hatethysinner

[hatethysinner]

ok so what do yall think of my next fic being an au set in the 1960s-1970s (haven't decided yet) with a black model reader and remmick as her agent

[hatethysinner]

ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʜᴇʀʙᴀʟɪꜱᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You've found comfort in your solitary life. No one comes to visit the humble herbalist living on the town's edge who talks to her own plants. That all changed in the early morning hours of today, when your kindness betrayed you to help a suffering man on your doorstep. You let the wrong one in.

ᴡᴄ: 8.5k

ᴀ/ɴ: Haven't felt like dipping my toes into writing fanfics again since my Avatar era, which was TWO YEARS AGO!!! There are not enough fluffy Remmick fics, so I will be the first to change that. This is my official admittance into the mental hospital we call the Sinners fandom. White girls I promise you can still have your fun with this too, enjoy!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SLOWburn, fluff with a side of smut, a little angst i guess, dark!remmick is on vacation, you're getting overly grateful remmick instead, excessive use of the word perfect, reader is a little special, a little domesticity never hurts, yearning, vampirism, blood, biting, begging, absolutely pathetic man overload at the start, praise kink, dirty talk, fingering, cunnilingus, offscreen parental death, detailed wound care, nursing back to health, religious undertones if you squint, general affection and eroticism, amateur knowledge of herbalism pls don't kill me, excessive divider usage, i think y'all know what to expect i'm not writing out everything

There was something about this morning.

You were an early bird. Always up at the crack of dawn, finding something to pass the time with. Today was no different.

You tended to your thriving garden, proud to see how strong they were growing. Your yarrow and coneflower were blooming, almost bending over to meet your gentle touch. You complimented their petals, and you could've sworn you saw them smile.

As if to make themselves heard, your mint let off an extra potent odor, making your nose instinctively cool. You didn't let them feel left out for long.

Brushing a caressing hand over your culinary plants as you passed, you settled in front of your aloe vera. They were new arrivals to your garden and clearly feeling the love. The leaves were plump, firm, and upright. You gave them a gentle squeeze to acknowledge them and check their texture, giggling at the pricks they teased you with.

And yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off.

The mourning doves, typically cooing as if only to you, were silent.

There were no bullfrogs curiously watching you from the swamp, engaging in a one-sided staredown.

The cicadas, too, joined the other animals in this strange hush.

You shook yourself out of your unaware daze and made your way back inside your house.

It was a humble home, really.

The kind that held heat in the winter and every memory you'd ever made in the summer. The walls, painted by hand, bore the soft fingerprints of time, smudged and faded from where you leaned, laughed, or wept.

Herbs hung from the walls and ceiling, bunches of rosemary and thyme swaying idly. The scent of lavender clung to the air like it paid rent.

Your floors creaked with purpose, every step a reminder of those who walked here before you. A wood-burning stove sat snug in the corner, its black iron belly cold for now, but always ready. Your cast-iron pots gleamed with the pride of something well-used and well-loved. The shelves were lined with mason jars. Roots, tinctures, and teas you brewed with your own hands.

A worn quilt lay draped over your rocking chair, patchwork squares made from old dresses and scraps your Mama found and stitched together. The rocking chair, too, was a product of your Daddy's handiwork, and you remember all too well how excited you were to be the first person to use it.

Your Bible, which you didn't read much these days to the would-be chagrin of your parents, sat next to a leather-bound notebook, full of hand-scrawled recipes and forgotten dreams.

And even now, with the silence pressing in from outside, your home felt like it was breathing with you. Watching. Waiting. Holding space for whatever was coming.

And that's when you heard it.

It was a relentless pounding.

Fist, no, fists on wood, over and over. Wild, desperate, like a storm had taken the shape of a man and found its way to your doorstep.

You froze where you stood, one hand hovering over your table, the other reaching for nothing. The pounding didn't stop. It grew louder, faster, until it wasn't just a knock, it was a plea.

“Please!” the voice cracked. “Please, somebody help me! Please!”

A man's voice. Frantic. Wrecked.

You couldn't place it. Didn't recognize the tone, the rhythm, the panic laced inside every syllable. The man's accent was different, too. Certainly southern, but there was an unfamiliar undertone that backed his voice.

Your heart skipped. Once. Twice. Your home felt smaller, as if it was slowly, agonizingly imploding.

You glanced to the small window by the door, curtain still drawn, light slanting through it as if God's eye was watching you. You didn't move. You just listened.

“I'm beggin' you, please, open up! I don't- I don't got nowhere else!”

Something in you bristled. Not fear, not yet. But something deeper. That ancient, gut-deep knowing passed down through bloodlines. Something your Mama called a warning.

The house, for the first time in years, didn't feel like it was breathing with you.

It was holding its breath.

Your eyes were locked on the door like it might open by itself and save you the trouble.

The pounding had stopped, but the voice hadn't.

It was lower now, cracked and ragged as if supported by a throat made of gravel. “It burns, please, it burns! I c-can't- I need-”

You stepped forward, just one foot. Then another.

There wasn't fear in your body, but there was weight. Heavy weight. Like your bones knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet.

You reached the door but didn't open it. Not yet.

Instead, you spoke, low and even. “Who are you?”

There was a pause. A very long pause.

Then... thud.

It sounded like someone had collapsed against the door.

“...Miss,” the voice came again, quieter now, hoarse like he'd been screaming for days, or just minutes in your case. “Please... I don't got long.”

You placed your hand on the doorframe, fingers brushing the edge. You didn't open it. Not yet. Just leaned in, pressed your ear close.

“...hurts,” he breathed. “It hurts.”

The pain in his voice was palpable, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't pull at your heartstrings. He sounded as if he was on the verge of death. And by all you knew, he was.

Your fingers twitched. Then, slowly, you undid the lock. The door creaked open. Just an inch. Then two.

And there he was.

Lord have mercy.

He was crumpled on your porch, face completely covered by his hands. His skin was blistering, no, boiling. Red, raw patches covered his arms and face, angry welts clawing across every inch of him the sun could reach. With each small movement, smoke came forth.

He wore a filthy wifebeater that clung to him in hatred. Loose pants, torn and streaked with mud. Neither fabric looked like it had known clean water in weeks. A gold chain hung from his neck, glinting in the same sun scorching him.

He didn't look at you at first. Instead, the begging continued. Relentlessly.

“Please... let me in. Just- just let me in.”

Then his eyes met yours. Blue, sharp, ancient.

They held a kind of agony you weren't used to seeing. Not even in death. It made you instinctively crack the door further, against your better judgment.

He clawed himself forward, but stopped just short of the doorframe.

Didn't stumble inside, didn't even try.

He just knelt there. Beseeching you.

There was something else that surprised you, too.

It wasn't the bubbling skin, or the filthy clothes, or even the way he clung to your porch like a dying man gripping the edge of heaven. It wasn't how he hissed at the sunlight or how his body stayed frozen at the threshold like the house itself had drawn a line.

It was his skin.

Pale.

A white man in Mississippi. Begging you for help.

The sight alone could've gotten you dragged out of your own house and blamed for whatever mess he brought with him. White men didn't knock. They didn't ask. They didn't plead. And they certainly never begged.

Trouble always followed a white man, especially one burned in the light.

Still, he looked up at you like you were the only thing holding him to this earth. His voice cracked again, choking despite only uttering one word. “Please...”

And despite everything, your gut, your fear, your history, you opened the door wider.

“Come in.”

The moment those two words left your lips, he collapsed forward like a string had been cut.

