Suits Fic: Entwine, and After Hours
Why is fandom 90% slash to 10% het? I'm undeniably curious about this and also, NEED MORE HET FIC, WTH PEOPLE.
While I was bemoaning the state of Suits offerings on A03, ceruleantides gave me random prompts because apparently I am going to have to come up with all sorts of fic on my own to fill the Donna/Harvey void. There is a lack of thought out character development here and probably some nonsense thrown in for good measure, but I needed something silly to get me out of the writer's block I'm facing on the real fic, so here you go. Donna/Harvey Funtimes:
Title: Entwine
Rating: PG
Category: Donna Paulsen/Harvey Specter
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Owned by others.
==
He doesn’t think anything of it until it dawns on him that he’s been staring at her while she’s been walking toward him, and now they’re a step away from passing too closely in the one small section of hallway at Pearson Hardman that he avoids as much as possible ever since he got caught up in an incredibly awkward shuffle with Louis trying to get to the other side of the damn building.
Donna is oblivious, the path likely one she takes multiple times a day since it’s the most convenient byway from the library to the copy room and his office, so he commits and they’re passing, and despite an incredibly brief sensory overload (her perfume is familiar - earthy and vaguely floral), the day continues.
He nearly makes it a step further but comes up short as his jacket yanks behind him. He hears Donna exclaim aloud and looks down to see that their outfits have tangled. More precisely, his jacket has caught in her dress - button wrapped up in the lace at her hip like they’d done a lot more than simply pass alongside one another in a public setting. And this is exactly why he prefers his dates in silk.
“I like your moves,” she says as she fiddles with the knot they’ve made.
He frowns at her head.
“Here, hold this.” She hands him the case files she’s holding to free up her other hand. “This is some nice work, Harvey.”
“I like to be thorough,” he quips, but he’s vaguely aware he’s holding the case files across his chest as a flimsy excuse of a barrier between them. She’s incredibly close, too close to keep his mind from wandering, especially as the long seconds pass into minutes. “Well?”
She looks up, a small furrow in her brow that speaks to her frustration. “I have many talents, but this is a disaster.”
He takes a closer look, determined to get them untangled and back to work before he starts counting the light freckles that dot her neck. “We need scissors.”
Donna’s hands fly to her hips and the movement nudges them closer. “You are not cutting anything on this Michael Kors dress.”
He smells her perfume again, subtle and distracting; he recognizes saffron. He looks around to avoid meeting her eyes in this confined space, the narrow hallway even smaller than he remembers. He’s conscious of her body against his - arm, leg, hip - the warm press and feel of her. This is ridiculous.
“I’ll cut off the button, come on.” He steps backward to move past her as she does the same in the other direction, and for one turn in the dance they’re suddenly much much closer, her hand on his chest and his at her back, or her waist - possibly somewhere in between because he’s simultaneously moving and clearing his throat and aware of her hair against his cheek. The case files hang uselessly at his side.
He doesn’t have a voice after that, the great Harvey Specter wordless. He’s looking at her mouth, of course, inches from his and his mind is already leaking like a sieve.
“Wait,” she says, and her hand goes from his chest to where they got tangled up from the start. A quick flick of her wrist and they’re separated.
It’s a flare of relief and regret that pass as he takes a step back and admires how neatly they’ve straightened out, their clothes betraying no signs. Donna is looking at him with a slight sideways smile, almost embarrassed, or pleased, or curious, and she leans in to take the files from his hand.
“Thank you,” she says with a brisk nod. “Same time tomorrow?”
And then she’s turning and walking away, dress swinging against her legs as she takes the long route back to his office.
-Fin
=====
Title: After Hours
Rating: PG
Category: Donna Paulsen/Harvey Specter
Spoilers: Season Two, Sucker Punch
Disclaimer: Owned by others.
==
She sits in the far table at the back of the diner, cradles a hot mug of surprisingly decent coffee in her hands and watches the night deepen and settle outside while traffic slows. It’s seven minutes past the hour according to her watch, and the diner comes alive - a few late night patrons at the counter, a quinceanera party occupying a couple of tables to her right, and a group of workers attacking omelets with gusto. It’s comfortable, if not very familiar, and she thinks maybe tomorrow she’ll figure out what she’s going to do with the rest of her life.
