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threeguesses) wrote2011-09-07 02:55 am
FIC: Table seats four and a couch seats three [rookie blue, sam/andy]
Title: Table seats four and a couch seats three
Word Count: 1500+
Rating: R
AN: I have absolutely no idea why I wrote fic that's going to be Jossed in less than two days. Title from Joel Plaskett, just to switch it up with the Canadian band theme.
Table seats four and a couch seats three
Sam spends the morning alternating between feeling stupidly pleased and just straight-up stupid. (Only, when he runs into Brennan on his first shift all he gets is a “well played” and a pat on the back, so. Probably he isn’t going to die over this.) He works right up until lunch, shifting supplies (not product—legitimate supplies, chairs and tables and chesterfields, antiques for the front business; Brennan doesn’t quite trust him yet), then eats a sandwich in the back of the truck, hands twitching like he’s still touching her. Like he wants to grab at something, and cold cuts on rye really aren’t doing it for him.
Well. They really aren’t.
The nervous energy sticks until around three. Three-thirty, and his body starts to remember the one hour of sleep it got (one fucking hour, because they waited and waited until the last possible minute—Andy shoving herself down onto his cock, half-laughing, half-moaning, “God, Sam, I’m going to be so late”—and then after that they waited some more; kissing in the doorway, the way her mittens felt against his bare chest). By five, Sam’s yawning at every red light. Benny, the kid he’s riding with, offers to take the wheel. Which is saying something—Benny can’t drive.
So. Bottom line: Sam gets back to his crappy flat where the bed sheets are still messed up and everything smells like her, and he’s wondering, just a bit, why he went under in the first place.
(“I miss you,” she says, after Ernie the Zamboni driver but before dawn, head buried in his neck so he can’t see her face. “Not like, all the time, or anything. You just always made the best coffee.”
Sam rubs at the curve of her waist (unexpected; he always thought she was straight up-and-down, coat hanger hips like a runway model). “Tell Ollie I said to get you some.”
“Ha. He’d never.” She brings her head up and Jesus Christ, she may actually be pouting at him. Sam can’t tell if it’s put-on—if she’s mocking that kind of girl—or if she’s serious. (Dear god, but she’s young. Sam wants to feel bad about that.) A blink and she’s a copper again, that hard set of her mouth. “Anyways. I can get my own.”
This girl. Sam swears she’ll give him whiplash. “Right.”
A beat. “I like yours better though.”
“Right.” Then: “Miss you too.”)
So.
Still, mostly he avoids thinking about it. Tries, anyway. (What he does do: collapse into bed face-first, sleep for the next ten hours.)
That’s the first day.
The second day, though, that’s his day off. (And there’s some trouble—idle hands, all that bullshit.) Sam wakes up feeling like he could run a 5k, no warm up; easy. Problem is, Sam doesn’t run.
He sits on the edge of the bed for a while, rolling the burn phone back and forth between his palms. Thinks about calling Boyd. Not to report the slip-up or anything, just—the way you’d call a sponsor (he needs some sense knocked into him, is the thing). Except Boyd hates McNally, would probably love to stir up shit for her, so. That’s out.
Eventually he stops by the grocery store, buys a bunch of fresh produce he doesn’t need for a truly ridiculous price (it’s Toronto, the middle of November; at least the clementines are cheap). There’s no reason to, it’s just that McNally got up around four in search of food and pronounced his jar of pickles and leftover takeout “sad”; Sam drops a head of lettuce into the crisper, figures it’s a marginal improvement. Besides which, better nutrition is never a bad idea. (Although, how furtive he feels picking out those avocadoes—Yeah.)
Come lunchtime, he’s out the door again.
By 1:15, he’s ducking into a public library, hood up and tuque pulled low, ancient dial-up connection creaking away. He brings up gmail; a tap of the keys and he’s zamboni_37; a tap of a couple more and he’s fired off an email. Just like that. Easy.
you make it back in time?
(He’s just—he’s been wondering. By the time they finally got her out the door and into a cab it was late—like, 5:20 late—McNally bouncing on her heels, “Sam, could you maybe lend me some cash?”, her mittens and her eyes and that stupid hat, the rush of cold air from the hall as she leaned back in to kiss him, and—well. He’ll be really amused if she wins the contest with $20.01, is all.)