His body hit the floor with a sickening slap, smoke curling off his skin like meat left too long on a flame. He didn't scream this time. Just groaned, soft and guttural, as if even his pain had worn itself out.

You moved fast, the way you did when a snake bite came through your door or an infected wound that gnawed away at flesh.

“Chair,” you said, pointing to the stool near the stove. “Sit if you can. Don't touch nothin' yet.”

He tried. Lord, he tried. Arms trembling like saplings in the wind, he dragged himself up bit by bit. Sat slumped, head down, that glistening gold chain now dull against his blistered chest.

You were already gathering. Mortar and pestle. Clean rags. A sharp knife for cutting fresh aloe straight from the stalk. The herb practically hummed in your hand, full and green and ready.

“It's like you're burnin' from the inside,” you muttered under your breath, though you didn't try hard to be inaudible. “Not just sun-sick.”

You sliced through a thick leaf, watching the gel ooze out like honey, thick and cool. You grabbed the peppermint oil next, then yarrow for the swelling, and comfrey for the sores. You didn't pause. Didn't ask questions.

Not yet.

“Strip that shirt off,” you said, not unkind, but firm. “Let me see what I'm workin' with.”

He didn't argue; clearly didn't have the strength. Just nodded, weakly peeling the ruined fabric from his body. Skin came with it in some places. You winced but didn't let it show.

You dipped your fingers in the aloe and started to work.

The gel clung to your skin, cool and thick. It spread easily across his shoulder, where the burns had bloomed the worst. Red turned near-black, skin puckered and peeling like old bark.

His muscles twitched under your touch, lean and long, the kind of frame that had seen many hard years but held strong through all of them. One that had moved. Run, maybe. Fought, more likely.

You didn't flinch when you reached the boils on his neck. They pulsed like tiny hearts, angry and hot, and the gold chain pressed into one of them. You worked around it with care, fingers sure and slow, your breath steady as you hummed under your breath. It was one of Mama's songs.

“Easy now,” you said, pressing a damp cloth against a split on his rib. “Aloe's drawin' the fire out. You'll feel a sting.”

He nodded faintly, lips cracked and dry.

You could hear the strain in his breath. Short, sharp, like every inhale had to fight through a thousand splinters.

“I'll get you water.”

You rose and moved to the basin. Poured from the cool jug you kept shaded on the windowsill. Found a clean tin cup and filled it to the brim, watching the water catch the light as you turned.

When you pressed it into his hand, his fingers barely curled around it. Still, he drank like a man who hadn't seen a drop in weeks. The water spilled over his lips, soaked his chest, but he didn't stop until it was gone.

“More?”

He shook his head, just once, leaning back against the wall behind the stool. You could see the tension leave his shoulders piece by piece, breath slowing, eyes half-lidded now.

You returned to his chest. Worked in a fresh layer of aloe with a touch of peppermint oil, just enough to cool the heat curled beneath the skin.

Every now and then, he made a sound. Low, not quite a word, but not quite a groan either. You didn't ask for stories. Didn't pry for the answers you desperately needed.

There'd be time for that.

For now, you just tended to what you could touch.

“Thank you,” he said, voice like gravel wet from rain.

It came out quietly, but it settled in the room all the same. You were just finishing the last bit of aloe, smoothing it across his lower side where the burns were thinner, more tender. His skin jumped under your fingertips, but he didn't pull away.

“Mm,” you replied, washing your hands in the basin beside you. “I don't do this for gratitude. I do it 'cause somebody needed it.”

You picked up on the way his eyes followed you. Slow, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the way you moved. Or maybe just remind himself he was still here.

You dried your hands on the edge of your apron, glancing out the window. Morning was still hanging on, soft and gold through the cypress trees. The world hadn't turned upside down, even if it felt like it should've.

“You eaten?” you asked, already turning toward the stove. “Ain't no point in mendin' skin if your belly's hollow.”

He blinked, surprised, as if the idea of a meal hadn't crossed his mind.

“No. I don't think so, at least,” he admitted, scratching lightly at the side of his neck where a fresh scab was forming. “Think I forgot what that feels like.”

You gave a little laugh, not mocking, just gentle.

“Well,” you opened your pantry. “I don't forget how to feed a body. Burned up or not.”

You made your way to the stove, brushing past the dried bundles of thyme and safe hanging from the walls, the scent of them catching in the air. You could feel his eyes on you, though he tried, and failed, not to make it obvious.

The pan sizzled to life as you dropped in a pat of butter. You reached for the cornmeal, then the basket of eggs you’d gathered just yesterday. Behind you, he shifted in the stool, the wood creaking beneath him, but he didn’t move much more than that.

“Ya always up this early?” he asked, voice a little clearer now, a languid drawl present in each word.

“Always. Plants don't wait on nobody, and neither does the sun.”

You didn't turn when you said it, but you could feel him smiling behind you. Not wide. Just a small pull at the corners, like his face was trying to remember how to shape one.

The grits bubbled thick and soft, and you stirred them slow, adding salt, pepper, and a touch of dried rosemary.

“You can rest here a while,” you said, finally glancing over your shoulder. “Ain't nobody gonna bother you way out here.”

Again, your eyes met his.

And for a long breath, neither of you looked away.

It wasn't just the quiet of the room that wrapped around you; it was the weight of his stare. Steady and slow, like he was memorizing the shape of your face. His gaze drifted just enough to trace your cheekbones, your nose, your lips, your curls, then returned to your eyes, almost bashful in how bold he'd been.

He blinked first. Let out a low breath, maybe a sigh. Maybe something else.

“I believe you,” his voice was quieter now, but somehow firmer. “'Bout nobody botherin' me here.”

A pause.

“Ya got a way about you. Like the world listens to you, not the other way 'round.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t try to say much. Just turned back to the pan and scooped the grits into a wooden bowl, set two fried eggs on top, sprinkled a little salt, a little pepper, a touch of dill.

You brought it over and set it on the small table near his stool, then filled another tin cup with water and placed it beside the bowl.

“Eat,” you said, soft but sure. “Still got hours left in the morning, and you’ll need strength to face ’em.”

He looked at the food, then at you, then back at the food, then at you again.

And this time, when he smiled, it showed teeth.

You noticed it, not all at once, but enough to make your breath catch.

They were white, strikingly so for a man who looked half-melted an hour ago. Clean, but... off. His canines were just a touch too long, too pointed, like they'd been honed on something harder, no, more precise, than meat. Not cartoonish, not obvious, but sharp in a way your eyes couldn't unsee once they caught the right angle of them in the light.

Predator's teeth, hidden behind a beggar's smile.

But you said nothing.

Just tucked that little detail away, same as you did with the tone of a bird's call. Not fear, just curiosity. Observation.

And when he took another bite, careful not to scrape his lip, you could tell he knew you'd seen.

But he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t lie.

Just chewed slow, and said nothing.

He took another bite, slower this time. Chewed. Swallowed. Ran his tongue briefly over those sharp canines like he was trying to smooth them down before speaking.

Then, without looking up:

“Do you live out here all on your own?”

The question was soft, careful, but it hung heavy in the air between you. Heavier than it had any right to.

You could feel his eyes on you again before you met them, like his gaze had weight, heat, shape. When you finally did look, he wasn’t just curious. He was studying you, the kind of look a man gives a locked door he’s dying to open.

You tilted your head.

“I do,” you said simply, but there was something warm curling in your belly as you said it. Not shame. Not pride. Just a quiet truth you suddenly wanted him to understand. “Ain’t been nothin’ wrong with my own company.”

