Fic: "Lit Up" 3/4, Suits, Harvey/Mike NC-17

[phreakycat]

Title: Lit Up Chapter: One Genre: H/C, slash Word Count: Roughly 12,000 at current count. Warnings: Language, overuse of color adjectives, descriptions of a medical issue (epilepsy), graphic sexual content of the slash variety. Summary: Mike has synesthesia, which turns out to be a blessing, a bit of a curse, and an unconventional way to finally get his boss naked.
Chapter One   Chapter Two

A/N: THIS PART IS CHOCK FULL O' PORN, PEOPLE.  If graphic super-happy fun time boy-on-boy sexin' is not your cuppa tea, TURN BACK NOW.  Seriously, a large portion of this chapter is pure porny goodness (hopefully), and while I did my best to keep it generally tasteful it IS graphic descriptions of gay sex - so use your judgement, because I won't be responsible for anyone claiming emotional trauma because they didn't heed the warning and skipped gleefully off into BUTSECKS LAND only to realize they're horribly offended by two ridiculously good looking men making the beast with two backs.  And if that IS your cuppa tea, well... Enjoy! ________

 When Mike wakes up, early morning sun is just starting to filter through the tall glass windows of Harvey’s condo. He’s lying on Harvey’s couch, cozily ensconced in a goose-down comforter and a pile of pillows that even Cleopatra would probably find excessive. He stretches carefully, wincing as his abused muscles protest the movement. The ache awakens his memory of the night before - the seizure, Harvey, the hazy trip back to Harvey’s condo.

“How are you feeling?”

Mike twists his head to peer across the room, where Harvey is sipping a cup of coffee in one of his living room chairs. He’s wearing navy blue sleep pants and a white tee, hair softer and wavier than Mike is used to seeing it.

“Uh, sore? A little confused?” Mike says, struggling upright so that he’s sitting with his bare feet against the cool hardwood. “Mostly embarrassed beyond comprehension.”

Harvey smiles indulgently at him, standing and retrieving a second mug from the kitchen. He presses the warm ceramic into Mike’s hands then drapes himself on the other end of the couch. Even in sleep clothes Harvey manages to look like he’s ready for a GQ cover shoot. Mike runs his hand self-consciously through his sleep-mussed hair, knowing it looks like squirrels have been nesting in it (and possibly mating enthusiastically, depending on how restless his sleep was).

The coffee is exquisitely rich and strong when he sips it. Knowing Harvey, it was probably grown on a sacred mountainside in Colombia, watered only with dew drops from the rain forest, and hand-picked by a harem of virgins riding unicorns or something.  Seriously, the man has ridiculously extravagant tastes.

“Here,” Harvey says, tossing him a small orange bottle. Mike catches it awkwardly in one hand, turning it to look at the label. It’s his Depakote, the bottle he carries in his messenger bag. “Take your morning dose.”

Mike rolls his eyes but dutifully downs one purple, vanilla-scented tablet with a swallow of coffee.

“You skipped a dose yesterday, didn’t you?” Harvey asks him, and he’s got that look he gets when he’s questioning a difficult witness.

“What? I, uh…” Mike stops, thinks, tries to remember. The days have been sort of bleeding together lately. Now that Harvey mentions it, though, he’s pretty sure he forgot yesterday’s AM dose. He was behind on reviewing the Gunderson bylaws, and then Louis had buried him in financial records that needed reviewing. “Shit. Wait - how did you know that?”

“You take two a day, according to the bottle, and it was filled on the 8th. There should be 44 pills left, but there are 45. So either you skipped a dose yesterday, or some other time within the last month. Either way, it can’t happen again, Mike.”

Mike stares down at the bottle in his hand, musing over the fact that Harvey has apparently gone into his bag, retrieved his pills, read the prescription, and meticulously counted out his pills. He thinks maybe he should feel some sense of affrontment or violation over the fact that his boss has been rifling through his stuff, delving into his medical history, and - he glances down at himself - yes, undressing him down to his undershirt and boxers at some point last night. Had it been anyone else, Mike knows he would feel as though they had overstepped important boundaries.

