Fic: "Rarely Pure and Never Simple" [1/1]
Rarely Pure and Never Simple
by missfoxie
Pairing: Laura/D'Anna
Rating: NC17
Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me. They belong to Ron Moore. If they belonged to me, Roslin would get the sex she deserves, i.e. actually get some.
A/N: This is my much delayed and then incredibly forgotten about (obviously!) response to the Get Laura Laid ficathon all those months ago. It was written for voleuse, who wanted: Laura/D'Anna, set after Final Cut, truth and unbuttoning. I hope this is to her liking!
Also, much love goes to the fantastic projectjulie who once again did a brilliant beta job, and who reminded me I'd written this via her vlog.
Word Count: 2,822
Summary: Truth is rarely pure and never simple.
Rarely Pure and Never Simple
D’Anna watches the Presidential press conferences with more interest these days. They used to be background noise, just something on whilst she edited, her ears only half listening in case something piqued her journalistic interests.
Now she finds herself playing them on a loop, one after another. Still not listening -- after all, D’Anna already knows everything and more -- but most definitely watching.
Her attention never wavers from the person behind the podium, the one to whom everyone else in that briefing room is simply in orbit. She concentrates on the silence between the words and the ramrod posture of someone busy constructing her own truth. On the smile and voice that neutralise even the most belligerent journalist. D’Anna’s eyes watch those lips spin and spin, an undercurrent of mastery behind each syllable.
It would be a lie to say she isn’t impressed. Yes, there is definitely admiration in the smirk she wears as she sits at the monitor. It’s just unexpected. D’Anna is so used to the ignorant and the naïve that to look at a human and feel as if she’s facing a mirror is something entirely new. And almost a relief.
That said, she does like that all humans need to change their mind is a carefully worded article or a cleverly edited documentary. What D’Anna likes even more is that these things have absolutely no effect on Laura Roslin.
Which is precisely why she’s now sitting in a conference room aboard Cloud Nine being coolly stared at by the President of the Twelve Colonies, and relishing every minute of it.
“I wanted to take the opportunity to thank you for your Galactica documentary Ms. Biers.”
Roslin’s eyes glitter, and D’Anna is aware that she knows her words aren’t being believed for a second.
“Anything to help the fleet, Madam President, I am a patriot after all. Whatever the upper echelons of Galactica may believe.”
“It’s good to know such sentiments as patriotism and sense of duty still exist in these times,” replies Roslin. She looks down at some files. “I’ll even ignore the fact you incited the situation in the first place.” The President meets her eyes again.
Wonderful, they’re going to play that game.
D’Anna cocks her head and studies Roslin, smug in the knowledge that the other woman is doing exactly the same. The air between them crackles with calculation and assessment.
A smile curves her mouth. The look of a person with an agenda is all too recognisable. Roslin wants something. So does D’Anna. Now, it’s all a matter of attrition. Knowing the woman with glasses resting imperiously low on her nose is watching and having near identical thoughts sends a thrill straight down D’Anna’s spine.
D’Anna leans back in her chair. “Not a big fan of freedom of the press are you?”
“On the contrary, I fought to ensure you a free press - democracy cannot exist without one. But journalists are naturally the thorns in a politician’s side, and I’m glad to see you’re continuing that noble tradition.”
“I’m flattered to know that’s how you perceive me.”
“Good, because believe me, the military aren’t quite as complimentary,” says Roslin.
“Imagine my shock. I’d never expect gratitude or humility from Galactica. Even if they did come out of the whole thing in a better light than they deserved.”
The President brushes some lint off her skirt. “Perhaps they think you did too.”
There is a calculated lack of emphasis on those last three words, and it makes D’Anna’s smile widen a little more, because that nothing tells her everything. Tells her Roslin realises how much is common knowledge between them and that D’Anna’s only a bit above Zarek in the Presidential estimations.
Still the artful politician, even without an audience. Taking D’Anna’s words and twisting them into a referendum on her without a flicker of hesitation.
“It’s not their job to think - the military are there to act,” D’Anna counters. “The only person expected to think, in fact, is you, Madam President.”
Roslin’s face lights up. “Thank you for bringing that to my attention, it must be where I’ve been going wrong.”
“Oh, nothing could be further from the truth. Out of everyone, you’re the only one doing everything expected of you, and what’s more, doing it absolutely right.”
