Suits Fic: The Deification of Existence
Title: The Deification of Existence
Author: smartalli
Count: 707
Fandom: Suits
Characters/Pairings: Harvey/Mike
Warnings: None that I’m aware of.
Summary: He draws a finger through the charcoal, pulls out shade and shadow, watches as Mike's body begins to form on the paper in his lap.
Disclaimer: Don’t own it. Not mine. Don’t sue.
A/N: Dedicated to the incredible tattooedsiren, who found the quote and named this little fic for me. If you haven't read her work, do yourself a favor and read it. You won't be sorry. I promise.
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Art is essentially the affirmation, the blessing, and the deification of existence.
-Friedrich Nietzsche
He leans back in his chair and props his feet on the edge of the bed, crossing them at the ankle. He pulls the sketchbook into his lap, flips it open to a fresh page as his eyes trace leisurely over Mike's naked, sleeping form.
Or, nearly naked.
The dark blue sheet has slipped and shifted until just the barest hint of Mike's ass is covered, one leg completely tangled, his body angled toward Harvey. His face is soft, serene, and Harvey watches him, studies him, tries to memorize this face, catalog it with Mike's other sleepy, early morning faces.
He sets charcoal to paper, draws a long, sure line, flicks his eyes up to unnecessarily check the line of a body he already knows as well as his own. He draws a finger through the charcoal, pulls out shade and shadow, watches as Mike's body begins to form on the paper in his lap.
Mike sighs, shifts, snuffles into his pillow. The sheet falls away, baring Mike's ass to Harvey and revealing the bite mark Harvey gave him about seven hours ago. Harvey smiles to himself, adds in another line, brings the slope of Mike's left shoulder to life, the curve of his bicep, the softness of his cheek.
Harvey works quickly, smiles in satisfaction when he gets the angle of Mike's mouth just right, the softness of his slightly parted lips, the way they turn up at the corners.
Mike shifts again, flips over onto his back, flops his hand on his belly. Sighs.
Harvey begins a new drawing on the other half of the white paper, sketching out the new curves of Mike's body, watching with interest as Mike's hips shift and his head tilts the other way, to face away from Harvey. Harvey fills in Mike's fingers, the ridges and planes of his chest, the soft swell of his cock. He draws the newly bent knee, the fat roundness of his exposed toes, the childhood scar that slices across Mike's right kneecap. He drags his thumb across the lines, softens the space between Mike's legs, behind his knees, his neck.
He sets the charcoal down and stares at the images of Mike in his lap, soft and secure in sleep, trusting.
Harvey had an art teacher in college who used to stand over Harvey's shoulder and watch him draw. He'd watch the often viciously accurate image take shape on Harvey's easel and nearly every time he'd laugh, clap Harvey on the shoulder, tell him, "Nothing escapes you, does it?" He reveled in Harvey's critical eye.
Harvey sketches in the small hickey on Mike's collarbone, the bite around his nipple, drags a finger softly along the charcoal line of Mike's body to form the familiar, smooth scar that curves along his side, a souvenir from the car accident that took Mike's parents’ lives, and just barely spared his.
Harvey's drawn many of his partners before, but never as often as he draws Mike now. He wonders if he showed his former professor these sketches of Mike, the stacks and stacks of drawings Harvey keeps in the bottom drawer of his bedside table, if he'd still laugh.
He'd probably call Harvey soft now.
Mike's eyes flutter, his hips shift, and Harvey flips the cover of the sketchbook closed, stows it away in the bottom drawer of his bedside table. He pulls his feet off the edge of the bed, stands, walks over and slides up the bed. He smiles when Mike's legs automatically fall open for him, when Mike looks up at him through fluttering lashes and soft, sleepy eyes. Harvey kisses him slow, soft, closes his eyes when Mike sighs, "Morning," and wraps his arms around Harvey's back.
Harvey plants charcoal-stained fingers in the pillow on either side of Mike's head, rolls his hips, smiles at Mike's gasp, kisses him hard. Mike shifts his hips again, wraps his legs around Harvey's waist, and Harvey traces Mike's cheekbones with his thumbs, leaving behind light grey streaks.
Harvey's never drawn Mike like this, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, spread out beneath Harvey. He's never drawn them together.
