fic: i will be a tree that you come home to (Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam)
Title: i will be a tree that you come home to
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 6700+
Summary: The one where she’s hugely pregnant.
Author's note: Featuring all four imaginary Swarek-McNally children!
Monday night Charlie stages a nonviolent protest and, very calmly, refuses to eat a single bite of his dinner.
"Come on, dude," Andy tells him, ready to bargain. Both his big sisters are already done and watching a DVD inside. "Just a little. Two bites."
Charlie shakes his dark head, stubborn. He's got his sea turtle shirt on, which is his favorite. "Uh-uh."
Andy sighs, leaning up against the counter; her back hurts. And okay, yeah, it's dino nuggets and frozen broc, it's probably not so delicious, but unlike Ruby and Soph Charlie's never given her a problem about it before (Andy thinks that's one of the hardest things about being a mom, actually--telling them they have to do shit that, if she were them, she totally would not want to do. Like: naps are boring. Sophie is correct).
"Well, you gotta eat something." Andy cringes a bit before she continues. She hates making this offer, she thinks it makes for spoiled, bratty kids, but: desperate times. "You want me to fix you something else?"
Charlie's not buying; he eyes her coolly across the table like he's willing to sit here all night. "Nope."
"Charlie." Andy leans forward, rubs at the base of her spine. She actually thinks he's ornery for reasons that have nothing to do with what sinister green veg might or might not be lurking on his plate, not the least of which is that today was the first day since he was born that he was legit too big to sit on her lap. So. That sucked. It wasn't even about him, either--Charlie's a peanut, has been since he came into the world three years ago and almost a month before he was supposed to. Andy, on the other hand, is twenty-nine weeks pregnant and resembles nothing so much as a beluga fucking whale.
So, more accurately: today was the first day since Charlie was born that Andy was too big for him to sit on her lap.
It was never a problem with any of the other kids, weirdly; Ruby was a daddy's girl anyway, and god knows Charlie and Soph were born close enough together that it was never going to be an issue. Andy mostly just propped Sophie up on her belly, actually, which was pretty great for hands-free feeding (what was not so great: the looks she got from other mothers in the park. Like, hello, she knew she was a walking advertisement for birth control, okay? There was no need for all that staring.)
Andy shuffles over to the table, lowers herself into the chair next to Charlie's. He deliberately turns his head the other way, which is 100% a move he learned from Sophie. Andy sighs. "All right, dude, if you aren't going to eat, you aren't going to eat. But no snacks later, okay?" Charlie peeks through his eyelashes at her, sideways. "Now, I'm just going to the bathroom," Andy continues, shoving herself to her feet. "Don't touch that plate while I'm gone."
She waits in the hallway for a count of one hundred. When she comes back Charlie's still sitting there with his skinny shoulders raised, like a very tiny con in lockup. There are two less dino nuggets on the plate.
(It's an old trick of her mom's, honestly. As soon as Andy had kids all this stuff just started falling out of her mouth, nicknames and sayings and recipes for wieners and beans. She always thought her dad would be the one she'd copy, but there it is.)
She hears Sam's key in the lock while she's got the two littlest in the bathtub, Ruby sitting cross-legged on the closed toilet seat reading aloud from Maurice Sendak. Her nightgown is stretched out over her seven-year-old knees. "Daddy's home!" she hollers, goes tearing down the stairs at a speed that's truly alarming; Andy catches Sam's hey, Ruby-girl over the splash of the plastic toys in the tub. Frank's got him working days, thank God; Andy's picking up a few mornings a week while her dad's got Sophie and Charlie and Ruby's in school, but she's too enormous to do much of anything besides sit behind a desk and answer phones.
(She'd be lying if she said it didn't wear on her. She loves her kids more than her life, but it does.)
"Oh good, you're home," she says, when he turns up in the bathroom doorway, still in his jacket and Ruby's arms wound-monkey-tight around his neck (Daddy's girl, definitely, dark eyes and all). Andy grins at him a little, that vaguely shocked, happy look he sometimes gets at the sight of all of them in one place. "I'm going to need some help standing up."
Ruby starts shifting obligingly into a piggy-back position before Andy even finishes speaking (it's possible they've had to do this during more than one pregnancy--Ruby at ages three through five was all wide eyes and graspy fingers, convinced the both of them were going to die in a firefight). Sam smiles and holds out his hands, lets Andy haul herself up. "Hi," he tells her. In the bathtub, Sophie's busy measuring her feet against Charlie's, curling her toes over top to prove she's bigger.
"Hi." His jacket is still cold to the touch. When Andy leans in, his neck smells like snow. "Fun fact: I'm now so pregnant I can no longer put things on my lap." She squeezes Ruby's knees where they grip his sides, prompting a bright giggle. Ruby's legs are trashed right now--Andy can't figure out how she keeps getting bruised through her hockey pads.
Sam reaches around to rub at her back, right on the spot that's always sore. "What kind of things are we talking about here? Everyday household items?" It's an old code--once upon a time Ruby asked Oliver how she was born; he told her she came with the blender.
"Toasters, coffee makers. The odd crockpot." Andy leans into his touch like a reflex, plucks at his collar a bit. Glances at the babies in the tub. "Two minutes 'til shampoo, crockpots."
"You guys are weird," Ruby pronounces, wriggles until Sam gets the message and lets her down. All three of their kids have bright neon toenails, at the moment; Traci did them last time she babysat.
"Totally strange," he agrees. Then, looking at Andy as he shrugs out of his coat: "You feel okay? You want me to take over here?"
"Nah." Andy smiles. Sometimes she thinks about the first day she ever met Sam, greasy black hair and a sprint down an alleyway. He's sort of a stupidly good dad. "We're almost done."
"No soap in my eyes!" Sophie crows from the water. She's got this knack for acting like she's not listening when she totally is that Sam swears she got from Andy.
"No soap," Andy agrees. She remembers her dad slinging around Johnson and Johnson's No More Tears in the first months after her mom left, half the bottle dumped over her head, and seriously--that crap lied.
While she fishes the rinsing cup out of their giant shower bin, Sam leads Ruby off for storytime (he makes it up off the top of his head, a new one every night--it's a pretty freakish talent, honestly). Ruby has a big-girl bed now, and a room down the end of the hall away from the babies. Her feet barely reach halfway down the mattress.
"Come in for goodnights," she calls as she goes, as if Andy needs the reminding (and she means 'goodnights', as in plural, as in more than one--when she was clingy and certain they were going to die, Sam and Andy had to drag bedtime out into this long and involved production, a call of 'goodnight' for every step out of the room. It stuck, which more or less means that bedtime in the Swarek-McNally household consists of various family members screaming at each other. Sophie's really into it.)
Andy gets both babies dried off and into their pajamas, lifts their pudgy starfish hands to her middle so they can feel Elliot move. (They found out ahead of time with all their kids, she and Sam did, what they were having-- "It's a surprise either way," Andy always argued, plus she liked the idea of calling them by name while they were still inside of her. She remembers sitting in the truck in the parking garage of the hospital right after they found out Ruby was going to be Ruby, both of them due on shift in an hour and the tiny glug of her baby heartbeat still echoing inside Andy's head. "Is that--" she started, her palm on top of Sam's across her belly. He touched her constantly all the way through that first pregnancy, like he couldn't totally believe it was real. "I mean. Were you hoping for a boy?"
"I was hoping for a girl," he told her, no hesitation, and the way he said it Andy believed him right away.)
"Hey there," he tells her now, both of them leaning against the wall in the hallway once everyone's been kissed and storied and the shouting has died down. She can hear Charlie and Sophie jabbering quietly to each other in the half-dark, the mostly-unintelligible twinspeak they invented when they were babies and then resolutely refused to unlearn. For a while Andy legit worried they'd never switch to actual English.
