threeguesses: ([rookie blue] andy + smile)
threeguesses ([personal profile] 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. 

[identity profile] lowriseflare.livejournal.com 2011-09-13 05:28 pm (UTC)(link)
"You gonna make me?" she fires back immediately--and yeah, pancakes or not, that's a dare.

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.

[identity profile] threeguesses.livejournal.com 2011-09-13 08:19 pm (UTC)(link)
"Hurry up." She nudges at him with a foot. "I want another one." All young and sassy and 360 different kinds of bold; Sam bets her high school boyfriends did exactly what she said. When he looks over, she widens her eyes at him: make me.

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.

[identity profile] lowriseflare.livejournal.com 2011-09-13 09:43 pm (UTC)(link)
"Something you need, McNally?" he asks, getting closer; she makes a face like she can't believe he's still giving her a hard time, is halfway through an eye-roll when he gets his mouth on hers. McNally squeaks, a little. Sam tastes syrup and sweat. Her fingers are sticky at his jawline, and Sam sucks at them until they're clean.

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?"

[identity profile] threeguesses.livejournal.com 2011-09-14 01:30 am (UTC)(link)
He shrugs. "It's not that bad." Because, hey, if nothing else is selling might as well downgrade into straight-up lies. Only that doesn't work on her either (of course, no way it would, she's so stubborn it's stupid).

"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."

[identity profile] lowriseflare.livejournal.com 2011-09-14 03:37 am (UTC)(link)
"You like it," she says, all confidence (and he does, he really does, so-- can't argue with her there). "So, um." McNally smoothes her palms over his shoulders, thumbs lightly at a reddish welt on his chest. "Do you want to just, like--" (her gaze slips down again, somewhere in the neighborhood of his sternum)--"watch a movie?"

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.

[identity profile] threeguesses.livejournal.com 2011-09-14 06:14 pm (UTC)(link)
He skims her shirt off, tosses it next to them on the counter. (And she's back to eager in about three seconds, pulling him in, toes curling around the seam of his jeans--Want to watch a movie? Sure, McNally. Sure.) Sam steps up and yeah, this height's going to work. Andy rolls her shoulders back, way too pretty for her own good in a sport bra and jeans; he rubs at the curve of one breast, tight under the fabric. (And that's going to work for Sam too, McNally-in-a-fully-lit-kitchen. He's only seen her daylight the one time.)

"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.

[identity profile] lowriseflare.livejournal.com 2011-09-14 08:44 pm (UTC)(link)
McNally grins and snuggles closer, her stomach pressing up against his (and god, she is like--she is warm, all heat and muscle, that lion heart pumping away). She puts her lips against a scrape on his shoulder, buries her face in the crook of his neck--and just, the way she's got her arms around him, tight like she's not letting go--well.

(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

[identity profile] threeguesses.livejournal.com 2011-09-15 01:03 am (UTC)(link)
She arches a bit under his hands, chest-to-chest, the smooth slide of synthetic fabric; backs up a few feet and hooks her thumbs around the elastic. It gets caught in her hair on the way off, static electricity making the strands stand up and cling. She runs a hand through it, makes it messier.

(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.)

[identity profile] lowriseflare.livejournal.com 2011-09-15 02:52 am (UTC)(link)
Sam glances up at her face, gauging: she's breathing hard, hips coming up and head back against the cupboard, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

("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."

[identity profile] threeguesses.livejournal.com 2011-09-15 05:43 am (UTC)(link)
She bites away a sheepish smile, free hand coming up to trace the jut of his hip. "'K, yeah. Wow. Sorry." And Sam gets a kick out of that, how she's cringing in sympathy but also completely not stopping--like she can't help it or wants to distract him, he isn't sure which. Her fingers tap out a nervous rhythm against his abdomen. "I'll be gentle."

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.

[identity profile] lowriseflare.livejournal.com 2011-09-15 12:16 pm (UTC)(link)
Sam gets that messy hair up off the nape of her neck, makes a loose fist at the back of her skull. For a second he tips his head against the fridge. He's only gonna guide her a little (there's something inexperienced about her mouth, like maybe she hasn't had a whole lot of practice, and oh god in his heaven she is young. Sam tries not to think about it.

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.

