Rayybybaby

he paused, just long enough for you to begin overthinking your brashness before he spoke again.

"Are you free tonight, by any chance?"

"...Depends what you had in mind."

"We could go out. Grab dinner somewhere. Though it's a Thursday, so I'm honestly not sure how much is even open around here past nine."

"You clearly haven't spent much time in this town. Nothing's open past nine on a Thursday. This place shuts down like it's under curfew." you laughed, "Mm, yeah, this town rolls up the sidewalks embarrassingly early. Most of the good places close by eight." You chewed your lip, weighing it, then decided, again, that a little recklessness had served you well so far. "Or..."

"Or?"

"Or you could just come over to mine. I'm not going to pretend I'm above ordering in instead of pretending to be normal in public."

you bit your lip awaiting his reply, maybe that had been a little bold... Then again, you'd basically already asked him to sleep with you in Latin, so bold had sort of sailed as a ship a while ago.

There was a beat of silence just long enough that you started to wonder if you'd overplayed your hand, before Sam said, "Yeah. I mean, yeah, that works for me," in a voice that had gone slightly rougher around the edges than it had been a second ago.

"Okay." You gave him your address, feeling your heart do something complicated in your chest as you said it out loud for the first time.

"Okay." A pause, like he was writing it down, or just repeating it to himself to be sure he had it. "I'll see you in fifteen?"

"Fifteen works."

"Fifteen," he echoed, and you could still hear that same smile in his voice right before the call ended, and spent the next fourteen and a half minutes in a low grade panic about your apartment, your hair, your entire life choices up to this exact point.

He knocked fifteen minutes later, right on schedule, and you opened the door to find him looking almost as nervous as you felt, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, hair slightly damp like he'd showered specifically for this.

"Hey," he said, a little breathless, like he'd walked faster than he'd meant to on the way up.

"Hey yourself." You stepped back to let him in, suddenly hyperaware of every book stacked precariously on every surface, every mug you hadn't washed, the general chaos of a life lived by someone who owned considerably more dictionaries than furniture. "Sorry about the mess. I wasn't exactly expecting a guest tonight, and 15 minuets isn't enough time to deep clean, I should have given myself longer but i—"

"It's not a mess." Sam cut you off with a smile as he glanced around, taking it in properly now, something almost delighted crossing his face as he clocked the sheer volume of books lining every wall. "This is, this is a lot of books."

"I own a bookstore. An occult one, specifically, so, yes. Occupational hazard." You gestured vaguely at the nearest shelf. "That entire section is just Latin grammar texts. I know that's not normal. I've made my peace with it."

"I think it's great." He picked up a battered paperback off the coffee table without really thinking about it, then seemed to catch himself. "Sorry, is that, can I look at this?"

"Please. Feel free to judge my reading habits."

"I wasn't going to judge." He turned it over, reading the spine. "I actually own this one. Read it twice, actually."

"See, that's exactly the kind of thing I have questions about." You gestured toward the couch instead of pushing further right away, not quite ready to pull that thread yet. "You clearly know Latin well enough that you own books like these, but them you missed clear pronunciation that any Latin professor would have drilled into you, it was a bad photocopy though, and your Latin isn't the worst I've ever heard... Sit." You gestured vaguely to the couch as you sat down then promptly sprang back up. "Drink. Do you want a drink, or are we skipping straight to the part where we both pretend we're not nervous."

Sam laughed at your antics, seeming to relish in the mix of your bluntness and nervousness, "Little bit of both, maybe."

"Wine, or, actually," you said, already halfway to the kitchen, opening cupboards with slightly more urgency than the situation strictly called for, "hang on, I don't think I actually have any wine, hold on."

You ducked to check the lower cabinet and promptly smacked your head on the edge of the open door above it, hissing.

"Hey, you okay?" Sam was up off the couch immediately, crossing the kitchen in about three strides.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I just, apparently I don't have any wine, all I've got is some genuinely terrible tequila from a grad school going away party two years ago, does that work for you?" You said holding up the bottle you retrieved from the lower cabinet, "I hope this isn't, I don't know, too much, I don't want to come on too strong, I already sent you a vaguely indecent Latin phrase and now I'm offering you bottom shelf tequila and hitting my head on cabinets, this is not exactly the smooth evening I had pictured—"

Sam stopped your rambling by stepping in close, gently taking the bottle out of your hand, and placing a hand on your waist as he leaned down near your ear.