She smiles, yawns. "Hi."
"So no more lap-sitting, huh?" Sam leans in and slides a hand across her stretched-out t-shirt. For every pregnancy, Andy's point-blank refused to stop wearing her jeans; she's carrying higher this time, so it's pretty easy. If Sam thinks those giant maternity muumuus look so comfortable then he can wear them to the supermarket, is more or less her thinking.
"Mmhmm. Plus, you know, broccoli was a main component of dinner. I'm pretty sure that was the last straw."
"I'm shocked the neighbours didn't call in a domestic." His hands are stupidly warm. Andy leans her head back against the wall, tilts her chin up so he'll kiss her hello properly. He's been touchy all through this pregnancy too, maybe because it's the last one (Andy swore she was done after Charlie--Sam found her in the bathroom crying, pregnancy test in hand and Sophie barely a month old in her crib. But then everyone was walking and mostly potty-trained and Charlie said his first compound sentence and suddenly Andy was crawling on top of Sam in the dark, all "let's have another baby".
She hasn't regretted it once).
"Mm." Andy arches into his touch as he kisses her, palms sliding up along her rib cage. One thing about being this pregnant is that her boobs are basically huge. "Did you eat?" she asks him. They only have dinner together as a family once or twice a week, which Andy sort of worries is going to turn their kids into serial killers, but what can you do.
"Uh-huh. In the car with Ollie." Sam licks his way into her mouth until she can taste the chewing gum he must have been working at earlier on, that minty bite behind his teeth. "Did you?"
Andy smiles. "Yes, mom." For the record, her eating habits have improved, like, tremendously since they had Ruby: a good example, right, not to mention that pregnancy has not generally been the Fritos and ice cream extravaganza she once imagined it would be. With Soph it was basically all Cheerios and banana just to keep from ralphing all over the cruiser.
"Just making sure." Sam gets a little closer, slicks kisses down her jaw and over the pulse point in her neck--and yeah, that is definitely not a let me feel our unborn child kicking kind of touch.
Andy hmms at him, lets her head loll back as his hands round the bases from PG-13 to R. Her breath goes embarrassingly hiccupy when he hits her inseam. "Maybe we should, like--move this party somewhere else?"
Another thing about pregnancy: it makes her hormones go crazy. And, like, not a the kittens in the Cottonelle commercials make me cry kind of crazy either. First trimester is always gross and pukey, sure, especially with Soph, but second?
(Three, four weeks ago, biting her lip to stay quiet while Sam worked a hand down her dress blues in interrogation one, which--
Not even when they were first together and doing it on every available surface did they try that.)
Second is pretty interesting, basically.
"Uh-huh," Sam murmurs now, pulling his hand out from between her legs long enough to pop the button on her jeans. Andy tries not to sigh too audibly--she's wearing the damn things, absolutely, but they are tight--but then he's sliding his hand down inside her underwear, and--yeah. It's a different kind of sigh. "Where'd you have in mind?" He's kidding, but only sort of--the other night they fooled around in the pantry for twenty minutes while the kids watched Aladdin in the other room.
(Hormones, okay? Hormones. She is growing a person in there.)
"Shut up." Andy pulls his hand out of her jeans, tugs him down the hall towards their bedroom. Their house is pretty small--too small, probably, now that there are going to be six of them (six, jesus christ, every time she thinks about it like that she boggles a little). They could afford something bigger, if they really wanted; Andy made detective right around the time Ruby started talking, and it's not like they go on a lot of vacations or drive fancy cars or have secret online shopping addictions or anything. Still, they've been in this house seven years now, which is the longest Andy's lived in one place her whole entire life. They can make do with only one bathroom for a little while yet. "Bed."
"Mm-hmm." Sam lays her down across it more gently than he normally would, pre-person growing (although, okay, four kids in seven years--it honestly feels like they've been having more pregnancy sex than not). "There you go," he tells her, dragging her jeans down her legs. Andy squirms around so he can do her stretched-out maternity underwear too. "He's quiet tonight," Sam remarks, sliding a hand over the curve of her stomach. Andy presses herself up into it, lets him rub along the angry red line her jeans have made. It's fainter than it could be, the skin of her belly stretched drum-tight.
"He was being a pill earlier." Sam's hand slips lower and she makes a soft sound. "He doesn't like the sound of the dryer, I swear. He kicks up a storm every time."
Sam bends down to press a wet kiss on the line that runs down from Andy's bellybutton (linea nigra, according to the baby book they got with Ruby, which makes Andy feel like a land mass or a ship; it's shown up for every pregnancy but Charlie's). "He can see light now, right?"
"Uh-huh. Knows your voice, too." Andy threads her fingers through his hair as his mouth slips lower, one leg coming up like a reflex to hug the warm side of his body. "Sam. Sam," she says again, nudging at his shoulder with one stubbly knee. "Door locked?"
(Three kids so far and they've only ever been walked in on once, a few months back when Soph was climbing out of bed every chance she got. They were still mostly dressed, thank Christ, Andy's nightshirt long enough to cover and both of them too tired for anything super-incriminating; still, they figured a new doorknob was cheaper than years of therapy, and Sam switched it out the next day.)
"Mm-hmm," he tells her now, vibration traveling from the inside of her thigh and all the way up her spine. Andy shivers a bit. "Relax." Even in the dark she can see the lumpy pile of laundry on the dresser, this morning's coffee cup resting on top of the TV. Not that she and Sam ever had much of a moonlight-and-roses thing happening; still, this is about as romantic as it ever gets these days. Andy wouldn't trade it.
"I'm relaxed." She is, mostly, coming down off of what feels like an absurdly long day. Kids are tiring, this full-body ache that never fails to remind her of being fifteen and picking up extra cash through babysitting--like, no matter how long she has actively been a mother, that's what she keeps flashing back to. She used to chase them around the house until they literally dropped from exhaustion.
Sam sucks softly at the hollow of her thigh. "Been thinking about this all shift." He adds a little teeth, smoothing a hand along her belly until he can reach the hem of her t-shirt, tugging.
Andy gives him what he's after, skimming the thing up and off. "Oh yeah?" Sam's mouth hits a good spot just as she says it, her voice going all stupid and Marilyn Monroe breathy. Andy bites her lip.
(Although, okay--she's a self-actualized woman and everything, and it's not like she thinks pregnancy is particularly gross (miracle of life, hello), but it's still nice to be reminded Sam still, like, wants her body, so.
That's probably part of it.)
She leaves him to it for a minute or two, liking how warm his breath feels, the way he mouths at her for a while before he opens her up and works a finger inside. She used to think it would get totally boring, being with the same person day after day, year after year, and she guesses for some people it would be. Probably it helps if the person you pick is like, really good at sex.
(Andy's person is.)
She spreads her legs a little further, props herself up a bit so she can reach back and pop the hook on her boring, sensible bra (the Lord giveth a fantastic rack; the Lord taketh away all the cute options for holding it up). Sam runs a hand up her side, rubs at the curve of a breast. Andy whimpers. Half-exhausted or not, though, she missed him today and wants to show him; wants him a little bit at her mercy, the way his mouth drops open when he's close. "Where you going?" he murmurs when she sits up, scoots back on the bed a little. Graceful, she's basically not.
"Shh." She tugs at his shirt 'til he follows her up to the pillows, pulls it off and watches her with interest as she goes for the zipper on his pants. It's not until she tucks her hair behind her ears, though, that Sam's dark eyebrows shoot up: he gets kind of tetchy about letting her do it when she's this pregnant, which strikes her as alternately sweet-slash-old-fashioned and stupid. Mostly stupid, though. It's pretty much guaranteed to make him crazy, which judging by how hard he is already shouldn't be that difficult; not to mention that fact that (and probably she could lose her feminist card for even admitting this) Andy, um. Really does not hate doing it. "Let me."