“But you, I assume, know better?”
“Of course,” D’Anna answers smoothly, “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, you know that.”
“Really.” The intonation is half question, half statement.
“It’s why you called me here.”
And it’s as if she is watching a particularly charged press conference, the same atmosphere now being shrunken down to just the two of them and adding to the thrum D’Anna feels.
This is no grainy showcase of media virtuosity flickering on her monitor, though. This is President Laura Roslin in the flesh. No podium or suit jacket now, only open space and a demure pink blouse. No aides or Commander Adama there to temper her demeanour, and that gaze has nothing else to laser in on but D’Anna. It’s not even a war of words anymore. It is much smaller and scalpel-sharp, warfare of vocal tones and intimation. This is face-to-face combat with a human who knows almost as much.
Roslin folds her arms, and a hint of a smile tugs at her lips.
“You think you were used, don’t you Ms. Biers?” she says, tilting her head a fraction. “And you don’t like that.”
“I’ll admit I’m more accustomed to being the one with the agenda,” replies D’Anna. How has the spotlight moved back onto her again?
“That’s no surprise.”
“Neither is you being quite the masterful manipulator. Of the media, and otherwise.”
The reply is instant and serene. “Surely if I was, you wouldn’t be sitting here telling me so.”
“Maybe the signs of pawns being moved catch my eye more than most,” D’Anna says. “You’re far better at the game than I am, Madam President. I can certainly see how you got Commander Adama to grant me my request.”
What D’Anna can’t see is exactly why her own agenda is splintering and intensifying with each minute.
She walked into that conference room clear-headed and full of calculated curiosity, ready to assuage the demand for information that’s been hard-wired into her. D’Anna already has all the facts and figures, but it’s these humans, with their complexity and ability to embody countless contradictions, that need more figuring out. It should delight her that President Roslin is doing everything she expected.
It isn’t.
There’s still something about Roslin that keeps her merely a peripheral glimmer in D’Anna’s far-reaching vision. It’s making D’Anna almost not want to be right, turning desire for verification into one for the unexpected. Intentions she began with are being challenged by feelings hot and irrational. Human.
“And would you mind telling me how I did that?” asks Roslin.
D’Anna hesitates.
She wouldn’t normally reveal as many cards as she’s going to, but it’s like President Roslin is provoking her.
This woman -- this human -- thinks she knows everything, and even though D’Anna knows that is impossible, she isn’t as sure of herself as usual, which is unnerving and infuriating. How dare Roslin have such composure? She is as inherently flawed and sinful as all her kind. She has no right to sit there on that table radiating such power and omniscience.
“I would, actually. Besides, you wouldn’t be listening. Too many other things going on in that head of yours for you to bother with what you already know.” D’Anna’s voice matches the chill in Roslin’s eyes. “For instance, that deep suspicion of Gaius Baltar, and your frustration at being unable to show it. Distaste that you let Tom Zarek help you while you were a fugitive. Worry that the inevitable will come inconveniently soon. All manner of feelings about the cylon Adama seems near-obsessed with and whom you would love to have thrown out an airlock. ”
The silence that falls sizzles with expectations, each woman anticipating both something and nothing.
Certain the stalemate could otherwise last forever, and craving a reaction from Roslin, some admission of human nature, D’Anna makes her move.
She rises to her feet and walks forward, stops close enough for Roslin’s knees to brush her thighs. D’Anna’s eyes hold Roslin’s as she places her hands to either side of the President’s hips and leans down so their faces are mere inches apart.
Her gaze then breaks away and roams over Roslin, who’s sitting there chin raised and eyes alight with challenge.
Only up close can D’Anna see subtle imperfections, which please her by denoting mortality and humanity. Too-thin wrists emphasised by a chunky bangle. Ashen skin thrown into sharp relief by the healthy pink of a blouse. The faint web of raised veins on the back of each hand. Where a button has come loose and lipstick has faded since the morning.
“I have a question,” she says in a low voice.
“And what would that be, Ms. Biers?”
“I have many, in fact.” D’Anna reaches out her hands and leaves them poised above Roslin’s blouse buttons. She drags her eyes downward and then back up. “Though something tells me you’re not going to answer my questions.”
Teeth bite down upon a lower lip. “I might.”
D’Anna shakes her head. “Not truthfully. Even that was a lie.” Her fingers undo the first button. She hopes that sound of breath catching wasn’t wishful thinking. “But I’m going to ask them anyway.”
