fic: Outro
Title: Outro (or, Supply Closet Payback)
Author: poeelektra
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Sam/Andy
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 1142
Summary: "See if I’m inclined to give you workplace nookie again any time in the near future.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, bares his teeth at her. “You weren’t doing the giving, McNally. I had to shower mine off.”
Author's Note: Written for Porn Battle XII and the prompts playful and symmetry. A companion to "Chorus of a Workaday Life," previously posted here.
She’s in his kitchen, poking around at something like it’s her job, while Sam finishes washing up.
She’s in his kitchen. For dinner.
So, there’s that.
He racks the last plate and dries his hands on a dishcloth, smirks when he sees her crouching below him, head stuck in a cabinet.
“You searching for clues down there, McNally?”
She ducks out and grins, a flash of white that’s surprising for how easy and sweet it is. He feels a loosening and a tension, some paradox in his chest.
“Yeah, you know. Evidence of your secret life . . . Mysterious Sam, I’m trying to paint a picture.”
She’s been in his house before, of course; but she wasn’t overly concerned with picture-painting then. This is the first time they’ve eaten a meal here with all their clothes on. He leans back on the counter.
“Uh huh. And you think you’re gonna find out what kind of tree I would be by looking under my kitchen sink?”
“You never know where a piece to the puzzle might be. Learned that from some greasy-haired guy with a badge.”
She’s playful but determined, and rears to her knees to poke her nose in to a newly opened drawer.
“Check the supply closet. I think I dropped my bandana there today.”
Her head jerks in his direction, utensil inventory forgotten. You can see the quick panic, her racing brain.
“Sam, you’re kidding! Why didn’t you go back? We have to go back! Right now. There are things like DNA, and all someone has to do is get suspicious, you know, suspicious substances or something and send it to the labs and then they’d find . . ..”
Andy trails off when she lights on his face, the patience and self-satisfaction plainly displayed there. She punches his thigh.
“You’re kidding. Very funny, Sam. Seriously. See if I’m inclined to give you workplace nookie again any time in the near future.”
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, bares his teeth at her.
“You weren’t doing the giving, McNally. I had to shower mine off.”
She quirks a brow.
“Did you?”
“Did I . . .?”
It takes him a second to realize she’s asking if he rubbed one out in the shower. At work.
Andy looks like she’s only just containing an adolescent boy’s snigger at the prospect, which is more charming than it should be, all things considered.
“I tend to keep my solo pursuits more nocturnal than exhibitionist, McNally. And in places where there are no guns.”
The smile that takes over her face is more sly than sweet, and she lets out a bawdy laugh, maybe the dirtiest thing he’s ever heard. The sun is low and streaming in through the windows.
“We can turn off lights. Or did you want to wait til it’s dark out for your payback?”
She inches toward him on her knees, full of intent, arms bracketing his hips for just a second and trapping him in before she reaches for the closure of his pants. Sam clears his throat.
“Not that I don’t appreciate what’s on offer. But you don’t have to do . . . anything,” he finishes lamely, and really, he can’t believe he’s turning down a blowjob. But she’s different than it’s ever been, and he doesn’t want her to think payback, just because he-- that she--.
Amusement and confusion blend on Andy’s face and she rests back on her heels, hands resting on his thighs now, so close to where he really, really does want them.
“Sam. Do I look like I’m doing something I don’t want to be doing?”
Her hands give a suggestive squeeze, eyes taking on a mischievous glint.
“Besides, what makes you think you could make me.”
And okay, that was pure challenge, the kind Andy’s always stumbling her way in to; no noblesse oblige of the sexual variety here. He smiles down at her, shifts his hips a little to let her know he’s on board, resists the obvious, Oh, I could make you, reply, because he’s modern and sort of a little bit the boss of her and-.
She made fast work of his zipper, dragged the elastic of his boxer briefs just far enough down, and has him wrapped in her warm palm.
