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Fic: "Lit Up" 1/4, Suits, Harvey/Mike NC-17

August 14th, 2011 (02:17 pm)

 Title: Lit Up
Chapter: One

Genre: H/C, slash
Word Count: Roughly 10,000 at current count (but later chapters need some editing).
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.
A/N 1:  I have a sort of fascination with synesthesia, which is a neurological condition in which one's senses are unusually linked.  Sounds can have a color (as in this fic) or taste, letters or days of the week can have personalities, etc.  It's very interesting from an intellectual standpoint.  After I was hit by a drunk driver, I experienced a very mild form of synesthesia for about a month due to a head injury.  Since then I've really wanted to write a fic about it, so here I am.  I took some liberties with the condition for the sake of creative expression, so please don't look at this as a reliable scientific source of information. :)  There will also be descriptions of an epileptic seizure later in the story (primarily the build-up and after effects) - this, too, is taken from personal experience.  Luckily I only had seizures on and off for about six months after my accident, and it gave me some good fodder for fanfic (silver lining and all that!). 
A/N 2:  This fic is dedicated to [info]laylabinx, who is just as crazy about Mike whump as I am, who indulges my many ridiculous prompts at the meme, and who writes consistently awesome H/C fics for Suits.  Go check out her work.  Seriously.  It's awesome!  
Harvey voice is a deep, rich red – it washes over Mike the first time he hears it, a colored ribbon of sound that sends a warm flush down his spine. His own voice when he speaks is a tremulous yellow, weaker and more stressed than the usual gray-blue of his tone, stretched thin under the threat of arrest for possession with intent to distribute. In those tense first moments when they meet, when Mike spills a briefcase of drugs onto the expensive carpet, Harvey quirks his brow and pierces Mike with a considering look. The smooth blood red of Harvey's timbre washes over Mike's quavering off-yellow like an ink, and Mike half suspects the color will stain everything it touches with hints of vermillion.

The air is heavy with danger and possibility, an entire spectrum of color waiting to explode, and Mike knows immediately that this job will be more challenging, more terrifying, and more important than anything else he's done with his pathetic, wasted life so far.

What Mike understands later (but not then) is that his prediction is spot on. Only, he is applying those adjectives to the job when really, he should be applying them to the man himself, Harvey Spector.


Harvey's voice rarely changes its base color, though it tends to vary in shades– today it's an excited fire engine red, the fractal coronas of his words tinged with the intense hue of Harvey's satisfaction as he struts out of court, fresh from their victory in the Gunderson v. Jackson real estate case.

“I hope you were taking notes, kid, because that is how you destroy opposing counsel,” Harvey says, chest held high. It would look like arrogance on anyone else, but on Harvey it simply looks like truth in advertising, the natural posture of someone who wields power as easily as most people breathe. The lines of his charcoal gray suit sit perfectly on his shoulders, the captivating angle of his trim waist. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a pleased smirk. Harvey is never as happy as when he's won a case, especially when he's won it with style and aplomb.

Mike likes this side of him. Victory brings out Harvey's generous side, his willingness to advise his associate and include him in the afterglow. It's a bit like standing near a blazing fire on a cold night – everything around them seems muted, the colors of other people's conversations faded to pastels next to the crimson gusto of Harvey's pleasure.

“Notes?” Mike scoffs, adjusting his messenger bag on his shoulder as he tries to keep up. “Remember who you’re talking to here, Harvey. I could recite the whole trial back to you verbatim if you wanted. You want me to give you a highlights reel? Maybe an instant replay of you flipping their witness? Man, she folded like a bad hand. It was a thing of beauty.”

Harvey strides with purpose and confidence, each step a silvery click of sound in Mike's peripheral. Mike's own feet seem to tangle, an ashy, chaotic rhythm overshadowed by Harvey's perfect footfalls. There is hardly a moment spent in Harvey's company that Mike does not feel awkward, fumbling, and sloppy by comparison. It's would be like working for the Statue of David if David had preferred tailored suits over nudity (and doesn’t that image send Mike’s brain straight into dangerous waters).