Button after button is undone, forming the punctuation between each question, ones to which she already knows the answers. Fabric falls aside to reveal a white bra and bare skin she’s certain would be feverish to the touch.
“There’s one more thing I’d like to know,” she asks, fingertips ghosting over the curve of a breast.
The President arches an eyebrow in reply.
D’Anna hovers a fraction above Roslin’s mouth. “Do those lips do anything but lie?”
She’s not sure who closed the distance and crushed their mouths together in the first kiss. Not that D’Anna can think clearly when there are lips parting, tongues tangling and a breast pressing into her palm.
But maybe that was the point.
And it’s not going to happen again. Not if she has anything to do with it. She sucks Roslin’s conniving tongue deeper into her mouth. D’Anna hasn’t tipped her hand only to fall prey to seduction now.
One question has been accurately answered, at least. Those lips are just as eloquent upon her own as they are in the press footage. No surprise really. She’s heard the Adar rumours, and the ones about the Adama boy.
Pulling Roslin’s body close against hers, D’Anna’s hand snakes around to a lower back just as warm as expected. Amazing how alive a woman she knows to be dying can feel. How hot this cool puppet master behind the podium can be. Frak, it’s good.
Still no unmistakable reaction, though.
Yes, there’s body heat searing through D’Anna’s clothes, and a tiny tremble beneath her hand, but no moan or articulation of what cannot be hidden.
She breaks the kiss and pulls back. Roslin’s hands have remained defiantly on the tabletop, the fingers with their white knuckles curving around the edge her only concession to what just happened.
D’Anna sighs. “Do you ever tell the truth, Madam President?”
“Do you?”
“No, we’re not talking about me now.” Her hand slips inside the bra it’s been toying with. “It’s your turn, and seeing as you won’t cooperate,” D’Anna continues, nails raking across Roslin’s nipple, “I’ll have to answer my own question.”
“Go right ahead.”
“You would say that truth is a subjective thing. Much like history or beauty. That it all depends on the way you look at it, on the angle you approach it from.”
“Very good,” smiles Roslin, lips swollen, “A perfectly political answer.”
“Learned from the best,” D’Anna replies. She darts forward for another long kiss, and then her mouth skates across the President’s cheek, stopping finally to bite down upon an earlobe.
Moving her attention from Roslin’s upper body, D’Anna moves her hands to Roslin’s knees and parts her legs, trailing thumbs along inner thighs as she pushes Roslin’s skirt upwards.
What intrigues her is that she has done this action many times before, and each time the other person had always whimpered and arched at her touch. Humans are selfish creatures -- she knows this -- but Roslin’s arousal is apparent only in her eyes and elevated heartbeat.
That is, it was.
Now, D’Anna is grazing her knuckles along damp fabric, and there’s no denying that gasp. No denying that very real whisper of a moan Roslin makes when D’Anna flicks a thumbnail against her clit.
“So, you are human, after all.” D’Anna’s breath is hot on the ear she’s molesting. There’s a grin too, because the woman below her thinks she’s being figurative.
“One of the less common angles from which people view you. Yes, they usually prefer a multitude of others. President. Secretary of Education. Schoolteacher. Prophet. Zealot. Criminal. Dictator.” Each different label is accompanied by another open-mouthed kiss, another bite, another movement nearer to where Roslin wants to be touched.
“And which angle do you prefer, Ms. Biers?” That voice is still composed, but there’s a definite edge of effort to it now.
“Right now? Woman. The woman I’m frakking on a table behind an unlocked door.”
She hears the start of a clever reply, but the words die on Roslin’s lips as D’Anna’s fingers slip underneath elastic and meet willing flesh.
Oh yes, definitely human.
It’s in the way hips buck upwards and thighs quiver against her hands. The way breasts arch into her when one, then two fingers slide inside, teasing and twisting and stroking. The way Roslin’s breathing speeds up, becomes shallow and ragged when D’Anna hits a good spot, and does it over and over again.
The President’s hands uncurl from the edge of the table, leaving the metal trim covered with a sheen of sweat, and D’Anna sees one hand sneaking down to join her own, wanting to dictate where her fingers should touch and how hard. Now, really. That isn’t how this game is meant to work. D’Anna is the one in control here. The one with all the real answers, whose fingers are teasing out shudders and moans.
