Fic: A Remembrance of Things
Title: A Remembrance of Things
Author: Lindsay (nylana)
Beta: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Rating: Adult
Genre: Smut, Romance, Angst
Word Count: 2,797
Characters/Pairings: Sam, April, Harrison, Simon (Sam/April, Simon/April)
Summary: The heart that truly loves never forgets.
A/N: I blame this on Song of Lunch and Alan Rickman. Both of which broke my heart and my brain in the bestest of ways. I wrote this in such a way that it could be canon, if we were so inclined to pile on another ton and a half of angst. (SHUT UP.)
Sam Shipton tugs open the door to the conference room and strides inside, nodding to the Undersecretary of Defense and holding the door open as she leaves. He turns and walks to his usual seat, on the far side of the table just to Harrison's right, and slides into the chair. He opens the top file folder and slips on his reading glasses, glancing over the morning's agenda.
A moment later April enters and tosses him a bright smile as she moves to stand behind Harrison's chair. She sets a stack of papers in front of him and then flips to a particular page, pointing at a section with her pen. Harrison bends forward to read the paragraph she's indicating.
Sam watches.
He watches the way she leans her hip against the edge of the mahogany table, the way the two engage in quiet conversation, the President frowning and nodding at whatever she is saying. But mostly he watches the sway of her hair as her hand brushes it aside and lifts it over her shoulder.
Her head is thrown back, hair spilling down her bare back in a tangle of blonde waves as she moves over him. The air is filled with her breathy sighs and the slick slide of their bodies. He thinks back to earlier in the evening, when she was moving through the crowded banquet hall with her hair piled on her head in a perfectly chaotic arrangement of curls, held up by a few strategically placed pins. He had asked her to dance on a whim, because the orchestra was playing a saucy little number and he was desperate for an excuse to touch her after spending the entirety of the evening at opposite ends of the room, being professional and polite.
He was hard before they made it through his front door and she pulled him by the lapels of his suit, her mouth hot and wet against his, all the way to his bedroom. She made him watch as she stripped off her strappy black dress, her lacy bra, her panties soaked with her arousal. She made him peel the stockings off her shapely legs, kissing each square inch of newly exposed skin as he crawled up her body.
He fills his hands with her breasts, squeezing them softly. She moans and pushes her chest forward, holding his hands in place and letting her nipples rub over his palms, her hips rolling back and forth at a languid pace. He pinches the tender buds between his fingers, loving the way it makes her rhythm falter just for a second, and then trails his hands down her sweat slicked body.
His hands rest at her waist as she starts moving faster, urging them both towards blissful release. She clenches around him and his grip tightens, fingers digging into her fair skin. He knows there will be faint bruises, the perfect shape and spacing of his hands, and he would smirk if he wasn't so busy remembering to breathe.
She leans forward, bracing a hand on his chest, the other clutching the sheet. Her short nails scrape over his pale skin, raking through hair as thin and gray as that on his head, and he still can't believe she's here, that she's been here, that this isn't the first or last time they will lay sweaty and spent on his bed. His hands slide down to her hips, pulling her down as he thrusts up, burying his cock as far inside her as he can.
She pulls up and pauses, squeezing the head of his cock, making him hiss before sliding back down, slowly. She always lets him watch himself disappear between her slick folds, her perfect breasts bouncing and swaying. Sometimes she touches herself for him, fingers and hands moving with practiced ease over her skin, teasing him with what he wants to be touching and tasting and doing.
"Fuck, yes, Sam," she cries out. "Sogood, sogood, sogood," she mutters in rhythm with the rise and fall of her body.
She's a noisy little thing and he loves it. He loves the filthy words that tumble from her lips, the gasps when he's deep inside her, finding that spot that makes her jaw go slack, her eyes glaze and her body shudder. She bites her lip and he knows that means she's so very close, but he keeps his hands steady on her, not letting her increase the pace just yet. He's teasing her, making her wait because it's really what she wants. She never wants it to end too soon and loves it when he makes her beg.
"Sam," she breathes. "God. Please."
And there it is.
She moves faster, he moves harder, gritting his teeth as he slips a hand down to find her clit. He rubs it, presses it, pinches it and she comes with a cry of his name and a yesyesyes, taking him over the edge with her.