"Bene mecum eris, quiesce," he murmured, low and unhurried, the words landing somewhere just beneath your ear in a voice that did absolutely nothing to help your composure. You felt goosebumps erupt across your skin and your face flush.

Then he simply straightened up, entirely unbothered, and asked, "Where do you keep your cups?"

You stood there for a solid two seconds, brain thoroughly short circuited, privately cataloguing the extremely unfair fact that a six foot four man could apparently switch from murmured Latin to casual kitchen small talk without so much as a change in his pulse, while yours felt like it was trying to escape your chest entirely.

Bene mecum eris, quiesce; you will be well with me, relax.

"Mugs," you managed. "I only have mugs. Top shelf, left of the sink."

You grabbed down two mismatched mugs while Sam unscrewed the cap, the small kitchen filling almost immediately with the sharp, faintly medicinal smell of cheap tequila, and Sam poured a genuinely generous amount into each one without so much as blinking, handing you yours with a look that suggested he was fully aware of the effect he'd just had on you and was choosing, for now, not to comment on it.

You both carried your mugs back to the couch and sat down, closer than before, the earlier careful distance between you having quietly evaporated somewhere between the cupboard search and the Latin.

At some point, mid conversation, your nerves got the better of you and started spilling out sideways.

"I've never done this," you said, apropos of very little, interrupting whatever he'd been saying.

Sam blinked. "What?"

"I mean, left my number for a random stranger in a diner. That's not really my style. I don't do that. I have never once in my adult life done that, and then I did it to you, immediately, over a Latin joke, and I've been mentally replaying it for two days wondering what possessed me, no pun intended, given, you know. Everything you two turned out to actually do for a living." You were aware you were rambling and seemed, at present, unable to stop. "I just don't want you to think that's a regular thing for me. Handing out phone numbers with mildly suggestive dead language footnotes attached. I have a system. I follow the system. You broke the system—"

Sam cut you off gently, one hand coming up to your jaw, and kissed you.

It was soft. Unhurried. Nothing like the nervous momentum of your rambling, like he'd decided the fastest way to actually get you to stop worrying was to simply show you instead of trying to talk you down from it. You melted into it before you'd consciously decided to, one hand curling into the front of his shirt, and when he finally pulled back, just far enough to speak, he was smiling in a way that made the whole rambling apology feel unnecessary in retrospect.

"I get it," he said, quiet. "I don't usually do this either. But I knew I would've regretted it if I didn't at least come see you again. I travel a lot, for... work."

"As a freelance historian?"

"As a freelance historian." He huffed a laugh at his own cover story, ducking his head. "But yeah. I wanted to see the girl who apparently knows Latin better than two guys who grew up reciting it."

"What posh school did you two go to that made you make the leap from Latin to curses?"

Sam laughed, "Let's just say we started the whole freelance historian thing pretty young."

"Define young."

"Young," he said, entirely unhelpfully, laughing again, and you laughed too, some of the nervous tension finally breaking loose between you, and somewhere in the middle of that laugh he kissed you again, slower this time, achingly slow, the kind of kiss that started careful and then made you want considerably more than careful. You pressed closer, chasing it, and something in Sam shifted, the slow patience giving way all at once to something hungrier, less careful, both of you leaning into it hard enough that your mug ended up abandoned on the coffee table without either of you quite registering when that happened.

He pulled you into his lap without much warning, hands steady at your waist, and you went easily, knees braced either side of him, and for a while there was nothing but that, his mouth on yours, hurried and then not hurried at all, one of his hands sliding up into your hair while the other stayed firm against the small of your back like he was trying to keep you exactly where you were. When he finally broke away from your mouth it was only to trail his lips along your jaw and down to your neck, and you tipped your head back to give him better access without any real conscious decision to do so, a small, involuntary sound escaping you that made him pause just long enough to smile against your skin.