But with Harvey, there are no boundaries. Harvey goes where he wants, takes what he wants, and somehow manages to do it in a way that makes everyone else feel like he’s doing them a favor. Mike is certainly no exception to that rule. If anything, he finds himself wanting Harvey to knock over all the walls he’s carefully constructed to keep others out. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying, knowing that his whole life is at Harvey's feet. Because there may be parts of himself he hasn't outright offered to Harvey yet, but if Harvey ever asks, ever moves to cross those lines, Mike knows he’ll give him whatever he wants without hesitation. Harvey may not realize it, but he can waltz right into any corner of Mike’s life whenever he wants, without any chance of resistance.

“I’m sorry,” Mike says, stuffing down that train of thought. “Sometimes I just get so focused that I forget. Between the Gunderson bylaws and those financial records for Louis, it just slipped my mind. It’s usually not a big deal - this doesn’t usually happen if I only miss one dose.”

Harvey gets a mildly pained, slightly constipated look on his face. Mike squints at him, trying to decipher the expression.

“I’ve been pushing you too hard,” Harvey says, fingers clenching around his mug.  His voice is dusky with self-recrimination.

Ah. So this is what guilt looks like on Harvey Spector.

It doesn’t suit him.

“Mike, I owe you an apology. I’ve been overworking you these last few weeks. You’re over tired, and lack of sleep and stress can trigger seizures. Then you missed a dose…”

Mike can’t help the fond smile that wants to quirk his lips (always a details man, Harvey has clearly done some research on epilepsy, plus, you know,he cares).

“No one held a gun to my head,” Mike says. “It happens sometimes, Harvey. Usually a few times a year, even if I take my meds and get plenty of sleep. It sucks and it’s inconvenient, but I’m pretty used to it by now.”
Harvey looks unconvinced, the awkward, pinched expression of guilt still firmly in place.

“I was unfair to you after the mock trial,” he says abruptly, and Mike is totally not prepared for this sudden shift in subject. Of all the things he thought Harvey might say, this was not on the list.  
Harvey's eyes are dark, uncharacteristically expressive. He looks at Mike and Mike sees a whole spectrum of regret, worry, and a complicated depth of things he still doesn’t know how to decode.

“I- I shouldn’t have said what I said, either,” Mike says, looking away. “I didn’t mean it. I just - I was angry at myself for letting you down. Again.”

“You didn’t let me down, I let you down,” Harvey says, voice still heavy with remorse. Mike’s chest tightens with shaky hope. “I should have coached you more, helped you prepare. I knew all the other partners were coaching their associates, but I assumed you didn’t need my help. I forget sometimes that a genius IQ and highly accurate memory don’t necessarily mean that you know how to apply them in a given situation. I know it’s a rather backhanded way of showing it, but the only reason I was so uninvolved is that I know how capable you are.  I intended my actions, or lack thereof, to show you that I trusted your ability to handle it on your own, but I can see in retrospect that it must have looked like a lack of interest or support.”

Mike’s laughs bitterly  “Yeah, well, I guess now we both know how completely incapable I am, don’t we?”

Harvey looks at him with an expression that is just shy of pained.  Mike thinks fleetingly that this conversation has to be resolved quickly, before Harvey's face sticks like that. 
“Alright - listen close," Harvey says, leaning forward, "because this is probably the only time you’ll hear these particular words come out of my mouth in this order: I was wrong. You did handle it, as best you could under those circumstances. You weighed the pros and cons and decided that hurting a friend and damaging an important working relationship wasn’t worth a fake victory. That took strength and integrity, and I should have recognized it sooner. I just… I know what you’re capable of, Mike. And every time I see you sabotage your own success it makes me want to shake you until you see reason. Even when your motives are noble. You’ve got to start putting yourself first sometimes, kid, or you’re never going to get ahead. If you don’t look out for your own interests, no one will.”

“You will,” Mike blurts, then flushes. Apparently his brain-to-mouth filter is still recovering from last night.  It’s true, though - Harvey's got his back, no matter how cold he tries to pretend he is. Mike knows this more completely than he knows anything he’s ever read in a book.

“Yeah,” Harvey says, a fond, slow smile stealing over his lips, “I suppose I will. But only because-”

“-I’m a reflection of you, blah blah blah, reputation to maintain, etcetera etcetera.  I get it.” Mike says, waving a hand dismissively at Harvey.