His fingers, resting beside the bowl, twitched just slightly, like he might reach for something. Maybe the cup, maybe something less easy to explain, but thought better of it.

“That don’t surprise me,” he said, voice low now, almost reverent. “Ya seem like you belong to yourself.”

That stirred something in you.

You didn’t smile, not fully, but your eyes softened, and you found yourself watching the curve of his jaw, the healed patches of skin just under his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest now that he was breathing easier.

He shifted in his seat, eyes still on you, but with a touch more caution now, like he was stepping somewhere sacred.

“How'd you come to live on your own?” he asked. His tone was light, but the words carried something behind them. “'S not every day I meet a woman flyin' solo. Not out here, anyhow.”

He added it quickly, before you could bristle, his hand lifting, palm open, like he meant no offense.

“I mean that with respect,” he said, voice warm and sincere. “Truth be told, it’s a rare strength. I just… wondered what kind of road leads a woman like you to a place like this.”

You caught it. The way his eyes lingered on your hands, then your ring finger, bare as the rest. The question wasn’t just about how you lived.

It was about who you lived without.

You set your elbows on the table, leaning in just a touch, chin tilted like you were deciding how much of your truth he’d earned.

“My Mama and Daddy left me this place when they passed. Wasn't much of a question after that.”

He nodded like he understood more than you’d said. Maybe he did.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” he murmured empathetically, letting silence fall.

But the silence that followed felt different now.

Less like strangers making room for each other.

More like something in the air had shifted, tilted ever so slightly in your direction.

He looked down at his empty plate for a moment, fingers brushing crumbs that weren't really there. Then, something passed over his face. Not shame exactly, but close. Worse.

A furrow crept into his brow as he let out a low sigh, rubbed the back of his neck, and muttered, “Well, hell.”

You blinked.

He looked back up at you, face caught somewhere between apology and self-reproach, the edge of his accent rounding his words.

“Here I am, half-burned 'n beggin' on your porch like a fool, takin' your food, your kindness, 'n I never even asked your name.”

He exhaled, clearly bothered by it, his mouth pulling tight at the corners. “That's rude. I was raised better'n that.”

You felt something stir again in your chest, something warmer this time. Like the heat off a cast iron skillet, slow and steady.

He sat a little straighter now, eyes fixed to yours, and though his voice was low, the way he said it made your heart pick up all the same:

“I'd like to know your name.”

You paused, just a beat. Long enough to make sure the moment stayed. Long enough to feel the charge in the air, as real and tangible as the sunlight still spilling across the floor.

Then you told him.

Your name slid out like honey, at least in his mind. Slow, unashamed, yours.

And the way he repeated it?

Soft. Careful. Delicate. Like he didn't want to somehow shatter it on his lips.

“I'm Remmick,” he added after a moment, hand pressing lightly to his chest. “Just Remmick.”

And though he said it casually, like it wasn't worth much, the way his eyes lingered on you afterward said otherwise.

Said everything.

You broke the gaze first, not necessarily because you wanted to, but because you had to. Something about the weight of it, the softness, the pull, it was too much to sit in for long.

You stood up, hands moving on instinct, reaching for his dish like you'd done a hundred times before. It was second nature. Quiet, practiced care. A rhythm born of solitude.

But before your fingers could wrap around the bowl, his hand found yours. Not rushed, not rough. Just a gentle, callused palm over your knuckles.

“Let me,” he said softly.

His eyes were upturned, looking at you with something that wasn't pity, wasn't duty, just earnestness. A sincere desire to give something back.

“You've done more'n enough,” his thumb brushed faintly across your skin before pulling back, the break of contact seemingly equally hard for both of you. “I got two hands and a sink in front of me. Least I can do is clean my own mess.”

You hesitated, your hand still tingling where he’d touched it. But something about the way he stood, slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to spook the air between you, made you let him.

You stepped aside, and Remmick moved to the basin, running a hand over his bare chest as if remembering the shirt that once clung to it. His muscles flexed under pale, healing skin, burn scars catching the light like thin rivers on a map.

He handled each dish like it might break in his hands. Careful. Thoughtful. A man who’d maybe forgotten what peace felt like, but still remembered how to honor it when it came.

And in the stillness of that little kitchen, the soft sound of water and porcelain, you watched him. This strange, scorched man with sharp teeth and gentler hands, trying to give something back.

Like he wanted to earn the space he’d been given.

Like he’d stay, if you let him.

He didn't stay.

Evening had crept in slow, lazy and golden at first, but it cooled quick once the sun dipped past the horizon. You'd made tea by then, set out an old quilt on the porch steps, and the two of you sat there in a hush, talking in spurts and falling into silence just as easily. The kind of silence that didn't press too hard. The kind that felt safe.

You'd asked if he wanted to stay the night. Not with any suggestion on your tongue, just plain hospitality. The offer of a roof. Clean linens. A second mug of tea.

“Thank ya,” he'd said, eyes low. “But I can't.”

You frowned. “Your skin's still healing, Remmick.”

“I know.”

“I could wash your clothes,” it was one of your most weakly veiled offers yet. You knew you were being too obvious, but you didn't care. “Get the sweat and scorch off'em. They'll dry by morning, fresh as can be.”

His smile was tired. Soft. “I've taken more'n enough of your kindness for one day. Besides, leaving you with the smell of me hangin' in your air all night? That'd hardly be gentlemanly.”

You stood anyway, brushing off your skirt. “I'll pack you something, then. Something for the road.”

Then, he reached out. Not to stop you exactly, just to touch your hand. Gentle again, thumb tracing the back of your fingers like a memory he wasn't ready to let go of.

“I'll be back,” he said, voice thick like molasses left too long in the jar. “I swear to ya, I'll come back. As long as you'll have me.”

You searched his face, and he let you. Even stood to give you a better look. Let you linger on the curve of his cheekbone, the hollows of his eyes with pupils that you could've sworn were glinting red, the hint of a regretful smile playing on his lips.

Then he leaned down, not to kiss your lips, but your hands. Both of them.

Held them between his own, like prayer.

And pressed his mouth, reverent and warm, to your dorsals. First the left, then the right.

It left you breathless. Still.

You didn't speak as he turned and stepped back into the deepening blue of dusk. Vanishing into the cypress and cottonseed mist like he'd never been there at all.

But the porch felt colder when he was gone.

You lingered there a while, arms folded, watching the trees sway like they were mourning something too. The screen door creaked behind you, and when you finally stepped back inside, the house met you like a hollow room. Still shaped by him, but quiet now.

You closed the door softly behind you, the latch clicking louder than it should've.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine.

You gathered the dish towel from the counter, folded it twice, then again, smoothing out invisible creases. You adjusted the chairs at the table, even though they weren't crooked. Put the leftovers of lunch and dinner back under their cloth coverings. Remmick loved seconds and thirds. Straightened the salt jar. Wiped down the basin, though he had left it spotless.

The floorboards creaked differently now. Not heavier, just... lonelier.

You checked your herbs hanging near the stove, even though you'd checked them that morning. The mint looked limp. The rosemary had drooped a little at the ends. The lavender hung tired, like it had lost something too. Even your yarrow, usually so full of pride, drooped ever so slightly.

You ran your fingers along their leaves anyway, whispering comfort to them you weren't sure you believed.

You pressed your hand to the windowsill. Still warm from the sun, but not the same warmth. Not his.

You went to bed early, though you didn’t sleep. The moonlight slipped through your curtains and painted silver lines across the floor, and your mind drifted without permission. Back to the curve of his smile, the rasp of his voice, the weight of your name when he said it like it belonged only to him.

