FIC: Never have I ever had sex in a bed, TWW, Josh/Donna
Title: Never have I ever had sex in a bed
Author: olaf47
Fandom/pairing: The West Wing, Josh/Donna
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. The words are.
A/N: Happy smut_tuesdays! Title taken from a friend who, until recently, used this to make everyone drink while playing "I never."
It’s funny that photographers camp outside your door, outside Donna’s door, thinking they’ll get the perfect picture to uncover the scandal. Each other’s houses are the absolutely last places that would happen. You and Donna are stupid, but you’re not that stupid. You’ve been hiding your sex life since the Illinois primary; you’re not going to have sex at home.
You’ve done it at work, which was, admittedly, pretty stupid, especially seeing how it was the middle of a Tuesday. Donna was eating lunch with you, going over notecards for your meeting with the Senate majority leader at one. The door was closed and locked-Donna’s rules: the meeting with the majority leader was important and you had to know what you were doing. So no distractions.
Except then she spilled salad dressing on her hand and sucked it off her finger. You had stared and she had smiled and it was a good thing the door was locked. It was a quickie, quicker than usual even, and she recited the notecards to you as you thrusted. It was entirely not arousing or romantic, but God she was tight, and you still ended up getting what you wanted from the majority leader.
You’ve done it in an upscale private bathroom at an inaugural ball. You could barely handle how beautiful she looked in that dress, and then she sat on your lap during the cab ride. Charlie was busy explaining his love for Zoey to Will, and Toby and Danny were engaged in a discussion about Oxford commas or Cambridge exclamation points or something, and Donna was wedged between the dashboard and your lap. You had never been happier to be left out of other people’s conversations-you weren’t sure your voice would hold. Donna noticed your erection after the first pothole and apparently decided she’d have fun with it. She kept throwing you playful glances over her shoulder, sometimes through half a curtain of those curls. You could barely walk once you’d arrived, but Donna tugged you inside and down a hallway until suddenly she was slipping a deadlock into place.
She asked you to unzip her dress as though it was a completely natural question. She took it off, completely off, and draped it over the sink because wrinkling it was a little too obvious. You choked on your breath. You didn’t see many women in their underwear, and if you did, it was never that fancy. And there Donna was in front of you, all blonde curls and make-up and thigh highs. The stockings were sheer, ending in red lace connecting to a red garter belt and red panties. Matching bra. You’d be embarrassed by the tent into your tux except your head was spinning and you hadn’t even had champagne yet.
She kept on the thigh highs and heels and you bent her over the sink. Your hands palmed her breasts and the lace of her stockings rubbed against your thighs. You weren’t sure if the mirror six inches in front of her bent head was erotic or sordid. She wrinkled the dress anyway, fabric in her fists as she came.
You’ve done it in a car, three blocks from her apartment. You were driving her home because her car had broken down on the way to work. Later Toby had yelled at her just because she happened to be around when he was looking for someone to yell at. She swore it was no big deal, but you caught her with puffy red eyes and spent the rest of the day glaring at Toby.
You offered to take her home and she smiled and said thanks, no puffy eyes anymore. Except she kept glancing at you as you drove, and you didn’t know why, and didn’t care that much, but finally you couldn’t take it anymore.
You pulled into the first parking spot you saw.
“Josh?” she began but you kissed her, kissed her hard as soon as you got the car in park.
The street was empty, but if anyone had passed there would be no mistaking what they saw-you in the passenger seat (which took a lot of maneuvering) and Donna sunk down on you. Except her underwear on the floor and your unzipped and unbuttoned pants, you were still fully clothed.
When you finally drop her off at home-having composed yourselves and defogged the windows, you see a photographer for the Post across the street, trying to be subtle.
If only he had been a few blocks down. If only he had been at the inaugural ball or the hotel room when you got back from your dad’s funeral or Jesus, near that closet during the President’s speech to the American Legion.
You realize you are stupid-so stupid-to have taken so many chances in so many places. But so is the press, because if they weren’t so busy looking for the affair, they’d probably have found it by now. Stifled moans and flushed faces and locked doors.