Maybe tomorrow morning.
{fin}
Author: smartalli
Count: 707
Fandom: Suits
Characters/Pairings: Harvey/Mike
Warnings: None that I’m aware of.
Summary: He draws a finger through the charcoal, pulls out shade and shadow, watches as Mike's body begins to form on the paper in his lap.
Disclaimer: Don’t own it. Not mine. Don’t sue.
A/N: Dedicated to the incredible tattooedsiren, who found the quote and named this little fic for me. If you haven't read her work, do yourself a favor and read it. You won't be sorry. I promise.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Art is essentially the affirmation, the blessing, and the deification of existence.
-Friedrich Nietzsche
He leans back in his chair and props his feet on the edge of the bed, crossing them at the ankle. He pulls the sketchbook into his lap, flips it open to a fresh page as his eyes trace leisurely over Mike's naked, sleeping form.
Or, nearly naked.
The dark blue sheet has slipped and shifted until just the barest hint of Mike's ass is covered, one leg completely tangled, his body angled toward Harvey. His face is soft, serene, and Harvey watches him, studies him, tries to memorize this face, catalog it with Mike's other sleepy, early morning faces.
He sets charcoal to paper, draws a long, sure line, flicks his eyes up to unnecessarily check the line of a body he already knows as well as his own. He draws a finger through the charcoal, pulls out shade and shadow, watches as Mike's body begins to form on the paper in his lap.
Mike sighs, shifts, snuffles into his pillow. The sheet falls away, baring Mike's ass to Harvey and revealing the bite mark Harvey gave him about seven hours ago. Harvey smiles to himself, adds in another line, brings the slope of Mike's left shoulder to life, the curve of his bicep, the softness of his cheek.
Harvey works quickly, smiles in satisfaction when he gets the angle of Mike's mouth just right, the softness of his slightly parted lips, the way they turn up at the corners.
Mike shifts again, flips over onto his back, flops his hand on his belly. Sighs.
Harvey begins a new drawing on the other half of the white paper, sketching out the new curves of Mike's body, watching with interest as Mike's hips shift and his head tilts the other way, to face away from Harvey. Harvey fills in Mike's fingers, the ridges and planes of his chest, the soft swell of his cock. He draws the newly bent knee, the fat roundness of his exposed toes, the childhood scar that slices across Mike's right kneecap. He drags his thumb across the lines, softens the space between Mike's legs, behind his knees, his neck.
He sets the charcoal down and stares at the images of Mike in his lap, soft and secure in sleep, trusting.
Harvey had an art teacher in college who used to stand over Harvey's shoulder and watch him draw. He'd watch the often viciously accurate image take shape on Harvey's easel and nearly every time he'd laugh, clap Harvey on the shoulder, tell him, "Nothing escapes you, does it?" He reveled in Harvey's critical eye.
Harvey sketches in the small hickey on Mike's collarbone, the bite around his nipple, drags a finger softly along the charcoal line of Mike's body to form the familiar, smooth scar that curves along his side, a souvenir from the car accident that took Mike's parents’ lives, and just barely spared his.
Harvey's drawn many of his partners before, but never as often as he draws Mike now. He wonders if he showed his former professor these sketches of Mike, the stacks and stacks of drawings Harvey keeps in the bottom drawer of his bedside table, if he'd still laugh.
He'd probably call Harvey soft now.
Mike's eyes flutter, his hips shift, and Harvey flips the cover of the sketchbook closed, stows it away in the bottom drawer of his bedside table. He pulls his feet off the edge of the bed, stands, walks over and slides up the bed. He smiles when Mike's legs automatically fall open for him, when Mike looks up at him through fluttering lashes and soft, sleepy eyes. Harvey kisses him slow, soft, closes his eyes when Mike sighs, "Morning," and wraps his arms around Harvey's back.
Harvey plants charcoal-stained fingers in the pillow on either side of Mike's head, rolls his hips, smiles at Mike's gasp, kisses him hard. Mike shifts his hips again, wraps his legs around Harvey's waist, and Harvey traces Mike's cheekbones with his thumbs, leaving behind light grey streaks.
Harvey's never drawn Mike like this, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, spread out beneath Harvey. He's never drawn them together.
Maybe tomorrow morning.
{fin}