When the rooster crowed, it startled you. You’d only just begun to drift.

But like every morning, you rose.

The sun was shy today, peeking out slowly from behind a curtain of cloud. You wrapped your shawl tighter around your shoulders and stepped out to the garden. The dirt felt cool under your feet. None of your plants greeted you like usual. No quiet whispers of good morning to be heard.

You knelt beside the aloe, your most recent, most favored little patch, and brushed the plumpest leaf with a fingertip.

“He’ll come back,” you murmured, not quite sure if you were speaking to the plants or to yourself.

Either way, they didn’t answer.

Four days.

Ninety-six hours. Five thousand, seven hundred and sixty minutes. Three hundred and forty-five thousand, six hundred seconds.

You hated that you knew the math. Hated even more that you’d counted.

It was foolish. Plain and simple. You had lived alone for years without a man’s company, without needing it, without asking for it, without even noticing the lack. The quiet had always been your comfort. Solitude your rhythm. But now... now it sounded hollow. Like a well too deep to draw from.

The nights stretched longer, like they were mocking you. You caught yourself reaching for an extra plate when setting the table, or pausing at the door before opening it, half-expecting him there with that crooked grin and boyish look about the eyes. You’d go to cut mint and think of how he’d inhaled it like it was the first clean breath he’d had in years. You avoided the basin, too, because every time your hands touched water, you thought of his bare back arched over the sink, washing your dishes like it meant something.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

Not here. Not now. Not in a world that didn’t even let you walk on the same sidewalk as a man like him without stares and suspicion and violence.

But it had.

And you hated that, too.

By the fourth night, sleep didn’t come. You sat by the open window, quilt wrapped around your shoulders, watching the moonlight pool across the floorboards. The stillness wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was restless, pressing, waiting.

You nearly jumped when the sound came.

Knock. Knock.

Not the desperate pounding from before. Not the sound of pain clawing for entry.

Just two clean, confident knocks.

You blinked. Sat up slow. Waited, unsure if you’d imagined it.

Then:

Knock. Knock.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Remmick stood tall and calm in the doorway, bathed in moonlight and cleaner than you'd ever seen him. His skin had healed to a pale, healthy glow, no longer bubbling or cracked. His deep brown hair was brushed back, catching the silver glint of stars. A collared shirt clung to his frame, pressed and buttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Trousers clean, belt buckled. A gold chain still hung around his neck, subtle under the open top buttons.

In his hands, held like something sacred, was a small velvet box.

“Evenin',” he said first, soft as the breeze curling around your porch. His smile was slow, a little shy, like he knew he was interrupting something sacred. Your silence, your steadiness, your hard-won peace, but he didn't know all that had gone out the window when he departed.

Then, after a beat, his sparkling, no, glowing eyes met yours and held. Beckoning you to entertain him.

“May I come in?” he asked, voice low and steady, but you could still hear the hope tucked inside.

As if on cue, the box in his hand gleamed under the moonlight.

You stepped aside without a word, but your fingers curled tightly around the edge of the door.

He entered slow, eyes sweeping the room like it was the first time all over again, though he didn’t say so. You didn’t offer him a seat. Not yet.

“You’re late,” you said, cool and plain, folding your arms so he wouldn’t see how your hands trembled. You were being difficult on purpose. He never gave you a time. But you felt the need to make him suffer for it anyway.

He looked at you then, properly. The tenderness behind those eyes made your breath hitch, but you held it down, buried it deep.

“You left me high and dry,” you went on, chin raised. “One day of amity and then nothin’. Not a note, not a whisper, not a soul to say you was all right.”

Remmick stepped in closer, just one careful pace, hands out like he meant to calm a storm that hadn’t made up its mind yet. Maybe that’s what you looked like to him. Thunder tucked behind your eyes, the kind of quiet that came right before something broke loose.

“I know,” he said, voice thick with regret. “And I'm sorry, truly. I should've sent word, should've come sooner. But I didn't want you seein' me the way I was. Still mendin'. Still not quite myself.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch, either.

He reached up slowly and brushed his fingers against your elbow. Just the edge. Just enough to feel the heat of his touch ghost over your skin.

“I meant to come back sooner, I swear it on every bit of gold I own,” he added with a sad sort of grin. “But I needed to be well. Presentable. Worth standin’ in your doorway again.”

Your eyes flicked down to where his hand lingered near yours. The space between your fingers suddenly felt loud.

“You think a fresh shirt and a fancy box makes up for worryin’ me near to death?” you asked, sharp, but your voice cracked just a hair.

He didn’t shy from it. “No, ma’am. But I think it’s a start.”

He lifted the jewelry box, but didn’t open it. He waited.

Then, softer: “Can I sit?”

You gave him a long, measured look. The air felt close again, like it had that first morning. Finally, you gave a small, reluctant nod.

He smiled. Barely there, like he knew better than to press his luck, and moved past you. As he did, the back of his hand brushed yours. Light as linen. Deliberate.

You didn’t pull away.

The table between you wasn’t much. Scuffed wood, worn edges, a single oil lamp casting gold across the grain. But the way Remmick looked at you across it, you might’ve been seated on a throne. His elbows rested lightly on the surface, one hand folded over the other, but his eyes were doing the real work.

His eyes traced the full curve of your nose, the gentle round of your cheeks, the dark velour of your skin in the lamplight. He studied the slope of your shoulders, the proud set of your jaw, the way your coils framed your face like a crown. His gaze lingered on your lips. Soft, plush, shaped by truth and silence in equal measure. Every detail of you, he took in like scripture.

You pretended not to notice. Focused on the kettle, or the way your fingers tapped along your mug. But your skin knew. It prickled under his gaze, warm and drawn tight with something you hadn’t named just yet.

“I brought somethin’,” he said at last, his voice soft as cloth but thick with meaning, and it hit you low in the belly, that sound. Like he’d been holding the words close, warming them with care, waiting for the right moment to let them go.

You glanced up, just as he set the velvet box between you. It looked wrong there somehow, too fine for your table, too soft for your life.

He opened it slowly, carefully, like it was something holy.

Inside, nestled in dark blue satin, was a necklace. Real gold. Rich, gleaming, honey-warm in the lamplight, and spaced along the chain were pearls. Soft, perfect things, like droplets of cream suspended in air. You blinked once, twice, sure you were dreaming, or mistaking it for something else.

Your breath caught.

“I know it ain’t… customary,” Remmick said gently, watching your reaction like it mattered more than anything else in the world. “But when I saw it, I thought of you. The gold... warm, like your voice. And the pearls… well. I reckon you’d make ‘em shine brighter.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You’d never pictured yourself in a thing like that, never even dared. Maybe in a younger daydream or an impossible story passed from woman to woman. But not like this. Not real. Not placed in front of you by a man with eyes that held no expectation, only hope.

He didn’t push the box closer. Just sat still, hands open on the table, waiting.

Your fingers hovered over the box like it might disappear if you touched it too quickly. You weren’t used to fine things. Things so delicate, so carefully made, things that shimmered without asking for attention. You slid the box closer, slowly, hesitantly. But when you reached for the necklace itself, your hand stilled. You didn’t even know where to start.

The chain gleamed in the lamplight, catching against the darkness like a promise. It looked too lovely to belong to you.

Remmick noticed. Of course he did.

He stood without saying a word, the chair creaking softly behind him as he stepped around the table. His shoes were silent against the worn floorboards, but your heart wasn’t. It was loud in your ears, wild in your chest, thudding like it might beat right out of you.