She grips onto Roslin’s wrist and pulls it away, back down onto the tabletop.
“No, you don’t,” D’Anna hisses, her lips against Roslin’s cheek. “Control is only for Presidents, and you certainly don’t look very presidential right now. Not with that skirt bunched up around your waist and your thighs all wet.”
Those words make the hand that’s knuckle-deep in Roslin start thrusting faster, her thumb circling Roslin’s clit with more determination, and D’Anna would give anything to replace it with her mouth right now, but she wants to see Madam President come, and come hard, because not even Roslin could obscure the truth then. Not even Roslin could spin her flushed face, heavy-lidded eyes and the way that blouse is sticking to her skin.
D’Anna is so sure of this that she locks eyes with Roslin and stops teasing, drags her thumb roughly over the President’s clit and feels thighs tense up against her forearm. A low, throaty moan mingles with the hum of the overhead lights as an orgasm shudders into life, soaking D’Anna’s hand.
For a few seconds afterwards, D’Anna just stares. Hypnotised by the rise and fall of flesh in the notch in Roslin’s collarbone.
It comforts her. The movement reminding her again that, despite the composure and seemingly infinite strength, this woman is as mortal as the rest of them.
D’Anna steps back, her arms hanging loosely by her sides. President Roslin is buttoning up her blouse. She stands up, straightens her skirt and turns to put on her jacket. Gathers files into her briefcase and then finally turns to look straight at D’Anna, eyes gleaming with inscrutability once more.
“I have a press conference in fifteen minutes.”
The Presidential tone is back in place and Roslin’s ready to return to that oh-so tricky business of saving humanity. Predictable. Ready to do and be and say exactly what the people want.
Upon exiting the room, that last thought jars inside D’Anna’s head. What if -? She stops walking and looks behind her, just in time to see Roslin sweep around a corner and out of sight. Just in time to glimpse a sphinx-like half-smile. Oh, expertly played, Madam President.
But neither woman can use this. They both know that. Even if it could be used, that wouldn’t be their style, far too simplistic and crude. Knowledge is far more interesting to possess rather than reveal. The truth always comes out eventually, anyway.
And when it does, D’Anna will be watching.
by missfoxie
Pairing: Laura/D'Anna
Rating: NC17
Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me. They belong to Ron Moore. If they belonged to me, Roslin would get the sex she deserves, i.e. actually get some.
A/N: This is my much delayed and then incredibly forgotten about (obviously!) response to the Get Laura Laid ficathon all those months ago. It was written for voleuse, who wanted: Laura/D'Anna, set after Final Cut, truth and unbuttoning. I hope this is to her liking!
Also, much love goes to the fantastic projectjulie who once again did a brilliant beta job, and who reminded me I'd written this via her vlog.
Word Count: 2,822
Summary: Truth is rarely pure and never simple.
Rarely Pure and Never Simple
D’Anna watches the Presidential press conferences with more interest these days. They used to be background noise, just something on whilst she edited, her ears only half listening in case something piqued her journalistic interests.
Now she finds herself playing them on a loop, one after another. Still not listening -- after all, D’Anna already knows everything and more -- but most definitely watching.
Her attention never wavers from the person behind the podium, the one to whom everyone else in that briefing room is simply in orbit. She concentrates on the silence between the words and the ramrod posture of someone busy constructing her own truth. On the smile and voice that neutralise even the most belligerent journalist. D’Anna’s eyes watch those lips spin and spin, an undercurrent of mastery behind each syllable.
It would be a lie to say she isn’t impressed. Yes, there is definitely admiration in the smirk she wears as she sits at the monitor. It’s just unexpected. D’Anna is so used to the ignorant and the naïve that to look at a human and feel as if she’s facing a mirror is something entirely new. And almost a relief.
That said, she does like that all humans need to change their mind is a carefully worded article or a cleverly edited documentary. What D’Anna likes even more is that these things have absolutely no effect on Laura Roslin.
Which is precisely why she’s now sitting in a conference room aboard Cloud Nine being coolly stared at by the President of the Twelve Colonies, and relishing every minute of it.
“I wanted to take the opportunity to thank you for your Galactica documentary Ms. Biers.”
Roslin’s eyes glitter, and D’Anna is aware that she knows her words aren’t being believed for a second.