“It's all about reading people,” Harvey tells him, angling his head conspiratorially towards Mike. “Did you see the way she was picking at her nails? They were high-end acrylics, well maintained, expensive. No way a woman who puts that much money into her nails picks at them unless she’s got a damn good reason. And she looked down and to the left every time she lied. It was easy to figure out she was lying about the site inspections. Child's play, almost. Right up your alley.”

Harvey smirks playfully at Mike and Mike rolls his eyes at the familiar jab. He hadn't noticed her picking her nails, actually, but he had noticed the thread of lime green anxiety in her voice every time she lied.

He doesn't tell Harvey that. That’s a conversation Mike can’t even imagine beginning, a surreal hypothetical that he doubts will ever become reality.

“The look on opposing counsel's face...” he says wryly. “It was like you'd just told him you’d just backed over his dog after fucking his wife.”

He nudges Harvey with a friendly elbow, waggling his eyebrows childishly (because these are the roles they play, and they’re familiar and easy and fun). Most days Mike knows not to touch Harvey, but when he's fresh off a win like this, the usual boundaries relax and Mike takes full advantage, saving up casual touches and grazes to get him through the dry spells when Harvey is frustrated and stalwart.

Harvey grins toothily, part predatory cat and part gleeful child. The roles blur a little, and something flutters in Mike’s gut.

“Glen is an asshole,” Harvey says. “He's a half-decent litigator, but he fails at thinking on his feet, every time. Even though he likes to think he's god's gift to law.”

“Too bad that title is already claimed,” Mike says, and is gratified when Harvey's grin widens. “He won't be able to sit right for a week after the thorough spanking you just delivered. If you're not careful, he might sue you for emotional damages. Your honor,” he says in a tremulous, mocking imitation of opposing counsel (it turns his voice terra cotta), “I can’t even see a three-piece suit without suffering flashbacks.”

Harvey actually laughs, a short burst of genuine sound that Mike has never heard from him before. The sound sparkles in Mike's vision like fireworks, and it's pink.

For the first time since Mike met Harvey, he almost wants to tell him about the synesthesia, just so he can taunt Harvey with the fact that his laugh is magenta pink and shimmery like glitter. Then he imagines the look on Harvey's face, the indignant insistence that would no doubt follow such a proclamation, and remembers why that conversation must remain firmly in the hypothetical.

This moment is warm and perfect and Mike won't ruin it with an awkward announcement about his fucked up brain. He knows how those conversations go – the confused looks, the uneasiness, the way people stare while they try to figure out exactly how different he is. The pity when he has to explain how he gained the ability to blend his senses.

He's seen enough of that look on people's faces to last a life time. He doesn't think he could handle seeing it on Harvey's face as well.

So he jokes with Harvey about opposing counsel, basks in the pleased candy apple red of Harvey's voice when he praises Mike's work on the case, and enjoys the bright, brassy colors of Harvey's latest mix for Ray while they ride back to the office.

Harvey gives him briefs to proof for their next case, and a warm, firm hand on his shoulder when he wanders back to his glass-walled fortress of solitude. Mike watches the rainbow oscillation of Pearson Hardman swirl around him while he works, papery whites, frustrated greens, flirty purples, and puncturing grays dancing in a Jackson Pollock display of chaotic energy.

He tells himself that he isn't looking for Harvey's deep, distinctive hue in the mix, waiting to follow it back to the source like it's a tether, a fine red silk thread tied to the center of him, always pulling him in Harvey's direction.

And he can almost, almost, believe that.


There are some words that have distinctive flavors when Mike utters them. The word “Grammy” tastes like sugar cookies and a hint of lilac. “Sex” tastes like sugar and hot pepper. “Failure” tastes like gone-by apples and fish, and it makes him gag to say it.

His own name, when he's forced to utter it, tastes like mint with a wash of vinegar and salt, a bitter flavor of disappointment and regret.

It's about two months after he starts at Pearson Hardman that Mike realizes he's beginning to pick up the flavor of his coworker’s names.

“Jessica” tastes like espresso and nutmeg, strong and distinct. “Rachel” tastes like maple and curry. “Louis” tastes, surprisingly, like wood smoke and the smell of aged books.

