwear. Her breath hitches on his mouth and her hands glide down his sides, mimicking his motions as they both become relieved of their clothes.
"Do you have?" Her question is left unfinished but it has been asked and understood, the mere sound of her voice small and quiet in the darkness of their surroundings.
He does a firm nod of his head, the movement swallowed in the shadows as he hears her move towards the middle of the mattress; "yeah."
It takes a few quiet moments of blindly feeling in the dark before his hand finds hers, her fingers easily sliding between his, and he follows her movements onto the mattress. He sinks on top of her, falls into her, and she swallows him whole. Her grasp on his hand tightens, her lips part in anticipation, and everything that they've held on to but never laid out bare becomes obvious and important.
Her skin is cold, her calves pressing against the back of his thighs as she wraps her legs around him. Their hot breath entwines in the space between them, the movements sloppy and rushed as a sigh falls from her mouth. Her fingers grasp and release his hand, her nails digging into his skin in response to his hips thrusting against her thighs.
He can feel the muscles in her legs flex and release against his hips, his breath hitching in his throat as a groan jumps out of his mouth. He can see her tuck her bottom lip between her teeth in the glow sneaking in through the windows and it makes him pause, his thrusts slowing down as their eyes lock. She doesn't say anything, just lets a quiet moan elicit from her throat as her mouth parts; he takes it as an open invitation, as a silent plea, and covers her mouth with his.
Her spine arches, her thrusts meeting his in a way that makes him wonder if this is just the beginning of something or if it's the end. All of the lines have blurred, all of the ways they've defined what they are and aren't suddenly become an afterthought. Their mouths part, her breaths becoming deeper and much more audible, so much so that he can't help but follow her lead.
Everything that they are and aren't is swallowed in the space between them;
he doesn't tell her that he loves her again.