Donna went inside and you waved at the photographer before driving away.
Author: olaf47
Fandom/pairing: The West Wing, Josh/Donna
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. The words are.
A/N: Happy smut_tuesdays! Title taken from a friend who, until recently, used this to make everyone drink while playing "I never."
It’s funny that photographers camp outside your door, outside Donna’s door, thinking they’ll get the perfect picture to uncover the scandal. Each other’s houses are the absolutely last places that would happen. You and Donna are stupid, but you’re not that stupid. You’ve been hiding your sex life since the Illinois primary; you’re not going to have sex at home.
You’ve done it at work, which was, admittedly, pretty stupid, especially seeing how it was the middle of a Tuesday. Donna was eating lunch with you, going over notecards for your meeting with the Senate majority leader at one. The door was closed and locked-Donna’s rules: the meeting with the majority leader was important and you had to know what you were doing. So no distractions.
Except then she spilled salad dressing on her hand and sucked it off her finger. You had stared and she had smiled and it was a good thing the door was locked. It was a quickie, quicker than usual even, and she recited the notecards to you as you thrusted. It was entirely not arousing or romantic, but God she was tight, and you still ended up getting what you wanted from the majority leader.
You’ve done it in an upscale private bathroom at an inaugural ball. You could barely handle how beautiful she looked in that dress, and then she sat on your lap during the cab ride. Charlie was busy explaining his love for Zoey to Will, and Toby and Danny were engaged in a discussion about Oxford commas or Cambridge exclamation points or something, and Donna was wedged between the dashboard and your lap. You had never been happier to be left out of other people’s conversations-you weren’t sure your voice would hold. Donna noticed your erection after the first pothole and apparently decided she’d have fun with it. She kept throwing you playful glances over her shoulder, sometimes through half a curtain of those curls. You could barely walk once you’d arrived, but Donna tugged you inside and down a hallway until suddenly she was slipping a deadlock into place.
She asked you to unzip her dress as though it was a completely natural question. She took it off, completely off, and draped it over the sink because wrinkling it was a little too obvious. You choked on your breath. You didn’t see many women in their underwear, and if you did, it was never that fancy. And there Donna was in front of you, all blonde curls and make-up and thigh highs. The stockings were sheer, ending in red lace connecting to a red garter belt and red panties. Matching bra. You’d be embarrassed by the tent into your tux except your head was spinning and you hadn’t even had champagne yet.
She kept on the thigh highs and heels and you bent her over the sink. Your hands palmed her breasts and the lace of her stockings rubbed against your thighs. You weren’t sure if the mirror six inches in front of her bent head was erotic or sordid. She wrinkled the dress anyway, fabric in her fists as she came.
You’ve done it in a car, three blocks from her apartment. You were driving her home because her car had broken down on the way to work. Later Toby had yelled at her just because she happened to be around when he was looking for someone to yell at. She swore it was no big deal, but you caught her with puffy red eyes and spent the rest of the day glaring at Toby.
You offered to take her home and she smiled and said thanks, no puffy eyes anymore. Except she kept glancing at you as you drove, and you didn’t know why, and didn’t care that much, but finally you couldn’t take it anymore.
You pulled into the first parking spot you saw.
“Josh?” she began but you kissed her, kissed her hard as soon as you got the car in park.
The street was empty, but if anyone had passed there would be no mistaking what they saw-you in the passenger seat (which took a lot of maneuvering) and Donna sunk down on you. Except her underwear on the floor and your unzipped and unbuttoned pants, you were still fully clothed.
When you finally drop her off at home-having composed yourselves and defogged the windows, you see a photographer for the Post across the street, trying to be subtle.
If only he had been a few blocks down. If only he had been at the inaugural ball or the hotel room when you got back from your dad’s funeral or Jesus, near that closet during the President’s speech to the American Legion.
You realize you are stupid-so stupid-to have taken so many chances in so many places. But so is the press, because if they weren’t so busy looking for the affair, they’d probably have found it by now. Stifled moans and flushed faces and locked doors.
Donna went inside and you waved at the photographer before driving away.