They gather in Harrison's office for a post press conference debrief, Sam settling into a comfortable high back leather chair against the wall. He flips open his portfolio and retrieves a pen from his inside jacket pocket. April strides in shortly after, blowing an exasperated breath between her full lips, stained a deep red color that matches the silk of her blouse. She flashes Sam a tight, tired smile, indicative of the very long day they've all had.
She bends over the front of Harrison's desk, brow furrowed, and slides a report under his bent gaze. Harrison startles, then looks up and smiles, and hands her back the stack of papers from earlier, before turning his attention to the newest addition to his desk. She leans further forward, down on an elbow to scribble a note on the open page, pushing her hips backwards.
Sam's eyes trail over the swell of her hips, around the perfect curve of her arse where the fabric of her black skirt stretches tight. He follows her legs down, along the soft skin of thighs and knees he knows by heart, over the well defined muscles of her calves, to the absolutely scandalously high red heels she's wearing. They are shiny patent leather with an open toe and a delicate strap that wraps around her ankle, tiny buckle nestled against a jut of bone.
The rasp of the zipper is sharp and loud and he hesitates for a moment, reminding himself they really shouldn't be doing this here. She laughs as if she knows what he's thinking and presses back against his crotch, rubbing her bum over his erection. He growls and tugs her skirt up to her waist, letting his trousers fall to his ankles as she leans her forearms on the desk. Her shoes bring her hips up to the perfect height, and he thanks whatever deity will listen to a dirty old man like him for the invention of four inch heels.
He slips a hand between her legs and under the elastic of her knickers, groaning at how wet and ready she is. He's amazed as he always is that he can do this to her, make her this mad with want that she's willing to bend over his desk in the middle of the afternoon to satisfy her desire for him.
For him.
That's the part that he finds the hardest to believe. She isn't doing this because she's some kind of trollop who needs a quick shag from any man who's willing, far from it in fact. She just wants him this badly, needs what only he can give her.
She makes a needy little noise, trying to be quiet because they're still at work, in the fucking White House for fuck's sake, but still trying to urge him on. He slips one finger inside her, biting his tongue at how hot and wet and tight it always is inside her, like the first time every damn time. Then he adds a second finger and she gasps, thrusting her hips back and grinding against his hand.
He pulls his hand free and she whimpers - fucking whimpers - at the loss of his touch. She looks back over her shoulder, almost frowning at him and wishing he would just get on with it. Smirking he lifts his hand to his mouth and sucks her flavor from his fingers, pleased at the deep low moan she emits. He steps forward, pressing his cock against her arse, letting her feel how hard she makes him.
"What do you want?" He doesn't know what possesses him to say it, but he feels like he needs to hear it from her, needs to know for sure that this, that he, is what she wants.
"You," she whispers. "Just you."
Then he's inside her, buried to the hilt, and they both sigh with the relief of finally being together again. He moves and she moves, pushing and pulling, in and out, slamming together fast and hard. She presses her lips together to keep from making too much noise. He finds he misses her vocal encouragement, and decides that the next time he bends her over his desk and fucks her senseless, it's going to be in his private study where she can curse and wail and scream his name.
It isn't long before she's clenching around him, coming hard and biting her lip until her eyes well up with tears. A few more thrusts and he spills inside her, slumping forward, pressing his weight against her back and pushing her down on the desk. They stay like that for a long moment, breathing heavy and saying nothing, until he straightens and pulls her up. His softening cock slips out of her and he swears she sighs again at the loss of him.
Sam walks slowly down the corridor, thumbing through pages of statistics and graphs, frowning at the numbers he hoped would be better. Budgets always put him in a bad mood, but when he looks up and sees April he starts to smile. Then Simon slides over, leaning into her personal space and following her backwards until her back hits the wall, and Sam's face falls. Simon's arm goes up, propping against the wall beside her head as he grins down at her.
Sam watches as she smiles back, tongue poking between her teeth, and his hand tightens around the paper in his hand. Simon's face is dangerously close to April's, and they would probably be locked in a heated kiss if they weren't standing in a hallway in the White House. Sam's fist clenches and he vaguely registers the sound of paper tearing as Simon dips his head and brushes his lips over her cheek, rubbing his nose against her soft skin. As Simon straightens, Sam sees the way April's hips come off the wall, angling forward towards Simon's, and he turns away, hurrying down the hallway in the opposite direction.