Harvey taps on the window from outside, still dressed to the nines in the latest Tom Ford suit she’d recently ordered for him. She hides her surprise at his sudden appearance.
“I’m on a date,” she mouths, then repeats aloud when he indicates he doesn’t understand. “A date, Harvey.”
One of the quinceanera kids looks over.
Harvey nods. “Cheap date?”
“I didn’t say it was a good one.” She shrugs, hopes he’ll take the hint.
A minute passes and she realizes he’s stubbornly staying put.
“You can leave now,” she reminds him, and tries not to notice the gathering quiet around the quinceanera table nearest as the attention shifts toward what she assumes is their interest in the crazy lady talking loudly to a window.
He either doesn’t hear, or pretends not to. She’s still surprised he managed to find her - it’s an unknown diner to either of them and a good three stops off the line from home. She stares down at her phone vaguely wondering if he might have figured out how to track her through her GPS; she’d been very careful when she set up his.
“Looks like you’ve been stood up,” he says, his voice much closer, and she looks up as he slides into the seat opposite. He glances over at the kids who are deep in whispered conversation. “Let them think on that for a moment.”
“Harvey,” she says, and it’s both a statement and a question.
“I had Ray following you,” he explains. There’s neither embarrassment nor censure in the declaration, simply fact, like it is the most obvious thing in the world. “Pie?”
“Pie?” she asks, out of her element and struggling to fight through a variety of emotions washing over her.
“Two strawberry rhubarb, and another coffee,” he says, and she realizes he’s ordering from Carrie, or Terry - she still hasn’t quite figured out the waitress’ name, only that it rhymes with... maybe Mary? Only Harvey would remember that she likes strawberry rhubarb, and she dimly recalls it being part of a please-forgive-me gift from an old boyfriend years ago while she and Harvey were still at the DA’s office. She frowns.
“Harvey,” she says again and knows she’s being repetitive. “Why are you here?”
He looks like he’s about to deflect, but he gives a half shrug of a shoulder. “I thought you could use some company.”
“You do realize I’m not happy with you right now.” It’s definitely a statement this time.
“I know,” he says quietly. There is rare apology in his gaze, and a mix of the other feelings that lurk - sadness, shame and fear.
She means to ask questions, but anger bites at the ends of her thoughts. “You had me followed.”
He splays his hands out on the table. “Okay, give me your worst.”
She has so many words at her disposal - thoughts constantly on fast forward since she lost her breath holding that memo in her hand. Even now it’s still a disconnect, her mind racing backwards in time while a chain of events plays out in front of her. But if she’s honest, forget the anger and humiliation and betrayal that sit at the forefront, at the heart of it all is loss.
“I don’t want to keep falling, Harvey.” Her voice is steady although her hands tremble in her lap.
He looks up at her sharply, surprise with a splash of grief.
She tries to find courage in a smile. “I don’t have anything left to give.”
Terry (Carrie, whatever) chooses that moment to quietly set down their order, and Donna catches a glimpse of the kids across the way, all eyes glued to her and Harvey, their attention rapt. It’s almost enough to make her laugh.
“A tragic love story,” Harvey says, noticing the audience. Donna struggles to control the flip in her stomach at his choice of words, lingers over a bite of pie that has suddenly turned overly sweet on her tongue.
He plays with his slice, fork stabbing at the edges to break it up into little bits that crumble and collect in the plate.
“What did he do?” she hears one girl whisper a little too loudly to the group.
Harvey grimaces. “Sorry isn’t going to be enough this time.”
“You’re right,” she agrees because that anger is still there, although maybe a little quieter than before. He nods and turns the coffee mug slowly in his hands. He looks tired, remorseful, a bit more like a man and a little less the Harvey Specter he wears like a shield.
“So,” she says. “Let’s just say you owe me one.”
He smiles before he even looks up.
“Or two,” she adds thoughtfully.
“Carte blanch?” he suggests.
Donna hears a slight thwack at the next table and turns in time to see a girl hitting one of the guys on the arm with a hiss. “See?!”
