Chapter Text
“I felt like an animal, and animals don’t know sin, do they?”
― Jess C. Scott, 'Wicked Lovely'
As his phone vibrated in his jeans' pocket, cutting through the song's final notes, Sammie instantly knew who it was. And it made him land the song that much better.
The small crowd applauded his efforts, their whistles and cheers filling the blues bar like sweet wine in a cup. Blushing, grinning, Sammie bowed and waved and even blew a few kisses. Sweat was pebbling his forehead and slicking up his hands. Beneath his damp shirt, rivulets were running down his spine and ribs, soaking into his jeans. He was lightheaded with hunger, his throat was in desperate need of something cool, and his fingertips were so sore he was tempted to check to see if they were bleeding. But as he stood before the horde, basking in the warmth of their appreciation, Sammie couldn't feel anything but triumphant.
"Thank you, Chicago!" he bellowed, forsaking his microphone. "Have a good night, y'all!"
Another thunderous wave of accolades chased Sammie backstage. As he shed his guitar, taking the time to wipe it clean of fingerprints and drops of perspiration, he finally leaned against the wall with a sigh. He wanted a sandwich - ideally, a po' boy, the kind they made back in Mississippi. He wanted a cold glass of lemonade. He wanted a shower. He wanted a change of clothes. He wanted to play some more even though the effort would probably knock him out like a brick to the head.
But above all, he wanted to read Remmick's text.
Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he felt a rush when he read the notification: Tinder: RedEyedRem sent you a message: We still on for 2nite?
Sammie's heart rabbited in his chest. Tonight. In two hours, to be exact. Had it really come already? Was this really happening?
Yes. Yes it was. And, even though a small part of Sammie - the part that still clung to Daddy's teachings - insisted that it was wrong, that it was a sin, the rest of him couldn't wait. He was young, he was in the big city for the first time, he was living on his own, and he was attending college. Getting his first sexual experience - or more than one - was practically a prerequisite.
Nervously, excitedly, Sammie typed a reply. PreacherBoy2000: Yep! U still comin 2 pick me up?
RedEyedRem: U betcha ;) keep an eye out for a black Town Car
PreacherBoy2000: and u keep an eye out for a country boy with bandaged fingers
RedEyedRem: once you're at my place I'll kiss your fingers better <3
Sammie blushed, tucking his phone away, as he made his way out the back door. Automatically, his feet carried him to the bus stop. He'd be home in twenty minutes, which would give him plenty of time to eat, rest, and get ready. Just because Remmick was a mere hookup didn't mean Sammie wanted to be sweaty and gross the first time he had sex.
The fact that his first time would be with a guy he'd matched with on Tinder, not anyone he went to university with, should've made it even easier. Mary had pointed this out to Sammie three weeks ago, when she'd first convinced him to download the app, and Sammie hadn't been able to find any flaws with her logic. If things went well, awesome. He could have a hot, casual affair on the side while still focusing on studying music five days a week and playing at gigs every Thursday and Friday. And if it went poorly, well, Tinder had a shit ton of users. Sammie could always pick another name out of the hat. Plus, nobody at college would have to know.
Nor did Smoke and Stack. Sammie loved his cousins, but they just wouldn't get it. His cousins were gorgeous: Tall, broad-shouldered, muscled, and always well-dressed. Hell, even the weekends they spent lazing on the couch browsing Netflix and eating takeout somehow found them looking hot. Those two were the only men Sammie knew who could make baggy sweatpants and videogame-themed shirts look sexy. Sammie, on the other hand, was a beanpole who couldn't grow facial hair to save his life. Nor was he especially smart, charming, or funny. Music was all he was good at, all he knew. And not even modern music. Sammie was old school: Elmore James, Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, and the like. Most people his age, even those who liked modern jazz or retro shit, had no fucking clue what he was talking about. Tinder was just about his only chance of ever getting laid.
Indeed, Tinder was just about the only place he could've met Remmick O'Connell. They'd traded real names ten days into their... courtship, Sammie guessed he could call it, even though this was supposed to be a casual rendezvous. Someone who enjoyed music as much as he did. Someone who'd even educated Sammie on songs that he'd enjoyed for years. Someone who'd traveled, who'd seen the world, who'd simply lived more than Sammie had.