"Andy..." He's giving her his flash-and-gone grin, the one that's mostly just a baring of teeth. Andy's got him in her hand now, warm and familiar. When she tightens her grip his whole body twitches.
"Come on, Swarek." She tugs until he shucks his jeans, sliding herself up into the pillows a bit more and shoving one of their fussy throw pillows behind her back. "Man up." She's not entirely sure, but she thinks his main issue is the positions they're confined to now. Like. Basically she either has to kneel, or...
"Fuck, Andy." You'd think she was suggesting self-flagellation or something, the way he sounds--still, he's following her lead, planting his hands on the wall, up on his knees over her belly. The first time they tried it like this, way back with Ruby when Andy was horny every minute and couldn't figure out how, exactly, she was supposed to deal with that, her only instructions were, "Don't fall on me." He didn't. But that day to this, it was the loudest she's ever heard him (which for Sam is still not very loud, but uh. It was memorable, is all she's saying here).
She goes easy at first, just gentle, one fist wrapped around the base and thumb of her free hand rubbing along the sharp cliff of his hipbone, palm against the warm smooth skin of his side. Andy smells soap and Sam. She rasps her tongue over the head, sucks a bit the way he's liked from the very beginning--he hisses, hips jerking forward. Andy hums.
"Jesus," Sam mumbles, reaching down to thread the tips of his fingers through the hair at the crown of her head. He rubs at her scalp a little, scratches whisper-light. "Sorry."
Andy laughs--as much as she can, anyway, seeing as her mouth's, uh. Full. "No you're not," she tells him, pulling off and looking up. His chin is tilted down, those serious eyes (he gives good face, is one thing she has to admit about Sam, dark features and those serious eyebrows). "Or if you are, you really shouldn't be." She slides her hand over his belly and up across his chest to feel his heart, then hooks both her arms up over her head, lazy. Drops her jaw a bit and waits.
"Sweetheart..." The hand in her hair tightens a bit, this half-involuntary clutch and pull, but that's it. Never mind your standard vanilla blow jobs, Sam's even tetchier about this while she's pregnant. But you know what, whatever--Andy's growing a person and she's not so much interested in fussing around with technique right now. Besides: he's gonna lose it any minute, she can tell by the twitch in his thighs.
"Shh, I've got you." Andy slides her mouth across the head, sloppy. When Sam doesn't take the bait, she huffs out a breath and rolls her eyes. "Look, fine, be all weird and prudish if you want, but I'm just saying--" She licks a broad stripe up the underside of his cock. "Last baby, last chance to have kinky sex with a pregnant lady..."
Sam laughs. "Shut up." Still, he slides his hand forward so he can feel when she drops her jaw this time.
Andy hums again, a little smug. Presses the side of her face against his palm as she swallows him down. She'll never forget the look on Sam's face the first time she did this--that night at the Alpine Inn and how serious everything felt between them from the very beginning, how warm his skin was in the cold air of the cover apartment and his eyes gone so dark they were almost black. It made her feel weirdly powerful, to be wanted so badly. That Sam of all people was the one doing the wanting.
(She thinks her body knew before the rest of her, if that's possible. That whatever was happening here was a big event.)
Now she rubs up the back of his thigh, palms the hard pack of muscle--whatever, it's just science, Sam has a truly fantastic ass. She tugs a little, gets him as deep as she can until it's almost-but-not-quite uncomfortable. Then she tugs a little bit more.
"Okay," Sam says, gasping, that half-cough he lets out when he can't totally get his breath. "Okay, okay, jesus." He pulls back and slides off her, runs a hand over the curve of her breast and across the round expanse of her belly. Nudges at her hip with one urgent knee. "On your side?"
"Uh-huh," Andy agrees, although then she takes her sweet time about doing it. Partly to tease him, how ridiculously wound up he is, but also because yeah, her mobility right now? Not so hot. Getting in and out of bed, getting up from chairs, bending over--all of them require a precise series of movements that basically amount to Andy heaving her giant-ass stomach in a direction and hoping. Her freaking center of gravity has changed here, people.
Sam helps, hands steady on her back and thighs as she rolls. He fits himself in behind her, laughing when she pushes her ass back and nearly upends them. "Easy, sweetheart." They sleep like this too most nights, an entire nest of pillows wedged in around Andy's front for support. She always tries to roll over anyways, wakes up squashing Sam's shoulder.
"Hey, remember when we had super athletic sex?" Andy scissors her leg back over both of his. She should be more careful probably, but she really, really wants this. "That was fun, huh?"
"It was," Sam agrees quietly. His breath against the curve of her neck sends goosebumps all down her spine. He reaches between her legs from behind, rubs a bit to make sure she's good and wet. Slips one gentle finger inside. Andy gasps. She grinds back against him again, harder this time; Sam groans low and quiet into her ear. "This is fun too."
Andy tilts her face up to get at his mouth and misses, teeth scraping over the stubble on his jaw. "True story," she admits, voice muffled against his skin. She takes another sharp breath as he adds another finger, then twists; Sam's body is warm and hard behind her, free hand coming up to rake through her hair. "But as soon as this baby's born I'm taking up like, yoga or something. "
Sam huffs a laugh into her hairline. "That so?"
“Mm-hmm." She reaches back and hooks her hand around the back of his neck, pulls him down to kiss for real. She can taste herself, just faintly, inside his mouth. "Gonna get real bendy. Blow your mind a little."
"Uh-huh." Sam pulls his fingers out, slow and easy. Andy can feel him lining himself up."You're blowin' my mind right now, sweetheart."
"That's because you're like, super easy," she pants. He's right there, and it's making her a bit crazy. "But I have--shit--standards to maintain here." She means to be firm but her voice goes all breathy in the middle, just the tip slipping in like he's trying to tease. It feels as if every muscle below her waist clenches in on itself. "Oh god, Sam, please."
He makes a noise at the 'please', their faces muscled close enough together that Andy can taste it. "Just like that," he tells her, rocking his hips. There's one smooth stretch and then he's inside, slippery deep. Andy mashes the knuckles of her free hand into her mouth to stifle a groan. They're hardly ever loud anymore--Andy learned the trick of coming in complete silence when Ruby was around two--but it's not so much something she can control right now, this worked up and pregnant.
"Good," she gulps at the inquisitive fingers Sam runs over her clit. Sometimes she can't bear to be touched directly, overly sensitive or whatever, but at the moment everything feels easy and fine.
Sam grabs her hand and drags it down anyway, lets her set the pressure and the pace. Andy sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. It's always been a thing she likes, both of them working her over together, but right now--jesus. She's a little desperate for it, is the truth, the build in her spine and that slightly helpless feeling she has almost all the time lately, like she's basically just at the mercy of her body, only dialed up to about eleven. She slides her fingers back a bit further, right where they're connected; Sam hisses, breath warm against her ear.
"You're perfect, you know that?" he tells her quietly, and oh, he is pulling out the big guns now, okay. It's pretty embarrassing how much she still likes to hear him say all this ridiculous idiotic nonsense. He hitches her back against him, is holding her so tight. "You're fucking beautiful like this."
"Sa-am," she whines--although okay, it's definitely not the kind of whine that means stop, this isn't working, I don't love the sound of your voice. She turns her head and presses her face against his temple, close close close. Squeezes her eyes shut.
"There you go," Sam murmurs. "Right like that, huh?" He adjusts so she's cupping herself just a bit harder, palm into her clit and sharp shards of pleasure in her throat. "Come on, sweetheart, want to see you."