She shakes her head and raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I think two will be quite enough.”
-Fin
While I was bemoaning the state of Suits offerings on A03, ceruleantides gave me random prompts because apparently I am going to have to come up with all sorts of fic on my own to fill the Donna/Harvey void. There is a lack of thought out character development here and probably some nonsense thrown in for good measure, but I needed something silly to get me out of the writer's block I'm facing on the real fic, so here you go. Donna/Harvey Funtimes:
Title: Entwine
Rating: PG
Category: Donna Paulsen/Harvey Specter
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Owned by others.
==
He doesn’t think anything of it until it dawns on him that he’s been staring at her while she’s been walking toward him, and now they’re a step away from passing too closely in the one small section of hallway at Pearson Hardman that he avoids as much as possible ever since he got caught up in an incredibly awkward shuffle with Louis trying to get to the other side of the damn building.
Donna is oblivious, the path likely one she takes multiple times a day since it’s the most convenient byway from the library to the copy room and his office, so he commits and they’re passing, and despite an incredibly brief sensory overload (her perfume is familiar - earthy and vaguely floral), the day continues.
He nearly makes it a step further but comes up short as his jacket yanks behind him. He hears Donna exclaim aloud and looks down to see that their outfits have tangled. More precisely, his jacket has caught in her dress - button wrapped up in the lace at her hip like they’d done a lot more than simply pass alongside one another in a public setting. And this is exactly why he prefers his dates in silk.
“I like your moves,” she says as she fiddles with the knot they’ve made.
He frowns at her head.
“Here, hold this.” She hands him the case files she’s holding to free up her other hand. “This is some nice work, Harvey.”
“I like to be thorough,” he quips, but he’s vaguely aware he’s holding the case files across his chest as a flimsy excuse of a barrier between them. She’s incredibly close, too close to keep his mind from wandering, especially as the long seconds pass into minutes. “Well?”
She looks up, a small furrow in her brow that speaks to her frustration. “I have many talents, but this is a disaster.”
He takes a closer look, determined to get them untangled and back to work before he starts counting the light freckles that dot her neck. “We need scissors.”
Donna’s hands fly to her hips and the movement nudges them closer. “You are not cutting anything on this Michael Kors dress.”
He smells her perfume again, subtle and distracting; he recognizes saffron. He looks around to avoid meeting her eyes in this confined space, the narrow hallway even smaller than he remembers. He’s conscious of her body against his - arm, leg, hip - the warm press and feel of her. This is ridiculous.
“I’ll cut off the button, come on.” He steps backward to move past her as she does the same in the other direction, and for one turn in the dance they’re suddenly much much closer, her hand on his chest and his at her back, or her waist - possibly somewhere in between because he’s simultaneously moving and clearing his throat and aware of her hair against his cheek. The case files hang uselessly at his side.
He doesn’t have a voice after that, the great Harvey Specter wordless. He’s looking at her mouth, of course, inches from his and his mind is already leaking like a sieve.
“Wait,” she says, and her hand goes from his chest to where they got tangled up from the start. A quick flick of her wrist and they’re separated.
It’s a flare of relief and regret that pass as he takes a step back and admires how neatly they’ve straightened out, their clothes betraying no signs. Donna is looking at him with a slight sideways smile, almost embarrassed, or pleased, or curious, and she leans in to take the files from his hand.
“Thank you,” she says with a brisk nod. “Same time tomorrow?”
And then she’s turning and walking away, dress swinging against her legs as she takes the long route back to his office.
-Fin
=====
Title: After Hours
Rating: PG
Category: Donna Paulsen/Harvey Specter
Spoilers: Season Two, Sucker Punch
Disclaimer: Owned by others.
==
She sits in the far table at the back of the diner, cradles a hot mug of surprisingly decent coffee in her hands and watches the night deepen and settle outside while traffic slows. It’s seven minutes past the hour according to her watch, and the diner comes alive - a few late night patrons at the counter, a quinceanera party occupying a couple of tables to her right, and a group of workers attacking omelets with gusto. It’s comfortable, if not very familiar, and she thinks maybe tomorrow she’ll figure out what she’s going to do with the rest of her life.