Too bad Remmick was... a little strange. Nothing that made alarm bells go off or anything, but something that Sammie had noticed just the same. A bit of an awkwardness. A weirdness. Like Remmick was around people a lot but didn't really interact with them much. He could be clingy, too. Just two days ago, Sammie had had to study for a test and put his phone on silent. Smoke and Stack, who'd known of the test, had left him be. Remmick, whom Sammie hadn't informed - hadn't seen the point, really - had bombarded him with messages. Nothing jealous, mean, or aggressive. Just links to YouTube blues videos and Remmick's take on them, as well as a few literary recommendations centering on some of Sammie's favorite artists. Biographies, mostly, as well as a couple of fictional books that incorporated blues as a central theme. Sammie had shied away from his phone, bug-eyed and struggling to focus. Eventually, though, he'd gotten back into the groove. He'd finished studying with little fuss, fixed himself a cup of instant ramen noodles... and found even more texts from Remmick. If there'd been a whiff of desperation before, it'd become a stench now. Messages upon messages asking Sammie if he was okay, if Remmick had overstepped, if Sammie still wanted to talk to him.
Finally, both out of genuine pity and a desire to make it stop, Sammie had called Remmick. The man's borderline ecstatic reaction had made Sammie smile in spite of himself. He couldn't remember anyone ever being so genuinely happy to talk to him. Like he was something special.
Sammie made it home with little fuss. His was hardly the ritziest neighborhood around - indeed, there were two junkies settling in for the night in a nearby alley - so he made sure to duck into the building posthaste. The elevators were busted, as had been the case since - apparently - last spring, so Sammie jogged up the stairs. He didn't mind. His apartment was only on the third floor. Sammie slid the lock in the key, slipped inside, and turned on the lights. It wasn't much, but it was home. Full of second-hand furniture that the twins had helped him buy. Posters of his favorite musicians tacked to the walls. A lava lamp Annie had gotten him for Christmas last year, knowing that he'd always wanted one. And even a decent sound system that Sammie had had to save for months to afford.
Sammie started playing the local news on his phone, if only to have some illusion of company. He barely listened to it, though. Just some weird virus going on in Europe. Sure, it was sad, but Europe was a whole ocean away, wasn't it? Not exactly something that affected him. Hopefully, they'd talk about something more relevant soon.
As Sammie waited for that bit of relevant news, he stripped down and tossed his clothes in the laundry basket - which was quickly becoming a laundry mountain. Then, naked as a jaybird - why not, his shades were drawn and he was alone - he laid out the attire he'd already chosen for this evening. You only get one first time. He wanted to do this right while also recognize that this wasn't a serious relationship. But still, it felt right. Sammie picked out a mustard-yellow turtleneck and his best pair of jeans. They weren't Levi's or anything - God, there was no way he'd ever spend so much on a pair of pants - but they were a nice, dark inky blue, and they didn't have any holes or tears in them. Plus, they were comfortable: Tight enough to not require a belt, but loose enough to allow free movement.
After a thorough shower that left him smelling like coconut instead of sweat and a quick gargling of mouthwash, Sammie got dressed and bandaged his fingers. What he'd written to Remmick had only partially been a joke. His digits really were killing him. Then, as he stood before the mirror, he started wondering if maybe he should've done something... well, more. And the deeper he fell into his thoughts, the more anxiety started eating away at him like a carnivorous bacteria. Should he have gotten some cologne? Bought a present? God, what do you do for a hookup? What was the etiquette? Do you just start kissing the second you're alone, or do you beat around the bush first? Talk, grab a bite, all that jazz? Should he bring rubbers, lube, or would Remmick provide? They were going to be at his apartment, after all.
And what if... Oh, here was the real kicker... What if, even after all the traded pictures and chats... Remmick decided that Sammie wasn't worth it? Why not? He was allowed to change his mind, and Sammie couldn't say he'd blame him if he did. Sammie had seen some real hunks on Tinder, and Remmick was pretty handsome. He could have any of those guys - or girls, or nonbinaries, or literally anything else, seeing as Remmick identified as pan. When his palette was that generous, when had had that many options... why would he settle for Sammie?
Sammie even remembered how Remmick had described his preferences. "When it comes to sports, or culture, or even war, I fight for Ireland," he'd said smoothly. "When it comes to love, I don't pick sides."