He can’t look away, fascinated with the way she looks fascinated, like he’s some curious new thing for her to investigate in full light. After a couple of experimental slides of her hand, she hits a spot that has him jerking involuntarily. She looks up, cocky and more than a little pleased with herself. Then she leans in and Christ, he has to stop watching because that’s the flat of her tongue, hotter than her hand, and the root of his spine starts to buzz.
He grips the edge of the countertop with both hands until the corner bites in to his palms, reels him back. But barely, and not for long, because her tongue is focused on that spot she found, working in concert with one hand while the other travels: up the muscles of his abdomen, under his shirt; back down, nails scraping lightly on the sensitive skin just inside his hipbone.
Caught up, Sam has one hand halfway to her head before he snaps it back to the counter. She responds by reaching for it, prying loose his white-knuckled hold, and interlacing their fingers. Her tongue is tracing up from his base slowly, her thumb following, and he’s on tenterhooks when she takes him, just at the tip, and sucks.
“McNally, I’m gonna--.”
He tries to warn her in bitten off words; tries not to crush her fingers in his.
Like that was the cue she was waiting for, she slides her head down again, and with wet pressure and a twist, she snaps the tight coil in his spine, staying with him as the reverberations pulse, caressing one hip lightly as he vibrates his way to calm.
When he hasn’t quite got his voice about him, Sam tries, but all that comes out is, “You . . .,” rough like he’s been screaming, though he hasn’t, not out loud.
One of Andy’s hands still clenches his hip, and he looks down. A flush has risen in her cheeks, and she’s not breathing entirely steadily herself.
“You.”
Andy moves to stand, body sliding along his as she rises and smiles.
“Me,” she agrees.
Intertwined in her limbs, Sam goes in for a kiss, but her mouth dodges his, nuzzles the scratchy line of his jaw instead. When she reaches his earlobe, she gives it a nip. Tremors run through him like echoes. Then McNally murmurs, low and throaty so he doesn’t even hear when she pulls the trigger.
“Hey Sam. Can I borrow your bandana?”
Author: poeelektra
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Sam/Andy
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 1142
Summary: "See if I’m inclined to give you workplace nookie again any time in the near future.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, bares his teeth at her. “You weren’t doing the giving, McNally. I had to shower mine off.”
Author's Note: Written for Porn Battle XII and the prompts playful and symmetry. A companion to "Chorus of a Workaday Life," previously posted here.
She’s in his kitchen, poking around at something like it’s her job, while Sam finishes washing up.
She’s in his kitchen. For dinner.
So, there’s that.
He racks the last plate and dries his hands on a dishcloth, smirks when he sees her crouching below him, head stuck in a cabinet.
“You searching for clues down there, McNally?”
She ducks out and grins, a flash of white that’s surprising for how easy and sweet it is. He feels a loosening and a tension, some paradox in his chest.
“Yeah, you know. Evidence of your secret life . . . Mysterious Sam, I’m trying to paint a picture.”
She’s been in his house before, of course; but she wasn’t overly concerned with picture-painting then. This is the first time they’ve eaten a meal here with all their clothes on. He leans back on the counter.
“Uh huh. And you think you’re gonna find out what kind of tree I would be by looking under my kitchen sink?”
“You never know where a piece to the puzzle might be. Learned that from some greasy-haired guy with a badge.”
She’s playful but determined, and rears to her knees to poke her nose in to a newly opened drawer.
“Check the supply closet. I think I dropped my bandana there today.”
Her head jerks in his direction, utensil inventory forgotten. You can see the quick panic, her racing brain.
“Sam, you’re kidding! Why didn’t you go back? We have to go back! Right now. There are things like DNA, and all someone has to do is get suspicious, you know, suspicious substances or something and send it to the labs and then they’d find . . ..”
Andy trails off when she lights on his face, the patience and self-satisfaction plainly displayed there. She punches his thigh.
“You’re kidding. Very funny, Sam. Seriously. See if I’m inclined to give you workplace nookie again any time in the near future.”