He hangs around for a while, pacing between Personal Growth and the biography section. There’s absolutely no justification for it, but… there it is. He doesn’t really have time to feel stupid, thank god—she emails back almost immediately, long and rambling and full of typos. Some story about Epstein and one hundred-plus dollars in cash. And it’s not like—she’s working night shifts this week, he knows, Nash working days so she can be with her kid, so. Probably she was just bored.
She doesn’t sound like herself, in writing.
(Tucked away near the end, beside some anecdote about Ollie making bank on Dov’s victory: i had a really great time not winning.)
That’s the second day.
The third day—a Sunday; Irish thugs and their inconvenient refusal to push drugs after church—Sam wakes up to another email from her.
can i see you again?
It’s time-stamped from five a.m.; she must have sent it just after shift ended. Sam blows on his hands, glances around the empty library. There’s a kid staring at him from Self Help, but if Sam starts taking signs from the universe now, Andy’s never going to stop laughing.
sure.
(So. Three days.
Although really—
her head dropping back, messy hair and those long long legs, her skinny knees and the way she got a little selfish, a little insistent, the second time he tried going down on her
—Sam’s not all that surprised.)
They meet at some tiny lakeshore park, forty-five minutes up the 401. McNally brings shitty coffee; Sam brings Timbits (he remembers the way she used to inhale them on late-night patrols, one by one until she reached the sugar quota required for functionality). It’s far enough away that it takes her three buses and a cab to get there; Sam has time to psych himself out twice. He’s leaning against his car, hands in his pockets, when she finally walks up.
The thing about McNally: she has a really killer smile.
“Hi,” she says. She’s a little breathless, sweating inside her puffy jacket, like she maybe ran the last hundred meters. Sam stops thinking about calling this off.
“Hi.”
“I backtracked, like, three times, so.” She gestures behind her, as if to say, see; no stalkers. “We should be good.”
Sam rubs a hand over his eyes. Her grin is wide, infectious, like this is some great trick they’re pulling off, them against the universe. It’s not exactly an unattractive thing to pretend. “So Epstein beat you out, huh?”
She laughs. “Everyone beat me out, Sam; I had a twenty.” She comes closer. “Would you have bet on me?”
“Sure.” He gets a finger through her belt loops, pulls her the rest of the way in. “And been out fifty bucks.”
“Hey!” She shoves at his shoulders. Her hair’s in a messy braid down her neck; Sam wants to ask if she’s slept since her shift ended, but he also wants to put her up against the side of the truck, so. “I could’ve won.”
“Not playing pool like that.” It’s freezing out here; McNally’s all chapped lips and cold nose, shivering under her layers. Sam tugs her closer, rubs quick and brisk up the sides of her coat (he’s mostly aiming for warmth; still, she shudders, just a bit, when his palm slides over the edge of a breast).
Right before he kisses her, Sam thinks: this is a bad idea.
He doesn’t stop.
She hasn’t slept since shift ended, as it turns out.
Sam gets her in a bed (a motel; he’s stupid, sure, but there are limits), gets her warm and naked, and she immediately starts yawning. So. He spends the better part of the morning watching daytime tv with the volume on low, McNally out cold—“just for five minutes, Sam, seriously”—beside him. She sleeps messily, outflung arms and legs and an alarming amount of twitching. Sam watches the Mythbusters prove you can’t dodge a bullet and keeps his hands to himself.
(He dozes off twice: 'Sammie-boy, you are one dumb fuck,' Jamie Hyneman says in Oliver's voice, beret titled crazily sideways—
Sam agrees.)
Later, he looks on as she constructs lunch out of a truly odd combination of vending machine snacks (he tells her she’s disgusting and she shows him her tongue, half-chewed Skittles and a Cheeto, and Christ, she has the maturity level of a five-year-old, there is no earthy reason for him to be so—but he is, apparently, he really is, because he kisses her maybe two minutes after that; she tastes like cheese and sugar), and feels stupidly lucky for no reason at all.
(“Last time,” he tells her, hand on her waist. “Andy, sweetheart, this is the last time—”
“What?” She’s got her eyes shut tight, concentrating (she slides the rest of the way onto him and they open again; ta-dah). “No, yeah, totally. Last time.”)
so I lied, the email starts, two days later. This time around the library’s completely deserted, no kids watching from Self Help; yesterday on the job, Benny said ‘fucking Christ, J.D., what’re you smiling at?’ and nearly dropped an armoire on Sam’s foot.