Yeah, right. 'Love'. Like something like that had any place in what they were doing. Like you could find your fucking soulmate on Tinder of all things.
Then again... Well...
Grimacing, Sammie reread a section of Remmick's profile. Specifically, what he was looking for.
Offering pain and pleasure, in whatever dose or manner you want. Adulation. Worship. Looking for forever.
In truth, Sammie hadn't even read the last part. His brain had stopped functioning at the word 'worship'. As a preacher's boy, he knew a thing or two about worship. His father would often lead his entire family into Bible studies during the weekends, and would make Sammie kneel on raw rice when he misbehaved. Kneel, and pray to God for mercy and forgiveness. He knew that worship could hurt as well as soothe. Could give you the strength of a hero or leave you feeling like the scum of the earth. But to be worshipped? Well, that'd made Sammie's ears perk up, so to speak. It'd be nice to pretend, if only for a while, that he was something worth worshipping.
A honking car horn snapped him out of his reverie. Sammie startled, glanced at the clock, and felt his stomach twist into a knot. Swallowing hard, he claimed his phone and turned off the news. Why bother keeping it on? It was just more shit about that weird virus. Not worth his time. He pulled on his parka and hat, stepped into his boots, and headed out.
Sammie saw Remmick before he saw the car. He was leaning against it, one foot against the metal door. Instantly, Sammie's stomach did a somersault. Remmick looked just like he did in all the pictures both on his profile and in their message thread: A tall, slender, thirty-five-year-old Irish brunette with pale skin and broad shoulders. Despite it being January in Chicago, with thigh-high mountains of dirty snow lacing every street and plenty of snowmen standing about, Remmick's coat was unzipped. Beneath it, his navy shirt was unbuttoned lower than was strictly proper, exposing a sliver of smooth chest and the glint of an iron chain. He had a boyish, earnest face and a big pair of ocean-blue eyes. Eyes that could look calm and inviting or stormy and thrillingly dangerous, depending on the light. And when Remmick smiled, Sammie saw, he did so with his whole face. His smile was toothy, yet genuine. It made Sammie strangely happy to see it.
"Hey there!" Remmick greeted, rushing over to clap Sammie on the shoulder. Like they were two buddies going to watch a football game at a local bar or something. Well, not a bad way of saying 'hi'. What was Sammie expecting? A big, wet, sloppy kiss right at the starting line?
Well... maybe, but there was time for that.
"Happy to see ya, Sammie." Leaning in, Remmick gave Sammie a salacious grin and a wink. "You're even cuter in person." To avoid blushing too hard, Sammie focused on Remmick's accent. A mixture of Irish and Southern. The result of moving to the States when he was a freshman in high school and spending the next twenty years and change in North Carolina. It was strange, but pleasing to the ear.
"Thanks," Sammie replied, scuffing his Chuck Taylor against the cracked sidewalk. "Um... So," he cleared his throat, "we gonna go straight to your place, or...?"
Remmick shrugged, still grinning - though it was softer now. "You tell me, sugar. This is yer first time. If ya wanna get down to business, that works for me. But if ya wanna take it slow, that's more than fine, too." He actually sounded like he cared, too. And that... meant a lot. Sammie wasn't patient enough to wait for fucking marriage, nor was he all that confident in finding that 'special someone' everybody loved to allude to. Sure, people liked his music, but outside of his family - well, the twins and their girls; Daddy was a whole other can of worms - that was all they cared about. Once he put the guitar down, he was just another awkward youth to them. Not a threat. Not worth noticing.
Sammie took a deep breath, weighed his options, and finally spoke. "We can... uh... We can get right to it if... if ya want." He was too anxious to eat.
Remmick nodded, his eyes twinkling in the lamppost's light. "Okay." A brisk wind had both their teeth chattering, and Remmick finally zipped up his coat. "C'mon. Let's go warm up."
Oh, Sammie was sure they would - in more ways than one.
***
Remmick's apartment was directly above his place of work: An Irish pub called O'Neil's. It was one of those places that felt like home even to those who'd never been there before: Lots of wood-paneling and warmth, with gentle lighting and plenty of good food. And live music, of course.