Andy gulps down a desperate noise, lips buzzing against the curve of his jaw. He's rocking gently now, in and out of her slippery unwieldy body and god, she wants to come for him. She wants to come for him so bad. "Sam, gonna--" She tries to arch her spine even though there's no way. Helpless; yeah. It's like her orgasm is something that happens outside of herself, the way she can't even move properly to accommodate it.
Sam can, though. He sees what she's after and bends her leg back over his just as the first wave hits, this lovely stretch that has her whimpering again. Sam kisses her to swallow the sound.
"Good girl," he murmurs, fingers flexing around the muscles in her thigh; Andy can feel the warm metal of his wedding ring against her skin. His breathing's gone ragged, gasping a bit every time they come up for air. "That's it. You're so good, Andy."
(It feels good, jesus, it feels so fucking good, hard and overwhelming and bright all the way down to the tips of her fingers. Andy sinks her teeth into Sam's bottom lip, hangs on.)
"Need that?" he asks as she comes down a minute later, opening her eyes into the darkness and bumping her nose against his cheek. Basically the only thing Andy can do is sigh. She did need that, she guesses, long days and an aching back and how much she just plain likes to be close to him, everything solid and safe.
"Mm-hmm," she manages finally, starting to push back against him a little, meeting him stroke for shallow stroke. Her whole body feels heavy and loose. He's still crazy hard inside her though, all this thick hot pressure; Andy squeezes for a second, listens for his groan. She knows he'd probably be fine to finish like this but she wants to draw it out for him a little bit longer, make it better. Wants to be able to watch him full-on when he comes. "On your back, sailor."
Sam raises his eyebrows at her in the dark, this movement Andy can barely make out. "Yes, ma'am," he says with a grin, something he started calling her after she made detective. He wasn't crazy about it at first--like, at all--for a lot of stupid, manful reasons Andy should object to a lot more than she actually does, but after everything settled down the new power dynamic had some, um, interesting effects on their sex life.
She isn't graceful about climbing on top of him. Still, Sam doesn't really seem to mind, palming her thighs and belly and watching her face a with single-minded concentration that always makes Andy's heart do stupid fluttery stuff. "Yeah?" she asks, reaching a hand around to guide him back inside. She can get him deep like this, not like when they were lying on their sides.
"Yeah." Sam sounds breathless and choked. He groans when she bottoms out, stomach muscles twitching.
Andy drags one of his hands up so she can suck on his fingers a bit, mimic what she was doing earlier. Sam closes his eyes against the sight, then opens them again right away like he can't make up his mind. Andy grins around his knuckles. "You need it too, huh?" she asks, feeling powerful. "How bad?"
Sam makes another wordless, frustrated sound, all restless hips and his free hand gripping Andy's side to keep her close. (She's got stretch marks on her skin there, a good number. They used to bother her more than they do now.) He pushes down on her tongue a bit, fingertip scraping along the edges of her teeth. "Andy."
"Uh-uh," she says, pulling a bit more than halfway up off him and staying there, a burn in the muscles in her thighs. "Gotta tell me how bad."
Sam lets out a noisy breath. A lot of times when she teases him like this he'll just take control and flip her, pin her arms above her head and hitch her leg up good and high around his waist. Right now he's sort of helpless underneath her though, that look on his face like he knows he needs to be careful and really, really doesn't want to. Andy grins. Part of her feels a little guilty, like she's got an unfair advantage; then she remembers the night when they were first together when he made her tell him every single thing she wanted him to do--like, everything, using words--and she doesn't feel so bad anymore.
"Andy, sweetheart," he says again; he's got his head pushed back into the pillow, the jut of his Adam's apple and a day's worth of stubble on his chin. "Please."
"Please, what?" she prods, dropping down another half-inch. He's honest-to-god pretty like this, watching her through those stupidly long eyelashes--every single one of their kids has them, especially Charlie, genetic lottery winners all three. "If you won't tell me how bad, then you gotta tell me how."
"Jesus." Sam more or less mouths it, pulling his fingers out from between her teeth so he can get both hands on her hips. Andy slurps deliberately as he withdraws them, which makes his hips roll up again. He doesn't pull her down onto him though, or even push up with any kind of force. He is so very, very careful. "Okay, you win." He's half-laughing, half-groaning, eyes rolled back to stare at the headboard. "Please, please fuck me." He's trying to make it a joke but there's real desperation behind the words; everything below Andy's waist clenches in response.
"Since you asked so nicely," she tells him, dropping down the rest of the way. She squeezes hard for good measure, has the pleasure of watching a groan fight its way out of Sam's throat--unmodulated, like the old days before they had to be quiet. Andy'd shush him, except for the fact that she really, really wants to hear.
He sounds close and familiar and god, she really does love him so stupidly much, more and more the older they get and the more stuff that happens to them, on and on. Andy fucks him just like he asked. She leans as far forward as she can with her belly as big as it is, Sam's hands steadying around her waist and her fingers hooked over the headboard; it's not far but it gets the job done, his whole body going taut as he comes. His grip tightens, rhythmic. Andy murmurs nonsense until he's through.
(She basically wanted to high-five herself the first time she ever got Sam Swarek to lose his shit like that, honestly. It's not a feeling that has ever really passed.)
Andy likes to sprawl out all over him when they're finished, normally, face buried in his neck and his knuckles trailing up and down her spine. She used to think that was kind of gross, all that touching afterward, everybody all sweaty and what have you; turns out she got over that pretty quick. It's not so much an option at the moment, though, so she basically just hauls her big self off him once their breathing steadies, makes it onto her back and scoots over so she's close as she can manage. Sam props himself up on one elbow to look.
"I love you," he tells her after a minute, easy and serious all at once. He gets like that when she's pregnant sometimes, her giant belly turning everything between them oddly sacred. Andy murmurs it back, the weight of the kid pressing down on her spine (another thing she used to think was weird until she didn't: the staring). It's a nice moment until Sam slides a hand over her stomach and the baby starts attacking it immediately.
"Changes in light, huh?" Sam asks, half-laughing as she oofs--and seriously, screw hockey, this kid should be in football or soccer. "Time to sleep, buddy," he tells her navel, that gentle voice he uses with all their kids. The baby doesn't listen. Sam rubs his palm in soothing circles as if he can polish the tiny kicking feet into stillness.
"I swear, it's like he hates down time or something," Andy says, craning her neck to watch. It's weird, honestly, like something straight out of Alien. It freaked the shit out of her when she was pregnant with Ruby ("But what if I'm giving birth to like, Damian or something?" she whined to Traci, who resolutely refused to google demon pregnancies on her phone). Sam, of course, had loved it.
"Either that or he's nocturnal," Sam points out now, still rubbing. It feels like the baby's feet are chasing his hand.
"Don't even joke." Andy reaches up and laces her fingers with Sam's on top of her middle, tucks her other arm up behind her head; after another minute she feels the baby start to calm down, his movements getting slower and less forceful. She can feel herself getting sleepier, too, this warm sated heaviness--she meant to run the dishwasher and make lunches for tomorrow, but that's definitely going to have to wait for the morning. Sam sifts his free hand through her hair.
"There he goes," he murmurs when Elliot's little fish body relaxes. He bumps his nose against her temple, plants a kiss there. "There you go, buddy."
"We jostled him," Andy mumbles, tucking her head underneath Sam's chin. She'll roll over in a minute, shove a pillow between her knees, but for right now this feels surprisingly comfortable. Their hands are still linked loosely across her stomach, safe and sound. "He was pissed."
She feels Sam's smile more than she sees it, her eyes closed and all three of them quieting down for the night, slow and easy. The baby flips over once more, then goes still. "He's fine," Sam promises softly. "He's perfect." Andy hums her agreement into the dark.