April's mouth is on his, kissing him, wet and sloppy and sucking greedily on his tongue. He kisses her back, tongue fighting hers for dominance and he wonders how he survived so long because he feels like he's been starving for her. Two weeks of dreary London scenery, bad memories, and a terrible flight back to the states and it all slips away with her.
He pulls back, cupping her face in his hands, and says, "I missed you."
She smiles and pulls him down for another kiss, guiding him backwards into the living room. She nips at his bottom lip and he moans, pulling her hard against him. Then he pushes her against the nearest wall, which happens to be occupied by a floor to ceiling bookshelf. She grunts at the impact, and smirks, loving the way she makes him lose control, makes him rough and ragged with want. Her leg comes up and he catches her thigh, lifting it higher and grinding his erection against the seam of her jeans.
She gasps, "Missed you too," and pushes back, hips coming off the wall to thrust into his.
He kisses her then, slow and deep, reacquainting himself with the dips and contours of her lovely mouth. He can smell her perfume, a light jasmine affair, heady but not overpowering, and something slightly tangy which he finally registers as the evidence of her desire. There is also the faint scent of leather and wood and old paper, like a library. He smiles as he pulls away, tugging on her lip, dragging his teeth over it. It might be his favorite combination ever, a perfect perfume of sex and April and home.
She deftly undoes the button of his jeans and pulls the zipper down before slipping her slender hand inside his boxers. With a little maneuvering she frees his cock, stroking the length of it in with her warm fingers. He moans and his hips move of their own accord, thrusting into her palm.
As she teases him with one hand, she undoes the button of her own jeans and eases them down, stumbling a bit when she tries to step out of them. He chuckles at her haste, pleased that it matches his own anxiousness. Clothing dispensed with, she lifts a leg again, and he bends a bit at the knee, sliding into her.
They both exhale, foreheads pressed together and Sam realizes that they've never quite been this close before. Their breath mingles in the middle, warm and wet, as they stare into each other's eyes. She gasps his name when he lifts her, cock slipping out just long enough for her to wrap her gorgeous legs around his waist. Then he's back thrusting into her, gravity pulling her down his shaft, so deep inside her he forgets where he ends and she begins.
Her shoulders hit the spines of his books with each jerk of his hips, the shelves shuddering with their movements. One volume, a first edition of Joyce he'd later find out, shakes free and tumbles to the floor, but neither cares to even look in its direction. He can't see anything else but her face, twisted in bliss, eyes rolling back in her head, mouth slack and panting.
"Love you," she breathes, clenching around him as she comes.
He pauses, stunned, wondering if he heard what he thought he heard, but she feels so damn good around him that he doesn't stay still for long and finds his release a moment later. He slumps to the floor, landing on his knees with her legs still wrapped around him. He wants to say something, wants to make her say it again because it's all he's ever wanted to hear and feel, and then he wants to say it too because she deserves to hear it. But the way she looks up at him, rumpled and sexy with a small satisfied smile, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, makes him think it was just his imagination.
Sam reaches his office and passes by his secretary's desk without so much as a word or a glance. It's not like he didn't know they were dating; they'd been tip toeing around the obvious for months, and if he's honest Simon is a much better match for her than he is.
But does she have to look so happy?
Things haven't been tense or awkward between them ever since their little affair ended, though it was never so little to him. She still smiles at him as she did before, still comes to him for advice or just to rant and rave at the end of a long day. He wouldn't want it any other way, wouldn't want to ever lose their friendship, or their good professional relationship.
But sometimes he feels an aching bitterness when he remembers, wondering if she felt half of what he felt for her. Other times, he recalls the playful looks and frantic afternoon shags, late evenings and slow love making, with a sort of fond sadness, regretting that he never told her precisely how he felt.
Maybe if she had known she would have stayed. Maybe she had meant it after all and was afraid. Maybe he chased her away with his own doubts and insecurities.
Whatever it was that caused them to end, she seems happy now, and he will never stand in the way of that. He crosses the office to the large cabinet behind the small bar, bending to open the bottom drawer. Pulling out a glass, he turns and pours himself two fingers of scotch, swirling the warm caramel liquid. Then he moves to sit on the leather sofa by the window, gazing out at the far end of the Rose Garden as he sips, and remembers.
