(He doesn't care. Fuck, fuck, he really doesn't care.)
Sam rests his forehead in the crook of her shoulder, smells sweat and the two of them mixed. He takes a deep breath--it's just--they've been doing this for a while, now, is the thing, and she's so--
(God, she wrecks him a little, tight and willing, all that wet slick heat.)
Sam works himself as deep as he can get, hips shifting, Andy's leg coming up around his waist. Her fingertips trace ghost patterns across the bruises on his back. He's keeping weight on his good arm as much as he can but the muscles in his back are giving him trouble; he can't get his hands on her as much as he wants.
Andy frowns up at him, curious, cheeks flushed and lips bitten. "Is that--?" she asks (and he doesn't know why he thought maybe she wasn't watching that closely; it's like that in the field sometimes, too, where he assumes she's totally distracted and in reality she's right there at his back). "What do you want me to do?"
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Sam rests his forehead in the crook of her shoulder, smells sweat and the two of them mixed. He takes a deep breath--it's just--they've been doing this for a while, now, is the thing, and she's so--
(God, she wrecks him a little, tight and willing, all that wet slick heat.)
Sam works himself as deep as he can get, hips shifting, Andy's leg coming up around his waist. Her fingertips trace ghost patterns across the bruises on his back. He's keeping weight on his good arm as much as he can but the muscles in his back are giving him trouble; he can't get his hands on her as much as he wants.
Andy frowns up at him, curious, cheeks flushed and lips bitten. "Is that--?" she asks (and he doesn't know why he thought maybe she wasn't watching that closely; it's like that in the field sometimes, too, where he assumes she's totally distracted and in reality she's right there at his back). "What do you want me to do?"
Which--jesus.