Remmick worked here as both a bartender and occasional musician. It wasn't the most high-paying job in the world, but Remmick was easily the star attraction. He was probably the only guy in the neighborhood - hell, in the city - who could sing an entire playlist of traditional Irish songs in Gaelic. Everything from 'Siúil A Rúin' to 'The Fields of Athenry' to 'The Rocky Road To Dublin'. Remmick had sent Sammie a few videos of him singing, too. He had a damn good voice. Beautiful and strong. While Sammie never would've admitted it, he'd listened to those videos more than once. Each.
Their passage through the bar was brief, quiet, and tense. As they shed their coats, they did so in silence. As though they were entering a mausoleum or a church instead of a pub. And indeed, the place was almost as silent as either of those places. Even though a few folks - regular barflies and a handful of colleagues busting tables and handling drinks - waved at Remmick, most were either watching the television screens or hooked to their phones. More about this weird disease, it seemed. Seven hundred cases in Italy alone. Sammie felt a shiver of unease as he followed Remmick up the small flight of stairs, their creaking footsteps nearly in tandem. It was a relief when they finally got away from the screens and returned to the real world. The world where they were about to have sex. Where Sammie was about to enjoy his first time.
The key rattled in the lock. The door opened, its hinges squealing. Remmick switched on a light, revealing a small and clustered space. An apartment filled to the brim with mementos and personal affects. The habitation of someone who held onto shit. Who didn't like to let things go.
Remmick stood at the threshold, looking back at Sammie with big, hopeful eyes. Letting him make his choice.
But Sammie already had. He wanted that first experience, and Remmick was as good a partner as any to give it to him. He surged forth, throwing his arms around Remmick, and crashed his lips to his. Remmick moaned in appreciation, kicking the door shut behind them.
Blindly, frantically, they kissed. All teeth and tongue and probing hands. Remmick tasted like toothpaste - and, underneath it, something coppery and salty, like blood. A weird combination, but one that Sammie found exciting. When Remmick's tongue probed against his lips, silently asking to be let in, Sammie granted his request. Instantly, he felt his mouth being explored, a surprisingly dexterous tongue wrapping around his own in a close, slimy embrace. It shouldn't have been so hot, and yet it was.
Unfortunately, the pesky need for air broke the kiss eventually. Their breaths fanning each other's cheeks, Remmick and Sammie stood there. Staring at each other with wide, pupil-blown eyes. Sammie had his hands on Remmick's shoulders while Remmick was cupping Sammie's face in a surprisingly tender way. Like they were lovers and not just two strangers about to fuck.
"Ye taste so sweet, songbird," Remmick purred, his Irish lilt poking out of his Southern drawl like a frog out of pond water. "Sweeter than candy. Sweeter than honey. Sweeter than me ma's homemade tea cake." He leaned in, brushing their lips together. "God, I want more."
Sammie felt a shiver run up his spine, goosebumps creeping up his arms and neck. "Then take it," he invited, feeling bold.
Remmick grinned, wolfish. With an eager noise and a careful shove, he sent Sammie sprawling on a couch that smelled of soap and Guinness. Not a second later, Remmick's full weight was pressing against him, his hands clutching at the armrest just above Sammie's head. Their lips found each other once more in a searing kiss that left Sammie's heart dancing within his ribs and excitement humming in his veins. A thigh found its way between Sammie's legs. Shamelessly, he ground against it, seeking friction for his stiffening cock. Remmick groaned in his mouth before grinding his hips against Sammie's. The youth broke the kiss, moaning at the hardness he felt.
"Fuck, yes, sweetheart," Remmick purred, his hips still rubbing so deliciously against Sammie's, "see what ye do to me? God, ye drive me wild." He attacked Sammie's mouth again, nicking his bottom lip in his enthusiasm. A drop of blood welled up there. Remmick's tongue lapped it up as though it were honey or cake batter. Every part of Sammie seemed to taste good to this man. It made Sammie feel desired. Powerful, even. Blindly, he unbuttoned Remmick's shirt and pushed the fabric back, revealing lean muscle and cool, almost completely hairless skin. Remmick helped him toss the offending garment away, moaning when Sammie's hands explored his chest, stomach, and back. His own hand slipped beneath Sammie's sweater, cool against Sammie's heated flesh. Without needing to be asked, Remmick broke the kiss and helped Sammie out of his sweater, throwing it in the same no man's land as Remmick's button-up shirt.