You pulled back, breathless, abruptly remembering something. "Wait, I should've— I said on the phone we could order takeout, I didn't even ask if you'd eaten—"

Sam laughed low against your throat, the sound vibrating right through you. "Sweetheart," he said, pulling back just far enough to look at you, something wicked and entirely unhurried in his expression, "I plan on eating good tonight. Patience."

And before you could fully process that sentence, he was kissing you again, Rough and hungry for more.

★.

His mouth found yours again, and this time there was no careful edge to it at all. You kissed him back like you'd been waiting two days to do exactly this, which, you supposed, you had. One of his hands stayed cradled at the back of your head, fingers loose in your hair, while the other pressed flat against your spine, drawing you in until there was no space left between you to speak of.

You'd forgotten, somewhere in the last two days of overthinking this, how it actually felt to be wanted like this; not politely, not tentatively, but like something to be savored. Every place his hands landed felt like it left a mark, warm and a little dizzying, and you were aware of your own pulse in a way you usually weren't, a steady, insistent thing beating under his palm where it rested against your back.

He kissed like he had nowhere else to be. Slow, deliberate, occasionally breaking off just to rest his forehead against yours, breathing you in like he was trying to memorize the shape of the moment, before he kissed you again, deeper this time, and you felt the small, helpless sound that pulled out of you get lost somewhere against his mouth.

Sam pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, a little wrecked around the edges in a way that did nothing for your composure.

"You're so perfect," he murmured, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

Then he drew back further, properly, just enough to look at you, really look, slow and unhurried, taking in all of you like he wanted to remember it, and you felt your face go hot under the weight of it, some old instinct making you want to duck your head or laugh it off the way you usually did when things got too sincere too fast. You didn't, quite. You just sat there, a little exposed, feeling strangely shy under the attention of someone who, two days ago, had been a stranger correcting his own Latin over pancakes.

"God, you're beautiful," Sam said, quiet, almost like he hadn't meant to say it out loud. "How did I get so lucky."

You didn't have a clever line ready for that one, which felt significant, somehow, the first time all night your mouth hadn't beaten your brain to the punch.

His hand slid slowly beneath the hem of your top, palm warm and steady against your skin, and whatever response you might have managed dissolved entirely. You leaned back into him instead, answering the only way that still felt available to you, and kissed him again.

This kiss had none of the earlier restraint left in it. It felt like everything neither of you had said out loud, every ounce of the last two days spent wondering, waiting, talking yourself in and out of hope, poured into the single point of contact between your mouths, until you weren't sure where the conversation had ended and this had started. Your body reacted before your mind caught up to it, some warm, insistent pull low in your stomach that had you shifting closer, chasing the feeling of him without fully deciding to.

Sam made a low sound against your mouth, hands tightening slightly at your waist like he was doing his best to hold onto some thread of control.

"You like that, sweetheart?" he murmured, lips grazing your jaw.

All you could do was nod, your breath gone somewhere you couldn't quite locate.

"Gonna need more than that from you," he said, low, teasing, close enough to your ear that it felt like it landed directly under your skin. "We've only just started."

"Please, Sam," you managed, and even to your own ears it sounded like you were already begging.

"Such a good girl," he cooed, and the words undid something in you completely.

Everything after that blurred into warmth and low laughter and his name, said again and again like it was the only word you still remembered how to use, the two of you finally, finally done waiting.

All the words you'd been holding back, all the want, the waiting, the two days of wondering, pooled into the ferocity of that kiss until there was nothing left but heat and the desperate, grinding press of your body against his. You felt it before you consciously registered doing it, that warm, insistent ache between your legs seeking friction, your hips rolling down against the hardening bulge in his jeans with a mind of their own.

Sam groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest, and his hand slid higher beneath your shirt, finding the thin lace of your bralette. His thumb dragged slow and deliberate over the clothed peak of your nipple, and the moan that tore from your throat was embarrassingly loud, and completely involuntary.

"Keep making those noises," he murmured against your jaw, breath hot and unsteady. "I want to hear you."