“I was going to say,” Harvey says deliberately, shooting Mike his don’t interrupt, were you raised in a barn? expression, “is only because I sort of like having you around.”

“Oh,” Mike says, chastened. “Thanks? And, you know, thanks for taking care of me last night. I know that wasn’t fun.”

“You did call me a condescending prick and puke in my hand-hammered copper trash can.”

“Uh… sorry about that. I can be sort of an asshole for a while after a seizure. My brain chemistry is all over the place, and it can make me pretty bitchy."  Mike chuckles.  "Once, when I was twelve, I had a seizure in class at school. After, I told my social studies teacher that her breath smelled like cabbage and a learning-disabled chimpanzee could do her job more effectively than she did. I mean, it was true, but still pretty harsh.  So you got off lightly.”

Harvey laughs, a quick burst of raspberry like a bubble popping. “I can only imagine you at twelve. You must have been a terror to teach.” Harvey pauses, expression shifting back into consideration. “Twelve, huh? You were having seizures that young?”

“Yeah, I was diagnosed at nine.”

“What happened?” There isn’t any uncertainty in Harvey's voice, no doubt that there is more to Mike’s story than a random misfiring of brain chemistry.  As always, Harvey sees everything Mike tries to hide.

His heart sinks a little and he looks down and away, the familiar tug of grief and resignation pulling at him.  It's too late to hold anything back, now.  Harvey's already seen him at his worst, seizing on a floor and helpless and pathetic in the aftermath.  He might as well know the whole truth of the matter.

“When my parents died, I was in the car with them,” he begins. Harvey shifts beside him, but Mike doesn’t look up, unwilling to risk seeing pity or discomfort. “I don’t remember much, because my head hit the window, hard. My parents… they, uh, never made it out of the car. It took EMS more than an hour to cut me out, and all the while I was bleeding into my brain. It was a slow bleed, but I was young and the intracranial pressure to my temporal lobe did some damage. When I woke up in the hospital, days later, I was… different.”

“The synesthesia,” Harvey says. Mike’s head jerks up in surprise. “You said synesthete last night when I asked if you were epileptic. You may be the Boy Wonder when it comes to research, but I do have my skills with Google as well.”

Harvey’s face is open, relaxed, considering. Mike searches it for traces of the expected unease or pity but finds nothing. Something unclenches in his chest, a tightness he wasn’t aware was there until it was gone. He heaves a relieved sigh, sagging into the couch cushions.

“Did you think I would see you differently?” Harvey asks. He sounds almost… offended.

“Yes? No?” Mike shrugs. “I don’t know. People generally don’t understand it, and it’s sort of a strange conversation to have with someone. Hi, I’m Mike. I like reading, stuffed crust pizza, and long walks on the beach. And oh, yeah, I see sounds and taste words. How ‘bout them Yankees, huh?"

“The first time I met you, you were fleeing the police with a briefcase full of drugs. We’ve been lying to everyone at the firm for months about your qualifications. I risk my career and our clients' cases daily by keeping you around. And you really thought having quirky senses or epilepsy would catastrophically alter the bounds of our relationship?”

Mike can feel himself flushing. “It sounds pretty stupid when you put it like that.”

“That’s because it is stupid. You should have told me, Mike. Especially about the epilepsy. If you had, then I wouldn’t have been left completely unprepared to deal with the situation. I would have much preferred to learn about it any other way other than you going into convulsions on my carpet.”

“I’m sorry,” Mike says with sincerity. And he is. Now that Harvey knows, it seems ridiculous that he never told him. “I just -   It's not exactly something you open with, but then the longer you go without saying something the weirder it gets to bring it up, you know?  There's just never a good time or a good way to tell someone, especially when it stems from a traumatic childhood event.  People get weird about it, and I liked being Mike Ross the kick-ass associate instead of Mike Ross the brain freak, you know?”

“Are you kidding? You’ve always been Mike Ross the brain freak. That’s why I hired you, idiot. I don’t want normal, I don’t want ordinary.”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” Mike says, picking absently at the comforter.

