FIC: blood that moves the body [rookie blue, sam/andy, comment!fic]

[threeguesses]

Title: blood that moves the body
Authors: lowriseflare and threeguesses
Rating: Hard R.
Word Count: 2830
Summary: Well, the original prompt was "Sam/Andy, crappy cover apartment, over his knee", so. You know. DRAW YOUR OWN CONCLUSIONS.

AN: We decided our reputations weren't quite tarnished enough.

blood that moves the body

"I'm hungry," she announces, once they make it back up into the bed (and it takes a while to get there—"Stay," he told her quietly and just like that she was ready to go again, all the way down his body right there on the hardwood floor). Andy peers up at him, expectant, pointy chin digging into his chest.

"Oh yeah?" Sam smiles down at her, pushes her bangs out of her face (when she got here her ears were so pink and cold that he kept his palms flattened over them while he kissed her hello, like holding two ice cubes in his hands). "There's peanut butter in the fridge."

"Seriously?" Andy frowns. "You keep your peanut butter in the fridge?" Then, before he can answer (and yes, he does, for the record, he likes it better that way): "I was thinking, like. Chinese."

"You want to order Chinese food?" Sam laughs a little, he can't help it—the way she eats, he legitimately can't figure out how she doesn't look like Ollie. "It's twelve-thirty at night."

"Obviously that is the best time for Chinese food." Andy grins and throws back the covers, crawls toward the edge of the bed (and that—well. That is a view). She glances over her shoulder, makes a face. "Besides, the least you can do is order me a couple of egg rolls. Not like J.D. bought me dinner or anything."

Sam snorts. "Fresh," he tells her, half into the pillow, reaching a hand out and swatting her on the ass.

Which.

That gets her attention.

Sam actually thinks he's in trouble at first, how fast she moves—jumping him before he can blink, this blur of warm bare skin and sharp elbows. Then he gets her hair out of her face, sees that she's smiling. "Seriously?" she laughs, hands at his wrists. "What are you, an anchorman from the fifties?" She's got this expression on, the same face she makes every time he picks her up; open-mouthed amusement.

(Surprise too. Sam, well—he'd bet some good money no guy's ever done that to her before. Which—

Huh.

He supposes Callahan doesn't really seem like the type.)

"Yeah, definitely." He wrestles her back a little, breaks her hold on his wrists. She grabs them again almost immediately, those academy-trained reflexes. "I can read off a teleprompter like nobody's business."

"God," she huffs, flicking her hair over her shoulder, what would be a teenaged flounce if she wasn't still sitting on him. "You're unbelievable."

(Pleased, he realizes. That's the other part of the expression. The whole reason he keeps picking her up, really, how delighted she looks when he does it, like she maybe likes being moved around a bit—

Oh.

Okay.)

Sam pushes back a little harder this time, one leg coming up around hers as he flips them. Andy squeals.

"Shh." Sam laughs, gets both her wrists in one hand and claps the other one over her mouth—he's trying to keep a low profile here, last thing he needs is to be that guy upstairs with the noisy girlfriend (not that she's his—that they're—whatever). "I have neighbors," he tells her, by way of explanation. Andy licks his palm.

"Charming," Sam mutters, not that he really minds one way or the other. She wiggles like a rabid ferret against his grip. He wrestles her a little while longer, Andy all squirms and giggles until she's back on top— sort of diagonal across his lap, his hands still wrapped around her wrists and both of them breathing hard, a little sweaty. Sam feels her teeth at his hip.

"Did you just bite me?" he asks—and he's cracking up a bit, he can't help it. It's just—he hasn't been doing a whole lot of horsing around lately, is probably what it is.

She does it again, sharper this time. Sam feels it all up his back. "Maybe."

"You were that kid on the playground, weren't you. The kid who bit strangers."

"Maybe." Andy looks up at him, bares her teeth. "I never had to share the swings."

"Mm." She fidgets again and Sam loosens his hold, just a smidge (this is new, is the thing, and even if she's into it he doesn't want to—). "You gonna play nice if I let you go?"

Andy shoots him a glance from under all that hair (and he should have known, really, that she'd be silly—that first night, when they were so desperate and serious, shaky hands and nerves, she literally didn't smile at him again until the afterglow.

But since then, she, uh. Hasn't stopped.)

For instance: she's biting her way through a grin right now. "I don't know. Maybe you should try and see."

Right. Like that hasn't got disaster written all over it. "Huh." Sam jiggles her wrists a bit. "I think I need some collateral here."

"Show you collateral," she mutters, biting his hip again, and jesus, okay, Sam is not a teenager anymore but— Andy must feel the twitch, because she snickers into the side of his abdomen, low and dirty.

"Oh, you think that's funny?" Sam asks, and like, her ass is right there. It's more a playful swat than anything.

Andy goes electric still anyways.