The universe has a plan. Sure, McNally. Okay.
(They’re idiots, they’re idiots, this is the stupidest thing Sam’s ever—)
He cracks his knuckles, starts to type up a reply.
MIND. MELD. *jazz hands*
"Maybe." He puts the phone down, starts inching across the tile; like trying not to spook a horse. "So what you're saying is I picked a bad, bad time to go under?"
She shrugs and leaves her shoulders up, hunched. "Pretty much?" Her face is the picture of misery, and Sam cannot, cannot, cannot stop grinning.
"How long didja wait around?" (He hopes not long, but well--he has been waiting around for awhile, metaphorically speaking, and it's just--) Only that earns him an embarrassed whine, high-pitched around his name. He changes tactics. "What made you change your mind?" He's close now, arms coming up to trap her against the counter.
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Seriously, this girl. "Yeah, well." Sam snorts (he earned that one, he guesses); gets closer. "You're good at that."
"I'm great at that," Andy corrects automatically. She's holding her ground, not leaning one way or the other. She smells like body spray and skin.
"Mm." He nods--eyebrows up, patient. "You're doin' it right now."
Andy huffs a little. "I thought about you, okay?" she says finally, and the way she's so annoyed, it's--yeah. "Is that what you want to hear? I thought about you, and I didn't want you to go and do that stupid thing with Boyd. Who, I would like to add, I always knew was a creep, so. "
So.
"Yeah," he tells her, nodding a bit (and god, he really, really needs to quit smiling). "That's basically what I wanted to hear."
"Well," Andy says snottily. "Good for you."
"Good for me." Sam waits until he's got his chest right up against hers, until he can feel her warm breath on his lips--then pulls back, all at once. "Okay," he says, strictly business--almost, but not. "Pancakes."
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"Funny." He's handed her a whisk and the wet ingredients, but so far she isn't doing much. He gives her knee a squeeze, skinny under her jeans. "McNally. Stir."
"I'm stirring." She pokes morosely at the egg yokes; brightens. "Hey, you have any chocolate chips?"
Twelve years old, Sam swears. "It's after midnight."
"What?" She laughs. "What's next? Can't expose me to bright lights or get me wet either?" At his blank stare, she rolls her eyes. "Gremlins, Sam, seriously. It's like you were raised in a box."
More like a decade and a bit before her, but fine. "I know the important things." And then, because it's late and he can: "Pretty sure I can get you wet. Just saying."
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Andy faceup on the mattress, knees splayed wide open and arm tucked behind her head, free hand wandering down between her legs while she chatted to him about her day;
her nails at his shoulder blades, her mouth coming off his cock with an audible smack--
so, her sensibilities. They're uh. Not that delicate.)
After a beat she recovers, smirks at him, whisks a little. "Sounds sort of overconfident to me, Swarek."
"Oh yeah?" Sam drops some butter in the pan, watches it sizzle. "That a challenge?"
She shrugs. "Take it however you want. I'm just sharing an observation."
"Be sure and put it in your report." Sam grins once. "You really want me to kiss you, huh."
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(She smiled at him a lot, is the thing, in J.D.'s crappy cover house. Sam can't figure out if it's just that she gets giddy after an orgasm, or if it's-- Something else.)
"Do you not want pancakes, then?" He gestures with the spatula, all faux-geniality and concern. "Because I can stop."
"Oh, ha-ha." She slides her ass along the counter, closer to the stove. "You don't feed me, and I'm going to eat you." He raises an eyebrow and she kicks him, none to gently. "Cannibalism, Sam. Not the fun kind."
"There's a fun kind of cannibalism?" he asks. He's got her bony foot trapped between his arm and rib-cage; she tugs but he gets a hand around her ankle, holds her there. "You gonna behave?"
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Sam looks her up and down for a minute, slow enough to make her squirm: the faint curve of her rib cage, the neckline of her shirt. There are three big freckles slung low on her left hipbone, is a fact he learned about her recently--beauty marks, really, like points on a map. They're--they're not a bad way to punctuate a body, is all he's saying. "I'm thinking about it," he tells her eventually, and strokes his thumb along the violent jut of her ankle before he lets her go.