“Stop,” Harvey says, pulling Mike’s fingers away from the fabric, “That’s Siberian goose down.” His fingers linger for a moment, ghosting over Mike’s hand when he pulls away. “You didn’t want me to see you like what?”

“Damaged. Helpless. Useless.”

“You’re not damaged,” Harvey says with certainty. “There are things in life that change us, Mike - some of them are painful, some of them are hard to deal with. But changed doesn’t mean broken, it just means different. We learn to deal with it and we adapt. And you’re certainly not helpless. Needing some help once in a while doesn’t make you any less competent the rest of the time. Do you really think I would hire an associate that was useless or helpless? Please. Give me more credit than that.”

Mike chuckles, smoothing out the comforter repentantly. “I’m reminded again why you’re the best closer in the city.”

“As if you could ever forget,” Harvey smirks. He pauses, gives Mike a thoughtful look. “So, right now, while we’re talking, you can actually see my voice?”

“Yeah. I’m mostly a color-sound synesthete, so I get visual representations of sound in the form of color.”

“What does it look like?”

“It’s… sort of like watching sound waves on an oscilloscope.  It fluctuates with tone and volume. Your voice is usually red, mostly vermilion. It gets brighter when it’s louder, lighter when the tone is higher, darker for deeper sounds. Sometimes I can tell your mood by the color of your voice, even when you’re doing a good job of hiding it otherwise. ”

Harvey looks intrigued. “That sounds… pretty incredible, actually.”

“Yeah, you know it really is. The seizures suck, obviously, but I would never want to get rid of the synesthesia.”

“The potential uses in the courtroom are astounding. If you can really see tension in people’s voices, just think of how useful that would be in cross-examinations or jury selection.”

Harvey has the sort of eager, satisfied look he gets on his face when he finds just the right piece of evidence to crush an opponent. It makes something warm unfurl in Mike’s belly to be the cause of that look.

“It’s honestly a big part of my memory, too,” he admits. “I’ve got some grapheme-color synesthesia, too - not much, but when I read, the letters and numbers are slightly colored.  It makes them easier to remember.”

“Kid, you just get more and more surprising,” Harvey says fondly. “And before, did you say you can actually taste words?”

“Some of them. The ones that invoke strong emotion or have personal associations.”

“In what sense?”

“You know, words with strong emotional meaning, words I associate with specific events, the names of places I have a strong connection to, foods I like… people I love.”

“Give me an example.”

Harvey is looking at him with strange intensity, and Mike feels a bit like a bug under a magnifying glass, in danger of combusting. He has a new, sudden sympathy for the witnesses that Harvey cross-examines.

“Uh, well… When I say Grammy I taste sugar cookies and lilac. When I say coffee I can actually taste coffee.” The flavors wash over his tongue as he speaks and he smiles.

“So what does my name taste like?” Harvey asks easily, confidently, without any doubt that his name constitutes strong emotion and personal association for Mike.

Mike feels the tips of his ears turn pink. Harvey is treading perilously close to uncharted emotional territory, and Mike honestly can’t tell if he’s unknowingly skirting the subject of Mike’s infatuation with him or if he’s purposefully zeroing in on it.

“Who says your name tastes like anything at all?” he says weakly. His voice looks thin, faded, and he knows it won’t fool Harvey for a second.  He's not even sure why he's trying to divert the question - if Harvey's asking, it's pretty much a given that Mike will answer.

“Are you saying it doesn’t taste like anything?” The edges of Harvey’s mouth curl up smugly. His eyes flick to Mike’s mouth and back. Blatant.  Expectant.  Hungry.

Mike’s heart rate skyrockets.

“No, it does, it’s just sort of… complex.” he breathes, unable to look away from Harvey’s face. “There are a lot of layers to it. It’s hard to describe.”
Like you.

Harvey makes a thoughtful sound and leans in toward Mike, his hand on the back of the couch, brushing mike’s shoulder. Mike can feel the heat like a fever, even through the fabric of his tee shirt. There is a tension in the air between them, something that is both frighteningly new and unbearably familiar.

“That sounds… interesting,” Harvey says. He’s holding Mike’s gaze with intent, his eyes (always so perceptive, so sharp) look shadowed and his pupils are dilating. Mike swallows heavily, feeling his breath go shallow with anticipation and nerves and want.