[identity profile] threeguesses.livejournal.com 2011-09-15 03:47 pm (UTC)(link)
Which--fuck. His skull thuds back against the fridge, magnets rattling, and shit, he doesn't want to hurt her or anything, god forbid he make her choke--but then there's the way she's relaxing her mouth, just a bit, lips loose and easy so he can--fuck. He rubs at the curve of her ear, gentle, as if that makes the rest of it any better.

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--"

[identity profile] lowriseflare.livejournal.com 2011-09-15 04:55 pm (UTC)(link)
Andy ignores him completely, like she didn't even hear (except he knows she did, the way her grip tightened just then, wet tongue working like she just wants to see if she can get him to--well). Sam's pretty sure she's not going to stop unless he stops her. "Andy."

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.

[identity profile] threeguesses.livejournal.com 2011-09-15 08:14 pm (UTC)(link)
Sam laughs, flips a fallen takeout menu over with his toes. Looks down at the inelegant sprawl of her body, nipples high and dark. "Yeah, see, I don't think shy's really my problem here."

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?"

[identity profile] lowriseflare.livejournal.com 2011-09-15 09:58 pm (UTC)(link)
Sam looks her over (shoulders back and chest pushed way out, a little bit helpless and still that smart-aleck twist of her mouth) and smirks. "Haven't decided."

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

[identity profile] threeguesses.livejournal.com 2011-09-16 04:16 am (UTC)(link)
She butts her head up against his jaw, frustrated. "I want--" She's trying to grind herself on him, but Sam slides his whole hand into her underwear and cups, blunt pressure. "Dammit, Sam--"

"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.

[identity profile] lowriseflare.livejournal.com 2011-09-16 12:13 pm (UTC)(link)
Andy fucks herself down onto his fingers hips working. Sam lets go of her wrists. He's expecting some smartass comment but her hands come up around his neck right away, clutching a little, her fingertips in the hair at his nape. She's still making noise, quieter now, but he wants to hear that whine again so he adds a third finger, slow and steady, then crooks them forward come here.

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".

[identity profile] threeguesses.livejournal.com 2011-09-16 06:22 pm (UTC)(link)
She keeps her head down for a moment, still twitching; huffs a laugh into his shoulder. "Yeah, um. Wow. Okay." She pats blindly for his chest, eyes still closed. "Hang on a sec."

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.

[identity profile] lowriseflare.livejournal.com 2011-09-16 08:15 pm (UTC)(link)
Sam shifts around underneath her a bit, trying to get comfortable (she's not heavy, exactly, but she's sharp, all knees and tailbone, those skinny hips). He's trying to do it without her noticing, but: "Whoops. Sorry," she says again. She eases out of his lap and lays back, one arm up to pillow her head on (which--off him wasn't exactly where he wanted her to go, but this view is--not bad). She flinches a little when her bare skin hits the tile.

"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.)

[identity profile] threeguesses.livejournal.com 2011-09-17 03:09 am (UTC)(link)
Sam collects her ankles in his lap, long toes and gold polish chipping most of the way off. She's got pretty banged-up feet, McNally, like she maybe played high-impact sports all through high school. He thumbs the line of her arch, imagines her in court shoes. "I don't--normal, I guess." Only they weren't, not really, not after Sarah-- "Quiet." A whole minefield of silence, Sam's childhood.

"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.

[identity profile] lowriseflare.livejournal.com 2011-09-17 11:59 am (UTC)(link)
McNally smiles a bit, pleased and maybe a little surprised, like there's an outside chance it honestly never occurred to her that he thinks she's--

seriously, this girl.

(thisgirlthisgirlthisgirl.)

Sam runs his palms up and down the hard length of her thighs, just friendly, rubbing at the muscles under her skin. He wants to give her more time, if she needs it (it's possible he wants to give her, uh. Whatever she needs), but when he presses his mouth against the damp spot on her stupid underwear her hips roll up at him right away, reflexive, so--

break's over, he guesses.

"McNally," he says, mouthing at her a little through the fabric, the smell of cotton and underneath that the smell of her. She glances up at him with a shred of trepidation, like she thinks maybe he's going to make her say what she wants again (and he would, he likes to hear her; at some point he's going to make her tell him everything) but just, the way she's pushing at his mouth, a little insistent--Sam pretty much already knows.

I'M ALSO 96% SURE THESE GET DIRTIER EACH TIME.