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 6700+
Summary: The one where she’s hugely pregnant.
Author's note: Featuring all four imaginary Swarek-McNally children!
Monday night Charlie stages a nonviolent protest and, very calmly, refuses to eat a single bite of his dinner.
"Come on, dude," Andy tells him, ready to bargain. Both his big sisters are already done and watching a DVD inside. "Just a little. Two bites."
Charlie shakes his dark head, stubborn. He's got his sea turtle shirt on, which is his favorite. "Uh-uh."
Andy sighs, leaning up against the counter; her back hurts. And okay, yeah, it's dino nuggets and frozen broc, it's probably not so delicious, but unlike Ruby and Soph Charlie's never given her a problem about it before (Andy thinks that's one of the hardest things about being a mom, actually--telling them they have to do shit that, if she were them, she totally would not want to do. Like: naps are boring. Sophie is correct).
"Well, you gotta eat something." Andy cringes a bit before she continues. She hates making this offer, she thinks it makes for spoiled, bratty kids, but: desperate times. "You want me to fix you something else?"
Charlie's not buying; he eyes her coolly across the table like he's willing to sit here all night. "Nope."
"Charlie." Andy leans forward, rubs at the base of her spine. She actually thinks he's ornery for reasons that have nothing to do with what sinister green veg might or might not be lurking on his plate, not the least of which is that today was the first day since he was born that he was legit too big to sit on her lap. So. That sucked. It wasn't even about him, either--Charlie's a peanut, has been since he came into the world three years ago and almost a month before he was supposed to. Andy, on the other hand, is twenty-nine weeks pregnant and resembles nothing so much as a beluga fucking whale.
So, more accurately: today was the first day since Charlie was born that Andy was too big for him to sit on her lap.
It was never a problem with any of the other kids, weirdly; Ruby was a daddy's girl anyway, and god knows Charlie and Soph were born close enough together that it was never going to be an issue. Andy mostly just propped Sophie up on her belly, actually, which was pretty great for hands-free feeding (what was not so great: the looks she got from other mothers in the park. Like, hello, she knew she was a walking advertisement for birth control, okay? There was no need for all that staring.)
Andy shuffles over to the table, lowers herself into the chair next to Charlie's. He deliberately turns his head the other way, which is 100% a move he learned from Sophie. Andy sighs. "All right, dude, if you aren't going to eat, you aren't going to eat. But no snacks later, okay?" Charlie peeks through his eyelashes at her, sideways. "Now, I'm just going to the bathroom," Andy continues, shoving herself to her feet. "Don't touch that plate while I'm gone."
She waits in the hallway for a count of one hundred. When she comes back Charlie's still sitting there with his skinny shoulders raised, like a very tiny con in lockup. There are two less dino nuggets on the plate.
(It's an old trick of her mom's, honestly. As soon as Andy had kids all this stuff just started falling out of her mouth, nicknames and sayings and recipes for wieners and beans. She always thought her dad would be the one she'd copy, but there it is.)
She hears Sam's key in the lock while she's got the two littlest in the bathtub, Ruby sitting cross-legged on the closed toilet seat reading aloud from Maurice Sendak. Her nightgown is stretched out over her seven-year-old knees. "Daddy's home!" she hollers, goes tearing down the stairs at a speed that's truly alarming; Andy catches Sam's hey, Ruby-girl over the splash of the plastic toys in the tub. Frank's got him working days, thank God; Andy's picking up a few mornings a week while her dad's got Sophie and Charlie and Ruby's in school, but she's too enormous to do much of anything besides sit behind a desk and answer phones.
(She'd be lying if she said it didn't wear on her. She loves her kids more than her life, but it does.)
"Oh good, you're home," she says, when he turns up in the bathroom doorway, still in his jacket and Ruby's arms wound-monkey-tight around his neck (Daddy's girl, definitely, dark eyes and all). Andy grins at him a little, that vaguely shocked, happy look he sometimes gets at the sight of all of them in one place. "I'm going to need some help standing up."
Ruby starts shifting obligingly into a piggy-back position before Andy even finishes speaking (it's possible they've had to do this during more than one pregnancy--Ruby at ages three through five was all wide eyes and graspy fingers, convinced the both of them were going to die in a firefight). Sam smiles and holds out his hands, lets Andy haul herself up. "Hi," he tells her. In the bathtub, Sophie's busy measuring her feet against Charlie's, curling her toes over top to prove she's bigger.
"Hi." His jacket is still cold to the touch. When Andy leans in, his neck smells like snow. "Fun fact: I'm now so pregnant I can no longer put things on my lap." She squeezes Ruby's knees where they grip his sides, prompting a bright giggle. Ruby's legs are trashed right now--Andy can't figure out how she keeps getting bruised through her hockey pads.
Sam reaches around to rub at her back, right on the spot that's always sore. "What kind of things are we talking about here? Everyday household items?" It's an old code--once upon a time Ruby asked Oliver how she was born; he told her she came with the blender.
"Toasters, coffee makers. The odd crockpot." Andy leans into his touch like a reflex, plucks at his collar a bit. Glances at the babies in the tub. "Two minutes 'til shampoo, crockpots."
"You guys are weird," Ruby pronounces, wriggles until Sam gets the message and lets her down. All three of their kids have bright neon toenails, at the moment; Traci did them last time she babysat.
"Totally strange," he agrees. Then, looking at Andy as he shrugs out of his coat: "You feel okay? You want me to take over here?"
"Nah." Andy smiles. Sometimes she thinks about the first day she ever met Sam, greasy black hair and a sprint down an alleyway. He's sort of a stupidly good dad. "We're almost done."
"No soap in my eyes!" Sophie crows from the water. She's got this knack for acting like she's not listening when she totally is that Sam swears she got from Andy.
"No soap," Andy agrees. She remembers her dad slinging around Johnson and Johnson's No More Tears in the first months after her mom left, half the bottle dumped over her head, and seriously--that crap lied.
While she fishes the rinsing cup out of their giant shower bin, Sam leads Ruby off for storytime (he makes it up off the top of his head, a new one every night--it's a pretty freakish talent, honestly). Ruby has a big-girl bed now, and a room down the end of the hall away from the babies. Her feet barely reach halfway down the mattress.
"Come in for goodnights," she calls as she goes, as if Andy needs the reminding (and she means 'goodnights', as in plural, as in more than one--when she was clingy and certain they were going to die, Sam and Andy had to drag bedtime out into this long and involved production, a call of 'goodnight' for every step out of the room. It stuck, which more or less means that bedtime in the Swarek-McNally household consists of various family members screaming at each other. Sophie's really into it.)
Andy gets both babies dried off and into their pajamas, lifts their pudgy starfish hands to her middle so they can feel Elliot move. (They found out ahead of time with all their kids, she and Sam did, what they were having-- "It's a surprise either way," Andy always argued, plus she liked the idea of calling them by name while they were still inside of her. She remembers sitting in the truck in the parking garage of the hospital right after they found out Ruby was going to be Ruby, both of them due on shift in an hour and the tiny glug of her baby heartbeat still echoing inside Andy's head. "Is that--" she started, her palm on top of Sam's across her belly. He touched her constantly all the way through that first pregnancy, like he couldn't totally believe it was real. "I mean. Were you hoping for a boy?"
"I was hoping for a girl," he told her, no hesitation, and the way he said it Andy believed him right away.)
"Hey there," he tells her now, both of them leaning against the wall in the hallway once everyone's been kissed and storied and the shouting has died down. She can hear Charlie and Sophie jabbering quietly to each other in the half-dark, the mostly-unintelligible twinspeak they invented when they were babies and then resolutely refused to unlearn. For a while Andy legit worried they'd never switch to actual English.