Author: Lindsay (nylana)
Beta: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Rating: Adult
Genre: Smut, Romance, Angst
Word Count: 2,797
Characters/Pairings: Sam, April, Harrison, Simon (Sam/April, Simon/April)
Summary: The heart that truly loves never forgets.
A/N: I blame this on Song of Lunch and Alan Rickman. Both of which broke my heart and my brain in the bestest of ways. I wrote this in such a way that it could be canon, if we were so inclined to pile on another ton and a half of angst. (SHUT UP.)
Sam Shipton tugs open the door to the conference room and strides inside, nodding to the Undersecretary of Defense and holding the door open as she leaves. He turns and walks to his usual seat, on the far side of the table just to Harrison's right, and slides into the chair. He opens the top file folder and slips on his reading glasses, glancing over the morning's agenda.
A moment later April enters and tosses him a bright smile as she moves to stand behind Harrison's chair. She sets a stack of papers in front of him and then flips to a particular page, pointing at a section with her pen. Harrison bends forward to read the paragraph she's indicating.
Sam watches.
He watches the way she leans her hip against the edge of the mahogany table, the way the two engage in quiet conversation, the President frowning and nodding at whatever she is saying. But mostly he watches the sway of her hair as her hand brushes it aside and lifts it over her shoulder.
Her head is thrown back, hair spilling down her bare back in a tangle of blonde waves as she moves over him. The air is filled with her breathy sighs and the slick slide of their bodies. He thinks back to earlier in the evening, when she was moving through the crowded banquet hall with her hair piled on her head in a perfectly chaotic arrangement of curls, held up by a few strategically placed pins. He had asked her to dance on a whim, because the orchestra was playing a saucy little number and he was desperate for an excuse to touch her after spending the entirety of the evening at opposite ends of the room, being professional and polite.
He was hard before they made it through his front door and she pulled him by the lapels of his suit, her mouth hot and wet against his, all the way to his bedroom. She made him watch as she stripped off her strappy black dress, her lacy bra, her panties soaked with her arousal. She made him peel the stockings off her shapely legs, kissing each square inch of newly exposed skin as he crawled up her body.
He fills his hands with her breasts, squeezing them softly. She moans and pushes her chest forward, holding his hands in place and letting her nipples rub over his palms, her hips rolling back and forth at a languid pace. He pinches the tender buds between his fingers, loving the way it makes her rhythm falter just for a second, and then trails his hands down her sweat slicked body.
His hands rest at her waist as she starts moving faster, urging them both towards blissful release. She clenches around him and his grip tightens, fingers digging into her fair skin. He knows there will be faint bruises, the perfect shape and spacing of his hands, and he would smirk if he wasn't so busy remembering to breathe.
She leans forward, bracing a hand on his chest, the other clutching the sheet. Her short nails scrape over his pale skin, raking through hair as thin and gray as that on his head, and he still can't believe she's here, that she's been here, that this isn't the first or last time they will lay sweaty and spent on his bed. His hands slide down to her hips, pulling her down as he thrusts up, burying his cock as far inside her as he can.
She pulls up and pauses, squeezing the head of his cock, making him hiss before sliding back down, slowly. She always lets him watch himself disappear between her slick folds, her perfect breasts bouncing and swaying. Sometimes she touches herself for him, fingers and hands moving with practiced ease over her skin, teasing him with what he wants to be touching and tasting and doing.
"Fuck, yes, Sam," she cries out. "Sogood, sogood, sogood," she mutters in rhythm with the rise and fall of her body.
She's a noisy little thing and he loves it. He loves the filthy words that tumble from her lips, the gasps when he's deep inside her, finding that spot that makes her jaw go slack, her eyes glaze and her body shudder. She bites her lip and he knows that means she's so very close, but he keeps his hands steady on her, not letting her increase the pace just yet. He's teasing her, making her wait because it's really what she wants. She never wants it to end too soon and loves it when he makes her beg.
"Sam," she breathes. "God. Please."
And there it is.
She moves faster, he moves harder, gritting his teeth as he slips a hand down to find her clit. He rubs it, presses it, pinches it and she comes with a cry of his name and a yesyesyes, taking him over the edge with her.