Remmick leaned back, taking Sammie in with wide, awestruck eyes. Like he was looking at salvation and damnation all at once. His hand slowly traced Sammie's shoulders. The delicate outline of his ribs. His stomach. "Yer perfect," he whispered, reverent.
Sammie blushed, looking away. "I'm skinny," he remarked. "Like, I legit look like a nine-year-old boy who got put in Willy Wonka's Taffy Puller-"
"Perfect," Remmick cut him off, crouching down to smother his torso in butterfly kisses. Sammie gasped at the initial contact, then found himself relaxing. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes, as Remmick kissed every part of him from his naval to his pulse point. All the while, he kept one hand pressing gently against his crotch. Adding a wonderful bit of pressure that kept Sammie hungry for more.
Once Remmick made it back down, he nuzzled the area just above his jeans. "Please," he whispered, "I wanna taste ye. May I?"
Sammie's pulse jumped, but he nodded. Might as well cover all his bases, right? And it seemed like Remmick knew what he was doing.
Grinning, Remmick unbuttoned Sammie's jeans and slid them all the way down his legs. When Sammie's shoes got in the way, Remmick loosened the strings and pulled them off. The jeans soon followed. Before he could do the same to Sammie's boxers, though, he stopped and looked up at Sammie. Silently asking for permission even as his eyes shone black in the dim light and drool was dribbling from his bottom lip. Sammie nodded. "Do it."
"Oh, Sammie..." Remmick's voice grew deeper, more feral, as he stripped Sammie of his boxers. Sammie's cock sprung free, fully erect and the head already dewed with precum. Fuck, he was this far along already? Normally, he needed at least ten minutes of porn - the volume low and the shame sky-high - before he could get to this point. Maybe it was the realness of it all. Or maybe it was Remmick.
Remmick grinned as he scooted closer, his warm breath making Sammie's cock twitch. "Eyes on me, baby," he instructed in a sultry tone. "Ye ain't gonna wanna miss this." Sammie had no trouble obeying. He didn't think he could've looked away anyway. Remmick, looking like the cat that got the cream, started off with more wet kisses. Starting at the base, he made his way to the tip, his tongue darting out to trace the vein. The sight, coupled with the sensations, made Sammie bite down hard on his bottom lip. His hands reached out and grabbed Remmick's bare arms, needing grounding. The skin was cool, smooth, and strong. One of Remmick's hands seized his, the gesture oddly intimate. The other wrapped around Sammie's aching erection, giving it a few quick but wonderful strokes. Then, winking at Sammie, Remmick bent down and wrapped his lips around the head.
"Fuck," Sammie gasped, awash with sweet, warm pleasure. It took all of his willpower to not close his eyes and lean his head back. To fully lose himself in the intensity of it all. But the view was no less exciting than the electricity buzzing through him. Remmick gulped down his cock like a man starved, hollowing out his cheeks, and probing him with his tongue. Every time it looked like he might remove his mouth, he simply sucked on the tip like a lollipop before pushing down all the way to the base. His nose buried itself in Sammie's wiry pubic hair, breathing it in as though it were a bouquet of roses. The hand not holding Sammie's slipped down to cradle his balls, careful not to be too forceful. Just another spike of pleasure to add to the heady mix of sensations.
Sammie used his free hand to grab Remmick's soft curls, his fingernails lightly scraping against Remmick's scalp. His eyes sliding shut, Remmick hummed around Sammie's cock. The vibration made Sammie's hips jerk involuntarily. When Remmick pulled off him with an obscene pop, Sammie almost whined out loud. "That's it, darlin'," Remmick encouraged hoarsely, grinning like a jack-o-lantern, his eyes bleary with pleasure. "Use me. Fuck me mouth. Lemme be yer rapture." Without giving Sammie time to answer, he slid Sammie's cock back into the wet heat of his mouth. Sammie found himself thrusting, guided by instinct and a desire to reach nirvana. And Remmick let him do it, weaving their fingers together. His eyes closed once more, drool seeping all over Sammie's crotch. Acting as a natural, copious lubricant.
Sammie moaned wantonly, pushing aside thoughts of what his father or cousins would say if they saw him like this, and focused only on chasing that high. It was coming in close now. So close he could taste it. His thrusts grew sloppy, erratic, until his orgasm hit him like a ton of bricks. Distantly, he was aware of Remmick making a choking noise, but he felt himself being milked for all he was worth. Every drop was swallowed, nothing going to waste. When he was finally wrung out, he leaned back with a bone-deep sigh.