He came to stand behind you, and you didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

His fingers were gentle as they lifted the chain from the velvet. He didn’t fumble or hesitate. The clasp clicked open like it knew where it belonged. He cupped the curls at your neck with his featherlight touch, slow and warm, gently tucking them aside.

And then the chain touched your skin.

You swore you could feel every link. Every pearl.

He leaned in to fasten it, breath soft against the nape of your neck, and the whisper of it made you shiver. Not from cold, but from the sudden, aching nearness of him. His chest just barely grazed your back, not quite a touch but close enough to feel the heat of him, the weight of him in the air around you.

“Ya alright?” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath.

You nodded, knowing your voice had fled.

The clasp clicked shut. But he didn’t move right away.

He lingered.

His hands stayed at your shoulders, not gripping, just resting there, warm and steady. You let your eyes close for a moment. Just a moment. Let the feel of it wrap around you like the chain he’d laid across your collar.

“God…” he breathed, more to himself than to you. “You’re perfect.”

That broke something loose inside you.

You turned your head, slow, and found his eyes waiting. He was closer now, one hand rising from your shoulder to brush your jaw, soft and trembling. He looked at you like he’d been waiting years for this moment. Like he still didn’t believe it was real.

He leaned in, slow enough to stop. Slow enough to be stopped.

But you didn’t stop him.

And when his lips touched yours, it was like stepping into warm water after a long, cold night. Gentle, slow, full of heat that built from the center and spread until your whole body felt wrapped in it. His kiss wasn’t greedy. It asked. And you answered.

His lips moved against yours, soft and coaxing at first, but growing more insistent, more hungry. His hand, which had been resting on your jaw, slid down to your neck, thumb pressing gently against your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin. You could feel his other hand, still on your shoulder, tightening slightly, pulling you further back against him.

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, asking for entrance, and you granted it, opening for him with a soft sigh. His tongue met yours, tentatively at first, then with more purpose, exploring your mouth with a hunger that made your knees weak. You could feel the hard planes of his body against your back, the heat of him seeping into you, making you ache with a need that was growing more urgent by the second.

His hand on your neck slid down, tracing the line of your collarbone, then lower still, over the chain he had placed there, and lower, to the swell of your breast. He cupped you gently, his thumb brushing against your nipple, making it harden beneath your clothing. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening further, becoming almost desperate.

His other hand slid down your arm, then around your waist. You could feel his erection, hard and insistent, pressing against your back.

He broke the kiss then, only to trail his lips down your jaw, to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. His hands were everywhere now, one still on your breast, the other roaming, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, the softness of your stomach. You arched into his touch, wanting more, needing more.

His teeth grazed your earlobe as he whispered sweet nothings. His voice was hoarse, frantic, sending shivers down your spine. His hand left your breast, only to slide down your stomach, pausing at the waistband of your skirt. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, asking for permission.

You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps, your body aching with anticipation. His hand slid into the fabric, cupping you through your panties, his fingers pressing gently, making you moan. He smiled against your neck, a creeping, wicked smile, and began to move his hand, slow and deliberate.

His fingers pressed and rubbed, the thin fabric of your panties doing little to hide the heat and wetness building between your legs. You could feel how soaked you were, your body responding to his touch with a desperation that bordered on madness. He could feel it too, his fingers rubbing slow circles, teasing you, drawing out your pleasure.

“Mmm, you're so wet for me, darlin',” he muttered, a rumble against your skin, his accent thick and sultry. “I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me. Lord knows I've been waitin' for this since I first laid eyes on ya.” His fingers pressed harder, more insistently, and you bucked against his hand, chasing the pleasure he was building within you.

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against your back. “That's it, baby. Ride my hand. Take what you need.” His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finally touching your bare skin, and you cried out at the contact, your body trembling with anticipation.

He took his time, exploring you slowly, his fingers tracing your folds, spreading your wetness, circling your clit with a teasing touch that had you squirming and begging for more. “You're so fuckin' perfect,” he panted, voice hoarse with desire. “So wet. So ready for me.”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, and you pushed back against him, trying to impale yourself on his fingers. He chuckled again, a low, knowing sound. “Eager, ain't we?” he hummed, his fingers finally slipping inside you, slow and deep. “Fuck, you're tight.”

He began to move his fingers, pumping them in and out of you in a steady, deliberate rhythm, his palm grinding against your clit with each movement. You could feel your orgasm building, your body coiling tighter and tighter, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Ya like that, darlin'?” he grunted, voice taunting. “Ya like feeling me inside you, stretchin' you, fillin' you up?” His fingers curled, hitting a spot inside you that made your eyes roll back in your head, your body convulsing with pleasure.

“You're so fuckin' beautiful when you come undone like this,” he growled into your ear. You'd never imagined a man could speak like this, let alone hear it. “So fucking perfect. My perfect, wet, little mess.” His fingers moved faster, his palm grinding harder against your clit.

But just before you could cross that euphoric threshold.

He stopped.

Your body instantly ached, desperate for release. You whimpered, a sound of pure need and frustration. He returned the sound with a pleased, smug chuckle.

“Shh, darlin',” he cooed, planting a loving kiss on your neck. “I've got ya. I'm not gonna leave you hangin', promise.” His fingers slid out of you, and you mourned the loss, your body already missing the fullness, the pressure, the pleasure.

Then his hands were on your hips, turning you around, and you found yourself face to face with him, his eyes dark with lust, his breath ragged and uneven. He pushed you gently, urging you to sit on the edge of the table, and you complied, your legs shaking with anticipation.

He knelt before you, his hands sliding up your thighs with a deliberate slowness, pushing your skirt up with them, exposing you to his hungry gaze. His touch was firm yet gentle, his calloused palms rough against your soft skin, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your body.

“You're a sight,” he whispered, worship on his tongue. “All swollen 'n soaked for me.”

He began to kiss his way up your thigh, slow and deliberate, his lips soft and wet against your skin. He took his time, lingering, tasting, exploring every inch of you as if you were a delicacy he intended to savor.

When his hands reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin just below your hip bones. You shivered, your body aching with need, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He leaned in, his lips pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your inner thigh, just above your knee. You could feel the scratch of his stubble, the heat of his breath.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and hungry, and then, without warning, he leaned in and bit down on your inner thigh, hard enough to draw a small amount of blood.

You cried out, a sound of surprise and pleasure and pain all rolled into one. He sucked gently at the wound, his eyes locked on yours, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face as he watched your reaction. You could feel the blood trickling down your thigh, warm and wet, and it sent a primal shiver down your spine.

He released your thigh, his chin glistening with a mixture of your blood and his own saliva. He wasted no time licking away what remained of you on his lips.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your core, and you could feel the promise of what was to come. Your body ached with anticipation, your mind racing, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum, urging him on, begging for release, begging for more. And he obliged, his tongue snaking out, tasting you slowly, deliberately, from your entrance to your clit, and back again, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you, as he claimed you, as he worshipped you.

He started at your entrance, his tongue pushing inside, tasting your depths, fucking you with his tongue in slow, deliberate thrusts that had your body convulsing and your hands gripping his hair, holding him to you, urging him deeper.

“Ya taste like heaven,” his words came through muffled and damp, but the meaning was never lost. “So sweet. Like honey. Like nectar.”

His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently at first, then with more insistence, his tongue flicking and circling, driving you wild, making your body shake and tremble and buck against his mouth. You could feel his stubble, rough and scratchy against your inner thighs, a contrast to the soft, wet heat of his mouth, the sharp, tantalizing sensation sending you spiraling even further.

