There is a Light that Never Goes Out, lozenger8. Blue Cortina.
Title: There is a Light that Never Goes Out
Rating: Blue Cortina
Word Count: 900 words.
Notes: Sam/Annie fic for Annie month. Title from the song by The Smiths.
Sam spends half of his time thinking about Annie’s lips. He’s grown to accept this. Annie’s got great lips - always pink, even with no make up. They’re not too full, not too wide, just right. Of course, she smiles a lot and those pretty, pouty lips part to reveal perfectly straight white teeth that Sam imagines biting into his shoulder as he bucks.
He spends the other half of his time thinking about that. About his hands on Annie’s hips as she rides him, or her hands on the back of his neck as he pushes into her, or fondling her breasts as they rock into each other, neither in the lead. He imagines the moans, the breathy staccato of “yes, yes, yes”, bringing her to the edge and him with her, showing Annie that taking a definitive step can actually be really, really good. He thinks about her hair flying in all directions and her fingernails digging into his skin, the warm flush creeping up her in this beautiful sweeping action. And he thinks about her screaming out his name as she comes.
Annie’s not an object. She’s a person, flesh and blood. But what flesh, what blood. He can’t help but spend some of his time - all of his time - admiring that. And it is admiration. He’s not lecherous about it. Not possessive. Just a little bit fixated in the healthiest possible way.
She has a sweet chin. It gives her face this heart-shaped look that’s thoroughly appealing - adding a naivety he knows is completely synthetic. Her jaw line is curved, but prominent, belying her sweet-as-molasses appearance and supporting her tough as nails interior. Sam’s always had a thing for powerful, confident women. Ever since she punched him in the back, that first day, he’s replayed his meeting her with an almost reverent fever.
“Sam, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
“Yeah, you said you wanted to paint the room yellow - a nice neutral colour,” Sam replies.
“Right.” Annie tugs on his arm. “How’d you do that? You were totally off with the pixies then.”
Sam looks up. Annie’s eyes are gorgeous too, bright and large and adding to that ‘innocence’ fallacy. He loves it when they rake up his body, in that claiming approach, as she stares and lets her eyes stop at his open collar. It’s a cliché, but Sam could lose himself in Annie’s eyes, especially when she’s pretending to understand him as he talks about this, that and the other. Not understanding because of his faculties, not hers. When she’s warm and welcoming, he’s the most comfortable he’s ever been. When she’s cold and assessing, he thinks he’d like to run away, because she’s a soul-searcher, is Annie.
“I can hear you even when you think I can’t,” Sam says, obscurely. Annie rolls her eyes at him and he smiles mischievously, sometimes needing to remind himself that she’s more sarcastic and less idyllic than he sometimes lets himself believe. “I think yellow will be good for him.” Sam lets the smile widen into a grin.
“You don’t know it’s a boy,” Annie retorts chidingly.
“Yeah, I do. And he’s gonna be named Robert.”
“You are not naming my son Robert.”
“What’s wrong with it? Perfectly good name.”
Annie frowns. Sam thinks it’s elusive, a delicate expression, creased and crinkled. “That may be so, but it’s not happening. We’re deciding the name together.”
“I’ll disagree with everything you come up with, just to be contrary.”
Annie jabs him this time, poking her finger into the space between his top two ribs. “Even if I say he’s Sam junior?”
“Especially if you say he’s Sam junior, there’s nothing I hate more than parents who name their kids after themselves, as if it weren’t egotistical enough to be having children in the first place.”
“You are impossible.”
“I know. But you love impossible things.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You agreed to be the only female in CID? And your choice of hairstyle.”
“Git.”
“I’m genuinely worried about all that hairspray you use. You might wanna stop - the fumes might be damaging the baby’s health.”
Annie hits him with the catalogue she’s holding. “Double git.”
Sam wraps his arm around Annie’s back and draws her close. He’s wasted half the morning thinking about her, when he could have been touching her. He likes thinking about her. He likes remembering, envisaging, clarifying. When they’re together he’s sometimes overwhelmed by just how lucky he is and he loses the kind of concentration he wants to attend to her.
“I’ll tell you how we can settle our naming woes,” Sam says, brushing his hand over Annie’s thigh suggestively.
“Will you be like this when I’ve had ten thousand fat babies?” Annie asks, clutching hold of his hand and squeezing, deliberate in cruelty.
“Definitely. Even more so,” Sam confirms.
“Well, okay then. I suppose we’ve half an hour to spare.”
“I can go longer than that!”
“Mmm.”
“Right, Annie Tyler, you are going down.”
Sam eases her back, gently, but she pins his arms and laughs maliciously. “No, you are.”
Sam looks at those lips, those pink, not too full, not too wide lips, and pushes up to press against them, murmuring three little words that Annie’s sure to have heard. She’s not an object, but she is his.