And just—

"McNally," Sam says, gentle as he can. He runs his hand from her lower back all the way down to her thigh, soothing, and when she tugs again at his grip on her wrists (warm front pressing down in his lap, breasts and belly, all that soft soft skin) this time he lets go right away.

"Swarek." Andy props herself up on her forearms. She looks over her shoulder at him, cheeks flushed—and smirks. "That all you got?"

Which.

Um.

It takes Sam a second to recover, that slight quiet hitch in his breath. "Are you—seriously?"

Andy laughs again (she's blushing, he realizes, like maybe she's never—like maybe she didn't even know this was a thing she—and god, she'syoungshe'syoungshe'syoung). "You heard me," she says, like a challenge, then puts her head down and bites one more time.

Ok-ay then. Sam is—well. Simultaneously completed shocked and completely unsurprised, actually, and jesus christ it's doing weird things to his heart, the idea that he's the first one to—whatever. Whatever. McNally's not some uncharted land he gets to plant his flag on, Sam didn't even like the idea of virgins when he was one, so there's absolutely no reason for him to be—

(He, uh. Is anyways.)

"I did hear you," he agrees, running a hand up her leg. It's still completely unfamiliar, the topography of her body. God, really, everything about this just is stupidly new (including the girl, jesus, Sam can't—) and normally he wouldn't, but. She's asking.

Two quick swats, one on each side, for symmetry. (Quick before he chickens out, because seriously, he cannot believe—) It doesn't even sting his palm. And Sam's not sure if this is something he could be into, honestly—mostly just because of the sheer unreality of the situation—but then Andy makes a noise, quiet against his hip, something that sounds like a gasp, and well.

It's not—it is a specific kind of noise.

And jesus, that part of it works for him just fine, that shaky exhale and the way her hips are bearing down a bit at the mattress, fits and starts, that long body moving under his hand. Sam is—yeah. (Yeah.) It occurs to him for one clear moment that there probably isn't a lot he wouldn't do to her right now if she asked him, which—that is maybe just something to table at this particular juncture, is all.

(For fuck's sake, he's her T.O., he can't be—

only he can, apparently, so—god. God, this is only the second time they've even—

well. Second night, anyway.)

Andy whines a little, nudges at his side like she thinks maybe he's forgotten about her.

(He hasn't.)

He does it again.

Andy tilts her hips up this time, like, leaning into it and fuck, okay, it's possible Sam is fully on board with this now. Just. She's blushing all over, is the thing—

(Not that, uh. He isn't.)

—but she's also like, going pink, just a bit, and even though he isn't, he wouldn't, he's not hitting her that hard, it um. It's possibly not a bad look.

Christ. Sam wants to get out of bed, go get a coffee—twenty coffees—dunk his head under cold water maybe, do a lap around the park, then come back and have completely benign, vanilla sex with her until he forgets he ever felt this way.

(But. He also never wants to stop, so.)

This time the swat hits lower, right where her thighs round out. Andy makes a whole lot of noise then, but muffled, pressing her face into his side.

Jesus, Sam just—he wants to be crystal clear. "Is this—do you—" And god, he can't even get out words here, she's done his head in, her pretty tanned body and her asking. "Sweetheart. Do you want—?"

Andy nods her head twice into the mattress, long fingers coming up to fist tight in her dark, messy hair. And yeah, that's a yes, that's definitely a yes, but still: "Andy, sweetheart," he says again, skull thudding lightly at the headboard. "You gotta tell me with words."

She groans a little, embarrassed or turned on, Sam's not entirely sure (both, maybe. He is...definitely somewhere in the neighborhood of both, himself). "Yeah," she says, turning her face just slightly so he can hear her, yanking a bit at that handful of hair like she can't believe she's saying it out loud. "Is that—um." She swallows audibly, throat working. "Is that okay?"

And yes, jesus, yes, but—

"Yeah." And Sam sounds—he sounds a little out of breath, is the truth, like he just chased a perp up six floors' worth of fire escape (got tackled in an alley by a rookie way too eager for her own good). He clears his throat a little. "Yeah, it's okay."

She's not dumb, McNally, she's draped right-the-fuck across his lap. (And she's got to feel, really, because Sam isn't—his body is not being subtle about this.) But she's still not looking at him, is the thing, that fist clenching in her hair, white-knuckled (and normally he'd make her, he's pretty much insisted on eye contact for every sexual encounter they've had—god even knows why, that's a whole separate—but he isn't sure he could manage it right now, actually. So). Still: he doesn't want her to feel like—

"Okay, sweetheart. I've—" And christ, it's hard to articulate anything, this is the most out of control Sam's felt with a woman in years. "I've got you." It feels a bit perverse, actually, telling her that, but. You work with what you have.

Andy makes another sound when his hand comes down again (lower is better apparently, those are some mechanics Sam never thought he'd learn), but she's not—she's not quite leaning into it the same way. Like she's tense, or nervous, or over-thinking it, and probably the thing Sam should do here is stop.

He—He does not do that.

She isn't expecting it this time; her head's up off the mattress, and Sam can hear her, and: "That's it, sweetheart, good girl—"

Which, okay, apparently that's—because all of a sudden she's whining, hips pushing back into Sam's hand.

So.

And he just—he figured out pretty quick that she likes to be talked to (the first time and her rabbit heart thumping away underneath him, Sam muttering a bunch of quiet nothing into her ear) but this is—this is not that kind of talking, is the thing. Sam has no idea what in the fuck any of this is, actually, only the next time she comes up off the mattress to meet him she slides her free hand down between her legs, which—

(jesus, jesus christ, he can't—

he's going to completely unravel any second, seriously, he doesn't know—)

"There you go," he tells her (and fuck, the way her thighs are drifting apart, all that warm pink skin). "That feel good?"

Andy buries her face in his side and whimpers an answer, whole body humming and taut. Her hips are working harder now, like this is—jesus fuck, this is actually going to happen for her. This is going to happen for her, like—

(Sam's palm connects one more time, hard enough to sting a little)

now.

God, the way she keens her way through it, her face plastered against him, mouth and breath and noise. (And fuck, fuck, there was maybe only half a minute of lead time there, she must have really—

She must have really.

There aren't a whole lot of words left in Sam's brain right now.)

"Easy," he murmurs, soothing a hand over the flushed skin, touching up her thighs. "Relax, you're okay, you're—" Only he doesn't mean it, not really, because he's sliding his fingers up between, and it's not easy or soothing. Andy hisses. (Christ, she's just so very, very—)

She wriggles suddenly, backing her hips up until her face is in his lap, the wet press of her mouth, and god, Sam is dying for—but he doesn't want—

(like: yes, okay, he can't believe they just, probably couldn't meet his own eyes in a mirror right now, but he wants to meet hers, is the thing. Wants to haul her up and tell her she's beautiful and wonderful and he didn't know he could ever—)

Andy, though. She doesn't seem particularly interested in eye-contact. (Or even, actually, lifting her head.)

So.

He thinks about it for a second, about grabbing her under the arms and pulling until she's fully on top of him, but he's just—he's, uh. Told her what to do a lot tonight already, is the thing (he's her boss, he's her boss, what in the actual fuck is going on with him), and he can't think quick enough to figure out which is worse, that or just letting her—

(she nudges his thighs apart with one broad shoulder, gets her fist around him and sucks.)

Sam stays put.

"Jesus, Andy," he mutters (and he's watching her now, can't stop watching; he reaches down and gathers her hair out of her face, thinks look up, sweetheart and doesn't say it). Her tongue works sloppy circles over the head of his cock. Sam's leg comes up a little, hugging the warm length of her body; she slides her free hand under his knee, nails raking lightly over the muscle in his thigh. There's no real reason for that to be what has him jumping out of his skin, but there you have it: Sam's hips jerk.

(He's good and close, is the problem here, and he's notnotnot going to—)

"Andy."

Andy hums against his skin, unconcerned.

And just—he's tugging at her hair, but he doesn't want to like, make her or anything, and she is— she is not stopping. She is really really really not stopping. Sam's thumb drifts onto the hinge of her jaw, feels it work.

"Sweetheart, gonna—"

Andy looks up at him then (finally finally, Sam didn't even know he was waiting for it until she—), bambi eyes gone wide and serious, and—

Well. Sam is going to, apparently.

Andy catches most of it, hand and tongue circling; backs off and rubs her wet mouth against his thigh. There's a long silence, both of them just breathing into it, this hitch on the inhale Sam really wishes would go away.

Andy huffs a breath into his skin. "I'm still hungry." It comes out all nasal, her nose pressed flat against his hipbone.

Sam grins at the ceiling. "Yeah?" He tugs again, gentle, McNally's hair cool and heavy over his knuckles. This time she comes, creakily up on one elbow, then the other.

"Probably, um." Her voice is shot. She clears her throat, tries again. "Probably you owe me dinner now." Her expression is vaguely sheepish; she climbs into his lap, hides her face in his throat.

"That—" Sam gets his arms around her, palms up and down the sharp ladder of her backbone. Her breath feels warm and labored against his neck. Andy scoots closer, skin on skin and no space between them at all, like maybe she's needing—whatever. Sam doesn't know. Whatever it is, he, uh. Really doesn't mind. "That sounds fair."

(And he keeps wanting to say it, is what he's bumping up against, beautiful wonderful didn't know he could ever—)

"Still want Chinese?" he asks instead.

Andy nods against his shoulder, sure and ready. Sam presses his face into her hair.