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, bares his teeth at her.
“You weren’t doing the giving, McNally. I had to shower mine off.”
She quirks a brow.
“Did you?”
“Did I . . .?”
It takes him a second to realize she’s asking if he rubbed one out in the shower. At work.
Andy looks like she’s only just containing an adolescent boy’s snigger at the prospect, which is more charming than it should be, all things considered.
“I tend to keep my solo pursuits more nocturnal than exhibitionist, McNally. And in places where there are no guns.”
The smile that takes over her face is more sly than sweet, and she lets out a bawdy laugh, maybe the dirtiest thing he’s ever heard. The sun is low and streaming in through the windows.
“We can turn off lights. Or did you want to wait til it’s dark out for your payback?”
She inches toward him on her knees, full of intent, arms bracketing his hips for just a second and trapping him in before she reaches for the closure of his pants. Sam clears his throat.
“Not that I don’t appreciate what’s on offer. But you don’t have to do . . . anything,” he finishes lamely, and really, he can’t believe he’s turning down a blowjob. But she’s different than it’s ever been, and he doesn’t want her to think payback, just because he-- that she--.
Amusement and confusion blend on Andy’s face and she rests back on her heels, hands resting on his thighs now, so close to where he really, really does want them.
“Sam. Do I look like I’m doing something I don’t want to be doing?”
Her hands give a suggestive squeeze, eyes taking on a mischievous glint.
“Besides, what makes you think you could make me.”
And okay, that was pure challenge, the kind Andy’s always stumbling her way in to; no noblesse oblige of the sexual variety here. He smiles down at her, shifts his hips a little to let her know he’s on board, resists the obvious, Oh, I could make you, reply, because he’s modern and sort of a little bit the boss of her and-.
She made fast work of his zipper, dragged the elastic of his boxer briefs just far enough down, and has him wrapped in her warm palm.
He can’t look away, fascinated with the way she looks fascinated, like he’s some curious new thing for her to investigate in full light. After a couple of experimental slides of her hand, she hits a spot that has him jerking involuntarily. She looks up, cocky and more than a little pleased with herself. Then she leans in and Christ, he has to stop watching because that’s the flat of her tongue, hotter than her hand, and the root of his spine starts to buzz.
He grips the edge of the countertop with both hands until the corner bites in to his palms, reels him back. But barely, and not for long, because her tongue is focused on that spot she found, working in concert with one hand while the other travels: up the muscles of his abdomen, under his shirt; back down, nails scraping lightly on the sensitive skin just inside his hipbone.
Caught up, Sam has one hand halfway to her head before he snaps it back to the counter. She responds by reaching for it, prying loose his white-knuckled hold, and interlacing their fingers. Her tongue is tracing up from his base slowly, her thumb following, and he’s on tenterhooks when she takes him, just at the tip, and sucks.
“McNally, I’m gonna--.”
He tries to warn her in bitten off words; tries not to crush her fingers in his.
Like that was the cue she was waiting for, she slides her head down again, and with wet pressure and a twist, she snaps the tight coil in his spine, staying with him as the reverberations pulse, caressing one hip lightly as he vibrates his way to calm.
When he hasn’t quite got his voice about him, Sam tries, but all that comes out is, “You . . .,” rough like he’s been screaming, though he hasn’t, not out loud.
One of Andy’s hands still clenches his hip, and he looks down. A flush has risen in her cheeks, and she’s not breathing entirely steadily herself.
“You.”
Andy moves to stand, body sliding along his as she rises and smiles.
“Me,” she agrees.
Intertwined in her limbs, Sam goes in for a kiss, but her mouth dodges his, nuzzles the scratchy line of his jaw instead. When she reaches his earlobe, she gives it a nip. Tremors run through him like echoes. Then McNally murmurs, low and throaty so he doesn’t even hear when she pulls the trigger.
“Hey Sam. Can I borrow your bandana?”