He pulled back, his chin and lips and neck glistening with your wetness, his eyes locked on yours as he licked his lips, tasting you, savoring you, a low, appreciative growl rumbling in his chest. “I could feast on you for fuckin' hours, darlin',” it seemed like he couldn't go even a second without talking you through it. “Like a fuckin' drug.”

He dove back in, his tongue pushing inside you, fucking you with long, slow licks that had your body convulsing. He pulled back, his tongue flat against your flesh, licking you from your entrance to your clit and back again, over and over, the rhythm steady and unyielding, driving you towards the edge of sanity.

He focused on your clit again, his tongue flicking and circling, his lips sucking gently, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. He could feel your body tensing, your muscles coiling tight, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He redoubled his efforts, his mouth open wide, taking in as much of you as he could, his tongue and lips working in tandem.

“That's it, darlin',” he purred, tone almost pleading, reminding you of how you first found him on your doorstep. It all felt like a distant memory now. “Come for me. Let me taste that sweet nectar. Let me drink it all up.”

With a cry that seemed to tear from your very soul, you came undone, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He drank you up, his tongue lapping at your folds, his lips soft and gentle against your sensitive flesh, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

He slowed his movements, his tongue gentle and soothing, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses against your flesh.

His chin and lips and neck were absolutely drenched, eyes locked on yours, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. He leaned in, his lips pressing softly against yours, and you could taste yourself on him, musky and sweet and intoxicating. He kissed you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth, sharing your taste with you. Only you.

He pulled away unhurriedly, his lips glistening with your essence, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he stood up. You could see the rise and fall of his chest, his breath still ragged.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and wiped his face with the back of his hand, a gesture that had you following his every move. He brought his hand to his mouth, licking and sucking your taste from his skin, his eyes rolling back slightly as he savored every last drop.

“You're somethin' else. Somethin' real special.”

He stepped closer, his strong hands gripping your hips and lifting you effortlessly off the table. You let out a soft gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support as your legs, weak and trembling, struggled to find their strength. He held you tightly against him, your bodies pressed together, and you could feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own.

“Easy, lass,” he soothed. “I've got you.”

He started to walk, his steps steady and sure, carrying you with an ease that belied your boneless state. You rested your head against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, as he navigated the room, his destination clear.

Gently, he laid you down on the bed, his body following yours, enveloping you in his warmth.

He hovered just above you, arms braced on either side, his eyes tracing every line of your face like they were reading scripture. His breath fanned across your cheek, warm and steady, and the way he looked at you, like you were something holy, made your chest ache.

One hand came up to fondle your necklace, rough knuckles grazing soft skin. “I’ll take ya up on that offer this time,” he mumbled, voice husky with something between gratitude and want. “To stay the night.”

He leaned in, kissing your forehead slowly, then your cheek, then your mouth. Each one a promise, a vow wrapped in silence.

And when he finally settled beside you, pulling you close until your bodies fit together like roots twining beneath the soil, the world quieted. The night wrapped around you both like a shroud.

For the first time in a long time, neither of you felt alone.

[hatethysinner]

Saw you were taking requests and I’ve been thinking about what would happen if one of your OCs gave Remmick a gift. You know this pathetic wet man would not have a normal reaction

I LOVE LOVE LOVE THIS REQUEST! i think it'd be so fun to return to my previous fics and do requested add-ons! no warnings for this, just pure unadulterated pathetic!remmick fluff. this will be a an add-on to the weary blues, but there's no need to read it before this one (though i do highly recommend it).

The hour was late. Not just late in the way clocks measured it, but in that shapeless, misty sort of late that made time feel slippery. The bookstore breathed around you, shelves and walls wrapped in deep shadow, the kind that folded itself politely out of the way so nothing would feel truly alone. No people passed outside. No wind stirred. Even the moths had given up circling the single lamp hanging on the other side of the tinted glass.

Remmick was here, of course.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, spine curved against a low shelf, thumbing absently through a forgotten paperback whose cover had long since faded. His coat was off, neatly folded over the back of your favorite armchair. His sleeves were rolled past the elbows, exposing pale forearms marked with the soft dents of old scars. Every few minutes, he glanced up. Not like he was expecting anything, just to check that you were still there.

That you hadn’t disappeared.

You were at the counter. Pretending to tidy something. A stack of journals, maybe, or that tin of bookmarks that no one ever bought but he always seemed to mess with. Your fingers moved in idle little patterns, but your mind wasn’t on the task.

It was on the box in your pocket.

Small. Softly wrapped. The kind of thing that would disappear in someone else’s hands, but felt almost too large here, in this strange, suspended pocket of midnight and quiet.

You hadn’t meant to give it to him tonight.

It hadn’t felt like the right time. Then again, you weren’t sure what the right time looked like. There were no birthdays tonight. No holidays. No calendar hanging by the register to count down days or circle occasions. There was only now. The dark, and the dust, and the low crackling of the candle you'd light when the chill tried to settle too deep into the floorboards.

But tonight had been soft. That rare kind of soft, the one that didn’t ask for anything but gave something anyway. You’d spent most of the evening in shared silence, passing dog-eared books back and forth, occasionally reading aloud when the words called for it. Remmick had listened like it meant something, like your voice could reshape the air around him if he let it. He hadn’t said much. He didn’t need to.

His presence was enough.

His quiet was never empty.

You watched him now as he flicked through another page, mouth twitching faintly at some line that landed just right. There was a smudge of ink on his finger, probably from that pen he kept tucked behind his ear. His hair had dried funny after his earlier shower, curling up at the ends like it had forgotten how to behave.

He looked good.

Not polished. Not composed. But full.

Alive in the way that only people who have been half-dead know how to be.

Your fingers brushed the edge of the box in your pocket again.

You weren’t sure what he’d do when he saw it. If he’d laugh. Or cry. Or try to give it back. He wasn’t used to gifts. He’d said that once. Quietly, like it wasn’t important, like it hadn’t gutted you on the spot.

He’d never had a proper gift before.

Not one that wasn’t transactional. Not one that wasn’t a favor owed or a mistake forgiven. Just… something someone saw and thought, this is his. Just because.

And yet you’d bought the cufflinks anyway.

Found them in a little antique shop two towns over, tucked away in a velvet-lined tray between cracked lockets and pins with missing stones. They weren’t flashy. Weren’t modern. Just a pair of old silver squares with the faintest etching at the edges.

You’d known they were his the second you saw them.

You weren’t sure why. Just that they were. Like they’d been waiting. Like he’d left them behind in some past life and they’d been clawing their way back to him ever since.

He shifted, drawing your attention back. His foot knocked against a stack of books, and he winced like he thought you might scold him.

You didn’t.

You just looked at him.

Really looked.

At the sharp angles that softened when he was tired. At the curl of his lashes, too long for someone who hated being seen. At the way he held the book like it was breakable, even though his own hands bore proof that he rarely was.

And suddenly, it didn’t matter what the right time was.

You just wanted him to know.

That he was thought of.

That he was wanted.

That something in this world had been chosen for him. Not because he earned it, not because he begged for it, but because someone looked at it and thought, yes, this belongs to you.

You closed the distance slowly.

Not rushed.

Not dramatic.

Just real.

And the box in your pocket felt heavier with each step.

“Hi,” he said, like he hadn’t already been in the same room with you for hours. His voice was soft, a little warm burst in the cold bookstore air, and when you looked at him fully, his whole face lit up. Like you were the one thing in the world he’d been waiting for all night, even though he’d never left your side. “Ya looked busy. Didn’t wanna bother ya.”