Harvey taps on the window from outside, still dressed to the nines in the latest Tom Ford suit she’d recently ordered for him. She hides her surprise at his sudden appearance.
“I’m on a date,” she mouths, then repeats aloud when he indicates he doesn’t understand. “A date, Harvey.”
One of the quinceanera kids looks over.
Harvey nods. “Cheap date?”
“I didn’t say it was a good one.” She shrugs, hopes he’ll take the hint.
A minute passes and she realizes he’s stubbornly staying put.
“You can leave now,” she reminds him, and tries not to notice the gathering quiet around the quinceanera table nearest as the attention shifts toward what she assumes is their interest in the crazy lady talking loudly to a window.
He either doesn’t hear, or pretends not to. She’s still surprised he managed to find her - it’s an unknown diner to either of them and a good three stops off the line from home. She stares down at her phone vaguely wondering if he might have figured out how to track her through her GPS; she’d been very careful when she set up his.
“Looks like you’ve been stood up,” he says, his voice much closer, and she looks up as he slides into the seat opposite. He glances over at the kids who are deep in whispered conversation. “Let them think on that for a moment.”
“Harvey,” she says, and it’s both a statement and a question.
“I had Ray following you,” he explains. There’s neither embarrassment nor censure in the declaration, simply fact, like it is the most obvious thing in the world. “Pie?”
“Pie?” she asks, out of her element and struggling to fight through a variety of emotions washing over her.
“Two strawberry rhubarb, and another coffee,” he says, and she realizes he’s ordering from Carrie, or Terry - she still hasn’t quite figured out the waitress’ name, only that it rhymes with... maybe Mary? Only Harvey would remember that she likes strawberry rhubarb, and she dimly recalls it being part of a please-forgive-me gift from an old boyfriend years ago while she and Harvey were still at the DA’s office. She frowns.
“Harvey,” she says again and knows she’s being repetitive. “Why are you here?”
He looks like he’s about to deflect, but he gives a half shrug of a shoulder. “I thought you could use some company.”
“You do realize I’m not happy with you right now.” It’s definitely a statement this time.
“I know,” he says quietly. There is rare apology in his gaze, and a mix of the other feelings that lurk - sadness, shame and fear.
She means to ask questions, but anger bites at the ends of her thoughts. “You had me followed.”
He splays his hands out on the table. “Okay, give me your worst.”
She has so many words at her disposal - thoughts constantly on fast forward since she lost her breath holding that memo in her hand. Even now it’s still a disconnect, her mind racing backwards in time while a chain of events plays out in front of her. But if she’s honest, forget the anger and humiliation and betrayal that sit at the forefront, at the heart of it all is loss.
“I don’t want to keep falling, Harvey.” Her voice is steady although her hands tremble in her lap.
He looks up at her sharply, surprise with a splash of grief.
She tries to find courage in a smile. “I don’t have anything left to give.”
Terry (Carrie, whatever) chooses that moment to quietly set down their order, and Donna catches a glimpse of the kids across the way, all eyes glued to her and Harvey, their attention rapt. It’s almost enough to make her laugh.
“A tragic love story,” Harvey says, noticing the audience. Donna struggles to control the flip in her stomach at his choice of words, lingers over a bite of pie that has suddenly turned overly sweet on her tongue.
He plays with his slice, fork stabbing at the edges to break it up into little bits that crumble and collect in the plate.
“What did he do?” she hears one girl whisper a little too loudly to the group.
Harvey grimaces. “Sorry isn’t going to be enough this time.”
“You’re right,” she agrees because that anger is still there, although maybe a little quieter than before. He nods and turns the coffee mug slowly in his hands. He looks tired, remorseful, a bit more like a man and a little less the Harvey Specter he wears like a shield.
“So,” she says. “Let’s just say you owe me one.”
He smiles before he even looks up.
“Or two,” she adds thoughtfully.
“Carte blanch?” he suggests.
Donna hears a slight thwack at the next table and turns in time to see a girl hitting one of the guys on the arm with a hiss. “See?!”
She shakes her head and raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I think two will be quite enough.”
-Fin