They gather in Harrison's office for a post press conference debrief, Sam settling into a comfortable high back leather chair against the wall. He flips open his portfolio and retrieves a pen from his inside jacket pocket. April strides in shortly after, blowing an exasperated breath between her full lips, stained a deep red color that matches the silk of her blouse. She flashes Sam a tight, tired smile, indicative of the very long day they've all had.
She bends over the front of Harrison's desk, brow furrowed, and slides a report under his bent gaze. Harrison startles, then looks up and smiles, and hands her back the stack of papers from earlier, before turning his attention to the newest addition to his desk. She leans further forward, down on an elbow to scribble a note on the open page, pushing her hips backwards.
Sam's eyes trail over the swell of her hips, around the perfect curve of her arse where the fabric of her black skirt stretches tight. He follows her legs down, along the soft skin of thighs and knees he knows by heart, over the well defined muscles of her calves, to the absolutely scandalously high red heels she's wearing. They are shiny patent leather with an open toe and a delicate strap that wraps around her ankle, tiny buckle nestled against a jut of bone.
The rasp of the zipper is sharp and loud and he hesitates for a moment, reminding himself they really shouldn't be doing this here. She laughs as if she knows what he's thinking and presses back against his crotch, rubbing her bum over his erection. He growls and tugs her skirt up to her waist, letting his trousers fall to his ankles as she leans her forearms on the desk. Her shoes bring her hips up to the perfect height, and he thanks whatever deity will listen to a dirty old man like him for the invention of four inch heels.
He slips a hand between her legs and under the elastic of her knickers, groaning at how wet and ready she is. He's amazed as he always is that he can do this to her, make her this mad with want that she's willing to bend over his desk in the middle of the afternoon to satisfy her desire for him.
For him.
That's the part that he finds the hardest to believe. She isn't doing this because she's some kind of trollop who needs a quick shag from any man who's willing, far from it in fact. She just wants him this badly, needs what only he can give her.
She makes a needy little noise, trying to be quiet because they're still at work, in the fucking White House for fuck's sake, but still trying to urge him on. He slips one finger inside her, biting his tongue at how hot and wet and tight it always is inside her, like the first time every damn time. Then he adds a second finger and she gasps, thrusting her hips back and grinding against his hand.
He pulls his hand free and she whimpers - fucking whimpers - at the loss of his touch. She looks back over her shoulder, almost frowning at him and wishing he would just get on with it. Smirking he lifts his hand to his mouth and sucks her flavor from his fingers, pleased at the deep low moan she emits. He steps forward, pressing his cock against her arse, letting her feel how hard she makes him.
"What do you want?" He doesn't know what possesses him to say it, but he feels like he needs to hear it from her, needs to know for sure that this, that he, is what she wants.
"You," she whispers. "Just you."
Then he's inside her, buried to the hilt, and they both sigh with the relief of finally being together again. He moves and she moves, pushing and pulling, in and out, slamming together fast and hard. She presses her lips together to keep from making too much noise. He finds he misses her vocal encouragement, and decides that the next time he bends her over his desk and fucks her senseless, it's going to be in his private study where she can curse and wail and scream his name.
It isn't long before she's clenching around him, coming hard and biting her lip until her eyes well up with tears. A few more thrusts and he spills inside her, slumping forward, pressing his weight against her back and pushing her down on the desk. They stay like that for a long moment, breathing heavy and saying nothing, until he straightens and pulls her up. His softening cock slips out of her and he swears she sighs again at the loss of him.
Sam walks slowly down the corridor, thumbing through pages of statistics and graphs, frowning at the numbers he hoped would be better. Budgets always put him in a bad mood, but when he looks up and sees April he starts to smile. Then Simon slides over, leaning into her personal space and following her backwards until her back hits the wall, and Sam's face falls. Simon's arm goes up, propping against the wall beside her head as he grins down at her.
Sam watches as she smiles back, tongue poking between her teeth, and his hand tightens around the paper in his hand. Simon's face is dangerously close to April's, and they would probably be locked in a heated kiss if they weren't standing in a hallway in the White House. Sam's fist clenches and he vaguely registers the sound of paper tearing as Simon dips his head and brushes his lips over her cheek, rubbing his nose against her soft skin. As Simon straightens, Sam sees the way April's hips come off the wall, angling forward towards Simon's, and he turns away, hurrying down the hallway in the opposite direction.