But most distinct, most alluring (unsurprisingly), is Harvey’s name.

It's rich, spicy, and complex – Merlot, dark chocolate, and cinnamon. It coats the inside of Mike’s mouth when he says it, better than the most expensive wines or the most exotic foods. Mike wants to bite down on it, bury his teeth in it. Sometimes at night he lies awake and says “Harvey, Harvey,” into the dark of his room, watching the ocean blue of his voice twist through the darkness like an unfurling vine, the taste of Harvey's name heavy on his tongue, intimate and lingering like a kiss.

Harvey invites Mike to watch the Yankees game at his condo in October. 

“You've been working hard,” Harvey tells him (and the spark of approval in his eyes warms Mike in a way that is mildly embarrassing but oh, so satisfying).  “Bring the Killerman briefs, we can proof them during commercial breaks.  No need to spend another weekend in the office when we could spend it watching baseball.” 

Mike spends all of Friday night anxiously anticipating the game.  This is new territory for them, an unprecedented redrawing of borders.  With anyone else, a casual invite to work from home and watch the game would hardly be worth thinking about.  But with Harvey, who guards himself like a kingdom under constant siege, it’s groundbreaking.  Mike is terrified of fucking it up somehow, of losing this tenuous ground he’s gained, and he feels on-edge and off-center by the time he arrives at Harvey's doorstep Saturday afternoon. 

Mike is immediately, thoroughly shocked by two things when he arrives: Harvey has a glass fucking elevator in his condo (further blurring the lines between “lawyer” and “pimp mack daddy”), and Donna is there, wearing a fitted Yankees jersey and holding a bowl of popcorn. 

Mike feels something suspiciously like jealousy and disappointment twinge low in his belly.  He swiftly squashes the train of thought that wants to explore why Harvey's gorgeous assistant is standing barefoot in his condo.  He squashes the train of thought that wants to explore why he even cares with far more vigor. 

“Harvey,” Donna shouts, casual pony tail sweeping over her shoulder as she turns her head, “Someone left a puppy on your doorstep!  Can we keep him, pretty please?” 

“No,” Harvey's voice sounds from deeper in the room, amusement tingeing it brick red. 

“Too late,” Donna says, shoving the bowl of popcorn into Mike's hands with a wink and stepping aside to let him in.  “I've already fed him.”  Her voice is teal with undertones of emerald green.

 “You're responsible for the inevitable vet bills, then,” Harvey says, appearing with a beer for Mike as they make their way to the lavish living room.  Harvey is wearing jeans (jeans that are clearly more expensive than Mike's entire wardrobe combined, but still, jeans).  Mike feels his world view tilt a little on its axis.  He determinedly does not stare at the obscenely hot way the denim sits on Harvey’s ass. 

“If either of you even think about mentioning neutering, I'm out of here,” he says instead, settling into an armchair more comfortable than his bed.

“That is a specialty of Donna's, I believe,” Harvey says, smiling around his beer as he drinks.

“Speaking from experience?” Mike chuckles.  “I sort of suspected she might be keeping your balls in her desk somewhere.” 

“Kid, she'd need a lot more storage than that.” 

Donna curls her legs under her on the sofa, cups her hand to shield her mouth from Harvey's view, and mouths lower right hand drawer to Mike.

Mike chokes on his beer and enjoys the resulting back and forth banter, watching Harvey and Donna's voices twist together like playful otters in the air between them. 

They drink imported beer, eat Harvey's idea of “junk food” (which probably costs more than a four course meal at Mike's favorite restaurant – really, who puts white truffle oil on popcorn?), and enjoy the first inning without ever cracking open the files.  

It quickly becomes apparent that Donna is an insane baseball fan.  She hurls insults at the opposing team that would be considered colorful even to someone without synesthesia, whoops with joy when the Yankees score, and at one point is apparently prepared to hurl her beer at the obscenely large flat screen before Harvey skillfully slips it out of her upraised hand. 

“This is why they won't let you back in Hurley's Sports Bar and you have to suffer my company to watch the game on a big screen TV” Harvey admonishes her wryly.

