threeguesses: ([stock] nerd)
[personal profile] threeguesses
Title: gentlemen prefer
Word Count: ~800
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Disclaimed!
Summary: The thing is, she isn't even his type.

AN: Cross-posted over at the Porn Battle XII.  Prompts were: locker room, stakeout, young.

The thing is, she isn’t even his type.

She has messy ponytails and skinny hips, always smells like cheap lotion, the kind that prostitutes and teenagers use. Cupcakes. Vanilla and shitty chemical strawberries, those flavoured lip-glosses that used to be all the rage. Stinking up the squad car like she isn’t a grown women, doesn’t know the meaning of moderation.

(Well. She isn’t, really. Grown. She was too young to get married, that’s for damn sure.)

In his bedroom, in the dark, she kissed like she hadn’t been doing it for very long. Too much tongue, too eager and body like a boy’s, hard everywhere, no curves. Coltish, and Sam’s never gone for women like that. She doesn’t even wear it properly, jeans and sweatshirts instead of showing off those legs. Sports bras, for god’s sakes. (But okay, yeah, he thinks about it sometimes, what it would have been like to take off – because that’s one place where she’s got to be soft, has to be like a girl.)

And then there’s all that… energy, like a puppy or someone’s kid sister. He pretends she’s his now and then, pretends that’s how he thinks of her (except then he gets to staring; the line of her jaw, her ear with the piercings half grown-over because she keeps forgetting to put studs in and it isn’t, it isn’t how he thinks of her at all.)

Only now it’s been two weeks since the shit with Callahan went down, and everyone knows, everyone, and McNally isn’t the way she used to be. Some crappy makework stakeout and she just sits, doesn’t even try to chat. Doesn’t hit up the nearby KFC, come back with a Double Down, fries and some godawful mix of Coke and Fruitopia, just to piss him off. (She eats anything, McNally, especially late at night – afterwards the squad car smells like salt, stale coffee and her candyfloss lotion. He always has the weirdest cravings in the morning, smell getting all mixed up in his head and on his uniform and he can never decide if he wants a hotdog or Skittles.)

(She ate them together, once. Some stupid copper cookout and she lined them up along her bun, multi-coloured candy stuck-down in the mustard. She wasn’t even drunk.)

So: she isn’t his type. She isn’t his type and he doesn’t know what makes him do it, when they’re back in the locker room. It’s just she’s been so quiet and still, so unlike herself – he wants to make her move, he guesses. Only it doesn’t work; when he kisses her, she freezes for a full minute. He keeps kissing though, because it’s late and he’s exhausted and she tastes like cheap lipgloss and he wants to lick it off.

“Sam,” she says. Gasps. Underneath the lipgloss she tastes like sweat. It's the first non-work-related thing she's said all night.

Something breaks. Not all of it, not everything, but suddenly they're at each other. Proper kissing. Frenzied.

They move it to one of the shower stalls, because Sam’s an idiot and McNally keeps trying to fucking climb him or something, those long legs. She has tan lines across her hips. They’re halfway through the thing when someone comes in (of-fricking-course; it’s only three a.m. on a weekday, the graveyard shift).

“Shit, Sam,” McNally hisses. And turns the shower on.

“What the hell?” Sam’s balls-deep, bareback because she’s on the pill (Callahan, yeah, and they were engaged, so of course— but he’s going to pull out, he is, can’t be too careful), and now there’s freezing water sluicing down his spine, and he’s completely lost the rhythm, and McNally’s fucking laughing at him.

McNally’s laughing at him.

“What?” Sam says again. Quiet, because yeah, compromising position, but also because he doesn’t want to scare her off, the old McNally with her goofy grin and Double Down’s.

“So they won’t get suspicious,” she whispers, and laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the whole freaking world.

“Oh, okay.” Sam hitches her up a bit, a leg around his hips, those skinny arms. He doesn’t have her full weight because she’s tall enough to touch down, as tall as him. The curve of her smile burns against his shoulder. “We’re just conserving water.”

“Sam,” she says, and laughs again.

She comes like that, giggling into his shoulder; whole body shaking, bouncing curves she doesn’t have, two beat cops in the next room.
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