Title: Etcetera Whatever
Author: Michelle K. (CageyGrl@yahoo.com)
Fandom: The West Wing
Pairing: Amy/Donna. Implied Josh/Donna.
Summary: Like thorns you hold these secrets to your breast.
Disclaimer: Characters are Aaron's. Title, summary, and some lines belong to Over the Rhine.
Notes: Written for the 'non-songfic' challenge at contrelamontre in just under ninety minutes. The lyrics I used (from Over the Rhine's 'Etcetera Whatever') are "Don't speak/Words come out your eyes/You're wet with this nightmare/Like thorns you hold these secrets to your breast/your slender fingers closing into fists/Trace your bruise/like a guilty streak/Hold the pain."
Etcetera Whatever by Michelle K.
"I don't know what I'm doing here," you say, your slender fingers closing into fists. "Josh--"
"Don't speak," Amy says, and you obey. Bow down to her like you've always done. You feel guilty and weak that years of distance and months of marriage haven't lessened her hold on you. "Just don't." Her mouth attacks yours as her hands roam over your body, wrinkling your clothes.
You told yourself this wasn't going to happen, that you wouldn't end up doing this with her again. But resolve seemed to die the moment she stepped into the restaurant, her quiet authority only strengthened by age. Her smile, and the
tap tap tap of her fingers against the table, and you knew you were gone.
Now you're here, in her hotel room.
You wonder if Josh knows where you are.
You open your hands, then close your fingers around the back of her blouse. You pull her away, sure that words come out your eyes. Like: Stop. This is wrong. I don't need this now.
But her face, a quiet mask of pure confusion, kills whatever desire you had to end this.
"Slow down," you mutter, and she smiles as she leisurely unbuttons your blouse. It falls down your shoulders as she kisses you. Slow, sweet -- everything against the basic essence of your relationship, but everything you missed. The softness of her lips, her fingertips drawing tiny patterns on your skin, her tongue dipping into the valleys of your flesh.
The times when it almost felt like love. Not that it can feel like love now. God, it can't be love.
You can't do that to him.
Even if you can find it within yourself to do this.
You unhook your bra as she busies herself with your skirt. Her mouth on your neck, her hand inside your panties, and you're too far gone to step back. You're wet with this nightmare, this catalogue of wrongdoing that's found its latest chapter.
You move forward, pushing her back onto the bed. You slip your panties off and straddle her, your nudity a sharp contrast to her fully clothed frame. You slide your hands under her shirt, feeling the rise and fall of her stomach. "How do you always manage to get me naked first?" The light joking does nothing for her, so you get back to work. Shedding her of clothes until she's just like you.
"Fuck," she hisses as you cover her body with yours, skin against skin, breasts against breasts. She grabs your backside as she grinds up against you. Heat on heat. You moan into her mouth, brushing your fingers over her breast. She keeps touching you as you lower your lips to her neck. Breasts. Stomach.
Places you remember more sharply than you want to admit.
Her hands slide through your hair as you run your tongue over the outer lips of her sex. Stroke, stroke, then inside, her wetness bathing your lips. You slip two fingers inside her as your tongue draws circles, gradually moving closer to her clit. You know when to give her release, that you shouldn't kiss her afterwards.
"Donna," she mumbles as she rolls on her side, immediately moving her mouth to your nipple and her hand to your thigh. She's slipping a finger inside you before her tongue dances against your flesh; by the time she gets to your hip, three are moving in and out of you.
You open your legs wider as she pushes deeper inside you. She says nothing as she pulls her fingers out and replaces them with her hand. You wince and arch simultaneously, gasping. Deeper, deeper. You hold the pain as you hold the sheets -- desperately, with need.
"Amy," you mutter but, instead of giving you what you want, she sinks her teeth into your thigh. You yelp as your heart beats faster, something inside you
revived by the mix of pleasure and pain that she's always presented you with.
She curves her fingers, but your clit still throbs for attention. "Oh God," you gasp.
"Does Josh ever make you feel this good?" she purrs.
You ignore the question, choosing to focus on your need to be touched in a way she still hasn't. Finally, you move your hand between your legs. She grabs your wrist and pushes your palm into the mattress. Then, her tongue is moving in a line from the opening of your sex to your clit. When your orgasm hits, you scream and shudder.
A moment of silence. The aftermath of the latest big mistake, the smell of sex lingering in the air.
"You probably should be going," she says.
You take a shower, washing every part of you with tiny soaps. A small reddish mark catches your eye. You trace your bruise, knowing it'll get worse in days to come. More easy to spot.
You wonder if Josh will question it when he notices.
What you'll say.
You get dressed as she reclines nude in her bed. Quiet, no goodbye kiss, and soon you're driving back home.
Back to him.
Back to lies of omission.
"Hey," he says, looking up as you walk through the front door.
"Hey." Like thorns you hold these secrets to your breast, piercing you as Josh smiles at you.
Him: "How was it catching up with Amy?"
"Did you share stories about me?"
You smile. "A little."
He kisses you. You kiss back.
Like a guilty streak, Amy lingers in your mind.
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