He grabs a couple of plates from the cupboard and hands her the first pancake--it's a little dark, maybe, but not bad considering he wasn't really, uh. Paying attention. "Forks in the drawer behind you," he says, which turns out to be pointless: Andy pours a puddle of syrup right in the middle, folds it in half, and stuffs the whole thing into her mouth. He's pretty sure she doesn't even chew.
"Nice," he says, watching. Andy grins.
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Well.
That's how he ends up spending the next ten minutes cooking and eating a single pancake, McNally all over him, laughing and whining and generally just using a whole lot of language Sam's not used to hearing outside of poker games. (And it's a common enough expression, you kiss your mother with that mouth, but. Sam looks at her. Doesn't say it.)
"Happy?" he asks, when she finally crams her second pancake into her mouth. She nearly climbed over him to make it, sharp knees against his ribs and bruises singing all the way around, like a vice. (He let her do it, though. Doesn't need her treating him like glass.)
"Uh-huh." She grins at him, sweet and easy. "Hurry up."
Sam looks down at his half-eaten pancake (he cut it into the tiniest pieces possible, was just a third into it when she literally growled at him, "I'll do it myself", one long lean over and her breasts pressed against his arm as she reached for the spatula). "What, you want more?"
"Sam." She hooks a leg around him, turns off the stove with her toes. "Hurry up."
Oh.
That kind of hurry up.
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He wants her--he doesn't know if it's this day or what, but suddenly he just--would really, really like to feel all of her, is the thing. She's inching toward the edge of the counter--the height is okay, actually, he thinks he can work with this--but when she gets his shirt up over his head McNally actually gasps, so.
There's that.
"Don't," he says, right away--and yeah, it looks sort of bad now, black and blue all up and down his rib cage, places that are scraped a little more raw than he thought. Sam shakes his head. "McNally." He's trying for his TO voice (don't think just listen I'm not here to hold your hand) because she responds to that, generally, but he must miss because the look she gives him is just-- "Don't."
"I'm not." Andy blinks and recovers, swallows hard. "Dumbass," she tells him, shoving at his shoulders a little (gentle, though, careful; not enough to hurt). "Why'd you let me climb all over you like that?"
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"Dumbass," she says again, but with this face like she isn't joking. "Shouldn't this get you, like, worker's comp or something?" And she's counting up his ribs now, just lightly, fingers barely touching down.
His voice comes out too quiet. "Not with the suspension."
"Oh. Well." She brings her head-up, finally meets his eyes, face smoothed over into the picture of earnestness: "Don't worry; if you get put on permanent disability, we'll manage somehow. I'll work two shifts, we'll pinch pennies... no more frivolous juice purchases--"
God, laughing hurts. "You're insane, you know that?"
She's fighting a grin. "Either way, honey, I'll take care of you." Taking his head in her hands like she's the man and he's the woman. "We'll make it."
This girl. "Insane."
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Sam almost laughs--she's just so full of crap, is the great thing, like a sixteen year old boy whose prom date just stopped him at second base. "Yeah, for sure," he says seriously. "Maybe if we're real lucky, Gremlins will be on."
It takes her a second to realize he's making fun of her. "What?" she demands (and there's that blush again, indignant, her cheeks getting a little rosy. Sam likes that, too). "Well, we can't--not with you--I'm gonna hurt you, Sam."
"You're not gonna hurt me."
"Uh-uh." Andy shakes her head, that hard set of her mouth (she's interested, though; she's still got one leg hooked around his, a little possessive, the arch of her foot flattened against the back of his knee). "Sam--"
"You're not gonna hurt me. Don't be stupid. Lift your arms."
McNally's eyes narrow. "You're stupid," she mutters, but she does what he tells her, so. Maybe the TO thing was the way to go after all.
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"I don't want to--" She's got her knees at his hips, lightly. "Where else are you bruised?"
Lots of places. Sam slips his fingers through her belt loops, slides her forward until she's right at the edge, denim on denim. "Nowhere important." Pressing himself against her, half-hard already. (She, uh. Really does it for him, McNally.)
"Oh good." She smirks. "I'm just using you for sex, so. You know. Essentials."
Sam runs his hands up and down her stomach, the clean lines of her rib cage. "Oh, I've got your essentials, sweetheart."