“Anything to help the fleet, Madam President, I am a patriot after all. Whatever the upper echelons of Galactica may believe.”
“It’s good to know such sentiments as patriotism and sense of duty still exist in these times,” replies Roslin. She looks down at some files. “I’ll even ignore the fact you incited the situation in the first place.” The President meets her eyes again.
Wonderful, they’re going to play that game.
D’Anna cocks her head and studies Roslin, smug in the knowledge that the other woman is doing exactly the same. The air between them crackles with calculation and assessment.
A smile curves her mouth. The look of a person with an agenda is all too recognisable. Roslin wants something. So does D’Anna. Now, it’s all a matter of attrition. Knowing the woman with glasses resting imperiously low on her nose is watching and having near identical thoughts sends a thrill straight down D’Anna’s spine.
D’Anna leans back in her chair. “Not a big fan of freedom of the press are you?”
“On the contrary, I fought to ensure you a free press - democracy cannot exist without one. But journalists are naturally the thorns in a politician’s side, and I’m glad to see you’re continuing that noble tradition.”
“I’m flattered to know that’s how you perceive me.”
“Good, because believe me, the military aren’t quite as complimentary,” says Roslin.
“Imagine my shock. I’d never expect gratitude or humility from Galactica. Even if they did come out of the whole thing in a better light than they deserved.”
The President brushes some lint off her skirt. “Perhaps they think you did too.”
There is a calculated lack of emphasis on those last three words, and it makes D’Anna’s smile widen a little more, because that nothing tells her everything. Tells her Roslin realises how much is common knowledge between them and that D’Anna’s only a bit above Zarek in the Presidential estimations.
Still the artful politician, even without an audience. Taking D’Anna’s words and twisting them into a referendum on her without a flicker of hesitation.
“It’s not their job to think - the military are there to act,” D’Anna counters. “The only person expected to think, in fact, is you, Madam President.”
Roslin’s face lights up. “Thank you for bringing that to my attention, it must be where I’ve been going wrong.”
“Oh, nothing could be further from the truth. Out of everyone, you’re the only one doing everything expected of you, and what’s more, doing it absolutely right.”
“But you, I assume, know better?”
“Of course,” D’Anna answers smoothly, “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, you know that.”
“Really.” The intonation is half question, half statement.
“It’s why you called me here.”
And it’s as if she is watching a particularly charged press conference, the same atmosphere now being shrunken down to just the two of them and adding to the thrum D’Anna feels.
This is no grainy showcase of media virtuosity flickering on her monitor, though. This is President Laura Roslin in the flesh. No podium or suit jacket now, only open space and a demure pink blouse. No aides or Commander Adama there to temper her demeanour, and that gaze has nothing else to laser in on but D’Anna. It’s not even a war of words anymore. It is much smaller and scalpel-sharp, warfare of vocal tones and intimation. This is face-to-face combat with a human who knows almost as much.
Roslin folds her arms, and a hint of a smile tugs at her lips.
“You think you were used, don’t you Ms. Biers?” she says, tilting her head a fraction. “And you don’t like that.”
“I’ll admit I’m more accustomed to being the one with the agenda,” replies D’Anna. How has the spotlight moved back onto her again?
“That’s no surprise.”
“Neither is you being quite the masterful manipulator. Of the media, and otherwise.”
The reply is instant and serene. “Surely if I was, you wouldn’t be sitting here telling me so.”
“Maybe the signs of pawns being moved catch my eye more than most,” D’Anna says. “You’re far better at the game than I am, Madam President. I can certainly see how you got Commander Adama to grant me my request.”
What D’Anna can’t see is exactly why her own agenda is splintering and intensifying with each minute.
She walked into that conference room clear-headed and full of calculated curiosity, ready to assuage the demand for information that’s been hard-wired into her. D’Anna already has all the facts and figures, but it’s these humans, with their complexity and ability to embody countless contradictions, that need more figuring out. It should delight her that President Roslin is doing everything she expected.
It isn’t.
There’s still something about Roslin that keeps her merely a peripheral glimmer in D’Anna’s far-reaching vision. It’s making D’Anna almost not want to be right, turning desire for verification into one for the unexpected. Intentions she began with are being challenged by feelings hot and irrational. Human.
“And would you mind telling me how I did that?” asks Roslin.
D’Anna hesitates.