[identity profile] threeguesses.livejournal.com 2011-09-17 03:07 pm (UTC)(link)
He kisses her through the fabric one more time (and like, his lips are brushing against one of those little cartoon dogs, he can't even--), then swings her ankles together, starts to tug. She goes up into an arch to help him, hips and lower back completely off the floor (which is, uh. An interesting position to remember for later). But then he's got her, McNally-naked-next-to-several-artificial-light-sources, and he more or less forgets about anything else.

(She's got a floss of brown curls between her legs; the first time they did this she made a face and apologised, something about "dry spells" and "not expecting", which Sam didn't really follow until he got her naked the second time and she was neater. And that--yeah.

It's not the aesthetic so much as the idea that she--

for him--

So.)

He leans back down, licks a stripe up her inner thigh. McNally whimpers, real quiet. Lets her legs fall open.

I'M ALSO 96% SURE I'VE GOT YOUR MISSING 4%.

[identity profile] lowriseflare.livejournal.com 2011-09-17 08:52 pm (UTC)(link)
Sam spreads her open and lets himself look, finally: she's dark, a little swollen, slick all the way down to her thighs. He nips at those three pinprick freckles, not hard but hard enough to let her know he's there (Sam doesn't know what it is about her that makes him want to leave marks, stupid territory stuff he's never cared about before; so far he's resisted the impulse, although actually she scratched up his back pretty good the other night).  

"Sa-am." McNally's squirming, impatient or shy, he's not totally sure. Sam licks once, broad, bottom to top. She's tetchy so he's gentle, flat of his tongue and just a little bit of pressure. Andy whines.  

(She can't usually go over more than one time, she warned him that first night, like maybe she was trying to spare his feelings--which, yeah, turns out not to be so much true. 

Like, at all

Sam tries not to feel smug about that.

Mostly, he fails).
  
He nudges her legs a little further apart, thumb stroking at the soft skin behind her knee and one steadying hand on her belly. Andy reaches down, laces her fingers through his.
  

EXCELLENT. I'M GLAD WE AGREE.

[identity profile] threeguesses.livejournal.com 2011-09-18 03:19 am (UTC)(link)
Her palm is damp. He rubs at the bottom of her ring finger a bit; notices what he's doing and stops. (After Callahan, she had a tan line there for weeks. It finally faded with the cold weather--one day Sam looked over during parade and it was gone, nothing but smooth skin. He remembers being stupidly glad. I've always liked the autumn. Yeah.)

McNally whimpers, one heel sliding along the tile, restless. The back of her knee's gone slick with sweat. She's so wet there's almost no friction when he licks, tongue just gliding up and over. Sam works two fingers inside, strokes her where she's so tight and swollen and ridiculously warm it stops the breath down the back of his throat.

"Sam, god--" And jesus, she sounds. "Please."

Well. Sam doesn't need to be told twice (begged, actually. Doesn't need to be begged twice, and god in his heaven, he can't-- He's hard, he's so fucking hard against the freezing tile, and it's just--) He twists his fingers, flattens his tongue over her clit. Shakes his head from side to side. And that--

"Sam, fuck."

--That's got her.

It's a good one, he can tell, her nails in his hair. But then she's pulling him up before it's even over, one hand under his slippery chin, thumb digging into a bruise. Impatient.

[identity profile] lowriseflare.livejournal.com 2011-09-18 03:59 pm (UTC)(link)
Andy gets her lips against his hairline, at the uniform row of stitches at the side of his face. "Um," she says into his mouth (and she's shaking, a little, arms wrapped monkey tight around his neck). "It's, um. Possible. That I'm going to need you to do that a lot in the future."

Sam grins once, hard and bright (he just--he doesn't know exactly which part of that sentence is--yeah). He gets his hand between the tile and the back of her skull, kisses her slow and sloppy. "I think we can probably make that happen."

"Good." She's got her hips open wide, now, one knee up the side of his body and pushing at the back of his jeans with her foot. "Sam," she says, low and urgent, fist opening and closing in the hair at the back of his head. "Take these--" 

He helps her get his pants off, Andy muscled tight around him, shoving at his boxers with her toes. She arches a little, slides herself along the full length of his cock, then lets go of his shoulders long enough to reach down in between them and line him up, no hesitation.

(No condom, either. 

So, uh. That's new.)