WHAT UP SPORTS BRA, WAS WONDERING WHERE YOU'D BEEN.
(And all right, look. Sam's a grownup. He can admit to himself when something is a diversion, a fun way to kill time and keep from freezing all winter.
Also, he can admit to himself when it's not.)
They make out for a little while, lazy. They've never done this not on borrowed time. He gets his hand in her hair, tugs a little (she pulls at his to answer, not entirely gentle; Sam grins hard and fast against her mouth). Eventually, McNally starts to whine.
"Andy." He slips his hand under the elastic of the sports bra, fingers rubbing at the faint grooves it leaves in her skin (and like, this thing doesn't even have hooks, it's for gym class or something, Sam doesn't--). He can feel the pleats of her spine against his palm. "Take this off."
MCNALLY'S FAVOURITE ACCESSORY
(And uh, messy and shirtless is a look that works on McNally too. She's practically a Calvin Klein ad, except for the part where she's wearing twenty dollar jeans from Old Navy.)
She catches him looking, leans back on her hands. "See something you like, Swarek?" And jesus god, it's such a bad line, sixteen year old boys are smoother, he swears--only okay, yes. Yes he does. (She not really sport bra shaped is the thing, she has, um. Well. She's different with it off.)
"Yeah." Sam reaches out with his good hand, pinches a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and McNally--well. Her whole body jumps, an electric jolt through the muscles in her stomach. She stays still though, stays sitting back on her hands; her eyes are wide and interested. Sam gives her the edge of his nail and she whimpers. (And it's something he's been curious about, how rough she'd--
Well.
She whines again, so. That's pretty much his answer.)
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("Do that again," she says, bossy; she's got her eyes cast down a little, watching, and that--)
Sam, uh. Does it again.
He wonders for a second if he could get her off like this, before she's even really naked at all, but in the end he doesn't get a chance to find out because just like that she changes her mind and hops off the counter, muscles him back against the door of the fridge (and there's a line with her, Sam's figuring out, where once you cross it it becomes absolutely necessary for her to cross it ten times harder. Which is, uh. Pretty much how they wound up on the floor the other night). He hits with enough force that a couple of takeout menus and an old photo of his sister go fluttering to the tile and before he can stop himself he oofs a little, pain sharp and unpleasant all the way up his back.
Andy realizes, hisses back. "Shit, fuck, sorry," she says immediately, wide-eyed and looking up at him (she's working at the button on his jeans, back on her haunches on his kitchen floor). "Sorry."
Sam laughs (or starts to; the ache in his chest plus the fact that she's got her hand wrapped around his cock, to be completely honest it comes out sort of choked off). "I'll live."
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Only then she definitely isn't, swallowing him down with absolutely no preamble; backing off and swallowing less when he gets all-the-way hard. Sam groans before he realizes he's going to do it. "Fuck, Andy." Her mouth is very, very wet.
She hums an answer against his skin, sucks him quick and sloppy, and jesus, she's not being careful enough with her teeth. (Probably on purpose, now that Sam's looking; like she'd maybe be smirking if her mouth wasn't full.) He's got a hand halfway to her head before he stops himself.
Andy pulls off his cock with a smack. "Go for it."
Sam blinks. "What?"
Now she really does smirk. "Go. For it." Nice and clear, lifting her chin in the direction of his hand.
So.
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He thinks about it anyway.
He really, really shouldn't be as into it as he is.)
She works him deeper again, slow like she's concentrating, like he's seen her do anything difficult, one hand stroking hard at the base. Sam relaxes his grip a little bit, giving her space, only then she glances up at him and rolls her eyes, nudges her head back at his palm until he figures out what she wants.
(And what she wants, apparently, is--
Jesus Christ, this girl.)
Sam pushes her head down, harder this time, a little rougher. Andy hums a smug little laugh against his cock.
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Well. This is proof positive that she trusts him, he guesses, so... there is that.
(And then, of course, he's thinking about it, being in the field; she's his fucking rookie for god's sakes, and now he's got her on her knees in his kitchen and--well. The whole thing generally just makes Sam feel like an ass and also, stupidly, does way more for him than it should.
Way more.)
They're in a rhythm now, Andy sucking slow and steady, all the way to the tip of his cock until he shoves her back down, and it's rougher than he's been with anyone. He's got a thumb at the hinge of her jaw so he can feel when she relaxes it, knows when to push.