His fingers kept working you through the lace, teasing, circling, until you were arching into his touch like you were begging for it, which, you supposed, you were.

"Doing so well for me," he praised, and the approval in his voice sent a fresh wave of heat flooding south, making you grind down harder against him.

Then his hand was gone, sliding away from your breast, and a frustrated whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it. Sam just smiled against your neck, all wicked patience, and you felt his fingers trail down your spine to the hem of your shirt again.

"Arms up, pretty girl," he said, low and commanding. "I think you overdressed."

You obeyed without thinking, raising your arms, and he stripped your shirt off in one smooth motion, unhooking the bra and tossing both aside. The air hit your bare skin and you went suddenly shy, hands moving to cover yourself without conscious decision.

Sam caught your wrists before you could, gentle but firm, pulling them away.

"Such a pretty thing," he said, eyes dark and roaming over you like he was starving. "Don't get all shy on me now." He leaned in close, mouth grazing your ear, and whispered, "Cupio to gustare."

Then his lips were on your nipple, hot and wet, sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the couch, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before he soothed it with his tongue. The moan that ripped out of you was ragged, broken, and somewhere in the haze of it you heard yourself correcting him automatically, brain still trying to function through the fog of pleasure.

"It's Cupio te gustare," you gasped out.

Sam laughed around your nipple, the vibration making you whine and squirm beneath him. He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips swollen and wet, expression impossibly smug.

"Good girl," he said, thumb brushing over the damp peak he'd just abandoned. "Knew I could count on you to keep me right." He settled back on his heels, watching you with dark, hungry eyes. "Can you tell me what it means?"

You stared at him, brain fuzzy, mouth open but no words coming out. You just wanted his mouth back on you, his hands back on you, anything—

Sam shook his head slowly, tsking. "Tell me what it means, and I'll keep going."

You ground down against him again, seeking any friction you could get, but both of his hands clamped down on your hips, stopping you cold, holding you still above him.

"What does it mean?" he asked again, voice low and gruff, demanding.

You tried to squirm, to rock against him, but his grip was iron. "Cupio te gustare," you managed, breathless, desperate, "it means... I long to taste you..."

Sam laughed, low and possessive, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "Such a good girl," he said, and then his hands were moving, undoing the button of your jeans, pulling down the zipper with agonizing slowness. He kept kissing your neck, your collarbone, dipping down to suck marks into your breasts as he worked. "I can't wait to taste you."

You lifted your hips, stopping your straddle of him just long enough for him to tug your jeans down your legs and off, leaving you in nothing but your panties, exposed and trembling. Then Sam was pulling his own shirt off, and you stared, couldn't help but stare, at the broad expanse of his chest, the defined muscles, the scattered scars that told stories you suddenly wanted to know every word of.

You reached out without thinking, running your hand down the bare plane of his torso, feeling the heat of him, the way his stomach jumped under your touch.

"Sam," you breathed, not knowing what else to say, what else to call this feeling.

His eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide, hungry in a way that made your breath catch. His fingers toyed with the lace edge of your panties, trailing along the waistband, dipping lower but not quite where you needed him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, overwhelmed, and immediately felt him pull back.

"Hey," he said, sharp enough to make your eyes fly open. "You gotta look at me, pretty girl. Eyes on me."

You obeyed, locking gazes with him, and his fingers dipped lower, pressing over your clothed cunt, playing with your folds through the damp lace. "Just like that," he murmured, watching your face. "Keep your eyes on me."

Your hips bucked up into his light touches, seeking more, needing more. He started rubbing your clit through your panties, slow and gentle, circling with just enough pressure to make you see stars but not enough to get you there.

"Sam, please," you whined, "I need more—"

"Aww, sweetheart," he cooed, not speeding up, not giving you an inch. "You're so desperate already and I've barely touched you."

"Please—"

"Please what?" He pulled his hand away completely, leaving you empty, aching. "Please stop?"

"No—" You grabbed his wrist, yanking his hand back to where you needed it, pressing him against your clit. "Please touch me, Sam, don't be gentle—take what you want, just please touch me—"

Something in Sam snapped.