“Uh, yeah. It is.” His voice cracks a little. “It’s… completely unique.”

“Say it,” Harvey says, thumb brushing over the neckline of Mike’s tee.

“What?”

“Say my name, Mike. Tell me how it tastes.”

“Harvey,” Mike breathes, unsure if he’s protesting, complying, or begging.

Harvey’s hand moves to cup the nape of Mike’s neck, short nails brushing through his hair.

“What do you taste?” Harvey says. His voice is husky, curious.

“It’s like red wine,” Mike breathes, eyes drifting shut. A shiver works its way down his spine as Harvey’s thumb brushes the soft skin behind his ear. “And, uh, dark chocolate. The expensive kind. Cinnamon.”

Harvey makes a pleased, low sound and Mike opens his eyes, breath going still at the look on Harvey’s face. He can’t believe that this is happening, that this is real. They’re slipping so far outside the realm of their established roles that Mike feels nearly paralyzed by the unfamiliarity of it. But god, he wants this. He wants this to be real.

“Sounds delicious,” Harvey says. There is a hue to his voice that Mike’s never seen before - like the hot glow of coals in a fire. “So what you’re saying is that I taste good, is that right, Mike?”

Mike’s fairly certain that his heart is going to stop any moment now - no one can be this turned on and this terrified and this hopeful all at once without some sort of catastrophic physical repercussion. “Y-yeah,” he hears himself say. His voice is indigo. “Yeah. Better than anyone else.”

“Well, that’s not surprising.” Harvey’s hand slips from the back of Mike’s neck to rest between his shoulder blades, palm splayed, just enough pressure to make Mike want to lean forward.  The easy, humored arrogance of Harvey's words gives Mike a bare moment of comforting familiarity, then - “It hardly seems fair, though” Harvey continues, “That you know how I taste, and I haven’t yet had the pleasure of tasting you.”

Mike makes a choked, embarrassingly girly sound, firmly back outside the realm of the familiar. He knows he looks like a deer in headlights, but his normally astute brain is utterly failing him in this moment and he has no idea how to respond (somehow, screaming yes, yes, please, god, put your mouth on me seems too desperate, even if he could find the air to form the words).

Harvey smirks knowingly at him, apparently un-phased (the bastard). “I’m going to kiss you now, Mike,” he says gently, carefully, like he’s talking someone down from a ledge (and maybe he is - fuck, Mike feels like he could just step off the edge of this moment and fall and fall and fall…).

“Okay,” Mike says, “Okay, yeah-”

Harvey leans in and presses their lips together, cutting off Mike’s rambling, breathy words. There is espresso and cream on his breath as he exhales against Mike’s mouth. His lips are soft, but with a firm power behind them that is so strong, so Harvey, it makes Mike’s heart stutter. He shudders and sucks in a desperate breath, body going limp as Harvey’s tongue sweeps over his mouth. Harvey's teeth scrape over the slick, wet skin on the inside of Mike's lower lip.  Mike's making frantic, humiliating sounds, hands clutching at Harvey’s shoulders, mouth parting under the inexorable, unstoppable force of Harvey’s kiss.

He can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe that the thing he’s wanted for months is finally his. It’s like Harvey is filling all the aching, lonely places in his soul with heat and promise, and he’s terrified that this is all some seizure-induced fever dream that will vanish if he opens his eyes.

But Harvey’s hands against his skin are firm, warm, undeniably real and demanding. They yank Mike’s shirt over his head, deftly untangling him from the sleeves, smooth palms like bursts of light against Mike’s bare skin. Harvey slips an arm around the small of Mike’s back, his fingers fitted perfectly to the grooves of Mike's ribs.  He gets a knee under himself and pushes their bodies back towards the pillows. Mike lets himself be angled back, Harvey’s arm under him in support even as it bends his torso in an arch that presses their chests together. Harvey’s mouth is (unsurprisingly) as gifted in kissing as it is in a courtroom, moving smoothly and wetly, nipping at Mike's lower lip, pressing soft, teasing kisses to the corners of his mouth. Mike’s mouth floods with the familiar, rich taste that is Harvey, but with the added high notes of the very real, physical taste of the man himself.
Mike can taste Harvey, smell him, feel his heart thundering, see the hot red of his short breaths in a corona that surrounds them.  It's all Harvey, everywhere, everything.  It's fucking amazing, better than anything else he's experienced, and he's suddenly terrified that this is simply a tease of something that can never really be his.

