return_to_nola | Samuel--Home

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Samuel--Home

The front door rattled when Oliver kicked it shut behind him. Belatedly, he remembered that this particular pair of shoes loved leaving prints on the plain white paint, but oh well, what's done is done, and his hands were full.

"Hey, Sam," he called into the apartment at large. Oliver assumed Samuel was home because he was emailed a detailed spreadsheet listing Sam's upcoming work schedule on the first of every month. Also, his bedroom light was on. "A new coffee place just opened down the street and they're giving out free coffee."

Carefully, he started setting down the six huge lattes he'd poached from the frazzled barista who'd been distracted by trying to create legible foam art. The lid on one was loose, sending a splash of coffee on the counter, but even still, Oliver put his hands on his hips and looked down on his bounty like a proud father.

Six! This might be enough to get him through the overnight shift at the tattoo parlor.

But then, with a pang of conscience, he called out, "I guess you can have one of mine."

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"Who uses the term deflowering?" Sam asked, but he knew they both knew it sounded like something straight out of the Sam vocabulary book. Ugh it was annoying how much Sam loved the little touches -- the licks, the nips, the way Oliver couldn't seem to stop -- how much they made him want more. "It won't be my first time," Sam did have to admit, because it was a fair question, and even though he was an absurdly private person, this was information Oliver genuinely deserved to know, if he wanted to know. He loosened his hold on Oliver's hair, stroked a thumb over his temple. Reassuringly, maybe?

That was reassuring. Oliver didn't want to have to deal with the idea of Sam being a sex savant.

He was going to make a joke, say something stupid just to get a ride out of him, but then Sam touched Oliver's head, and it was so...sweet?...that the urge seemed to wither away. He turned his face to kiss Sam's thumb. "Then how about you just let me make you feel good, then you return the favor?"

Were they... bonding? Sam grinned; the kiss was sweet and he felt alarmingly fine? “I’ll allow it,” he decided. “You’ve been so patient.”

"Thank you, your highness," Oliver said wryly, but he also kind of meant it? And he proved it when he leaned in to take him again, but this time there was nothing slow and lingering about it—if he had the green light, he was taking it.

Sam was ready to comment on that ‘your highness’ crack. He really was. But then Oliver was unstoppable and incredible, and Sam felt like he was falling and flying; and that hair, that face, that mouth, all of it was converging to a perfect, inevitable end.

Oliver thought about pulling off at the very last second and letting Sam be the one to mess up their clean floor. He really did.

He didn't.

What he did instead was feel Sam break apart under his hands, under his tongue, and he took it, wanted it, wanted more. And when it was over, he pulled back to sob out a breath, overwhelmed by endorphins and desperate arousal and knowing Sam was actually human.

How did a legitimate argument where Sam was completely right and Oliver was completely wrong lead to this kind of moment that was, for all it may have been motivated by psychological frustration morphing into sexual frustration, that felt like they cared for each other? Of course this was an intimate act, but it wasn’t as simple as that. There was the way Sam came and the way Oliver took that moment and stayed with it. There was the sound Oliver made, that breath of sound that Sam couldn’t quite identify but felt emotional about. Indeed, it made Sam sink to his knees, hold Oliver’s face in his hands and kiss him, with heat and force still, but also with presence, with the awareness of the two of them sharing this experience.

Sam was the one who'd just come, so why was it that Oliver was the one who felt spent, wrecked? He let Sam kiss and kiss him while he scrabbled at Sam's back, just desperate to touch more of him and feel how warm and here he was. Oliver felt like he was buzzing under his skin, and he was probably going to crash even harder later, but right at this moment, it was worth it.

Oliver was real to Sam now. Human and present and accessible and even, perhaps, understandable. At this moment, even the coffee stain was worth it. "No, don't get up," Sam said, dry but shining, and pushed Oliver gently to the floor. Yes, the floor! And do you know why! Because Sam had spent all night cleaning while Oliver was out and he believed in his cleaning abilities! "I've got you," he added, because he wasn't here to joke around, not really, he was here bring someone who was loosing his edge far beyond it. And Sam liked this angle, Oliver on his back, Sam kneeled by him, head bent to take him in his mouth. He could plant a hand, solid and true, on Oliver's chest for balance. He could glance, occasionally, at his full, lovely form.