He moved fast, lifting you effortlessly, flipping you onto your back on the couch so you were laid out beneath him. His fingers hooked into your panties and pulled them off in one rough motion, leaving you completely bare, exposed and dripping for him.

He gathered your arousal on his fingers, spreading it through your folds, and then he was pushing one long, thick finger into your weeping hole, stretching you around him. You cried out, a pornographic, broken sound that didn't even sound like you, and he started to move, setting a slow, agonizing pace that had you clawing at the couch cushions.

His other hand snaked up your body, finding your nipple again, pinching and rolling it in time with the thrust of his fingers as he added another one inside you, building you up until you were panting, writhing, completely undone beneath him.

Then he brought his head down, and you felt his breath hot against your core before his mouth even touched you, and when it did, when he started eating you out in earnest, sucking and mouthing into you like he was starving for it, you stopped being able to think at all.

"That's it," he murmured against your folds, the vibration making you sob. "Let me hear you, sweetheart. I've been waiting to hear you."

You're not thinking anymore, can't think anymore, there's just the wet, filthy sound of his mouth on you and the pressure building, building, building until you think you might actually die from it. Your hands are in his hair, gripping tight enough to hurt, and you're babbling, actual words have left you and now it's just please and Sam and oh god and more, more, more, your hips bucking up into his face shamelessly because you can't control it, can't control any of it, and you don't want to.

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs against your cunt, the vibration making you keen. "You're doing so good for me, so fucking good. Look at you, taking my mouth like you were made for it."

You whine, high and desperate, your head thrown back against the couch cushions. You can feel yourself getting closer, that tight coil in your belly winding impossibly tight, and Sam seems to know exactly where you are, exactly what you need, because he doesn't let up, he doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and crooking the finger inside you to press against that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges.

"Sam—Sam, I can't—I need—" You're incoherent, tears pricking at your eyes from the sheer intensity of it, the pleasure so sharp it borders on pain.

"Come for me," he commands, voice rough, muffled against your folds. "Come on my fingers and my mouth, pretty girl. I want to feel it. I want to taste it."

That's all it takes. You break apart with a sob, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave, your body convulsing around his finger, your thighs clamping around his head as you cry out his name like a prayer, like a curse. Sam doesn't stop, he keeps working you through it, lapping at you, moaning against your sensitive flesh like he's savoring every drop, every spasm, every broken sound that rips from your throat.

When he finally lifts his head, his chin is shining, lips swollen and wet, and he crawls up your body with a predatory slowness that makes your oversensitive nerves spark. He kisses you, deep and filthy, and you can taste yourself on him, salt and musk and something uniquely you, and the fact that he seems to love it, that he's groaning into your mouth like you're the best thing he's ever had, makes you whimper all over again.

"Please," you gasp when he finally pulls back, your hands scrabbling at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you can reach. "Sam, please, I need you inside me. I need you, please—"

His eyes go dark, dangerous dark, feral dark, and he stares down at you like he's barely holding himself back from devouring you whole. "Tell me where your bedroom is," he says, voice low and rough, sending shivers down your spine. "I want to fuck you properly. Want to take my time ruining you."

"Down the hall," you manage, pointing weakly. "Last door on the left—"

He doesn't let you finish. Sam stands up and hauls you into his arms like you weigh nothing, one arm under your knees and the other around your back, crushing you against his chest. You squeak, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he carries you down the hallway with long, purposeful strides, kicking your bedroom door open and tossing you onto the mattress.

You bounce, breathless, and he's on you in seconds, caging you in with his arms, his thighs, his sheer overwhelming presence. He looks down at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, like he wants to wreck you and worship you in equal measure.

"Look at you," he breathes, running a hand down your body, from your collarbone to your hip, possessive and reverent. "So fucking sexy. So wet for me. You taste like heaven, did you know that? I've been thinking about it for two days, how you'd taste, how you'd feel. Couldn't work properly, ever time I saw Latin i hear your voice, couldn't stop thinking about how you'd sound moaning my name," His hand dips between your legs again, gathering your arousal, spreading it through your folds. "Can't wait to ruin you with my cock. Can't wait to feel you squeeze around me."