“Harvey,” he manages to gasp, twisting his head to the side, throat tightening dangerously, “Are you- are you sure? I mean, you really want this? You’re not just-” He can’t finish that sentence, can’t give voice to the undeniable fear that this is a pity fuck, a power play, or some sort of infinitely cruel joke. Because if this isn’t as real for Harvey as it is for Mike, it just might fucking kill him.

Harvey stills and pulls away just enough to look Mike in the face. They've never been so physically close before, and the intensity of his gaze with so little air between them is almost too much to look at. 
“Do I look like a man who doesn’t know what he wants, Mike?” Harvey asks. The words are Harvey's familiar, arrogant tone, but his expression, his eyes - they’re uncommonly open, quietly reassuring. Gentle, even.  Harvey is letting down his guard, letting Mike see the truth of his intentions written on his face as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud.  Relief and lust and joy make Mike’s limbs tremble and he takes three deep, steadying breaths.

Holy shit, Harvey wants him. Harvey wants him.

The man in question is radiating heat, the clean smell of him overwhelming and god, so good. Mike can feel Harvey’s pulse under his hands as he grips the fabric of Harvey’s shirt in shaky fingers, arching helplessly into the space between their bodies. He is achingly, immediately hard. The bare inches between them feel like miles of excruciating space that he’s desperate to cross.

Harvey fits one thigh smoothly between Mike’s legs, pressing them together from hip to collarbone in a slow, agonizing advancement of contact. The fabric of his sleep pants is soft, warm, and sends electric signals through Mike’s skin where it brushes against his bare inner thighs. Mike bites his lip and bows his back, pressing their bellies together hard. The firm planes of Harvey’s abs move steadily against his own as both of them breathe, and molten arousal pools in Mike’s lower belly where their muscles flex together.

Harvey takes Mike’s earlobe in his teeth, dragging over the sensitive skin, and Mike’s back arches again with pleasure.

“Ah, Harvey, god…” he gasps, taste and color and sensation flooding his senses. It’s almost too much, almost more than he can process - sensory overload. But he wants more, wants it all, wants every inch of skin and touch that Harvey is willing to give him.

Then Harvey rolls his hips down, and Mike almost comes right there as he feels Harvey’s heavy cock pressed base to tip against his own. Harvey is as hard as he is, and it sends a jolt of something fond and relieved and grateful through his core to know that he's doing that to Harvey. His hands slip from Harvey’s shoulders to his hips, gripping them with desperation as he rocks up into that delicious point of contact. His legs tremble and his breath shudders out of him as he begs “Please, Harvey.”

“Eager puppy, aren’t we?” Harvey smirks against his neck, licking a stripe along Mike’s carotid. Mike whimpers, scrabbling at the waistband of Harvey’s pants. There is far too much clothing between them, and Mike needs Harvey’s bare skin like he needs air or food or water. Getting Harvey naked feels like a matter of survival. 
He manages to get the pants halfway down Harvey’s ass (firm and wonderful under his hands) before Harvey pulls up and away, one hand dragging over Mike’s scalp and down the nape of his neck. Like he’s petting him. Puppy.

“Turn over,” Harvey says huskily. His face is raw with lust, and Mike feels awed and exposed under the intensity of his desire. He doesn’t want to look away, but Harvey’s gaze is expectant and sure and impossible to deny. He twists awkwardly onto his belly, sore body protesting the movement. Harvey must pick something up in the way he moves, because his hands press firmly into the aching muscles between Mike’s shoulder blades, thumbs sliding along the ridge of Mike’s spine. He smoothes out the clenched muscles from shoulders to lumbar, then drags the tips of his fingers down the dip of Mike’s lower back to the waist of his boxers.

Mike swears he can feel the echo of that touch in his skin like color or heat, like glow-in-the-dark hand prints on his flesh, and he wonders if it’s possible for overwhelming desire to spontaneously produce a new type of synesthesia. If there is anyone in the world who might be capable of altering brain function purely through touch, it would be Harvey Spector.