 “No,” Donna says, raising a stern finger in Harvey's direction, “They won't let me back in Hurley's because I broke that investment banker's wrist last fall.”

Mike chokes on his beer a little (again – it seems to be a pattern).  “What?  Seriously?”

“He grabbed my tits,” Donna shrugs.  “I feel as though it was an appropriate response.  You disagree?”

She has that slightly off-balanced, shark-like look of danger in her eyes.

“No, no!” Mike rushes to assure her.  “If I had been there I'm sure I would have broken his wrist on your behalf, or relieved him of a finger or something as a reminder not to go where he's not invited.”

“You think I need you to break wrists on my behalf, Junior?”

“No, I mean, clearly you're capable of breaking bones on your own, I just meant that I – uh-” 

“Give the kid a break,” Harvey scolds Donna, “You'll break his brain or something,” (and that right there is just further evidence of the fact that Harvey very well might need an airplane hanger to store his apparently massive balls, because who else but someone with epic cajones would scold Donna?  The woman is terrifying). 

“I knew you cared,” Mike grins at Harvey, who rolls his eyes.

“Don't read too much into it, kid.  I just find your freakish memory useful for impressing clients and amusing small minds at the firm’s cocktail parties.”

Mike continues to smile beguilingly at Harvey, unconvinced, even as his heart clenches a little at Harvey's choice of words. 


“I do like the idea of removing that banker's fingers,” Donna concedes, tapping her lip with one perfectly manicured finger.  She appears to be considering the logistics of divesting a man of his digits in a bar.  “Very Arabian.  Has a certain barbaric flair to it.”

Mike adds another mental tally mark to the Reasons Not To Piss Off Donna column in his brain, then scoops up another handful of popcorn with white truffle oil and dead sea salt (it is delicious).

Harvey calls him a cab close to midnight, long after the game has ended and Donna has annihilated them both in Wii bowling several times over.  Mike stands awkwardly in the doorway as he leaves, slightly drunk and more relaxed than he's been in months.  He feels like he's in high school, trying to decide rather of not to kiss his date.  Except that's ridiculous, because this is Harvey (Harvey, who collects one night stands with beautiful women like they’re baseball cards or stamps), and Donna is in the next room trying to find her shoes and her phone before she leaves. 

“The Killerman briefs,” Mike blurts suddenly.  “We never – I didn't proof them.”

Harvey looks at him with a strange blend of consternation and amusement (and maybe, just maybe, a little affection).

“It's fine, Mike,” he says, passing Mike his messenger bag and ushering him out the door.

Mike is halfway home before he realizes that when Harvey said it's fine what he meant was that was never why I asked you over in the first place. 

There is a warm blush of burgundy behind his eyes when he drifts off to sleep that night, despite the fact that Harvey is much too far away for his voice to be painting Mike's vision.


If Harvey's voice is warm and rich when he's pleased with Mike, it's cold and biting when he's let down.  Mike hates the color of Harvey’s voice when Harvey's displeased with him, frustrated, annoyed, or (worst of all) disappointed.  It's like a violent, sickening splash of blood across his vision, and he swears he'd do just about anything to bring the hue back to its usual Merlot.

“You've got a weak stomach,” Harvey tells him after the mock trial.  “You're not cut out for this.”

His words are a metallic red, edged with a sharp, steely thread of contempt that cuts Mike to his core. 

Mike wants to tell Harvey the way his own voice  had looked in the fake court room, dirty gray and vicious black, the sound circling Rachael like a predator.  He wants to tell Harvey how Rachael's voice had slipped from the gentle lavender of her usual cadence to a deep, wounded magenta that trembled with hints of red, the way the words he threw at her tasted like blood and dirt and pain.

But the metal in Harvey's voice is a wall between them. Mike knows that anything he says will only break itself against the unyielding color of Harvey's disappointment, his useless words falling away like dead leaves in a wind.

He stays quiet, unwilling to see the disheartened, chastised shade of his own voice stretch into the emptiness between them.