He sits back on his heels and undoes his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a sharp sound that makes you shiver. You can't help but stare, transfixed, watching his long fingers work the buckle, then the button of his jeans, then the zipper. You feel like you're in a trance, hypnotized by the slow reveal, by the promise of what's underneath.

Sam pushes his jeans down his hips, then his boxers, and his cock springs free, thick and heavy and impossibly hard, flushed dark and leaking at the tip. He's huge, you realize with a flutter of nervous excitement, thick enough that your fingers wouldn't touch if you wrapped your hand around him, long enough to hit places inside you that might make you scream. A vein runs along the underside, pulsing with his heartbeat, and you whimper at the sight of it, at the thought of it inside you.

"Like what you see, baby?" he asks, smug and knowing, fisting himself slowly, once, twice, spreading the bead of precome over the head. "Gonna fill you up so good. Gonna make you feel every inch."

He crawls back over you,

The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and heavy and impossibly thick, and all you can think is wow, just wow, because he's big, bigger than you realized, and the stretch as he starts to push inside is already burning so perfectly you see stars.

"Fuck," Sam hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched tight with restraint. "You're so tight, sweetheart. So fucking tight for me."

"Sam—" you gasp, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders. "Sam, you're—"

"Too much?" he asks, stilling, concern flickering through the haze of want in his eyes.

"No—no, don't stop, just—" You arch your hips, trying to take more of him, needing more of him. "Just go slow—"

He obliges, inching forward with agonizing patience, feeding his cock into you so slowly you feel every vein, every ridge, every single inch of him splitting you open. Your head falls back against the pillows, mouth open in a silent scream, your body struggling to accommodate his girth even as you crave it, need it.

"That's it," he murmurs, one hand stroking your thigh where it's wrapped around his hip. "Let me in, baby. Let me fill you up."

When he's finally buried to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, you both groan in unison. He gives you a moment, just a moment, to adjust to the overwhelming fullness, his forehead pressed against yours, breathing hard.

"Feel good?" he asks, voice rough.

All you can do is nod in reply, feeling dizzy with pleasure.

"You okay for me to start moving, baby?"

One again you just nod. Sam laughs, low and rough in return, as he brings his lips to your ear kissing it once before murmuring, "Be a good girl and use your words, I wanna treat you right baby. Do you want me to move?"

"Yes—yes, Sam, please—"

He pulls back and thrusts in, and the slow, deliberate slide makes you keen. He sets a rhythm, unhurried, deep, dragging out every stroke so you feel the drag of him against your walls, the way he nudges that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

"Look at you," he says, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "Taking my cock so pretty. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to be fucked like this."

"Sam—"

"Tell me," he demands, snapping his hips harder, making you cry out. "Tell me how it feels."

"Big— you're so big— I can feel you everywhere—"

"Yeah?" He grins, wicked and feral, and then he's picking up the pace, his thrusts getting harder, more punishing, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else, pretty girl. Gonna fuck you so good you forget your own name."

"Oh god— Sam— harder—"

He obliges, driving into you with a force that moves the bed against the wall, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, pulling you down onto his cock to meet every brutal thrust. You're babbling again, incoherent, please and yes and Sam tumbling out of your mouth in no particular order.

"Such a good girl," he praises, sweat dripping from his temples. "Taking me so deep. You like that? Like feeling me split you open?"

"Yes— yes— don't stop—"

"Never," he promises, his voice strained. "Could never stop fucking this perfect cunt. So wet for me. So desperate."

He shifts his angle, hiking your legs higher over his shoulders, and the new position has him hitting something inside you that makes your vision go white. You scream, actually scream, and Sam groans like the sound is the best thing he's ever heard.

"There?" he asks, doing it again, nailing that spot with every thrust. "Right there, baby?"

"Yes— yes— Sam I'm gonna— I'm gonna—"

"Not yet," he says, slowing down again, drawing a frustrated whine from your throat. "Not until I say. Wanna feel you come on my cock, sweetheart, but you gotta wait for me."

"Please— please— I can't—"

"You can," he insists, his thumb finding your clit, circling in time with his slow, deep thrusts. "You can do it. Be good for me. Hold it."