His thumb held his place in the book, but the rest of him leaned in your direction. Eager. Not in a loud, desperate way. Not like the first night, when he clung to your presence like it was the last lifeline he’d ever have. This was smaller. Gentler. The kind of eagerness that didn’t ask anything, only bloomed quiet and patient in your light.

You felt the box again, the corners pressing faintly into your palm where you'd slipped it free from your skirt. For a second, you hesitated. Not out of doubt, but because something about this felt so sacred, it needed to be right.

“You weren’t botherin’ me,” you said. Your voice was low, meant just for him. “I was just… thinkin’.”

He tilted his head, that little inquisitive tilt he always did when he sensed something beneath the surface. But he didn’t press. Not yet. He gave you the space, like always, but you could feel his attention. Sharp as a blade, soft as a breath.

You took the few remaining steps that brought you close, until you were standing in front of him. You didn’t sit down yet. You just watched him for a moment, memorizing the way he looked like this. Curled up and content, but always on the edge of some deeper ache.

“I have somethin’ for you.”

That got him. He blinked up at you, startled. His fingers fumbled slightly over the spine of the book, and he sat up straighter, gaze flicking between your face and your hands. “For me?” His voice cracked a little on the second word, like he didn’t quite believe it. “Why?”

You held out the small box. It wasn’t wrapped extravagantly, just enough to protect it, just enough to keep it a secret until now. He didn’t take it right away. He looked at it like it might vanish if he moved too fast.

“Because I saw it,” you said, your voice steady, “and I thought of you.”

That did it.

He reached out slowly, reverently, and took the box with both hands. His fingers hovered over the lid like he didn’t want to ruin whatever magic kept it sealed. For a second, he just stared. Then he glanced up at you again, like asking for permission. When you nodded, he opened it.

The cufflinks caught the faintest sliver of light from the lamp above. Silver. Old, quiet silver. The kind that never shouted for attention but demanded it anyway. Etched at the corners with delicate, almost-forgotten lines. Not a pattern, exactly. More like a memory.

Remmick went still.

Completely still.

Like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“...What are they?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, though he already knew. He just needed to hear it. Needed to make it real.

“Cufflinks,” you answered softly. “For when you want to feel like yourself. Or someone you used to be. Or someone you might become.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on them, wide and dark and glassy. His hands trembled a little. Just enough that you saw it. Just enough that he knew you saw it, too.

“I’ve never had…” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “Not like this. Not somethin’ just mine.”

You sat down next to him, close enough that your knees brushed. His shoulder leaned into yours automatically, seeking warmth, steadiness, anything to anchor himself in the moment.

“They’re yours,”

He exhaled, a long, shaky breath that sounded like it’d been trapped in his chest for years.

“Thank you,” he said, so quietly you barely caught it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

He said it like a prayer.

Like the world was about to crack open under his feet and this was the only thing that might hold it together.

And he hadn’t even tried them on yet.

He kept staring at them like they might disappear if he blinked. Still cupped in his palms, the cufflinks looked small. Delicate, even. A stark contrast to the calloused stretch of his fingers. The silver caught the lamplight again, this time bending it into something gentler, something more secret. Like moonlight in a locked room.

“Do you wanna try them on?” you asked.

He startled, just a little, blinking up at you like he’d forgotten where he was. “Now?”

You nodded. “Unless you’d rather wait.”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly. His thumb brushed one of the cufflinks again, like he was reassuring himself they were real. “No, I-I wanna.”

You smiled. He looked like a man asked to wear something sacred, too stunned to argue but too enthralled to rush. You let the silence linger, soft as silk, while he reached slowly for the buttons at his wrist.

He worked them loose with unhurried hands, his sleeves coming undone without fanfare. You could see how he rolled his cuffs neatly back each time. Habit more than style, probably. He always looked like he was halfway between rest and running, like he never knew which the night, or you, would ask of him.

“Here,” you said, holding your hand out gently. “Let me.”

He hesitated for a breath, then gave you his left wrist.

His skin was warm. A little clammy, a little shaky, but he didn’t pull away. He let you unroll the cuff and align the holes, his knuckles twitching every time your fingers brushed bone. You took one cufflink, turned it just so, and slid it through with ease. It clicked softly, the metal cool against his pulse.

He stared at you the whole time.

Not intensely. Not like he did when he first met you, all nerves and hunger and that shaky, desperate pull. This was quieter. Like he couldn’t believe you were here, doing this. Like you were something delicate he was afraid to breathe too hard on.

You moved to his other wrist. He offered it just as easily.

The second cufflink slid in just as smooth. When it clicked into place, his breath caught.

Not loud. Not sharp.

And then you looked up, and the light hit his face differently.

It wasn’t dramatic, not really. The lamp on the shelf behind you didn’t flicker. The air didn’t shift. But something in his expression sharpened, just for a heartbeat. His lips parted slightly, and the faintest glint of teeth showed. Not sharp enough to be a threat, but too pointed to be forgotten. His canines always gleamed, small and precise and not quite right.

And his eyes. His eyes, already so deep and unreadable, caught a color you hadn’t noticed before. In the heart of that ancient blue, there was red. Not bright. Not fire. Just a thread of it, like old embers buried under ash. Watching. Waiting.

He didn’t blink.

You didn’t look away.

You liked his canines. You liked the strange glow in his eyes. The way it made him look like he belonged to something older than night. You didn’t flinch. You never had. Even when part of you knew, knew he wasn’t just some poor soul from the road. Even when nothing about him quite added up, you’d let him in anyway.

You smoothed down his cuff with your thumb.

“They suit you,” you said.

He blinked like he’d forgotten how to.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He looked down at his wrists, then turned them gently in the low light, watching the silver catch. His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. More of a stunned, breathless awe. Like you’d handed him a second name.

“Do I look,” he said, hesitating, “like I belong to somethin’?”

You paused. Then leaned in, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You look like you finally believe you do.”

He let out a small, helpless sound. Not a laugh. Not a sob. Just something deep and quiet that lived in his chest and finally found a way out. He pressed his cheek into your temple, breathing you in like he didn’t need air, just this.

His arms came around you, hesitant at first. Still so careful, like you might vanish. But you didn’t. You leaned into him, solid and real and warm, and he sank into it like it was the first real place he’d ever been allowed to rest.

For a long time, you didn’t speak. You just stayed like that, curled together on the floor between bookshelves and forgotten time. The town beyond the window didn’t exist. The cold couldn’t reach you here.

Eventually, he whispered, “Nobody’s ever given me anythin’ like this.”

You drew slow patterns on his sleeve. “You deserve things like this.”

He kissed your head. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just once. Just thank you.

Then: “You’re not scared of me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No,” you said, eyes closed.

Even when you should be. Even when something old stirred just beneath his skin. Even when the shadows moved different around him than they did around anyone else.

“No,” you said again.

He was quiet after that. His breath slowed. His shoulders eased. You stayed tucked into him, cufflinks catching the glow of your little lamp. He held you like a promise, soft and otherworldly, and you let him.

This was your secret, after all.

Yours and Remmick’s.

And out in the world, maybe that wouldn’t mean anything. Maybe they'd hate it if they knew.

But here, here in this forgotten bookstore, in the hush between hours where nothing else dared to breathe, it meant everything.