Chapter Two


A/N 3:   Any and all feedback or concrit will be loved, cherished, and cradled like a firstborn child. I'm quite nervous about this fic, because I'm not sure if my descriptions of Mike's sensory differences make sense or not, so if it seems unduly confusing or unclear please let me know so that I can try to fix it!  :)


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Posted by: Doey (hey_doey_doey)
Posted at: August 14th, 2011 06:23 pm (UTC)
high five?

Oh my god. I love this. Your descriptions are so wonderful I can see them.

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 14th, 2011 06:34 pm (UTC)

Thanks so much! You get first-comment pie :). *hands you pie*

Posted by: difficult difficult lemon difficult (musical_emjay)
Posted at: August 14th, 2011 07:12 pm (UTC)
survey says i'm a bamf

Wow, this is so fantastic. I don't think I'll ever really GET synesthesia because it's one thing to understand it in theory but it's so out of my realm of experience that it's hard to imagine just...how someone could experience senses simultaneously like that. BUT the way you describe Mike's experience is so lush and evocative, I was totally pulled in. The bit where he says Harvey's name over and over to himself to experience the taste of it...guh, that was unbelievably sexy for such a seemingly innocuous detail.

Can't wait to read more of this! Great start :D

Posted by: Davey (ruggerdavey)
Posted at: August 14th, 2011 09:36 pm (UTC)
N3 Colby wb subway [anuminis]

The bit where he says Harvey's name over and over to himself to experience the taste of it...guh, that was unbelievably sexy for such a seemingly innocuous detail.

I know, right? I am so with you on that point.

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 01:47 am (UTC)

Posted by: Lisie (alastairs_piano)
Posted at: August 14th, 2011 07:57 pm (UTC)

I had to read this, because for me Harvey's voice really can be a really rich red. In my case, it's usually a shade of purple (an equally rich shade, and fairly dark), because the blue content varies, but it's been red before. :D

If you hadn't said so, I'd have guessed that you have/have had synesthesia, by the way. Your descriptions are familiar. Apart from the accuracy, though, I also just really love the way you turn a phrase, here.

And completely separate from the synesthesia issue, I just wanted to say I enjoyed the emotion in the story. I eagerly await the rest. :)

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:04 am (UTC)

That's so funny that Harvey's voice is red for you! It's strange, I don't have synesthesia anymore technically speaking, but sometimes it's like I can tell what color a sound would be if I still did. That probably doesn't make any sense, but I'm not sure how else to explain it!

Thanks so much for the kind feedback. :) Out of curiosity, what color are Mike and Donna's voices for you?

(Deleted comment)
Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:04 am (UTC)

Thank you! :)

Posted by: modern_elegy (modern_elegy)
Posted at: August 14th, 2011 09:00 pm (UTC)

Ahhhhhh! *flails incoherently* That was so beautiful and amazing that any comment I leave will NOT do it justice! Suffice to say I shall refresh every five seconds till it updates =3

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:06 am (UTC)

Aw, thanks! *pets you until you stop flailing* Don't wear out your F5 button - I promise to update later tomorrow or the day after at latest. :) I'm shooting for tomorrow, but I don't think my Calc professor will take 'sorry, I was editing fanfic' as an acceptable excuse for turning in my paper on Bezier curves late LOL.

Posted by: modern_elegy (modern_elegy)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:39 pm (UTC)

Posted by: Maia (semirose)
Posted at: August 14th, 2011 09:19 pm (UTC)
Fangirl Swarm

Oh wow, this is beautiful and I need more of it before I explode from desire. Your descriptions are amazing and they absolutely make sense so don't fret dear.

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:08 am (UTC)

LOL thanks for the much-needed reassurance! This is my first fic in this fandom, so I was nervous about characterization, and trying to convey the actual experience of synesthesia turned out to be WAY harder than I thought!

I'll update soon - try not to blow up in the meantime (I've never made someone a-splode before!)