She wouldn’t normally reveal as many cards as she’s going to, but it’s like President Roslin is provoking her.
This woman -- this human -- thinks she knows everything, and even though D’Anna knows that is impossible, she isn’t as sure of herself as usual, which is unnerving and infuriating. How dare Roslin have such composure? She is as inherently flawed and sinful as all her kind. She has no right to sit there on that table radiating such power and omniscience.
“I would, actually. Besides, you wouldn’t be listening. Too many other things going on in that head of yours for you to bother with what you already know.” D’Anna’s voice matches the chill in Roslin’s eyes. “For instance, that deep suspicion of Gaius Baltar, and your frustration at being unable to show it. Distaste that you let Tom Zarek help you while you were a fugitive. Worry that the inevitable will come inconveniently soon. All manner of feelings about the cylon Adama seems near-obsessed with and whom you would love to have thrown out an airlock. ”
The silence that falls sizzles with expectations, each woman anticipating both something and nothing.
Certain the stalemate could otherwise last forever, and craving a reaction from Roslin, some admission of human nature, D’Anna makes her move.
She rises to her feet and walks forward, stops close enough for Roslin’s knees to brush her thighs. D’Anna’s eyes hold Roslin’s as she places her hands to either side of the President’s hips and leans down so their faces are mere inches apart.
Her gaze then breaks away and roams over Roslin, who’s sitting there chin raised and eyes alight with challenge.
Only up close can D’Anna see subtle imperfections, which please her by denoting mortality and humanity. Too-thin wrists emphasised by a chunky bangle. Ashen skin thrown into sharp relief by the healthy pink of a blouse. The faint web of raised veins on the back of each hand. Where a button has come loose and lipstick has faded since the morning.
“I have a question,” she says in a low voice.
“And what would that be, Ms. Biers?”
“I have many, in fact.” D’Anna reaches out her hands and leaves them poised above Roslin’s blouse buttons. She drags her eyes downward and then back up. “Though something tells me you’re not going to answer my questions.”
Teeth bite down upon a lower lip. “I might.”
D’Anna shakes her head. “Not truthfully. Even that was a lie.” Her fingers undo the first button. She hopes that sound of breath catching wasn’t wishful thinking. “But I’m going to ask them anyway.”
Button after button is undone, forming the punctuation between each question, ones to which she already knows the answers. Fabric falls aside to reveal a white bra and bare skin she’s certain would be feverish to the touch.
“There’s one more thing I’d like to know,” she asks, fingertips ghosting over the curve of a breast.
The President arches an eyebrow in reply.
D’Anna hovers a fraction above Roslin’s mouth. “Do those lips do anything but lie?”
She’s not sure who closed the distance and crushed their mouths together in the first kiss. Not that D’Anna can think clearly when there are lips parting, tongues tangling and a breast pressing into her palm.
But maybe that was the point.
And it’s not going to happen again. Not if she has anything to do with it. She sucks Roslin’s conniving tongue deeper into her mouth. D’Anna hasn’t tipped her hand only to fall prey to seduction now.
One question has been accurately answered, at least. Those lips are just as eloquent upon her own as they are in the press footage. No surprise really. She’s heard the Adar rumours, and the ones about the Adama boy.
Pulling Roslin’s body close against hers, D’Anna’s hand snakes around to a lower back just as warm as expected. Amazing how alive a woman she knows to be dying can feel. How hot this cool puppet master behind the podium can be. Frak, it’s good.
Still no unmistakable reaction, though.
Yes, there’s body heat searing through D’Anna’s clothes, and a tiny tremble beneath her hand, but no moan or articulation of what cannot be hidden.
She breaks the kiss and pulls back. Roslin’s hands have remained defiantly on the tabletop, the fingers with their white knuckles curving around the edge her only concession to what just happened.
D’Anna sighs. “Do you ever tell the truth, Madam President?”
“Do you?”
“No, we’re not talking about me now.” Her hand slips inside the bra it’s been toying with. “It’s your turn, and seeing as you won’t cooperate,” D’Anna continues, nails raking across Roslin’s nipple, “I’ll have to answer my own question.”
“Go right ahead.”
“You would say that truth is a subjective thing. Much like history or beauty. That it all depends on the way you look at it, on the angle you approach it from.”
“Very good,” smiles Roslin, lips swollen, “A perfectly political answer.”
