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threeguesses 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.
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MCNALLY'S FAVOURITE ACCESSORY
Date: 2011-09-15 01:03 am (UTC)(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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Date: 2011-09-15 02:52 am (UTC)("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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Date: 2011-09-15 05:43 am (UTC)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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Date: 2011-09-15 12:16 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2011-09-15 03:47 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2011-09-15 04:55 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2011-09-15 08:14 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2011-09-15 09:58 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2011-09-16 04:16 am (UTC)"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.
Date: 2011-09-16 12:13 pm (UTC)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".
Date: 2011-09-16 06:22 pm (UTC)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.
Date: 2011-09-16 08:15 pm (UTC)"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.)
Date: 2011-09-17 03:09 am (UTC)"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.
Date: 2011-09-17 11:59 am (UTC)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.
Date: 2011-09-17 03:07 pm (UTC)(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%.
Date: 2011-09-17 08:52 pm (UTC)"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.
Date: 2011-09-18 03:19 am (UTC)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.
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Date: 2011-09-18 03:59 pm (UTC)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.)
no subject
Date: 2011-09-18 08:52 pm (UTC)"What?" She blinks at him, foot tucked behind his knee and this face like the English language has absolutely no meaning (which--she is not alone there). "Oh! Yeah, no, pill, we're good, go." She's breathless, and normally Sam would tease her about that level of incoherence, but, well--
go
--Yeah. Sam goes.
She makes an absolutely obscene sound as he sinks in, like the noise she makes when drinking Tim Hortons' hot chocolate only a million times dirtier, and god, Sam is not one of those guys who complains about condoms, but anyone who tells you it isn't better without is a fucking liar. He grits his teeth, works a hand through her hair. Lifts her off the floor enough for a kiss.
(And jesus, they're going to make such a mess on the tile--)
no subject
Date: 2011-09-18 10:47 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2011-09-19 01:55 am (UTC)If you wouldn't mind is how that sentence ends, and jesus, Sam doesn't know where his head's at. He simultaneously wants to do all this pointless macho shit with her (biting, christ, marking up all that pretty smooth skin; that two-second image he had of putting her over his knee) but also cater to her, give her everything she asks for. He's never particularly wanted either before, with a woman, he's just--
(gone on her)
--Really worked up.
In the end she winds up in his lap, both of them sitting and Sam's shoulders against the fridge, the chill acting like a balm. McNally bites her lip, pulls him back inside her slippery body. They both make a completely embarrassing sound when he bottoms out; it's the longest they've lasted together, no question, all these fits and starts.
Andy's warm ass comes to rest against his thighs. "Good?" She's watching him through a curtain of her hair, careful.
"Yeah," Sam tells her. And it is; chest to chest, both of his hands free. He rubs at her hips as she starts moving.
HONESTLY AT THIS MOMENT I AM SORT OF REGRETTING NOT PROMPTING YOU WITH "SAM/ANDY, OVER HIS KNEE".
Date: 2011-09-19 03:27 am (UTC)"Look at me." He doesn't realize how much he wants it until it's already out there but fuck, he does want it, he wants it like he wants to breathe air. "Hey. Look at me."
"Sam--" She's got her face buried in his shoulder; somewhere in the back of his head he remembers that neither one of them died today, so in theory there's no reason for them to be hanging on as tight as they are. She's muffled, wet mouth at his collarbone and the hum of his name all down his neck. "Sam."
"Andy." His voice is completely unfamiliar. She's still moving steady in his lap. "Come on, sweetheart. I got you." Finally Sam makes a fist in that thick, pretty hair and pulls--just a little, not enough to hurt. "Look at me."
So.
Andy looks.
NEVER FEAR, I'LL PROBABLY MANAGE TO MAKE THAT LUKE/JOE PROMPT INAPPROPRIATELY DIRTY.
Date: 2011-09-19 07:02 am (UTC)(Although: Andy's got two fists in the hair at the back of his neck, clutching, and she's not really-- she's looking at him like it means something, all those nothing words, so. This desperation thing they've got going, at least it's, uh. A two way street.)
"Sam," she says again, whining. Her eyes keep falling closed against the feeling. He's got one hand on her face now, thumb stroking over an eyebrow, all that aching tension. "Sam, gonna--"
He knows she is; she keeps clamping on him, skittish. "Shh, Andy, I've got you." And normally he'd do something now--flick her clit or palm a breast, help her over the edge--but he wants to watch, is the thing, doesn't want any distractions. He's about thirty seconds from the end himself.
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Date: 2011-09-19 03:55 pm (UTC)Which--that last part is maybe not something he was intending to say out loud (that day outside the concert and how he physically couldn't keep his hands off her, that completely irrational need to feel her for himself) but it just--it works, is the thing: there she goes, deep and shuddering, a low animal groan.
(She likes the praise, is a thing that's starting to dawn on him, and that's--
well.
He'll tell her she's perfect every day of the week, is all he's saying.)
"Sam," she gets out, still twitching (he can feel her, tight and jerking, that irregular catch and release). "Don't stop, don't--"
Sam's, uh. Not stopping.
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Date: 2011-09-19 08:26 pm (UTC)She gasps into his mouth, not quite done twitching. "Sam, please--" Their faces are so close together he thinks he might go cross-eyed looking at her, baby-fine eyelashes and these copper flecks in her irises.
He keeps looking anyway.
Andy tips her head down, tugs at his bottom lip. "Come on," she whispers, "Come on, come on, want to see you, I--"
Christ. Jesus-fucking-Christ and all his saints. Sam is--well. Sam is good and done then; their foreheads butting together, the way she tilts her face until her cold nose is just touching the tip of his. He's pretty sure he says her name (almost says some words after it that would send her clean across Lake Ontario). Knows he makes a noise.
McNally kisses him before it's even over, hands scrabbling at his ears. Greedy.
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From:HALF IN LOVE WITH HER, GOD, THIS IS MAYBE MY FAVOURITE ONE WE'VE WRITTEN
From:I LOOK FORWARD TO A LONG WINTER OF TRYING TO OUTDO OURSELVES IN THE GENRE OF FILTHY DOMESTICITY.
From:AS ALWAYS, AN HONOUR AND A PRIVILEGE.
From:YOU ARE A TRULY A KING AMONG MEN.
From:WELL, THE WORLD ALWAYS NEEDS MORE DIRTY DOMESTICITY...
From:I MEANT TO REPLY TO THIS TWO DAYS AGO BUT THEN I GOT DISTRACTED BY THE OTHER THINGS.
From:THE OTHER THINGS ARE VERY DISTRACTING.
From:TAKE YOUR TIME, BROTHER.
From: