FIC: infinitely late at night [rookie blue, sam/andy]

[threeguesses]

Title: infinitely late at night
Authors: lowriseflare and threeguesses
Rating:  Hard R
Word Count: 6500+
Summary: The one with the handcuffs. (We're warming you up for the one with the group sex.)
AN: Ahaha, all the dirty ones end up housed at my journal.



So. Apparently "wait at the barn" means "wait at the barn".

(Even though Traci didn't wait.

Even though it totally wasn't Andy's idea.

Even though no one else seems to think they did anything wrong-- she got a "good initiative, McNally" from Frank, for god's sakes.)

But nope. Sam is really, really pissed. The words disobeyed a direct order and chain of command get tossed around a lot, and honestly? It's kind of annoying their first fight is going to be about the fact that Andy's still a rookie.

She finds him in the locker room once she's done changing her clothes--it's late, after two on a Wednesday, most everybody on the night shift already out on patrol. She said goodnight to Traci about ten minutes back (and: "Good luck," Traci told her, nodding in the general direction Sam stormed off in. Andy rolled her eyes).

"You ready?" he mutters now, shoving his uniform into his duffel and not even looking up at her, like he's doing her some giant favor by driving her home (which, whatever, as if he doesn't like being the one who takes her; there's a reason they've been together eight weeks now and she still doesn't have a car). Andy huffs a breath into the cold, musty air.

"Can you lighten up?" she asks, nudging at his ankle with the toe of her boot. "Nobody died."

Which-- that is the wrong thing to say to him right now, apparently: "You could've," he spits, wheeling around to face her. Just like that they're zero to sixty in the eye-contact department, all this intense staring suddenly happening, right up in Andy's personal space. "You could've, and if you keep not listening to orders..." He trails off ominously, hands on his hips and everything. Andy half-expects him to start kicking in the locker doors.

(She couldn't've, actually; she brought a gun to a knife fight. And yeah, okay, there was maybe a second there where it got scary, but not, like, psycho-in-a-storage-locker scary, so--

Well. All in all, she's feeling this is a bit unwarranted.)

"Can you relax?" she asks him--and okay, it's possible it comes out sort of airily, a little more "bratty teenager busted for breaking curfew" than "girlfriend who appreciates your care and concern". She's annoyed, though, she really is. He's being a jerk and she doesn't get why. "I went to cop school just like you."

"Oh, you went to--" Sam gives her this look like it's honestly taking every ounce of human restraint on his part to keep from losing it on her completely, backs her up a step or two and braces his hands flat against the lockers on either side of her head. He smells like the soap he keeps with his gym stuff, like maybe he tried to shower her off. "I can't relax, McNally. I can't relax, because you just--you don't listen. I honestly don't know how to make you--"

Oh, for the love of-- "You don't know how to make me? For real?" She shoves at his chest, trying to get him to back up a bit, maybe stop breathing in her air, but nope-- he is just not moving. Okay then. "You're being an asshole," she tries, throwing in an eye-roll for good measure. "All this macho looming. You don't scare me."

Sam's shaking his head at her though, that mean grin he gets when he can't believe her life choices (fishing cabin and too young to get married being the particularly standout examples). "You aren't scared of anything, apparently," he tells her. "Are you, McNally." It isn't a question. And that's--

(That's completely not fair, all right? He's seen her scared. Like. He's seen her scared.)

"Well, I'm not scared of doing my job," is the best she can do on short notice, comes out with it as snottily as she can. His arms are still up like a cage. She could duck underneath if she really wanted to, she guesses, but Andy holds her ground--probably this has been coming for a while.

(And okay, here's the thing--it's possible the macho looming actually sort of works for her, in certain contexts. Like. A lot. It's just--ugh, Andy doesn't even know, it's weird and new and it gets all mixed up in her brain, she can't--

Focus, McNally.)

"What do you want me to do?" she demands, matching him lean for lean. This close his eyes have a little green in them, dark and moody. "Hang out here and file my nails so that you can protect me from bad guys? Just because--" Andy lowers her voice, extra precautionary--there's nobody around to hear, but still. "Just because we're sleeping together doesn't mean you get to boss me any more than--"

Sam's face darkens. "Because we're sleeping together?" he hisses, which--ooh, that blow landed, she can tell. "First of all, sweetheart: I get to boss you because I'm your boss."

And yeah, okay, that is--that is a point. Still, as if Andy isn't already super aware of that at all times, thanks. As if she is ever anything but completely professional--

(Well, no. Less than a week ago, some quiet residential street and his hand slipping down the front of her pants in the squad car--parking for god's sake, and with her superior officer. It's possible she kind of wanted to throw in a "sir" that time, just to see what he'd do.

She's... she is pretty sure he wouldn't hate it.)

But: she is focusing here. "Funny, I don't remember you bossing me quite like this before we were--" She rolls her eyes, goes for broke. "Fucking." Really, really broke (it's just--it's on her mind). "Sir."

Well, that gets his attention; his eyes widen in this shocked, interested way for just the tiniest fraction of a second, then narrow again (and oh, she's in trouble now). "McNally," he says, voice low and a little dangerous. "Watch it."

Watch it? Seriously? God, this is a stupid fight whether he thinks so or not, and Andy's not above winning it using her, you know. Feminine wiles. She leans her head back against the lockers, tilts her chin up just a bit (her shirt's this deep V, which she wasn't planning but thinks she can probably use to her advantage, if she plays it right). "Or else?" she asks.

Sam huffs a breath from way in the back of his throat, somewhere between a snort and growl. He's pissed at her (he's pissed, all right, but there's something else there now, too, Macho Looming in Certain Contexts. Andy's stomach twists in a not-altogether unpleasant way). "McNally," he says again, warning. "Don't."

Andy chews her bottom lip for a minute, contemplating. It's possible this whole strategy is totally going to backfire, of course, except she pretty much really doesn't think so, on top of which she, um. Kind of wants to see what he'll do. "Or else what, exactly?"

She's definitely hitting on something here: there's an electric sort of jolt, like that 'or else' is maybe taking shape for him. Only then he drops the eye-contact immediately, a sharp exhale through his nose and one of those empty grins, like he's trying to-- She doesn't even know. "You're being a brat, Andy," is all he says, these carefully modulated tones.

(He doesn't back up, though. He doesn't move an inch.)

Well. That's not strictly true. He's shifting around a little, actually, like-- "Oh," Andy breathes, staring at the front of his jeans. Sam sees her looking and rolls his eyes, but yeah, too late: Certain Contexts and then some. The twist in Andy's stomach settles lower, turns into an ache.

"Or else what?" she asks again, mouth dry. "I stop, or else--" She arches her back a bit against the cold lockers (one part conscious intent, absolutely, but the way he's looking at her... it is possible that look alone might make a person want to arch their back). "What, Sam? You make me?" That last thing comes out as a whisper. She's kidding, but only sort of. She arches a little bit more.

"Damnit, McNally--" he starts, only as soon as she makes contact (hardly even grinding, really, no pressure almost at all) his hips come slamming forward, pinning her against the lockers with enough force that she feels it all up and down her spine.

Andy gasps.

(And whatever: Andy's modern, okay? She's been reading Cosmo since she was eleven, she's been with a bunch of guys--okay, not a bunch of guys, jesus, that's overstating, she's not like advertising it on the street or something; she's been with a reasonable number of guys. An appropriate number. A sampling. She's a cop, and a damn tough one if she does say so herself, and she just--before she started fooling around with Sam she would not have thought being shoved up against a locker by her TO was a thing she'd like, is all.)

(Um.)

(It's a thing she likes.)

Sam gives her this look, sharp and intent, like he's picking up on exactly how well this is working for her. Not that she's being subtle (him in this mood and her tailbone still rattling: it doesn't really strike her as the time to be shy). She shoves her hips back at him, opening her legs a little. He's got her good and pinned though; in the end, she shifts maybe a couple of centimetres at best.

(And yep, that through-the-jeans eyeballing was right on point: he is hard.)

"So." She tries on a grin. "That's a yes then?"

In response Sam grabs a hold of her wrists, yanks them over her head until her arms are fully extended, this full-body stretch that has her practically on her tiptoes.

Andy breathes in hard, and holds it. Her chest pushes out against his. "So, yeah," she says after a minute, swallowing audibly (and god, the way he's looking at her, it's--she's wet between her legs already, can feel it happening, pushes herself at him with a bit more purpose). "I guess that's a yes."

Sam's not smiling. "Is that what it takes with you?" he mutters, real quiet. He tilts his head like he's gonna kiss her, feints and goes for her jaw instead--not playing around at all, tongue and sharp teeth, little shocks all down her spine. Andy hears herself whimper. "Huh?"

"Evidently," she manages, goes to tug her wrists down--she wants her hands on him, is the thing, in his hair and on the back of his neck. Wants to pull his mouth up to hers.

Sam, uh. Doesn't let go.

What he does do is bite harder--meaner, so it starts to hurt a bit. Down behind her ear, right where the skin is soft and one-hundred percent not hidden by her uniform collar, these fast nips like wasp stings. Like a punishment.

Andy stops pulling.

(It's possible she, uh. Also tilts her head to give him better access.)

Sam breathes out when she relaxes, sucks a nicer mark on her neck. So that is--that is a thing he wants her to do then. (Although--not relax, actually, not exactly; Andy's pretty sure he's angling for something more along the lines of, like.

Compliance.)

Sam shifts her wrists to one hand, all systems go, pulls her t-shirt up and over, this rough tangle of cotton that messes up her hair. Andy lets him (she's interested to see where this is going, is all). Only then he needs both hands to work the clasp on her bra; "Leave them there," he tells her, this firm shake on her arms, rattling them back against the lockers. And Andy totally does for a bit--is maybe not completely against this compliance plan herself, truth be told, so long as he keeps looking at her like that. Except then he leans down to bite at a nipple, and just--

"Sam," she whines, threading a hand through his hair.

"McNally," he says, warning. His voice is very quiet and very sure. "Leave them there, or I'll make you."

Which--Andy's sorry, but compliance or not that's one bluff that's absolutely just too flagrant not to call. "You'll make me, huh?" she says (okay, gasps really--it's just, he's at her other nipple now, rolling it hard between his fingers, pulling, and--) "How are you going to do that?"

Sam straightens up and looks at her for a minute, face so close she thinks her eyes might cross. There are goosebumps springing up all down her arms. His locker's still open beside them; Sam reaches inside, eyes on hers the entire time, and pulls his cuffs off the shelf at the top.

Oh.

So, um. Not bluffing then.

(And fuck if that doesn't make her even--Andy wriggles around a bit, underwear damp and sticky. God. God.)

They're tucked in a dark corner way in the back of the room, is the thing; odds are nobody's going to wander in here this late. Still, if somebody did, and she was--she wouldn't be able to--

she'd be totally--

jesus.

"Do it," she hears herself tell him. Her heart is hammering away inside her chest. "I dare you."

Sam keeps looking at her, dead-serious and this eye contact that won't quit. Very slowly, he takes her wandering hand (braced on his chest now, warm skin bleeding through his thermal) and tugs it back over her head with its mate. He holds her there for a second, just pressing. And god, it feels like Russian roulette or something, this very charged, very stupid game of chicken; Frank's forgiven them, sure, but if someone comes in...

Still. Andy is absolutely not going to be the one to give in first.

(Plus: it is working for her, jesus christ. She should have figured, all that stuff they got up to on suspension, but--

Well. She's slow on the uptake, apparently.)

"You dare me?" Sam finally snaps on the cuffs. The metal's cold, a soft snick sounding out as he clicks them into place. "What are you, twelve?"

Show you twelve, Andy's about to say, stick her tongue out at him maybe--only she never actually gets that far because Sam's pulling back a little bit and just, like, staring at her, topless and handcuffed against the lockers, god, she can't believe she's doing this (can't believe she wants it as much as she really, really does). His eyes have gotten super crazy dark.

(And it's--at this point she's basically used to Sam looking at her like he thinks she's pretty, okay? This is...this is not that.)

Andy holds his gaze as long as she can, steady. His chest is moving a bit with the force of his breath. (And she's not totally sure what gets him off, exactly: the simple fact of having her like this, a little helpless, or the idea that she trusts him enough to let it happen.

She, um. Kind of thinks it might be the second thing.

Either way: Andy has totally, one hundred percent completely won this fight.)

She doesn't have a lot of time to feel smug, though; Sam's stepping back into her space in one easy stride, hands working the button of her jeans. Jesus, just his fingers on her zipper--Andy arches her hips fretfully (and she's nervous about, like, complete nudity, but. Not nearly nervous enough to stop). Sam pauses to glance up, this look she can't quite decipher (speculation maybe), and then he's peeling her jeans off in a rush, way too fast for her to keep balance. Her nails slide uselessly against the slick surface of the lockers.

Sam does her underwear too, stands back up against her. And that's-- her naked and him fully clothed is an interesting feeling. He works a thigh between hers, rough denim everywhere; slips a hand over her belly and then down, opens her up some.

Which, okay, she is very-- well. She is ready, is the thing. (So much so that you can hear it, this soft smacking noise, magnified in the big room and the silence.)

"Fuck, McNally." Sam rubs his fingers over her immediately, messing it around. "You're so wet." (And just-- that is not a thing he's said to her before, not explicitly; when they talk in bed it always stays pretty general.

It, uh. Makes her clench in some new places.)

She whimpers at him, titling her hips up for more.

"Is this what it takes to get you to listen?" Sam continues, low and hard. "Do I have to get you off when I want my orders followed?" He pauses a minute, looking at her, slides a palm down her slippery thigh. Then, real quiet: "Or does this happen every time I boss you around?"

Which--no, of course not, it's just--Sam slides his hand back up, middle finger circling but not quite sliding inside, this insane tease. Andy shoves forward a little, trying to get him to--

Yeah. No dice.

"Don't move," he orders quietly, breath warm right in her ear. "You move, I'm gonna stop."

So. Andy stops moving.

The lockers are freezing against the backs of her thighs, practically icy. Her nipples are stupidly, embarrassingly hard. Her arms are starting to hurt like this; she lets them go a little, rests them on top of her head. Sam glances up for a second, like maybe he's thinking about telling her she needs to keep them up, then decides against it.

(She, um. Probably would have done it if he'd said.)

"I asked you a question, sweetheart," he continues instead, still rubbing. "You gonna pay attention from now on?"

(And like--probably not, to be perfectly honest; still--)

"Yeah," she manages, nodding a bit. "Uh-huh."

"Good girl." Sam grins like he's satisfied, pushes two fingers all the way in. Andy bites off a groan.

"Uh-uh," he tells her, and just like that he's pulling back again, maybe halfway out. Andy's head thuds back against the locker. "Wanna hear you."

(Okay, so. Possibly she is no longer winning this one.)

"Sam," she bites off, gritting her teeth at the ceiling. It's between shifts, sure, just a skeleton crew running the front desk, but making a lot of noise right now? Still an insane flavour of stupid. Like. In-sane.

Sam comes after her neck again, teeth and liquid tongue, a little rougher than normal in a way that really, really works. He crooks his fingers and gets his thumb on her clit, this sharp pinching feeling that's almost too much, but then he just pauses; Andy makes a pathetic begging noise, all her muscles seizing up. Sam breathes a laugh into her ear. "You gotta ask for it, sweetheart." He uses his free hand to nudge her legs apart a little further--the extra stretch really, really doesn't help things. "Don't be shy." Patting her thigh, all fake-solicitude.

Ugg, she hates him. Her skull thuds off the locker again, nails scrabbling uselessly at the metal over her head. (But, okay: she wants to come.) "Please," she tries, a smile even faker than his tone.

Sam snorts. "Nice try, McNally." He gets even closer (and god, his whole body is like, absurdly warm, belt buckle digging into her stomach and his cock pressed up against her hip--Andy is definitely, definitely not the only one this is working for). He twists his fingers just a bit, teasing. Andy feels her muscles twitch. "You want it or not?"

And god, she does, she wants it so bad (is so ridiculously turned on by whatever this is, she doesn't even know--). Andy gets a hand in her hair, tugs a bit in frustration. "Please," she repeats, more sincerely this time--and jesus christ, her voice, she is basically begging here, is what she is doing. She'd be embarrassed if she wasn't so close. "Okay, please, Sam, I'll say whatever you want, I'll do--"

Well.

That does the trick, all right.

(And okay, it's entirely possible she just keeps begging, what with the way Sam's suddenly shoving his fingers inside, this vicious twist. He asks if she can take three and then adds the extra before she's even done nodding, a hint of pain and his palm on her clit; he said not to move, though, so Andy doesn't, just fists her hands in her hair and hangs on. By the time it's over, she's said 'please' so many times the word has lost all meaning.)

"Yeah?" Sam asks when she finally quiets. His voice is slightly horse, like maybe he's the one who just screamed the barn down (and fuck, she really did, she can still hear it echoing around in her brain). She hides her flushed face in his neck, feeling weird and wobbly, some truly killer afterglow fizzing its way through her veins.

"I, uh. Yeah." She licks her lips. Her voice sounds even worse than his, forty years of chain smoking in thirty seconds. "Yes."

(She thinks it's possible she shocked both of them, just a bit.)

Sam slips his fingers out from between her legs, careful; gets them into her mouth for her to lick clean. Andy tilts her head back against the lockers while she does it, lets him watch her taste herself (and god, the look on his face; vague disbelief, yeah, plus something else she can't figure out exactly, this expression she's caught him with a couple of times lately. At first she thought it was sex-related, that there was something he wanted that was like, too dirty to tell her, except hello, clearly that is not a problem in this relationship and anyway she's also seen him get it when she's like, eating cereal. So. Who knows).

Andy nips a little, scrapes her teeth over the pad of his index finger. Sam makes a sound deep in his throat.

"Was that supposed to teach me a lesson?" she asks softly. Shit, he's still so hard, she can’t--she wants to turn around and brace her palms on the lockers or something, get down on her knees and suck until he--god, Andy doesn't even know. "Because, um. I don't really think I learned anything yet."

Sam raises his eyebrows for half a second, this disbelieving smirk (and Andy's pretty sure he isn't pissed anymore, actually, so much as really, really turned on, which--she can work with that too). "Oh yeah?" he says, conversational. He slips his thumb over her lip and drags her mouth open, kisses his way inside roughly. When he pulls away she's panting. "You always were the worst rookie for taking direction," he tells her, and then he's boosting her up--Andy helps instinctively, legs around his waist and cuffed hands slipping around his neck--and they're moving with purpose.

"What are you, gonna put me under the cold water until I behave?" she laughs when they hit the shower stalls.

"Nope," Sam says evenly. He sets her down on the cold tile, her arms still around his neck, faces close. Andy can't decide if this location is more or less stupid; on the one hand, they've got more lead time if someone comes in. On the other, even if they manage to get everything on the up and up, how in the hell are they going to explain what she’s doing in the stall with him?

Sam seems supremely unconcerned. "Arms up," he tells her, nudging her backwards towards the wall. The wall with the shower fixture on it at just the right height to--

Oh.

Sam wraps his hands around her elbows and hooks the handcuffs up over the showerhead, her whole body lengthening and Andy up on her toes. The tile is cold and damp against the base of her spine. She can touch down, but only sort of; the muscles in her calves sing a bit.

"Paying attention?" he mutters quietly, runs a hand down her side and over her ass. Squeezes.

(Yes.)

Andy shifts her weight as best she can, trying to get more comfortable; she rattles her wrists a bit, the cold grate of metal on metal. "Seriously, Sam," she tells him, a little nervous. He's working the button on his jeans (and she likes to watch him get undressed, actually; likes the casual way he touches himself, how he lines them up just right). "I'm gonna pull this thing right out of the--"

"No you're not," he says calmly, and just like that he hitches her up again, one leg around his waist and him all-the-way deep right away, this fast hot stretch. Andy pulls in a sharp breath. He's still got his clothes on for the most part, teeth of his zipper dragging along her inner thigh and her nipples scraping the rough fabric of his thermal.

"Sam," she stutters out, surprised (well, okay--it's possible she's more in the way of turned on, actually, that steady TO voice he keeps using). She’s a little off-balance. He's got one hand cupping her ass, steadying her, but she's up on tiptoes on the leg that's still touching down. The tile is uncomfortably slippery. She has next to no leverage, is a thing she's realizing, just has to stand here and let him--

"Shit." Andy's head snaps back as Sam thrusts hard, sharp and just once, driving her further up the wall. She tries to arch her back and gets stopped short by the cuffs, the metallic scrape drowning out her whine.

Sam bites lightly at the exposed line of her neck. "I asked you a question, McNally: Are you paying attention?"

Andy tightens her leg around his waist as best she can (there's a spot he hits when he's deep like that, this spark all down through her thighs--). "Um," she says, although honestly it comes out sounding more like a gulp. "Yeah. Yes."

Sam bites harder this time, not so friendly. "Yes what, McNally?"

(Which, seriously? She knew it. She knew it.)

Andy grins, manages to lean forward enough to scrape her teeth along the stubble at the side of his jaw. "Yes, sir," she whispers, right into his ear. Sam hums a low, pleased sound against her neck. He gets his free hand under her other thigh and boosts her all the way up so he's got her full weight, legs spread wide and back flush at the wall, and that--well.

That is better, is all she's saying.

Andy's not actually expecting to get off a second time here, really--usually she can with him, yeah, but how intense the first one was on top of which somebody could walk in any second, god, right now basically does not feel like the time to be worried about multiple orgasms, she just--

Sam, apparently, has other ideas.

He slides an arm further underneath her, shifts to get his other hand free so her can feed the fingers into her mouth, reach down between them and rub. Andy hisses, still sensitive. His thrusts are sharp and deep, that spot he keeps hitting and then just pausing against, like he knows. "Sam," she whimpers. "Hurts."

"No it doesn't," he tells her (and fine, but like--it is a lot), only then he's switching up his technique, two fingers on either side of her clit and pressing, like, in or something, Andy doesn't even know, and just--

The metal-on-metal makes an awful screech as she wrenches her body forward.

"Yeah," Sam murmurs. He's got his face right close hers, watching her expressions. "There you go, sweetheart. Now: wait until I tell you."

Of course, as soon as he says it Andy feels like she needs to come right-the-fuck-now.

She squeezes her eyes shut and breathes through her nose, concentrates (and god, she's right on the edge of it, clenching like gangbusters; one false move and there's no way she's gonna be able to stop herself going over). Sam's onto her, totally, not easing up at all like he wants to make it as difficult as humanly possible for her not to-- Andy whines again, low and frustrated, bites at the meat of his shoulder through his shirt.

He lets her sweat it out a minute or two longer, these hard steady thrusts and Andy gasping every time. Finally she feels him grin against her ear. "What do you think, McNally?" he mutters, shoving deep and then just staying there, this crazy good pressure. "Should I let you come?"

And jesus, just hearing him say it--

"Yes," she whispers, nodding furiously into his shoulder, way too far gone at this point for anything even remotely witty or coy. "Fuck, yes, Sam, please--"

Sam gets a hand in her hair and pulls her up to face him, kisses her sloppier than he has all night. He waits another second, like he's deciding. "Come," he orders quietly.

(Well. Andy proves once and for all that she can take direction just fine.)

He doesn't even have to move or anything, jesus, just stays right up against her, watching; same exact position, same pressure on her clit, but Come and apparently that's it, like her body's falling all over itself to obey (and there's--yeah. There is a lot of noise happening). She ends up dragging herself into an arch using the handcuffs, almost completely involuntarily. Probably that's going to burn tomorrow.

Sam hums in her ear as she comes down, gives her a punishing little thrust that sends her gasping. "Good girl," he tells her, just softly. He runs his hands up her arms until he reaches the cuffs, slides his thumbs around her wrists. "This hurt?"

It does, actually, all her weight on them just then, but like--

Sam is still hard. Sam is still really, really, really hard.

So.

"Uh-uh," she tells him, locking her ankles.

Sam gives her this look like he doesn't believe her, gets both hands back under her ass to take the pressure off (and she'd be lying if she said he didn't like when he picks her up like this, cuffs or no; she's been this tall, muscley human her entire life, and it's just--

well. Sam likes it too, apparently).

"That's it," she urges (and he's close, she can tell by that low rumble in the back of his throat--has been close for a while, probably). "Is this how you're gonna keep me in line from now on?" she asks him softly, right in his ear--and shit, shit, Andy has never in her life said anything like this, she went to Catholic school for god's sake, but it's just--it is feeling like time for the big guns. "Lock me up and fuck me until I do what you say?"

Which--yeah. Um. That gets it done.

Sam comes on a growl, hips slamming forward one more time and the handcuffs rattling, Andy's legs tight around his waist. She feels, like. Bizzarely pleased with herself as it happens, like possibly she won after all. She kisses his ear as he comes down, hiding her smile against his hair.

They just stand there for a few minutes, Sam panting against her neck and still inside, everything between them slippery and warm (and seriously, all Andy can think is that she and Luke never--that no one else has--well. They are stupidly good at sex, is all she's saying).

"So, um." She clears her throat. "You work out your frustration there, honey?" And okay, she's pitching it fake, saccharine-sweet and that baby voice Peck uses sometimes, but she's sort of hoping the answer is yes. Everything is, uh. Kind of throbbing now.

"Shut up," Sam says, but mildly; he's working his hands through her hair, petting. Andy boosts herself up a bit and drags the cuffs over the faucet, drops them around his neck. All of her limbs are heavy and slow; Sam lets her go dead-weight on him for a bit before he sets her legs on the ground.

As soon as she's down, Andy holds her face up for a kiss, feeling sort of pathetic (that was a lot of orgasms, is the thing, on top of which she's never done something like that before, and she just--she likes it when he likes her. Whatever. Basically she's just a ridiculous human being). Sam complies right away though, and nicely, palms pressing against her ears. So.

(She, um. She is fond of him, is a thing she's noticing. Like. Fond in a specific sort of way.)

Only then he's ducking out from the circle of her arms, hands on her elbows and the cuffs in between them, and-- "Shit, Andy."

Andy follows his gaze down, surprised: and oh, the cuffs have left marks all right, red and angry-looking, twin ruby bracelets around her wrists. "Whoops," she says--and yeah, okay, they do actually sting a bit now that she's not, you know. Otherwise engaged. "Well. Long sleeves tomorrow, I guess."

Sam looks-- shit, Sam looks, like. Upset. "It's not funny," he says right away, cuffs off quick and gentle and him holding her wrists up to inspect. "Jesus, sweetheart, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Uh-uh," she says, remembering her mid-O attempt to medal in shower-stall gymnastics. "I'm pretty sure that's mostly my doing, actually."

Sam is--yeah, definitely not convinced. "It's not," he says, reaching for the tangled pile of clothes on the floor, suddenly super-intent on turning them all right-side out for her. He looks like he just clubbed a baby seal by mistake. "That was--I should never--fuck."

(And seriously, he's overreacting, her wrists will be fine in like a day, unless he's--

huh.)

"Sa-am." She sidles up to him, testing. "We can always, like. Buy those dinky fur cuffs."

"McNally." He shakes his head, holding out her underwear. She steps into it obligingly, one foot then the other, bracing herself with a hand curled around the back of his neck. He spends an unnecessary amount of time dragging it up her legs, tugging the waistband into place. "That's not what I--"

Andy nudges at his shoulder with her knee. "Sam, seriously-- god, could you just like, look at me for a sec?" He's focusing on her stomach, buttoning up the little decorative fly on her boy shorts. "Sam!"

He looks.

"Okay." She scrubs a hand through her hair. "Listen up, because I'm only saying this once: I liked it, alright? I want to do it again. Like." She looks around helplessly. The clock on the wall says quarter-to, which means some of night patrol's gonna start trooping in soon, mid-shift fatigue, five minutes to wash their faces and reapply deodorant before they head back out. Time to base-up. "Basically what I am saying to you here is--" she rolls her eyes "--please tie me up and fuck me more often." And jesus christ, the sarcasm totally isn't covering up the inherent truthiness of that statement at all; her face feels like it's on fire. It is completely unfair they have to have this conversation now, after all the other kinky shit they've done (although, okay--she gets it. She does).

Sam closes his eyes and exhales, tips his face forward so his forehead rests against her stomach. Andy rubs at the back of his neck until he looks up. "That's not--" he starts, then breaks off and tries again. "We can't settle actual shit that way, Andy."

Any nods, rubs her knuckles along the stubble at the side of his jaw. "Well," she allows, trying a smile. "Not all the time."

That makes him laugh, at least, those little crinkles at the edges of his eyes (and, god, fond of him, she's--yeah.

She's definitely something).

They sneak out of the locker room, quiet, her fingers tucked snugly in his belt loop and the sound of their footsteps echoing down the empty hall.

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SAM SWAREK: MAKING LIGHT BDSM SWOON WORTHY. I don't even know, it's like magic.