She smiles, yawns. "Hi."
"So no more lap-sitting, huh?" Sam leans in and slides a hand across her stretched-out t-shirt. For every pregnancy, Andy's point-blank refused to stop wearing her jeans; she's carrying higher this time, so it's pretty easy. If Sam thinks those giant maternity muumuus look so comfortable then he can wear them to the supermarket, is more or less her thinking.
"Mmhmm. Plus, you know, broccoli was a main component of dinner. I'm pretty sure that was the last straw."
"I'm shocked the neighbours didn't call in a domestic." His hands are stupidly warm. Andy leans her head back against the wall, tilts her chin up so he'll kiss her hello properly. He's been touchy all through this pregnancy too, maybe because it's the last one (Andy swore she was done after Charlie--Sam found her in the bathroom crying, pregnancy test in hand and Sophie barely a month old in her crib. But then everyone was walking and mostly potty-trained and Charlie said his first compound sentence and suddenly Andy was crawling on top of Sam in the dark, all "let's have another baby".
She hasn't regretted it once).
"Mm." Andy arches into his touch as he kisses her, palms sliding up along her rib cage. One thing about being this pregnant is that her boobs are basically huge. "Did you eat?" she asks him. They only have dinner together as a family once or twice a week, which Andy sort of worries is going to turn their kids into serial killers, but what can you do.
"Uh-huh. In the car with Ollie." Sam licks his way into her mouth until she can taste the chewing gum he must have been working at earlier on, that minty bite behind his teeth. "Did you?"
Andy smiles. "Yes, mom." For the record, her eating habits have improved, like, tremendously since they had Ruby: a good example, right, not to mention that pregnancy has not generally been the Fritos and ice cream extravaganza she once imagined it would be. With Soph it was basically all Cheerios and banana just to keep from ralphing all over the cruiser.
"Just making sure." Sam gets a little closer, slicks kisses down her jaw and over the pulse point in her neck--and yeah, that is definitely not a let me feel our unborn child kicking kind of touch.
Andy hmms at him, lets her head loll back as his hands round the bases from PG-13 to R. Her breath goes embarrassingly hiccupy when he hits her inseam. "Maybe we should, like--move this party somewhere else?"
Another thing about pregnancy: it makes her hormones go crazy. And, like, not a the kittens in the Cottonelle commercials make me cry kind of crazy either. First trimester is always gross and pukey, sure, especially with Soph, but second?
(Three, four weeks ago, biting her lip to stay quiet while Sam worked a hand down her dress blues in interrogation one, which--
Not even when they were first together and doing it on every available surface did they try that.)
Second is pretty interesting, basically.
"Uh-huh," Sam murmurs now, pulling his hand out from between her legs long enough to pop the button on her jeans. Andy tries not to sigh too audibly--she's wearing the damn things, absolutely, but they are tight--but then he's sliding his hand down inside her underwear, and--yeah. It's a different kind of sigh. "Where'd you have in mind?" He's kidding, but only sort of--the other night they fooled around in the pantry for twenty minutes while the kids watched Aladdin in the other room.
(Hormones, okay? Hormones. She is growing a person in there.)
"Shut up." Andy pulls his hand out of her jeans, tugs him down the hall towards their bedroom. Their house is pretty small--too small, probably, now that there are going to be six of them (six, jesus christ, every time she thinks about it like that she boggles a little). They could afford something bigger, if they really wanted; Andy made detective right around the time Ruby started talking, and it's not like they go on a lot of vacations or drive fancy cars or have secret online shopping addictions or anything. Still, they've been in this house seven years now, which is the longest Andy's lived in one place her whole entire life. They can make do with only one bathroom for a little while yet. "Bed."
"Mm-hmm." Sam lays her down across it more gently than he normally would, pre-person growing (although, okay, four kids in seven years--it honestly feels like they've been having more pregnancy sex than not). "There you go," he tells her, dragging her jeans down her legs. Andy squirms around so he can do her stretched-out maternity underwear too. "He's quiet tonight," Sam remarks, sliding a hand over the curve of her stomach. Andy presses herself up into it, lets him rub along the angry red line her jeans have made. It's fainter than it could be, the skin of her belly stretched drum-tight.
"He was being a pill earlier." Sam's hand slips lower and she makes a soft sound. "He doesn't like the sound of the dryer, I swear. He kicks up a storm every time."
Sam bends down to press a wet kiss on the line that runs down from Andy's bellybutton (linea nigra, according to the baby book they got with Ruby, which makes Andy feel like a land mass or a ship; it's shown up for every pregnancy but Charlie's). "He can see light now, right?"
"Uh-huh. Knows your voice, too." Andy threads her fingers through his hair as his mouth slips lower, one leg coming up like a reflex to hug the warm side of his body. "Sam. Sam," she says again, nudging at his shoulder with one stubbly knee. "Door locked?"
(Three kids so far and they've only ever been walked in on once, a few months back when Soph was climbing out of bed every chance she got. They were still mostly dressed, thank Christ, Andy's nightshirt long enough to cover and both of them too tired for anything super-incriminating; still, they figured a new doorknob was cheaper than years of therapy, and Sam switched it out the next day.)
"Mm-hmm," he tells her now, vibration traveling from the inside of her thigh and all the way up her spine. Andy shivers a bit. "Relax." Even in the dark she can see the lumpy pile of laundry on the dresser, this morning's coffee cup resting on top of the TV. Not that she and Sam ever had much of a moonlight-and-roses thing happening; still, this is about as romantic as it ever gets these days. Andy wouldn't trade it.
"I'm relaxed." She is, mostly, coming down off of what feels like an absurdly long day. Kids are tiring, this full-body ache that never fails to remind her of being fifteen and picking up extra cash through babysitting--like, no matter how long she has actively been a mother, that's what she keeps flashing back to. She used to chase them around the house until they literally dropped from exhaustion.
Sam sucks softly at the hollow of her thigh. "Been thinking about this all shift." He adds a little teeth, smoothing a hand along her belly until he can reach the hem of her t-shirt, tugging.
Andy gives him what he's after, skimming the thing up and off. "Oh yeah?" Sam's mouth hits a good spot just as she says it, her voice going all stupid and Marilyn Monroe breathy. Andy bites her lip.
(Although, okay--she's a self-actualized woman and everything, and it's not like she thinks pregnancy is particularly gross (miracle of life, hello), but it's still nice to be reminded Sam still, like, wants her body, so.
That's probably part of it.)
She leaves him to it for a minute or two, liking how warm his breath feels, the way he mouths at her for a while before he opens her up and works a finger inside. She used to think it would get totally boring, being with the same person day after day, year after year, and she guesses for some people it would be. Probably it helps if the person you pick is like, really good at sex.
(Andy's person is.)
She spreads her legs a little further, props herself up a bit so she can reach back and pop the hook on her boring, sensible bra (the Lord giveth a fantastic rack; the Lord taketh away all the cute options for holding it up). Sam runs a hand up her side, rubs at the curve of a breast. Andy whimpers. Half-exhausted or not, though, she missed him today and wants to show him; wants him a little bit at her mercy, the way his mouth drops open when he's close. "Where you going?" he murmurs when she sits up, scoots back on the bed a little. Graceful, she's basically not.
"Shh." She tugs at his shirt 'til he follows her up to the pillows, pulls it off and watches her with interest as she goes for the zipper on his pants. It's not until she tucks her hair behind her ears, though, that Sam's dark eyebrows shoot up: he gets kind of tetchy about letting her do it when she's this pregnant, which strikes her as alternately sweet-slash-old-fashioned and stupid. Mostly stupid, though. It's pretty much guaranteed to make him crazy, which judging by how hard he is already shouldn't be that difficult; not to mention that fact that (and probably she could lose her feminist card for even admitting this) Andy, um. Really does not hate doing it. "Let me."