You're trembling beneath him, your whole body wound tight as a spring, your nails leaving red marks down his back. He keeps you there, right on the edge, fucking you with cruel, perfect patience until you're sobbing with need.

"Sam— please— I need to— I can't—"

"Okay," he relents, his own control clearly fraying at the edges, his thrusts getting erratic, harder, needier. "Okay, pretty girl, come for me. Come on my cock. Let me feel you squeeze me."

He reaches between you, presses his thumb hard against your clit, and that's it, you break apart with a wail, your orgasm crashing through you violent and overwhelming, your body convulsing around him, your vision going dark at the edges as you cry out his name like it's the only word you know.

"Fuck— fuck— that's it—" Sam groans, his hips stuttering, losing rhythm. "So good— so fucking good— taking it so well—"

He thrusts deep one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and you feel him swell, pulse, throb as he comes with a ragged shout of your name. He fills you up, hot and thick and endless, pumping you full of it, his cock twitching inside you as he collapses forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Sam's face is buried in your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, his heart hammering against your chest where he's pressed flush against you. You can feel him softening inside you, can feel the wetness between your thighs, his and yours mixed together, and you don't think you've ever felt so thoroughly, perfectly claimed.

★.

"Wow," you breathe, when you finally find words again.

Sam lifts his head, his eyes soft now, sated, that dangerous edge gone and replaced by something tender. He kisses you, slow and sweet, and you can still taste yourself on him, can taste the salt of sweat and the lingering musk of sex.

"Yeah," he agrees, smiling against your mouth. "Wow."

He stays there, buried inside you even as he softens, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that feels like safety, like belonging. His mouth finds yours in lazy, unhurried kisses, slow and dreamy, like he's mapping you out, memorizing the shape of your lips, the taste of your tongue. Your head is fuzzy, thoughts scattered and drifting, unable to hold onto anything coherent except Sam, how incredible he is, how hot he is, the solid warmth of him surrounding you, filling you, consuming you until there's nothing else in the world but this moment, this man, this perfect, hazy afterglow.

He pulls back eventually, just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and soft and full of something that makes your chest ache. His thumb traces your cheekbone, your jaw, your swollen lower lip, reverent and slow.

"You're so perfect," he murmurs, voice rough and raw and utterly sincere.

You stare up at him, brain still too pleasure-drunk to form English words, so you reach for the language that's always come easiest, the one that started this whole thing. "Omne quod tecum erat mihi suave," you whisper, your voice hoarse and wrecked. "Sine te laboriosum est et grave."

Sam goes still above you, his breath catching, his eyes going impossibly softer. He knows, of course he knows, and the smile that curves his lips is something tender and broken open, vulnerable in a way that feels like a gift.

Omne quod tecum erat mihi suave, sine te laboriosum est et grave; Everything that was sweet with you is laborious and heavy without you.

"Omnia mea mecum sunt," he replies quietly.

Omnia mea mecum sunt; All that is mine is with me.

He then pulls you close, tucking your head under his chin, his arms wrapping around you like a fortress. He presses a kiss to your forehead, sweet and chaste and somehow more intimate than everything that came before, holding you there in the dark while your heartbeats slow and sync, two languages, two histories, two bodies speaking only one truth.

★・・・・・・★

A/n: I went on a reddit deep dive for the Latin and asked a lovely old lady at my uni library about classic Latin love phrases to 'impress my partner who loves classics', (not entirely a lie..?) she thought it was very sweet and then she started telling me how she watching the Odyssey this weekend and she's really excited. Carol if you are reading this I love you (te amo). also this is my first time writing smut, I did a lot of research (read far too much smut #can'tgetcracked #longdistancerelationship #fml) but alas I have no idea what i am doing lol, its really difficult to remember how peoples bodies are positioned lol. anyways yeah lol. take a shot every time i said Sam laughs.... guys its fine it wasn't me not knowing what else to write, I'm providing him with joy and whimsy and happiness for once... yeah. also if anyone read it as a fade to black fic lmk if the starts (★.) are in the right place or if you'd prefer they were moved xxx