And Oliver could raise his head a little to watch too, and reach down to slide his fingers back into that thick, admittedly fantastic hair and tug in shocked pleasure when Sam's mouth slid against him in a way that was magically, perfectly right. And if his head fell back once or twice so he could bark a delighted curse at the ceiling, well, that was okay too. Somehow he wasn't feeling incredibly self-conscious at the moment.

Sam wasn't wasting any time here: he wanted to give this to Oliver; not merely to reciprocate, but because something in him, at least in this moment, wanted to give him everything. He scratched his fingers into Oliver's chest; he moved his tongue, his mouth, with what quite frankly could be called delight.

It was the bite of Sam's nails that finally did it. Why was that so hot? It shouldn't be so hot! It kind of hurt! He managed to get out a sharp "I'm—" because, well, it was Sam and maybe he'd appreciate a warning? But then he was shuddering, soaring, and frankly beyond caring about anything else for a few perfect moments.

Sam did appreciate the warning, truncated though it was, a gulping moment where his hand settled, became softer, stroked over Oliver's chest. His other hand was just as gentle, a circular rubbing of Oliver's thigh, watching him as he came back to earth. In the moment before life swept back in. Sam was breathing hard, red-faced, obviously disheveled.

After a minute, when Oliver's breath was still heaving but he could actually think again, he turned his head and blinked up at Sam, who was more mussed and...soft, somehow (not that way) than Oliver had ever seen him. It was like seeing him through an entirely new filter.

Oliver reached up and touched Sam's bruised-looking bottom lip gently, and gave him a lopsided smile. "Hey. Come here often?"

Sam laughed, a quiet exhale of a laugh, and just for a second, touched Oliver's hand. There was still a glow here, a moment of connection. Oliver was gorgeous, and it wasn't yet annoying. "At least once."

Oliver barked out a laugh, surprised but pleased. "At least?" His hand slid down to take Sam's and tug him to the floor, to curl up next to Oliver and enjoy the peace and the afterglow and the Pinesol smell. (Did Sam mop the floor every single day?)

Oh. Oh, this was nice. Sam tucked in close to Oliver, turning slightly into his side, partly because he didn't want to become self-conscious; he didn't want to be Sam again yet, or, that particular version of himself that couldn't enjoy anything. "I have to maintain some sense of mystery." He replied. "And you?"

Sam was grateful the floor still smelled so clean (he did, yes, mop it every day if he were home enough to do it).

Oh, a cuddler? Oliver loved cuddlers, mostly because he was one. He tangled their legs together and curled closer, preferring to breathe in Sam rather than the fake pine smell. "I might more often now, thinking about you out here, getting off."

Sam would never describe himself as a cuddler. But sometimes Sam had a weird relationship with reality. He laughed lowly, unwilling to mention he mostly came out here to clean, not ready for the fight to resume -- like this whole thing had just been a pause button? -- and closed his eyes, just to take in the feeling of Oliver's body next to and intertwined with his own. "Glad I gave you something to think about."

"Mmm," Oliver murmured agreeably, just happy to bask in a moment where everything, including the person tucked in against him, seemed absolutely great.

Well, almost.

"Whatever you use on the floors smells the fucking worst," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Sam had just pressed his lips to Oliver's jaw when he started to speak, and he pulled his face away quickly -- though didn't quite move away. "It smells like this because it works!"

"That makes no sense," Oliver said—patiently, he thought! "It smells like we just fucked in an artificial Christmas tree."

Somehow, that phrasing was so offensive to Sam. And come on! He tried to so hard to make everything nice here, and they just had such a nice moment, and Oliver still hated the way Sam did things. He rolled his eyes. "It's not like I'm forcing you to stay down here."

"I didn't say you were!" Oliver replied, frowning at the ceiling. Wait, had Sam cleaned the ceiling? Okay, that was a mystery for another day. "I was just making an observation."

You could do a lot with a ladder and long-handled supplies. "Great, observation noted." Still, Sam didn't move away.

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