"Andy..." He's giving her his flash-and-gone grin, the one that's mostly just a baring of teeth. Andy's got him in her hand now, warm and familiar. When she tightens her grip his whole body twitches.
"Come on, Swarek." She tugs until he shucks his jeans, sliding herself up into the pillows a bit more and shoving one of their fussy throw pillows behind her back. "Man up." She's not entirely sure, but she thinks his main issue is the positions they're confined to now. Like. Basically she either has to kneel, or...
"Fuck, Andy." You'd think she was suggesting self-flagellation or something, the way he sounds--still, he's following her lead, planting his hands on the wall, up on his knees over her belly. The first time they tried it like this, way back with Ruby when Andy was horny every minute and couldn't figure out how, exactly, she was supposed to deal with that, her only instructions were, "Don't fall on me." He didn't. But that day to this, it was the loudest she's ever heard him (which for Sam is still not very loud, but uh. It was memorable, is all she's saying here).
She goes easy at first, just gentle, one fist wrapped around the base and thumb of her free hand rubbing along the sharp cliff of his hipbone, palm against the warm smooth skin of his side. Andy smells soap and Sam. She rasps her tongue over the head, sucks a bit the way he's liked from the very beginning--he hisses, hips jerking forward. Andy hums.
"Jesus," Sam mumbles, reaching down to thread the tips of his fingers through the hair at the crown of her head. He rubs at her scalp a little, scratches whisper-light. "Sorry."
Andy laughs--as much as she can, anyway, seeing as her mouth's, uh. Full. "No you're not," she tells him, pulling off and looking up. His chin is tilted down, those serious eyes (he gives good face, is one thing she has to admit about Sam, dark features and those serious eyebrows). "Or if you are, you really shouldn't be." She slides her hand over his belly and up across his chest to feel his heart, then hooks both her arms up over her head, lazy. Drops her jaw a bit and waits.
"Sweetheart..." The hand in her hair tightens a bit, this half-involuntary clutch and pull, but that's it. Never mind your standard vanilla blow jobs, Sam's even tetchier about this while she's pregnant. But you know what, whatever--Andy's growing a person and she's not so much interested in fussing around with technique right now. Besides: he's gonna lose it any minute, she can tell by the twitch in his thighs.
"Shh, I've got you." Andy slides her mouth across the head, sloppy. When Sam doesn't take the bait, she huffs out a breath and rolls her eyes. "Look, fine, be all weird and prudish if you want, but I'm just saying--" She licks a broad stripe up the underside of his cock. "Last baby, last chance to have kinky sex with a pregnant lady..."
Sam laughs. "Shut up." Still, he slides his hand forward so he can feel when she drops her jaw this time.
Andy hums again, a little smug. Presses the side of her face against his palm as she swallows him down. She'll never forget the look on Sam's face the first time she did this--that night at the Alpine Inn and how serious everything felt between them from the very beginning, how warm his skin was in the cold air of the cover apartment and his eyes gone so dark they were almost black. It made her feel weirdly powerful, to be wanted so badly. That Sam of all people was the one doing the wanting.
(She thinks her body knew before the rest of her, if that's possible. That whatever was happening here was a big event.)
Now she rubs up the back of his thigh, palms the hard pack of muscle--whatever, it's just science, Sam has a truly fantastic ass. She tugs a little, gets him as deep as she can until it's almost-but-not-quite uncomfortable. Then she tugs a little bit more.
"Okay," Sam says, gasping, that half-cough he lets out when he can't totally get his breath. "Okay, okay, jesus." He pulls back and slides off her, runs a hand over the curve of her breast and across the round expanse of her belly. Nudges at her hip with one urgent knee. "On your side?"
"Uh-huh," Andy agrees, although then she takes her sweet time about doing it. Partly to tease him, how ridiculously wound up he is, but also because yeah, her mobility right now? Not so hot. Getting in and out of bed, getting up from chairs, bending over--all of them require a precise series of movements that basically amount to Andy heaving her giant-ass stomach in a direction and hoping. Her freaking center of gravity has changed here, people.
Sam helps, hands steady on her back and thighs as she rolls. He fits himself in behind her, laughing when she pushes her ass back and nearly upends them. "Easy, sweetheart." They sleep like this too most nights, an entire nest of pillows wedged in around Andy's front for support. She always tries to roll over anyways, wakes up squashing Sam's shoulder.
"Hey, remember when we had super athletic sex?" Andy scissors her leg back over both of his. She should be more careful probably, but she really, really wants this. "That was fun, huh?"
"It was," Sam agrees quietly. His breath against the curve of her neck sends goosebumps all down her spine. He reaches between her legs from behind, rubs a bit to make sure she's good and wet. Slips one gentle finger inside. Andy gasps. She grinds back against him again, harder this time; Sam groans low and quiet into her ear. "This is fun too."
Andy tilts her face up to get at his mouth and misses, teeth scraping over the stubble on his jaw. "True story," she admits, voice muffled against his skin. She takes another sharp breath as he adds another finger, then twists; Sam's body is warm and hard behind her, free hand coming up to rake through her hair. "But as soon as this baby's born I'm taking up like, yoga or something. "
Sam huffs a laugh into her hairline. "That so?"
“Mm-hmm." She reaches back and hooks her hand around the back of his neck, pulls him down to kiss for real. She can taste herself, just faintly, inside his mouth. "Gonna get real bendy. Blow your mind a little."
"Uh-huh." Sam pulls his fingers out, slow and easy. Andy can feel him lining himself up."You're blowin' my mind right now, sweetheart."
"That's because you're like, super easy," she pants. He's right there, and it's making her a bit crazy. "But I have--shit--standards to maintain here." She means to be firm but her voice goes all breathy in the middle, just the tip slipping in like he's trying to tease. It feels as if every muscle below her waist clenches in on itself. "Oh god, Sam, please."
He makes a noise at the 'please', their faces muscled close enough together that Andy can taste it. "Just like that," he tells her, rocking his hips. There's one smooth stretch and then he's inside, slippery deep. Andy mashes the knuckles of her free hand into her mouth to stifle a groan. They're hardly ever loud anymore--Andy learned the trick of coming in complete silence when Ruby was around two--but it's not so much something she can control right now, this worked up and pregnant.
"Good," she gulps at the inquisitive fingers Sam runs over her clit. Sometimes she can't bear to be touched directly, overly sensitive or whatever, but at the moment everything feels easy and fine.
Sam grabs her hand and drags it down anyway, lets her set the pressure and the pace. Andy sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. It's always been a thing she likes, both of them working her over together, but right now--jesus. She's a little desperate for it, is the truth, the build in her spine and that slightly helpless feeling she has almost all the time lately, like she's basically just at the mercy of her body, only dialed up to about eleven. She slides her fingers back a bit further, right where they're connected; Sam hisses, breath warm against her ear.
"You're perfect, you know that?" he tells her quietly, and oh, he is pulling out the big guns now, okay. It's pretty embarrassing how much she still likes to hear him say all this ridiculous idiotic nonsense. He hitches her back against him, is holding her so tight. "You're fucking beautiful like this."
"Sa-am," she whines--although okay, it's definitely not the kind of whine that means stop, this isn't working, I don't love the sound of your voice. She turns her head and presses her face against his temple, close close close. Squeezes her eyes shut.
"There you go," Sam murmurs. "Right like that, huh?" He adjusts so she's cupping herself just a bit harder, palm into her clit and sharp shards of pleasure in her throat. "Come on, sweetheart, want to see you."