Harvey traces the edges of Mike’s boxers teasingly, the barest touch skirting the boundary of skin and fabric. Mike wraps an arm around a pillow and presses his face into the cloth, his whole body shaking with want and nervous anticipation.

“God,” Harvey breathes, “You look-”

Mike’s never heard him sound so unguarded.

Harvey’s nails scrape almost imperceptibly over Mike's skin as he curls his fingers over the waist of the boxers, sliding them down Mike’s legs with slow, careful propose. The couch dips as Harvey sits up to tug them free. Mike turns his head on the pillow to watch Harvey strip off his own shirt and shove his pants down his hips. His body is flushed, firm, fucking perfect. Mike’s breath catches as he sees Harvey’s dick, hard and dusky where it angles against his stomach.

Harvey reaches for something in the side table drawer, then lowers his body over Mike’s back. The hot tip of his dick brushes over the back of Mike’s thigh, leaving a slick trail of pre-come in its wake. Mike moans and pushes his hips into the couch, desperate for friction.

Harvey touches his lips to the base of Mike’s skull, grazing Mike’s ribs with the fingers of one hand.

“You okay?” he asks softly, and Mike can hear the soft snick of a lid being opened, the subtle sounds of Harvey doing something wet with his hands. The concerned, coquelicot shade of his voice makes Mike’s heart swell with affection.

“Yeah, god, yeah, Harvey, I’m good, so good… Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

Harvey chuckles, a throaty, deep sound that makes Mike squirm. “If you insist.”

Mike’s body jerks in surprise as Harvey presses a slick, warm finger against his ass, kissing a hot trail down his shoulders. He chokes on a wanton sound as the digit sinks slowly into his body, twisting and brushing over sensitive tissues with the sort of easy confidence that Mike’s come to expect from Harvey, always. He’s watched Harvey's hands for months, carefully observing the sure, precise way they move, unable to help wondering what such hands could do with someone else’s flesh under them. But this is… so much more than he’d imagined, so much more than he ever hoped he’d be allowed to have.

Harvey works him open with deft, gentle movements, long moments of pleasure and teasing pressure, then slides another finger in alongside the first. Mike presses his ass back against Harvey’s hand, then yelps as Harvey crooks his fingers and angles them against his prostate.

“Now, Harvey, please, ah, ah,” he begs, twisting his arm back to clutch at Harvey’s thigh. His voice is electric blue with tension and want.  Harvey's name and his own incoherent pleading make a cocktail of spice and sweetness on his tongue.

Harvey laughs breathily, and maybe Mike should be embarrassed by his shameless want, or annoyed by Harvey's smugness, but right now he doesn’t care about anything other than Harvey fucking him and fucking him now.
Luckily for Mike, Harvey is a man that always finishes what he starts.

And christ, the feeling when he finally sinks into Mike is... overwhelming. Harvey's big (of course he is), and it feels like he’s pressing the air out of Mike’s lungs, like there isn’t room inside Mike for anything but Harvey’s voice and Harvey’s touch and Harvey’s cock. The slow, stretching burn as Mike's body opens under Harvey sends hot waves of pleasure up his spine. His toes curl. He clutches at the pillow and gasps desperate little sounds into it, breathing through the adjustment as Harvey bottoms out against the sweat-slicked curve of his ass.

Harvey is breathing heavily above him, hands gripping Mike’s hips with bruising intensity.

“God, fuck,” Harvey says, “Mike.”

The sound of his own name on Harvey’s voice, painted in lustful crimson in the air around them, makes Mike gasp and cant his hips to press Harvey deeper. It's so different in Harvey's mouth than it is in his own - no hint of failure or regret, just the promise of something too vast for words.  
Harvey’s pelvic bones make twin points of pressure against his ass and when Harvey rocks out and pumps forward again, Mike swears he can feel every millimeter of motion, every point of contact.

Harvey fucks him with short, teasing jerks at first. Mike writhes under him, nails digging into Harvey’s thigh as he works for more friction.

“Harvey, you god damned tease, come on,” he growls, snaking his free hand under himself to grab at his dick. “Fuck me like you mean it, damn it.”

