A/N: This is probably my ultimate crack fic. The really stupidly fluffy porn star AU. So gratuitous it's not even funny.
I've no idea how this industry works (although I do research some stuff, as always) so just roll with me here...
Donna has no qualms about sleeping with men or women for money. Some of her colleagues are really attractive and fun to be around – talented actors – and so the sex at least feels a little less like it's work and more like it's an art form.
She can rarely get out of her head enough to actually enjoy a shoot, but that's never stopped her from giving it her best. It frustrates her when she's fucking people, who evidently only think about the money; has her questioning why they can't make an effort and at least pretend like they care about delivering a good performance.
Despite the industry's reputation, Donna finds her profession surprisingly fulfilling. There's a unique thrill to it that has kept her from exploring other options.
However, she loathes the term "porn star." It sounds so… uncultured. Dismisses the artistry and skill involved. If anyone asks, she'll say she's an actress – a pornographic actress, if specifics matter. And a damn good one at that.
One who's highly respected among her peers. Although, sometimes, she wonders if that would still be the case if they knew how much she's faking… it. In her defense, she can't imagine there are many women out there who find actual release on a film set. It seems odd.
Sometimes she misses the feeling of having a genuine connection with someone. Misses the feeling of being in love. Thinking about it, she's not sure she's ever really felt it.
God, how miserable would it be if she spends all this time having sex – meaningless, empty sex – and doesn't even know what it's like making love to someone or being made love to?
She's had a few boyfriends over the years, girlfriends too, and while she's sure there were true feelings involved, she's not convinced it was ever really that serious.
Even the man she's been dating for a long time now, though sweet and caring, doesn't seem to tick off that box.
The box that says, 'This is the weak in the knees, tell all your secrets, carry it in your pockets, cry on it, beg for it, worry about it love.' A love that flourishes in the silences between words and makes her smile for no reason.
She loves Mitchell, no doubt about that – and the sex is great; it makes her feel good – but she's not in love with him.
In the beginning, she was waiting for it to happen; for that moment she will fall, convinced it would only be a matter of time. But now, almost half a year later, she's still waiting. It doesn't seem fair.
She's been grappling with the thought of whether she should tell him how she feels, knowing that will most likely be the end to their relationship. But she owes him the truth, and she owes it to herself to listen to her heart.
In contrast to the uncertainty in her personal life, her professional life makes her feel completely at ease.
She's got more job offers coming in than she can take, and the production studio she calls home practically worships the ground she walks on, showering her with appreciation.
After a minor incident a couple of years ago, Donna decided she would only work in an isolated environment from now on. A closed set, where only the crew members that absolutely have to be there are present, a handful of people.
It is one thing when the camera is shooting her with one of her colleagues in bed, mostly hidden by sheets and blankets, with a shoulder exposed here, a leg there. It is quite another when you know the camera is spending a lot of time shooting close-ups of your face, or your genitals, as you try to enact this incredibly intimate moment.
Today, she's not feeling particularly well. Her lips are swollen from an hour's work, and her pussy feels like a microwaved peach, hot and ruined and soggy. But she continues to do what she does best: her fucking job.
Her hand circles his thick cock as she slides to the floor, looking up at him. His face is hard, masculine lines, etched in desire.
Donna can tell when it's real; when she's acting alongside someone who genuinely enjoys having his cock sucked by her, even with the cameras rolling – perhaps because of it – and can barely hide his attraction.
She leans into him, sliding her hand along his inner thigh before massaging the tight sack beneath his straining cock. She licks the head, then curls her tongue around him. Tiny flicks along the heated shaft have him growling into the otherwise silent room.
His breath explodes in a rush when she skims her mouth down the length of him. "Goddammit, woman," he curses under his breath, shifting his hips and anchoring his hands in her hair.
Donna's lips stretch around him, his cock growing even harder as he pumps into her mouth. Thick jets pulse against her throat as she tastes the salty, masculine mix of passion and desire. She laps him like a cat, and he groans under her ministrations.
She never swallows when she's filming; it's often the director's wish to get that money shot – her letting the guy's hot, sticky cum dribble out of her mouth.
She slowly wipes it off with the back of her hand, makes sure it looks and sounds sexy, as she gives a little extra, drawn-out moan for the cameras.
And then it's over, the director yelling cut.
Craving some well-earned peace, Donna makes sure every shot is in the can, before she puts on the robe handed to her and walks down the hall to her private dressing room; one of the perks of being a star.
She turns on the shower, waits for the steam to rise towards the ceiling and then steps in. She stands still for a while and lets the hot water cascade down her back, feeling her sore body sigh in relief.
Closing her eyes, she turns around. The water splashes her face and wets her hair. Her auburn waves subside as the water flows through them and weighs them down to make them dark, long and slick.
She picks up the soap and lathers her body, then scrubs herself thoroughly with a washcloth. It's a ritual cleansing, like shedding the skin of the character, scrubbing away any lingering trace of her scene partner like makeup at the end of a performance.
As she emerges from the shower, Birdie Fox sloughs away with the steam, and Donna Paulsen reclaims her place – the stage name, a play on her middle name, Roberta.
Feeling fresh and relaxed now, she dries herself off and rubs cucumber-melon lotion on her skin. Then she slips into a comfortable maxi dress, before combing through her long hair and putting some cream on her face.
She stands in front of the mirror for several moments looking at the reflection of her own figure with a calm air until a knock sounds on the door.
"Yes?"
"Donna, it's me."
She crosses the room to open the door. He pushes past her, knocking her off balance. "Where are your manners, Louis?" she reprimands him playfully.
"Sorry" he mumbles. "I just had a terrible meeting and I need you to…" He pauses, studying her expression for a moment, then he smiles. "How was your shoot?"