Andy gulps down a desperate noise, lips buzzing against the curve of his jaw. He's rocking gently now, in and out of her slippery unwieldy body and god, she wants to come for him. She wants to come for him so bad. "Sam, gonna--" She tries to arch her spine even though there's no way. Helpless; yeah. It's like her orgasm is something that happens outside of herself, the way she can't even move properly to accommodate it.
Sam can, though. He sees what she's after and bends her leg back over his just as the first wave hits, this lovely stretch that has her whimpering again. Sam kisses her to swallow the sound.
"Good girl," he murmurs, fingers flexing around the muscles in her thigh; Andy can feel the warm metal of his wedding ring against her skin. His breathing's gone ragged, gasping a bit every time they come up for air. "That's it. You're so good, Andy."
(It feels good, jesus, it feels so fucking good, hard and overwhelming and bright all the way down to the tips of her fingers. Andy sinks her teeth into Sam's bottom lip, hangs on.)
"Need that?" he asks as she comes down a minute later, opening her eyes into the darkness and bumping her nose against his cheek. Basically the only thing Andy can do is sigh. She did need that, she guesses, long days and an aching back and how much she just plain likes to be close to him, everything solid and safe.
"Mm-hmm," she manages finally, starting to push back against him a little, meeting him stroke for shallow stroke. Her whole body feels heavy and loose. He's still crazy hard inside her though, all this thick hot pressure; Andy squeezes for a second, listens for his groan. She knows he'd probably be fine to finish like this but she wants to draw it out for him a little bit longer, make it better. Wants to be able to watch him full-on when he comes. "On your back, sailor."
Sam raises his eyebrows at her in the dark, this movement Andy can barely make out. "Yes, ma'am," he says with a grin, something he started calling her after she made detective. He wasn't crazy about it at first--like, at all--for a lot of stupid, manful reasons Andy should object to a lot more than she actually does, but after everything settled down the new power dynamic had some, um, interesting effects on their sex life.
She isn't graceful about climbing on top of him. Still, Sam doesn't really seem to mind, palming her thighs and belly and watching her face a with single-minded concentration that always makes Andy's heart do stupid fluttery stuff. "Yeah?" she asks, reaching a hand around to guide him back inside. She can get him deep like this, not like when they were lying on their sides.
"Yeah." Sam sounds breathless and choked. He groans when she bottoms out, stomach muscles twitching.
Andy drags one of his hands up so she can suck on his fingers a bit, mimic what she was doing earlier. Sam closes his eyes against the sight, then opens them again right away like he can't make up his mind. Andy grins around his knuckles. "You need it too, huh?" she asks, feeling powerful. "How bad?"
Sam makes another wordless, frustrated sound, all restless hips and his free hand gripping Andy's side to keep her close. (She's got stretch marks on her skin there, a good number. They used to bother her more than they do now.) He pushes down on her tongue a bit, fingertip scraping along the edges of her teeth. "Andy."
"Uh-uh," she says, pulling a bit more than halfway up off him and staying there, a burn in the muscles in her thighs. "Gotta tell me how bad."
Sam lets out a noisy breath. A lot of times when she teases him like this he'll just take control and flip her, pin her arms above her head and hitch her leg up good and high around his waist. Right now he's sort of helpless underneath her though, that look on his face like he knows he needs to be careful and really, really doesn't want to. Andy grins. Part of her feels a little guilty, like she's got an unfair advantage; then she remembers the night when they were first together when he made her tell him every single thing she wanted him to do--like, everything, using words--and she doesn't feel so bad anymore.
"Andy, sweetheart," he says again; he's got his head pushed back into the pillow, the jut of his Adam's apple and a day's worth of stubble on his chin. "Please."
"Please, what?" she prods, dropping down another half-inch. He's honest-to-god pretty like this, watching her through those stupidly long eyelashes--every single one of their kids has them, especially Charlie, genetic lottery winners all three. "If you won't tell me how bad, then you gotta tell me how."
"Jesus." Sam more or less mouths it, pulling his fingers out from between her teeth so he can get both hands on her hips. Andy slurps deliberately as he withdraws them, which makes his hips roll up again. He doesn't pull her down onto him though, or even push up with any kind of force. He is so very, very careful. "Okay, you win." He's half-laughing, half-groaning, eyes rolled back to stare at the headboard. "Please, please fuck me." He's trying to make it a joke but there's real desperation behind the words; everything below Andy's waist clenches in response.
"Since you asked so nicely," she tells him, dropping down the rest of the way. She squeezes hard for good measure, has the pleasure of watching a groan fight its way out of Sam's throat--unmodulated, like the old days before they had to be quiet. Andy'd shush him, except for the fact that she really, really wants to hear.
He sounds close and familiar and god, she really does love him so stupidly much, more and more the older they get and the more stuff that happens to them, on and on. Andy fucks him just like he asked. She leans as far forward as she can with her belly as big as it is, Sam's hands steadying around her waist and her fingers hooked over the headboard; it's not far but it gets the job done, his whole body going taut as he comes. His grip tightens, rhythmic. Andy murmurs nonsense until he's through.
(She basically wanted to high-five herself the first time she ever got Sam Swarek to lose his shit like that, honestly. It's not a feeling that has ever really passed.)
Andy likes to sprawl out all over him when they're finished, normally, face buried in his neck and his knuckles trailing up and down her spine. She used to think that was kind of gross, all that touching afterward, everybody all sweaty and what have you; turns out she got over that pretty quick. It's not so much an option at the moment, though, so she basically just hauls her big self off him once their breathing steadies, makes it onto her back and scoots over so she's close as she can manage. Sam props himself up on one elbow to look.
"I love you," he tells her after a minute, easy and serious all at once. He gets like that when she's pregnant sometimes, her giant belly turning everything between them oddly sacred. Andy murmurs it back, the weight of the kid pressing down on her spine (another thing she used to think was weird until she didn't: the staring). It's a nice moment until Sam slides a hand over her stomach and the baby starts attacking it immediately.
"Changes in light, huh?" Sam asks, half-laughing as she oofs--and seriously, screw hockey, this kid should be in football or soccer. "Time to sleep, buddy," he tells her navel, that gentle voice he uses with all their kids. The baby doesn't listen. Sam rubs his palm in soothing circles as if he can polish the tiny kicking feet into stillness.
"I swear, it's like he hates down time or something," Andy says, craning her neck to watch. It's weird, honestly, like something straight out of Alien. It freaked the shit out of her when she was pregnant with Ruby ("But what if I'm giving birth to like, Damian or something?" she whined to Traci, who resolutely refused to google demon pregnancies on her phone). Sam, of course, had loved it.
"Either that or he's nocturnal," Sam points out now, still rubbing. It feels like the baby's feet are chasing his hand.
"Don't even joke." Andy reaches up and laces her fingers with Sam's on top of her middle, tucks her other arm up behind her head; after another minute she feels the baby start to calm down, his movements getting slower and less forceful. She can feel herself getting sleepier, too, this warm sated heaviness--she meant to run the dishwasher and make lunches for tomorrow, but that's definitely going to have to wait for the morning. Sam sifts his free hand through her hair.
"There he goes," he murmurs when Elliot's little fish body relaxes. He bumps his nose against her temple, plants a kiss there. "There you go, buddy."
"We jostled him," Andy mumbles, tucking her head underneath Sam's chin. She'll roll over in a minute, shove a pillow between her knees, but for right now this feels surprisingly comfortable. Their hands are still linked loosely across her stomach, safe and sound. "He was pissed."
She feels Sam's smile more than she sees it, her eyes closed and all three of them quieting down for the night, slow and easy. The baby flips over once more, then goes still. "He's fine," Sam promises softly. "He's perfect." Andy hums her agreement into the dark.