“I think you’re forgetting your place, rookie,” Harvey says, and god, how does he manage to sound haughty and cool even when he’s fucking someone? Mike whimpers in protest when Harvey pulls his hand away from his dick, but further protest dies on his lips when Harvey hooks an arm around Mike's hips and pulls him onto his knees. Moving with Harvey's dick buried in him takes his breath away, every shift of their bodies magnified by a factor of ten.  The changed angle presses against new, exquisite places inside him. He breathes out on a long moan, clenching down around the thick stretch of Harvey's dick. The sound Harvey makes in reaction is garnet red.

Then Harvey is moving again, and Mike can only stretch an arm out to brace himself on the armrest of the couch as Harvey finally, finally fucks him in earnest. Harvey pulls back so that just the tip of his cock remains in Mike’s body, then rocksforward again until their thighs press together. Again, again, and then he alters the angle of his movements almost imperceptibly, just enough to hit Mike’s prostate with each thrust.

Mike shouts breathily, eyes rolling helplessly in his skull. All he can do is brace himself and rock to meet Harvey’s hips, white-hot pleasure racing up and down his limbs like electricity. Jumbled words and sounds spill from his lips in little firework pops of color, please and god and Harvey. His senses feel exponential as his orgasm builds, heat pooling in his belly, a wave that builds and builds and teeters on the cusp of breaking for long, agonizing moments.

“Harvey,” he gasps, fingers digging into the fabric of the couch, “Fuck, fuck!”

His mouth is awash with the taste of sugar and cayenne and Harvey, Harvey, Harvey.

Harvey reaches around their bodies and grips Mike’s cock, hand slick with lube. He tugs at it once, twice, three times, then slides his thumb over the head, hard.

Mike comes so hard his vision whites out, like every color in the spectrum exploding into pure light. His body clenches down hard around Harvey, rhythmic contractions racing through every muscle, like a fucking seizure, only full of pleasure and ecstasy and light instead of pain. His body shudders violently as Harvey fucks him through the aftershocks, trembling legs threatening to give out.

Then Harvey grunts, gasps, and says “God, Mike,” as he comes, Mike's name like a benediction on his lips. Mike gasps through the sensation of Harvey’s dick twitching inside of him, and they collapse onto the couch, Harvey still deeply embedded in him.

__

Harvey cleans him up after, once they’ve regained the ability to move. He smirks at the raw sound Mike makes when he pulls out, then gently wipes the lube and sweat and come from their bodies with a soft towel. It’s startlingly intimate- somehow more intimate than fucking, than Harvey seeing him incapacitated by seizures. Mike breathes and blinks sleepily at Harvey, taking in the mussed hair and the flushed glow of his skin. 
 God, he’s gorgeous.

More beautiful than any color Mike’s ever seen.
___
TBC

A/N:  OMG YOU GUYS PORN.  Yeah, so it took me twice as long to edit this chapter because 1.) My leg has been in serious pain the last two days and I broke down and took my narcotic painkillers, which make editing a very befuddled process (it generally goes something like "Hm, maybe I should expand on that paragaph a li- Oooh!  Look!  The internet!  Shiiiiiiiiiny....  Wait, what was I doing again?  I want cookies.") And 2.) DID YOU HAPPEN TO NOTICE THE PORN?  This is BY FAR the most detailed/involved sex scene I've done, and I am seriously freaking out about it a little.  Part of me is all YEAH, GEH SEX!, part of me is OH SHIT I CAN'T WRITE SEX SCENES FOR CRAP WHAT AM I DOING?!, part of me is FUCK, I HOPE MY DEAD GRANDMA IN HEAVEN CAN'T SEE WHAT I'M DOING RIGHT NOW, and part of me is just generally terrified that I took a half decent story and ruined it with shitty porn.  I'M NOT GOOD AT THIS, YOU GUYS, THE WHOLE PUTTING IT ALL OUT THERE BIT.  So, yeah.  IDEK.  I edited it and edited it and finally just decided fuck it, it's as good as it's going to get, it's in the internet porn gods' hands now.  Please, please, please feel free to give con-crit if you've got it - I would love any feedback that enables me to improve this type of writing, since it's not exactly something we covered in HS English or my college creative writing classes. :)
(Conclusion)