Remmick grinned, gave Sammie's softening cock a parting kiss before climbing his way up his body, his hands flanking Sammie's head. He lowered himself, revealing a face drunk on lust and desire. "Ye taste delicious, my songbird." He leaned in, their lips brushing. "Taste this delicacy." As Remmick's tongue slipped inside, Sammie's taste-buds were flooded with his own flavor. It was strange, knowing that it'd come from him, but the entire exchange felt both erotic and intimate. He kissed Remmick back, wrapping his arms around him, and Remmick thrust against his thigh. That was when Sammie remembered - oh, right - that Remmick still had pants on. God, he must've been in agony. Maintaining their kiss, Sammie slithered his hands down and worked on taking care of that little problem. The leather belt slipped out of the hoops in a whisper, and the zipper sounded as loud as a shout.
Remmick groaned, one hand cupping Sammie's cheek. "Oh... mo ghrá, let me free." More of that Irish lilt spilling out, tinged with desperation. Grinning against Remmick's lips, Sammie helped him shed his trousers. Seemingly determined to be as close to Sammie as possible, Remmick kicked his jeans off and somehow managed to toe off his shoes, too. Then, bracing himself on one arm so as to avoid collapsing on top of Sammie, he reached down and freed himself of his underwear.
Just like that, they were both bare. On equal ground. Skin on skin. Somehow, that fact alone was enough to make Sammie's spent cock twitch with interest once more.
Remmick was nestled in the cradle of Sammie's hips, still looking drunk on desire. But there was something else in his gaze, too. Something tender. Something that frightened Sammie due to its mere presence. After all, this wasn't supposed to mean anything. Not really. It was just sex, no strings attached. And yet Remmick was looking at Sammie like he was holding the moon in his hands like a fucking orange.
Sammie, caught between loving that gaze and knowing he'd done nothing to deserve it, knitted both hands into Remmick's hair and pulled him into a kiss. Remmick happily acquiesced, his hands everywhere. On Sammie's face. His chest. His thighs. His back. Remmick was delight incarnate, and Sammie wanted to be surrounded by him. And when he felt Remmick's body press against his, that hard cock rubbing against his thigh, he felt his own member finally stir back to life.
Breaking the kiss, Sammie said, "Fuck me. Now. Please."
For a second, Remmick looked like he'd come from those words alone. Instead, drooling like a dog beholding a steak, he said, "Anythin' for you, songbird." In a blink, he got up, hurried to the bathroom, and came back with a bottle of lube. A part of Sammie was desperate enough to consider forsaking that crucial step. But logic won out, and he let himself be prepped. It turned out to be a wise decision, and not just because it could've otherwise hurt; Remmick's fingers were skilled, after all, and wonderfully calloused. If Sammie hadn't been brought to such a fevered pitch of ecstasy, he might've been embarrassed by the sounds pouring from his mouth. But as Remmick stretched him open, whispering encouragements and praise, Sammie couldn't bring himself to care. It was unlike anything he'd even imagined before, and he was greedy for more. No better than a baby bird.
Remmick settled himself between Sammie's legs, looking as wrecked and desperate as Sammie felt. Stormy-blue met dark brown, both pupil-blown and a little wild. "Ye ready, sugar?"
Sammie nodded. Placed his hands on Remmick's shoulders. "Yeah." He licked his lips. "You can come in."
Remmick grinned. Then, carefully, he guided himself inside Sammie. The initial breach made Sammie's breathing hitch and his back arch, but Remmick's hand on his cheek was oddly grounding.
"Relax for me, hon," Remmick crooned, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into Sammie's skin. "It's okay."
It was the tone, more than the words, that actually did the trick. Like Remmick truly cared about Sammie's comfort. Like Sammie wasn't just some toy for Remmick to use. Like Remmick couldn't like it if Sammie didn't. The gentle, almost intimate touch helped, too. Sammie turned his head, burying his face in Remmick's hand as Remmick kept pressing further, slow and cautious.
Finally, Remmick was fully seated in Sammie. Still. Giving him time to adjust. For that, Sammie was grateful. He was panting like he'd just run a marathon even though he hadn't actually done anything. The fullness he was feeling was... strange. Not painful, not really, just strange. And, as the seconds ticked by and the novelty began to fray, Sammie began to feel something pleasurable about it.