Okay, so he’s a little possessive.
Rating: Blue Cortina
Word Count: 900 words.
Notes: Sam/Annie fic for Annie month. Title from the song by The Smiths.
Sam spends half of his time thinking about Annie’s lips. He’s grown to accept this. Annie’s got great lips - always pink, even with no make up. They’re not too full, not too wide, just right. Of course, she smiles a lot and those pretty, pouty lips part to reveal perfectly straight white teeth that Sam imagines biting into his shoulder as he bucks.
He spends the other half of his time thinking about that. About his hands on Annie’s hips as she rides him, or her hands on the back of his neck as he pushes into her, or fondling her breasts as they rock into each other, neither in the lead. He imagines the moans, the breathy staccato of “yes, yes, yes”, bringing her to the edge and him with her, showing Annie that taking a definitive step can actually be really, really good. He thinks about her hair flying in all directions and her fingernails digging into his skin, the warm flush creeping up her in this beautiful sweeping action. And he thinks about her screaming out his name as she comes.
Annie’s not an object. She’s a person, flesh and blood. But what flesh, what blood. He can’t help but spend some of his time - all of his time - admiring that. And it is admiration. He’s not lecherous about it. Not possessive. Just a little bit fixated in the healthiest possible way.
She has a sweet chin. It gives her face this heart-shaped look that’s thoroughly appealing - adding a naivety he knows is completely synthetic. Her jaw line is curved, but prominent, belying her sweet-as-molasses appearance and supporting her tough as nails interior. Sam’s always had a thing for powerful, confident women. Ever since she punched him in the back, that first day, he’s replayed his meeting her with an almost reverent fever.
“Sam, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
“Yeah, you said you wanted to paint the room yellow - a nice neutral colour,” Sam replies.
“Right.” Annie tugs on his arm. “How’d you do that? You were totally off with the pixies then.”
Sam looks up. Annie’s eyes are gorgeous too, bright and large and adding to that ‘innocence’ fallacy. He loves it when they rake up his body, in that claiming approach, as she stares and lets her eyes stop at his open collar. It’s a cliché, but Sam could lose himself in Annie’s eyes, especially when she’s pretending to understand him as he talks about this, that and the other. Not understanding because of his faculties, not hers. When she’s warm and welcoming, he’s the most comfortable he’s ever been. When she’s cold and assessing, he thinks he’d like to run away, because she’s a soul-searcher, is Annie.
“I can hear you even when you think I can’t,” Sam says, obscurely. Annie rolls her eyes at him and he smiles mischievously, sometimes needing to remind himself that she’s more sarcastic and less idyllic than he sometimes lets himself believe. “I think yellow will be good for him.” Sam lets the smile widen into a grin.
“You don’t know it’s a boy,” Annie retorts chidingly.
“Yeah, I do. And he’s gonna be named Robert.”
“You are not naming my son Robert.”
“What’s wrong with it? Perfectly good name.”
Annie frowns. Sam thinks it’s elusive, a delicate expression, creased and crinkled. “That may be so, but it’s not happening. We’re deciding the name together.”
“I’ll disagree with everything you come up with, just to be contrary.”
Annie jabs him this time, poking her finger into the space between his top two ribs. “Even if I say he’s Sam junior?”
“Especially if you say he’s Sam junior, there’s nothing I hate more than parents who name their kids after themselves, as if it weren’t egotistical enough to be having children in the first place.”
“You are impossible.”
“I know. But you love impossible things.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You agreed to be the only female in CID? And your choice of hairstyle.”
“Git.”
“I’m genuinely worried about all that hairspray you use. You might wanna stop - the fumes might be damaging the baby’s health.”
Annie hits him with the catalogue she’s holding. “Double git.”
Sam wraps his arm around Annie’s back and draws her close. He’s wasted half the morning thinking about her, when he could have been touching her. He likes thinking about her. He likes remembering, envisaging, clarifying. When they’re together he’s sometimes overwhelmed by just how lucky he is and he loses the kind of concentration he wants to attend to her.
“I’ll tell you how we can settle our naming woes,” Sam says, brushing his hand over Annie’s thigh suggestively.
“Will you be like this when I’ve had ten thousand fat babies?” Annie asks, clutching hold of his hand and squeezing, deliberate in cruelty.
“Definitely. Even more so,” Sam confirms.
“Well, okay then. I suppose we’ve half an hour to spare.”
“I can go longer than that!”
“Mmm.”
“Right, Annie Tyler, you are going down.”
Sam eases her back, gently, but she pins his arms and laughs maliciously. “No, you are.”
Sam looks at those lips, those pink, not too full, not too wide lips, and pushes up to press against them, murmuring three little words that Annie’s sure to have heard. She’s not an object, but she is his.
Okay, so he’s a little possessive.