ambassador of kwan (abvj) wrote,
ambassador of kwan

Fic - Equilibrium (Donna/Harvey) R, 1/1

Title: Equilibrium 
Summary: Early morning breathes familiarity. Or, the one with sexy shenanigans. Whichever you would prefer. There is a smidge of plot, but blink and you may miss it. 
Rating: hard r 
Author's Notes: 1,878 words. General series spoilers. Set in the same universe as take your cues but you don't necessarily need to have read that for this to make sense. Future fic. Inspired by a comment emergingangelic made about Donna stealing Harvey's clothes. All mistakes are mine. These characters, however, are not. Con-crit is, as always, welcome and appreciated. 

It's been a day. Which culiminated in missing my football team's first home game of the season for the first time since I've moved back to Baltimore. While my husband still attends. So here, have fic I wrote to make myself feel better: 

It would surprise most people to know, he’s sure, that she is always the one to wake first.

It should be habit now after all these months, but he still reaches for her on reflex when he’s not fully awake, startled every time she’s not there. Then his eyes adjust, blinking his mind into clarity, and the sheets are still warm, the sounds of her moving around the kitchen echoing off the walls, so he just breathes and reaches for a pair of sweatpants, doesn’t bother with a shirt. It’s early still, and cold, and Harvey knows she must have a window open somewhere – he can hear the sounds of the street and smell the cool winter of New York filtering in. He had tried, in the beginning, just closing the window, but Donna kept reopening it, arguing with him about the beauty of New York in the winter and the benefits of fresh air.

She is annoyingly resilient that way, and Harvey is learning to pick his battles, so now he merely adjusts the thermostat.

Her shoes are lying in the middle of the floor, and he bends to pick them up before he trips over them, placing them neatly next to his out of habit somewhere near the door. In the living room, her dress from last night is folded over the back of his couch and he smiles a little, remembering.

It had started with the dress – black, silk, tight, backless. There was a party at The Met, all of the firm in attendance. He and Donna had gone separately to keep up appearances, but Harvey spent most of the night staring at her from across the room, half of him focused on closing the deal at hand and the other half imagining all the ways he could get her out of said dress and into his bed.

Though, it could have been the shoes too, now that he thinks about it.

Too high to be practical, to dance in. Too red for the office. They were shoes meant to be fucked in, and when they returned home, he did just that.

(Not before, of course, laying the dress he so hastily removed carefully over the back of the couch because, she pointed out more than once, it was vintage . Harvey made an executive decision right then and there that her mouth was much too talented to be wasted on a diatribe about how expensive it is to dry clean.)

It’s a familiar sight – the one of her in his kitchen, and he welcomes it, breathes it in all too readily. She already has the coffee on, his t-shirt threadbare and faded as it hangs loosely around her frame. She keeps stealing his clothes, and he keeps pretending it bothers him. It’s just another dance they do.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says, his version of good morning. Donna tosses him a smirk over her shoulder, her hands fiddling with the coffee idly. She moves through his space like she’s home, like she belongs, and Harvey is starting to think maybe he likes it a little too much.

“It was this or nothing at all,” she says innocently.

“I think you know which one I’d prefer.”

Donna laughs, the sound low, just for him, and he decides right then and there that he is going to bring her back to bed, is already crossing the distance to draw her in, palms splaying against her waist as she pours two cups of coffee. Her feet are bare against the tile of floor, the deep plum a pop of color against the stark white, and there is a slight blossom of a bruise on the back of her neck. She’ll have to wear her hair down today, he thinks, and it occurs to him that he will be the only person to know the reason why. It is knowledge he’ll carry with him later, something he can keep completely for himself. It makes something warm and heavy in the pit of his stomach.

One of his hands leaves her waist, reaching up to push the messy curls of her hair aside so his head can dip, mouth pressing softly against the tender skin. She hums in appreciation and he grins, likes the way her body arches into his, a learned movement.

She stops him from going farther by turning around, always a step ahead, and uses her forearms to push herself up and onto the counter. The hem of his cotton t-shirt slips up up up, revealing her thighs and he can barely help himself – his gaze slips to the curves of her calves, the smooth lines of her perfect legs, and up farther until she reaches for him, thumb nudging his chin until his line of sight is even with hers. He doesn’t bother with sheepish now; his grin is all smug and bravado as he regards her.

“You know what I’m not doing right now?” she demands, and he moves his hands to her knees, presses them open so he can stand between them. She allows this, leaning back to rest her weight on the heels of her hands. The t-shirt slips higher. His mouth starts to water at the sight, at the sheer closeness, and there is this dull ache in his chest that sparks and grows from just looking at her. He’s really starting to hate how he’s the easy one in this scenario.