"Andy." Christ, watching her is just-- "Andy, sweetheart, you've gotta--"
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He's not going to last a whole lot longer like this, is the thing, and he doesn't want to--
(he wants to. Fuck, he wants to, and the idea that she's got no qualms about letting him is just--
it's--
jesus.)
"McNally." Finally Sam pulls her off him, gentle, tilts her head back until she's looking up. Her pupils are completely, totally blown. "You just--you gotta give me a second, all right?"
Andy grins at him and sits back hard, knees raised and palms flat on the tile. She nudges at his ankle with her foot. "Wouldn't have made you for shy," she says, raising her eyebrows, and wipes at her rosy mouth with the back of her hand.
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McNally nods sagely. "Stamina. Stamina is your problem." Just like that, bossy as anything. Then she squeals before he even lunges at her, pornographic to playground tussling in under 60 seconds, and Sam has no earthly idea what he's going to do with her. (Well, okay, that's not strictly true--his sister's picture on the fridge; we met on the force--but like, short term. Short term he's not sure.
For instance: there's the question of whether to lay her out on the tile or put her over his knee.)
They end up on the floor because Sam's ribs are too sore to force her standing, McNally half-in, half-out of his lap, sharp elbows everywhere. He gets her hands behind her back, holds them there like she's under arrest. "Stamina, huh?"
She grins against his jaw, cheeky. "Just an observation." She scoots forward until he's pressed against the seam of her jeans, rough denim biting at his skin. "So um." She jiggles her wrists under his hold. "You gonna let me go here, officer?"
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Andy grumbles at him a bit, fidgeting around in his lap, but--uh. He's pretty sure she's trying for friction more than anything else, so. He keeps her wrists in his busted hand (not hard-- his grip is pretty miserable right now, to tell the truth; earlier he brushed off the idea of an x-ray and somewhere in a back corner of his brain he's wondering if maybe he wasn't the slightest bit hasty), uses his good one to work open the button on her jeans.
(She could get her arms back to problem, if she wanted them.
She doesn't try.)
Sam gets his fingers down into her underwear (neon cotton with little dogs all over them, tenth-grade lingerie), opens her up just a bit-- and she is, uh.
She is wet.
He rubs a little, over her clit and then lower, just circling. Andy squirms in his lap, whines a bit. "Sam..."
"Hm?" Sam mutters. He slides his middle finger over her opening one more time: she bucks, and he pulls back, grins into her hair. "Gotta tell me what you want."
A+ ON THE UNDERWEAR DESCRIPTION
"McNally." He flattens his palm against her clit, still smiling (and it hurts, just a little, the cuts up the side of his face stretching and pulling--but he, uh. Can't seem to stop, so). "What do you want?" She hisses and shoves her hips at him, but he knows it isn't enough for her, sloppy friction with no real focus. His entire palm is wet.
She groans into his neck, not the sexy kind. "God, you're so mean." And Sam's about to say no he isn't, about to laugh and flip his hand, give her something to rub against, except: "Fuck, fine, just--would you please finger me already?" He thinks she means to sound exasperated, but it comes out schoolmarm-proper, that prissy twist of her mouth. Would he please. Jesus Christ.
"Sure, McNally." He kisses one flushed cheek. "Since you asked so nicely."
Only then he gets two fingers in, slow up to the second knuckle, and she whines at him, sharper and louder and generally just--um. It is a new sound, is all Sam's saying.
So.
SHE ALSO GOT A PAIR WITH RAINBOW STRIPES, IT WAS A 5 FOR $20 PROMOTION.
Bingo.
"Good?" Sam asks (he's still smiling, he can't help it, he'd do this to her their whole suspension if she'd let him). Andy nods into his neck. He nudges her back a little, gets his thumb at a nipple, ducks his head enough to get her into his mouth--he licks for a minute, tries biting, and the gasp she lets out against his skin--well.
Sam bites harder.
She's still working herself on his fingers, more purpose now, not kidding around. Sam grinds the heel of his hand into her clit, gives her pressure, and after another minute--there she goes.
"Good girl," he tells her, fingers still moving, Andy whimpering against his skin. "Good girl."
YEAH, IT'S OFFICIAL, I'VE GOT A THING FOR HIM SAYING "GOOD GIRL".