“Learned from the best,” D’Anna replies. She darts forward for another long kiss, and then her mouth skates across the President’s cheek, stopping finally to bite down upon an earlobe.
Moving her attention from Roslin’s upper body, D’Anna moves her hands to Roslin’s knees and parts her legs, trailing thumbs along inner thighs as she pushes Roslin’s skirt upwards.
What intrigues her is that she has done this action many times before, and each time the other person had always whimpered and arched at her touch. Humans are selfish creatures -- she knows this -- but Roslin’s arousal is apparent only in her eyes and elevated heartbeat.
That is, it was.
Now, D’Anna is grazing her knuckles along damp fabric, and there’s no denying that gasp. No denying that very real whisper of a moan Roslin makes when D’Anna flicks a thumbnail against her clit.
“So, you are human, after all.” D’Anna’s breath is hot on the ear she’s molesting. There’s a grin too, because the woman below her thinks she’s being figurative.
“One of the less common angles from which people view you. Yes, they usually prefer a multitude of others. President. Secretary of Education. Schoolteacher. Prophet. Zealot. Criminal. Dictator.” Each different label is accompanied by another open-mouthed kiss, another bite, another movement nearer to where Roslin wants to be touched.
“And which angle do you prefer, Ms. Biers?” That voice is still composed, but there’s a definite edge of effort to it now.
“Right now? Woman. The woman I’m frakking on a table behind an unlocked door.”
She hears the start of a clever reply, but the words die on Roslin’s lips as D’Anna’s fingers slip underneath elastic and meet willing flesh.
Oh yes, definitely human.
It’s in the way hips buck upwards and thighs quiver against her hands. The way breasts arch into her when one, then two fingers slide inside, teasing and twisting and stroking. The way Roslin’s breathing speeds up, becomes shallow and ragged when D’Anna hits a good spot, and does it over and over again.
The President’s hands uncurl from the edge of the table, leaving the metal trim covered with a sheen of sweat, and D’Anna sees one hand sneaking down to join her own, wanting to dictate where her fingers should touch and how hard. Now, really. That isn’t how this game is meant to work. D’Anna is the one in control here. The one with all the real answers, whose fingers are teasing out shudders and moans.
She grips onto Roslin’s wrist and pulls it away, back down onto the tabletop.
“No, you don’t,” D’Anna hisses, her lips against Roslin’s cheek. “Control is only for Presidents, and you certainly don’t look very presidential right now. Not with that skirt bunched up around your waist and your thighs all wet.”
Those words make the hand that’s knuckle-deep in Roslin start thrusting faster, her thumb circling Roslin’s clit with more determination, and D’Anna would give anything to replace it with her mouth right now, but she wants to see Madam President come, and come hard, because not even Roslin could obscure the truth then. Not even Roslin could spin her flushed face, heavy-lidded eyes and the way that blouse is sticking to her skin.
D’Anna is so sure of this that she locks eyes with Roslin and stops teasing, drags her thumb roughly over the President’s clit and feels thighs tense up against her forearm. A low, throaty moan mingles with the hum of the overhead lights as an orgasm shudders into life, soaking D’Anna’s hand.
For a few seconds afterwards, D’Anna just stares. Hypnotised by the rise and fall of flesh in the notch in Roslin’s collarbone.
It comforts her. The movement reminding her again that, despite the composure and seemingly infinite strength, this woman is as mortal as the rest of them.
D’Anna steps back, her arms hanging loosely by her sides. President Roslin is buttoning up her blouse. She stands up, straightens her skirt and turns to put on her jacket. Gathers files into her briefcase and then finally turns to look straight at D’Anna, eyes gleaming with inscrutability once more.
“I have a press conference in fifteen minutes.”
The Presidential tone is back in place and Roslin’s ready to return to that oh-so tricky business of saving humanity. Predictable. Ready to do and be and say exactly what the people want.
Upon exiting the room, that last thought jars inside D’Anna’s head. What if -? She stops walking and looks behind her, just in time to see Roslin sweep around a corner and out of sight. Just in time to glimpse a sphinx-like half-smile. Oh, expertly played, Madam President.
But neither woman can use this. They both know that. Even if it could be used, that wouldn’t be their style, far too simplistic and crude. Knowledge is far more interesting to possess rather than reveal. The truth always comes out eventually, anyway.
And when it does, D’Anna will be watching.