“Coming back to bed with me?”

“Negative,” she replies, and she’s grinning, he thinks, but his mouth is too busy smoothing along the column of her throat, all teeth and tongue, and he doesn’t want to pull back to look. “I am not making myself a bowl of cheerios. Would you like to know why, sir?”

“I am sure you are going to tell me,” he says, teeth sinking into skin softly, tongue darting out to smooth the harsh marks immediately thereafter.

Her neck lolls to the side, providing him with better access, but her tone remains calm, cool as she says, “Because you ate them all and put the empty box back in the goddamn cabinet.”

She smells like sweat and citrus, like him, them, and it’s intoxicating. The need, the want hums pleasantly in the base of his skull, making him dizzy.


Donna huffs a little, but it turns into a low, hiss of a gasp as his hands find themselves between her legs, teasing the edge of her panties. It’s a tiny victory, but Harvey will take what he can get. She’s already wet for him and he moans something low in his throat at the knowledge, at the sheer pride he feels over the fact that he has this effect on her too. His fingers retreat, palms smoothing up and down her thighs, thumbs tracing the smooth line of muscle.

“You left the crumbs,” she sighs, and yeah, she’s definitely grinning now – Harvey recognizes the tone.

“You do hate the crumbs,” he murmurs, and pulls back to look at her, really look at her – hair messy and tangled, tips of her ears and cheeks tinted pink, lips parted slightly as she worries her bottom lip with teeth. The t-shirt is too big, the collar of it slipping down over one shoulder. He can count the freckles on hers shoulder. “I’ll buy you more,” he tells her, very seriously, right before he leans in to brush his mouth against hers for a proper good morning.

The kiss is lazy, learned, slow. Harvey opens her mouth carefully, tongue smoothing against her teeth, the roof of her mouth, before tangling with hers. He knows what she wants, what she needs, can read it all in the flick of her tongue against his, recognizes it in the soft moan he swallows readily as his fingers press against the wet warmth between her thighs again. Donna’s hands smooth up the bare skin of his back, palms pressing into the muscle and bone before tangling in his hair, pulling until she can angle his head just to the left in an effort to deepen the kiss.

Her shudder runs through him, and the hand that isn’t busy teasing her between the legs runs up the length of her, counts ribs through cotton, knuckles skimming the underside of her breast. Her hips jerk towards his then, a soft whine catching in her throat, and he can’t help it – he grins, repeats the process with intent just to be spiteful, just to get her that much closer to the point of begging. Donna’s fingers tighten in his hair, one leg snaking around his waist so she can pull herself closer to him. Her mouth moves greedily against his, the laziness transitioning easily into a hurried ferocity. Donna kisses him deeply and wantonly until they’re both gasping and sometimes Harvey thinks he likes her best like this – vulnerable, needy, desperate for him.

Harvey wants her neck again, so he pulls away, allows her soft sigh of disappointment settle into his skin as his mouth moves along her jaw, to her ear, to the delicate skin where collarbone meets neck. Her pulse quickens under his lips, and he presses his face into her hair, breathes her in, starts moving his fingers slowly against her, teasing along the edge of cotton again before slipping just underneath.

“We’re going to be late,” she breathes, the words shaky at best as they fall between them. They are promptly followed by a slow, shuddering breath as he presses a finger, then two into her. He curls them for good measure, thumbs her clit lazily. Her head falls back, hitting the cabinet softly, but Donna takes it in stride. “For work,” she finishes needlessly, and he’s not sure why but he laughs.

“We’ve got time,” he mumbles, mouth pressing along the gentle curve of her shoulder.


They always ride separately into work, Donna usually a few minutes ahead. This morning, though, they run into each other at the elevator, pressed into the corner as people file in endlessly after them. They nod their hellos, talk about his schedule for the day, and act as though he didn’t spend most of the morning with his mouth between her legs, or that he couldn’t still taste her, just a little on the tip of his tongue. Harvey isn’t really sure who they are trying fool because they both have the worst goddamn poker faces when it comes to the other, but he’s not so sure he really cares anymore.

Their idle chatter continues as they step off the elevator and onto the fiftieth floor, all the way up until the point where Mike somehow manages to finagle himself between them, starting in about this case or that merger, and Donna continues walking as Harvey and Mike slow down to a near halt. He watches her closely out of the corner of his eye, appreciating the strut of her hips, before he gives his full attention to Mike and whatever crises has arisen – until he sees the bright pop of cherry red in the distance.

Donna’s mouth is smug as she glances over her shoulder and holds his gaze.

Yeah, Harvey thinks, mouth going dry. It was definitely the shoes.

Tags: !fic, character: harvey specter, fic: suits, pairing: donna paulsen/harvey specter, rating: r

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