Remmick twitched, sending a ripple of electricity through Sammie. "Please," he gasped, digging his nails into Remmick's shoulders, "move."
"Fuck, darlin'," Remmick gasped, "yer wish is my command." He drew his hips back before snapping them forward again. Sammie jolted on his cock, a debauched moan falling from his lips.
There were no pauses after that.
Remmick moved quickly, almost desperately, while visibly taking care to never be rough. Fucked into Sammie with abandon, circling his hips so as to reach every nook and cranny, as he showered his face and neck with wet kisses. "God, honey, ye feel so good," he moaned. "So tight, so warm, so good for me. Fuck, thank ye, mo luachmhar. Thank ye for lettin' me be yer first. Thank ye for lettin' me in. God, I could do this forever..."
Sammie wouldn't have minded that one bit. He found himself meeting Remmick thrust for thrust, his hands moving from Remmick's shoulders to his back. It was akin to a lover's embrace, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not when bursts of white-hot pleasure kept erupting beneath his skin with every well-aimed strike. Not when he was seeing stars. Not when Remmick was fucking him like this was the only thing that mattered.
Remmick's apartment filled with their song. The wet slap of skin against skin. Sammie's moans and keens. Remmick's gasps and hisses and ramblings. It was beautiful. Almost sacred.
Remmick kissed Sammie's pulse point, drooling all over the sweaty skin. "I wanna - I wanna bite ye," he managed between pants. His eyes met Sammie's, bleary with lust and something else. "Please, darlin', may I? Please, it'll feel good, I promise."
For a second, Sammie hesitated. Remmick had sharp teeth - almost beyond what a normal human should have. Surely, if he bit down hard enough, he'd draw blood. And Sammie had never been one to add pain to pleasure. And yet, as Remmick kept ploughing into him with everything he had, Sammie found that he wanted to please Remmick. To make this good for him, too. So, at long last, he bared his neck to Remmick. Maintaining eye contact the entire time.
Remmick's face crumpled. "Oh, Sammie... I adore ye, I wanna keep ye..." His arms slid under Sammie, pulling him in a close embrace, as he sank his teeth into Sammie's neck.
That turned out to be the last straw. His vision went white. Ecstasy flooded his senses. Sammie screamed as his orgasm took him, clinging to Remmick as hot streaks of come painted both of their bellies.
Remmick released Sammie's neck, nursing the mark he'd left with his tongue. Sammie whimpered at the feeling, his body still trembling in the aftershocks. "I'm almost there, baby," Remmick grunted in Sammie's ear. An almost pained noise poured from his throat. "Fuck, I'm - I'm so close!"
Sammie's hands moved to Remmick's hair, his nails lightly tracing his scalp once more. Their foreheads pressed together, skin against damp skin. "Come for me," he whispered, his voice reedy. A plea and a command all at once.
Remmick whined, his hips stuttering against Sammie's. "Oh, mo chuisle, thank ye, Sammie, thank ye so much-" He let out a guttural groan that Sammie felt more than heard. Remmick thrust into him once, twice, and then heat flooded Sammie's insides. Intimate and sexy all at once.
Remmick toppled on Sammie then, panting and wheezing and trembling. Sammie, against his better judgement, caressed the older man's back and raked a hand through his hair. A pleased Remmick hummed at the touch, curling his body around Sammie's. Then, eventually, he withdrew. Sammie winced, then felt cold as Remmick got up completely. Leaving him alone on the couch, the fabric beneath him damp with sweat and other fluids.
Sammie blinked, surprised and a little hurt. Sure, he'd known that this was just a bit of fun, but-
Remmick knelt beside the couch, a damp washcloth in his hand. Gently, as though he were handling something precious, he wiped Sammie clean. The cloth was soft and warm, the silence comfortable. It all conspired to make Sammie's eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. "M'gonna crash here," he slurred, "if ya don't mind."
Remmick chuckled. "Was gonna invite ye to stay anyway." Calloused fingers traced his cheek. A thumb caressed his lips. "Sleep well, songbird."
Sammie did. In fact, he slept better than he had in weeks. So did Remmick, who claimed a quilt from his closet and lay down on the floor beside the divan.
Neither had any idea of what was happening just outside.