April's mouth is on his, kissing him, wet and sloppy and sucking greedily on his tongue. He kisses her back, tongue fighting hers for dominance and he wonders how he survived so long because he feels like he's been starving for her. Two weeks of dreary London scenery, bad memories, and a terrible flight back to the states and it all slips away with her.
He pulls back, cupping her face in his hands, and says, "I missed you."
She smiles and pulls him down for another kiss, guiding him backwards into the living room. She nips at his bottom lip and he moans, pulling her hard against him. Then he pushes her against the nearest wall, which happens to be occupied by a floor to ceiling bookshelf. She grunts at the impact, and smirks, loving the way she makes him lose control, makes him rough and ragged with want. Her leg comes up and he catches her thigh, lifting it higher and grinding his erection against the seam of her jeans.
She gasps, "Missed you too," and pushes back, hips coming off the wall to thrust into his.
He kisses her then, slow and deep, reacquainting himself with the dips and contours of her lovely mouth. He can smell her perfume, a light jasmine affair, heady but not overpowering, and something slightly tangy which he finally registers as the evidence of her desire. There is also the faint scent of leather and wood and old paper, like a library. He smiles as he pulls away, tugging on her lip, dragging his teeth over it. It might be his favorite combination ever, a perfect perfume of sex and April and home.
She deftly undoes the button of his jeans and pulls the zipper down before slipping her slender hand inside his boxers. With a little maneuvering she frees his cock, stroking the length of it in with her warm fingers. He moans and his hips move of their own accord, thrusting into her palm.
As she teases him with one hand, she undoes the button of her own jeans and eases them down, stumbling a bit when she tries to step out of them. He chuckles at her haste, pleased that it matches his own anxiousness. Clothing dispensed with, she lifts a leg again, and he bends a bit at the knee, sliding into her.
They both exhale, foreheads pressed together and Sam realizes that they've never quite been this close before. Their breath mingles in the middle, warm and wet, as they stare into each other's eyes. She gasps his name when he lifts her, cock slipping out just long enough for her to wrap her gorgeous legs around his waist. Then he's back thrusting into her, gravity pulling her down his shaft, so deep inside her he forgets where he ends and she begins.
Her shoulders hit the spines of his books with each jerk of his hips, the shelves shuddering with their movements. One volume, a first edition of Joyce he'd later find out, shakes free and tumbles to the floor, but neither cares to even look in its direction. He can't see anything else but her face, twisted in bliss, eyes rolling back in her head, mouth slack and panting.
"Love you," she breathes, clenching around him as she comes.
He pauses, stunned, wondering if he heard what he thought he heard, but she feels so damn good around him that he doesn't stay still for long and finds his release a moment later. He slumps to the floor, landing on his knees with her legs still wrapped around him. He wants to say something, wants to make her say it again because it's all he's ever wanted to hear and feel, and then he wants to say it too because she deserves to hear it. But the way she looks up at him, rumpled and sexy with a small satisfied smile, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, makes him think it was just his imagination.
Sam reaches his office and passes by his secretary's desk without so much as a word or a glance. It's not like he didn't know they were dating; they'd been tip toeing around the obvious for months, and if he's honest Simon is a much better match for her than he is.
But does she have to look so happy?
Things haven't been tense or awkward between them ever since their little affair ended, though it was never so little to him. She still smiles at him as she did before, still comes to him for advice or just to rant and rave at the end of a long day. He wouldn't want it any other way, wouldn't want to ever lose their friendship, or their good professional relationship.
But sometimes he feels an aching bitterness when he remembers, wondering if she felt half of what he felt for her. Other times, he recalls the playful looks and frantic afternoon shags, late evenings and slow love making, with a sort of fond sadness, regretting that he never told her precisely how he felt.
Maybe if she had known she would have stayed. Maybe she had meant it after all and was afraid. Maybe he chased her away with his own doubts and insecurities.
Whatever it was that caused them to end, she seems happy now, and he will never stand in the way of that. He crosses the office to the large cabinet behind the small bar, bending to open the bottom drawer. Pulling out a glass, he turns and pours himself two fingers of scotch, swirling the warm caramel liquid. Then he moves to sit on the leather sofa by the window, gazing out at the far end of the Rose Garden as he sips, and remembers.