"Exhausting," she says with a small sigh, "but I'm sure the people will love the result."
"Your fans are so easy to please, Donna," he notes. "And I don't mean that in a diminishing way. It's just wild how much they worship you."
"You mean how much they worship my body?" She smirks.
"They say you're the only star this studio has ever begged to do a home feature. Your fans are obsessed. They would literally pay to see which cereal bowl you use."
Donna closes the door and approaches him with a knowing smile. "You're still bitter that I turned it down, huh?"
"No," he counters. "Letting Birdie and Donna be separate worlds makes sense, but wouldn't a little more exposure make things safer? Less chance of someone feeling entitled to stalk you?"
A faint smile plays on her lips. "It was just one incident, Louis. Months ago. Most fans understand boundaries. They're happy with what I give them on screen. Besides, I think letting them into my home might even attract more unwanted attention."
"I'm just trying to look out for you," Louis argues, his voice laced with a quiet sadness. There will always be people who want to dig deeper, trying to piece together Donna's life outside of Birdie. It comes with the fame. And he hates that part.
"I know that, Louis," Donna murmurs, "and I appreciate that so much. But I don't wanna mix business with personal life… Ever."
He sighs. "Can I talk to you about business, then?"
She nods. "Always."
"There's a new project on the table, but it's different from what you usually do. You'd be doing some… well, uh…"
"Is it, like, really kinky stuff?"
"No, it's... kinda the opposite." He clears his throat. "Someone wants to hire you for their erotic miniseries. It's eight episodes, about thirty minutes long. And yes, you'd still spend a lot of that time with someone's dick inside you, but it also involves a bit more… clothing."
"Are you saying there's an actual plot?" Donna frowns.
"Mm," he hums. "It depends, I guess."
He pauses, waiting for her to say something, but she just raises an eyebrow in inquiry as she studies him, so he continues, "It's about a hotshot lawyer who tries to get his client out of prison. The show follows her life as an inmate, but there are also flashbacks to shed some light on her past. Where she comes from, how she got into that mess… you know, without actually spoiling the ending, and if she's guilty."
"And does that hotshot get her out?"
"What does it matter, Donna? It's still pornography, so it doesn't aim to send a message. It's made to entertain."
Donna's lips twitch in amusement as she witnesses Louis' reaction, his voice climbing an octave in theatrical outrage. This project might be something that the studio is pushing for; that's why he's so upset.
Louis used to be head of that same studio, but then one day, he quit, claiming his heart was too weak for the constant battles with executives and self-important nobodies.
Now, he's her agent, and a friend – a sometimes cartoon-character-esque friend, who gets easily agitated and then goes mudding to destress.
When she first met him, she found it extremely creepy how nice and obsessed he was with her. But then they've grown close and she learned to appreciate how he takes such good care of her. Makes sure she's always treated with respect, on and off set – he will start yelling if they don't hand her a robe quickly enough after a shoot.
"The show is supposed to feed people's prison fantasies," Louis rants on. "How you seduce a prison guard, the sexual tension between you and your attorney until you're deep throating him in the interrogation room. Your dirty little secret playing out in the courthouse restrooms after he asked the judge for a brief recess, because just looking at you in that three-piece suit makes him rock-hard."
"Who's the male lead?" she asks curiously. "Have they booked him yet?"
"Yeah," Louis nods. "It's Harvey Specter."
Donna throws her head back and lets out a harsh, derisive laugh. "Of course they'd go for the most arrogant peacock in the industry."
"Hey, all cockiness aside, that man is amazing at his job, always giving a top-notch performance, even when he's not buried balls deep inside someone."
"I heard he loves telling people that his costars never have to fake it with him. Must be some legendary endowment," she mocks.
"It's not just the equipment, Donna. He makes those women feel it. Everything. With his eyes, his hands, his fingers, his lips. Hell, even his hair. That perfect damn hair," Louis gushes, practically swooning. "He makes his leading ladies feel like the only person in that room. No wonder they all fall at his feet."
"My, my, Louis. You really are a fanboy." Donna smirks. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you've been in bed with him, too," she teases him.
"I'm just saying... the guy has a certain presence. I'm both intimated and strangely turned on by Harvey Specter," Louis mumbles. "But you know I'm perfectly happy with the talent I already represent, and I wouldn't suggest taking this offer if I weren't sure you'd like it."
"I trust you, Louis, but I'm still not convinced he's got fairytale qualities. I guess I'll find out soon."
"Oh, my God," he gasps. "Does that mean you'll do it?"
"Under one condition."
Louis lets out a frustrated groan. He hates when she does that, when she starts negotiating – she's so damn good at it and he's always the one who loses, because he simply can't say no to her.
"What is it this time, ma reine rousse?"
"You get the studio to let me play the hotshot lawyer, not Harvey Specter," she replies. "Make them understand that a role reversal is less cliché and far more appealing to the audience. I'll be riding his glorious dick," — she rolls her eyes at that — "either way, so it shouldn't really matter to them who's playing who."
"Donna…"
"If they really want me for this – and I know they do, because I've seen four drafts of that script on my desk, which tells me they didn't even care to look for someone else in the meantime – they will agree to it."
"But what if Harvey already signed a contract?"
"I know you can make it happen." She brushes her hand across his cheek, before pinching it gently, and purrs, "Don't you wanna see me revel in that Harvey Specter post-orgasm haze? C'mon…"
"Mark my words, Donna Paulsen, once you worked with him, you'll be as obsessed with that man as everyone else is," he says, firmly convinced.
"There's only one man in my life I'll ever be obsessed with," she responds, a playful smirk on her lips, "and that's you, Louis Litt."
A/N: "Ma reine rousse" is French (obviously) for "my redheaded queen"