She always goes a bit nonverbal, after. Sam extracts his fingers and presses down, wrings the last of the aftershocks out of her. "Take your time." Her back is warm under his hand, the faint grooves where her bra bit in. (And this part right here, when she's quiet and dreamy, breathing gone slow and satisfied-- Sam really likes this part.
Sam can imaging liking this part for a long time.)
"Okay," she says after another minute. "Right." She lifts her head and laughs. "God, we always make such a mess."
Sam looks around. There's a takeout menu beside his hip, a magnet by his left foot. Not bad, considering, but--
(The first time, the headboard against the wall, chipped paint--
The second, the oof when they hit the floor and the breath going out of him, Andy whining about her knees and the way she just kept going--)
She has a point.
FRANKLY THERE'S A LOT OF SHIT I WASN'T INTO UNTIL SAM SWAREK STARTED DOING IT IN MY BRAIN.
"McNally," he says, smiling a little. "You wanna move someplace that isn't the cold floor?"
"Whatever." Andy shrugs, plants one foot against his chest. "I'm happy here."
Well, then. Sam's happy here too, to tell you the truth; still, for appearance's sake: "Weirdo."
"You are." Andy reaches out and picks the picture of Sarah up off the floor--glances at it for a second, then back at Sam. "She looks like girl you," she says.
Sam snorts. "She'd love to hear that, I'm sure."
"No, she's pretty," Andy says decisively, and if she thinks half-naked on the kitchen tile is a weird venue for a talk about his sister she doesn't show it. "She's, you know. Like. Striking."
Sam's lips twitch. "Striking, huh?" He tugs at the ankle of her jeans until Andy gets the message, lifts her hips to help him out. "That what I am?"
"Shut up. What's your family like?" she asks, as he gets them all the way off her (and, uh. McNally in her underwear on his kitchen floor, legs spread--that's. Something). "Your mom and dad."
DITTO. (MEN, FOR INSTANCE.)
"Quiet." Thoughtful, like she's mulling it over. Then: "What were you like as a kid?" She wiggles a foot out of his hold, gets it back up on his chest; pushes a bit on the you.
Sam grins. "Shorter."
"Hilarious." She cocks her head. "Mmm. I bet you were real serious."
She's not wrong. Still--"I bet you were annoying." He rests her other foot on his collarbone, pulls her toward him a little--and then hey, why not, might as well go for broke. The backs of her knees are cold against his shoulders. "I bet your report cards always said 'Andy is learner to be a better listener'."
"Shut up." She's got her bottom lip caught between her teeth again and yeah, Sam can see it, the tomboy all grown up and sexy. Skinny, for sure. Perpetually falling out of trees.
He kisses the pale strip of skin above her underwear. "I bet you were very pretty." He looks up and finds her looking back hard--which, right, of course, it's the first time he's ever said anything about her looks one way or the other. So.
IT'S BEEN A VERY CONFUSING COUPLE OF MONTHS.
I'M ALSO 96% SURE THESE GET DIRTIER EACH TIME.
I'M ALSO 96% SURE I'VE GOT YOUR MISSING 4%.
EXCELLENT. I'M GLAD WE AGREE.
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HONESTLY AT THIS MOMENT I AM SORT OF REGRETTING NOT PROMPTING YOU WITH "SAM/ANDY, OVER HIS KNEE".
NEVER FEAR, I'LL PROBABLY MANAGE TO MAKE THAT LUKE/JOE PROMPT INAPPROPRIATELY DIRTY.
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HALF IN LOVE WITH HER, GOD, THIS IS MAYBE MY FAVOURITE ONE WE'VE WRITTEN
I LOOK FORWARD TO A LONG WINTER OF TRYING TO OUTDO OURSELVES IN THE GENRE OF FILTHY DOMESTICITY.
AS ALWAYS, AN HONOUR AND A PRIVILEGE.
YOU ARE A TRULY A KING AMONG MEN.
WELL, THE WORLD ALWAYS NEEDS MORE DIRTY DOMESTICITY...
I MEANT TO REPLY TO THIS TWO DAYS AGO BUT THEN I GOT DISTRACTED BY THE OTHER THINGS.
THE OTHER THINGS ARE VERY DISTRACTING.
TAKE YOUR TIME, BROTHER.