Posted by: Davey (ruggerdavey)
Posted at: August 14th, 2011 09:34 pm (UTC)
Hot Fuzz greyskull [dirtyicons]

I think my appreciation of this fic can be shown in the way I actually went "WHAT???" when I got to the end of this part and realized the other parts hadn't been posted yet (yeah, I really should read summaries more carefully). Color me SUPERBLY DISAPPOINTED. I really hope the rest will be posted soon. This was SO good. The imagery was so lush and vivid (I mean, WOW), and your characterization was great. I really hope the editing process on the other chapters doesn't take too long. ;) But, honestly (and this is something I don't think I've ever said), I think this chapter is lovely enough that I'd happily re-read it again - more than once - even if you never finished it. It was just that lovely.

Edited at 2011-08-15 01:39 am (UTC)

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:10 am (UTC)

Wow, thank you! You made me blush. :) The rest should be posted relatively shortly. It's completely written, just in need of editing. I can't promise I won't randomly decide to overhaul a whole chapter of something (I'm annoying like that) but I'll do my best to get it posted in a timely manner. :)

Posted by: Davey (ruggerdavey)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:20 am (UTC)

Posted by: steph0202 (steph0202)
Posted at: August 14th, 2011 09:42 pm (UTC)

This is awesome. I love the H/M/D watching baseball and the banter between Donna and the guys is right on target.

Can't wait to read more!

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:11 am (UTC)

Thanks! I'm glad you liked the Donna banter - I adore her and really wanted to do her justice in fic form!

Posted by: samjohnsson (samjohnsson)
Posted at: August 14th, 2011 09:50 pm (UTC)

Adore the emotion in the story, and the accuracy in which you're using the synthaesia. (Question: did he have crossover eating the popcorn?) Very much looking forward to more of this!

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:14 am (UTC)

Thanks! I hadn't written the scene as Mike having any crossover with the popcorn (I've written him as a sound-color and a lexical-gustatory synesthete, because that's what I have experience with) but the lovely thing about fanfic is that you can choose to read it any way you like! :)

Posted by: na da (novoamor)
Posted at: August 14th, 2011 09:52 pm (UTC)

omg, this is incredible. I didn't even know I needed a fic like this, but I'm just loving the concept. Very well written, too! :D

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:14 am (UTC)

Thanks so much! I appreciate you taking the time to leave feedback. :)

Posted by: asherlev1 (asherlev1)
Posted at: August 14th, 2011 11:47 pm (UTC)
instant fangasm

OMG! This is making me hurt so much. I need more so desperately; as desperately as Mike wants to tell Harvey about his synesthesia and have him not pity him for it.

Ughh but this is seriously amazing, and the way you described the many shades of Harvey's voice was a thing of glory. <3

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:15 am (UTC)

Why thank you! :)

Posted by: rorywayward (rorywayward)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 01:49 am (UTC)

i totally started this thinking this was complete for whatever reason. reaching that evil little "TBC" has my wanting to rip my own hair out right now because this fic is THAT GOOD. i just want to keep reading and reading because everything you're describing is so beautiful and visual and i'm dying this is so amazing.

please please please update soon. i need more of this!

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:16 am (UTC)

Don't rip your hair out! I'm sure it's lovely hair and should stay firmly attached to your scalp. I promise to update soon (hopefully tomorrow). Thanks for the lovely feedback - I'm so glad you're enjoying it!

Posted by: Gnome (gnome781)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 01:50 am (UTC)

That was just plain beautiful! I love the idea of it, and your discriptions were amazing, Thank you for sharing!

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:16 am (UTC)

Thanks so much!

Posted by: Ingu (ingu)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 01:50 am (UTC)

this was all kinds of amazing and marvellously well-written. I love that you wrote this, it was an amazing experience. Looking forward to more! =D

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:17 am (UTC)

Thanks! I'll be sure to update soon. :)

Posted by: the damned, elusive Pimpernel... (ladyfiresprite)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:50 am (UTC)

This is lovely. What a very realistic way of writing this! I haven't seen many fics like this, especially in this fandom. This fic has been an unbelievably smooth and enjoyable read! I look forward to more. :)

Posted by: phreakycat (phreakycat)
Posted at: August 15th, 2011 02:13 pm (UTC)

Thank you, that's very kind feedback! I'm glad you're enjoying it. :)

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