[hatethysinner]

he's so fuckable

not arguing with a vampire with cute fangs and big, round eyes. whatever you say, beautiful

[hatethysinner]

does anyone else have go to songs for writing fics? every time i get remmick munching the giver by chappell roan is playing 😇

[hatethysinner]

i'm taking a small break from long form fics but i really wanna start doing requests and drabbles, so feel free to blow up my inbox :3! compliments and general asks are appreciated too

[hatethysinner]

Your writing has such a way of enveloping the reader in the world. Both of your stories were impeccable and I can’t wait to see more from you! Have you ever thought of posting on AO3? I just think your work deserves more attention.

firstly, thank you sm! second, i have, but there doesn't seem to be a market for x reader on ao3 so :l

[hatethysinner]

OH MY GOD “WEARY BLUES” you are an absolute incredible writer I love how you set a mood. Also your absolutely pathetic remmick was perfect.

THANK YOU SO MUCH! i actually work in a library so i wanted to be super descriptive but was also lowkey nervous it'd be too drawn out PLSJHFSHV

[hatethysinner]

UR 2 FOR 2 THAT WAS ICONICCCC NEVER STOP WRITING

THANK YOU SM! I do not plan on stopping <33

[hatethysinner]

YOU ATE ON YOUR LATEST STORY!! WEARY BLUES WILL GO DOWN IN HISTORY AND IM NOT JOKING!!! PATHETIC REMMICK, HIM CRYING BECAUSE HE’S OVERSTIMULATED……lord thank you kindly for this 🫡🫡🫡

OMG THANK YOU FOR READING!!! I'm so happy you enjoyed it :)!! All the stress I went through while writing it was so worth it when I see messages like this ❤️

[hatethysinner]

ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʜᴇʀʙᴀʟɪꜱᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You've found comfort in your solitary life. No one comes to visit the humble herbalist living on the town's edge who talks to her own plants. That all changed in the early morning hours of today, when your kindness betrayed you to help a suffering man on your doorstep. You let the wrong one in.

ᴡᴄ: 8.5k

ᴀ/ɴ: Haven't felt like dipping my toes into writing fanfics again since my Avatar era, which was TWO YEARS AGO!!! There are not enough fluffy Remmick fics, so I will be the first to change that. This is my official admittance into the mental hospital we call the Sinners fandom. White girls I promise you can still have your fun with this too, enjoy!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SLOWburn, fluff with a side of smut, a little angst i guess, dark!remmick is on vacation, you're getting overly grateful remmick instead, excessive use of the word perfect, reader is a little special, a little domesticity never hurts, yearning, vampirism, blood, biting, begging, absolutely pathetic man overload at the start, praise kink, dirty talk, fingering, cunnilingus, offscreen parental death, detailed wound care, nursing back to health, religious undertones if you squint, general affection and eroticism, amateur knowledge of herbalism pls don't kill me, excessive divider usage, i think y'all know what to expect i'm not writing out everything

There was something about this morning.

You were an early bird. Always up at the crack of dawn, finding something to pass the time with. Today was no different.

You tended to your thriving garden, proud to see how strong they were growing. Your yarrow and coneflower were blooming, almost bending over to meet your gentle touch. You complimented their petals, and you could've sworn you saw them smile.

As if to make themselves heard, your mint let off an extra potent odor, making your nose instinctively cool. You didn't let them feel left out for long.

Brushing a caressing hand over your culinary plants as you passed, you settled in front of your aloe vera. They were new arrivals to your garden and clearly feeling the love. The leaves were plump, firm, and upright. You gave them a gentle squeeze to acknowledge them and check their texture, giggling at the pricks they teased you with.

And yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off.

The mourning doves, typically cooing as if only to you, were silent.

There were no bullfrogs curiously watching you from the swamp, engaging in a one-sided staredown.

The cicadas, too, joined the other animals in this strange hush.

You shook yourself out of your unaware daze and made your way back inside your house.

It was a humble home, really.

The kind that held heat in the winter and every memory you'd ever made in the summer. The walls, painted by hand, bore the soft fingerprints of time, smudged and faded from where you leaned, laughed, or wept.

Herbs hung from the walls and ceiling, bunches of rosemary and thyme swaying idly. The scent of lavender clung to the air like it paid rent.

Your floors creaked with purpose, every step a reminder of those who walked here before you. A wood-burning stove sat snug in the corner, its black iron belly cold for now, but always ready. Your cast-iron pots gleamed with the pride of something well-used and well-loved. The shelves were lined with mason jars. Roots, tinctures, and teas you brewed with your own hands.

A worn quilt lay draped over your rocking chair, patchwork squares made from old dresses and scraps your Mama found and stitched together. The rocking chair, too, was a product of your Daddy's handiwork, and you remember all too well how excited you were to be the first person to use it.

Your Bible, which you didn't read much these days to the would-be chagrin of your parents, sat next to a leather-bound notebook, full of hand-scrawled recipes and forgotten dreams.

And even now, with the silence pressing in from outside, your home felt like it was breathing with you. Watching. Waiting. Holding space for whatever was coming.

And that's when you heard it.

It was a relentless pounding.

Fist, no, fists on wood, over and over. Wild, desperate, like a storm had taken the shape of a man and found its way to your doorstep.

You froze where you stood, one hand hovering over your table, the other reaching for nothing. The pounding didn't stop. It grew louder, faster, until it wasn't just a knock, it was a plea.

“Please!” the voice cracked. “Please, somebody help me! Please!”

A man's voice. Frantic. Wrecked.

You couldn't place it. Didn't recognize the tone, the rhythm, the panic laced inside every syllable. The man's accent was different, too. Certainly southern, but there was an unfamiliar undertone that backed his voice.

Your heart skipped. Once. Twice. Your home felt smaller, as if it was slowly, agonizingly imploding.

You glanced to the small window by the door, curtain still drawn, light slanting through it as if God's eye was watching you. You didn't move. You just listened.

“I'm beggin' you, please, open up! I don't- I don't got nowhere else!”

Something in you bristled. Not fear, not yet. But something deeper. That ancient, gut-deep knowing passed down through bloodlines. Something your Mama called a warning.

The house, for the first time in years, didn't feel like it was breathing with you.

It was holding its breath.

Your eyes were locked on the door like it might open by itself and save you the trouble.

The pounding had stopped, but the voice hadn't.

It was lower now, cracked and ragged as if supported by a throat made of gravel. “It burns, please, it burns! I c-can't- I need-”

You stepped forward, just one foot. Then another.

There wasn't fear in your body, but there was weight. Heavy weight. Like your bones knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet.

You reached the door but didn't open it. Not yet.

Instead, you spoke, low and even. “Who are you?”

There was a pause. A very long pause.

Then... thud.

It sounded like someone had collapsed against the door.

“...Miss,” the voice came again, quieter now, hoarse like he'd been screaming for days, or just minutes in your case. “Please... I don't got long.”

You placed your hand on the doorframe, fingers brushing the edge. You didn't open it. Not yet. Just leaned in, pressed your ear close.

“...hurts,” he breathed. “It hurts.”

The pain in his voice was palpable, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't pull at your heartstrings. He sounded as if he was on the verge of death. And by all you knew, he was.

Your fingers twitched. Then, slowly, you undid the lock. The door creaked open. Just an inch. Then two.

And there he was.

Lord have mercy.

He was crumpled on your porch, face completely covered by his hands. His skin was blistering, no, boiling. Red, raw patches covered his arms and face, angry welts clawing across every inch of him the sun could reach. With each small movement, smoke came forth.

He wore a filthy wifebeater that clung to him in hatred. Loose pants, torn and streaked with mud. Neither fabric looked like it had known clean water in weeks. A gold chain hung from his neck, glinting in the same sun scorching him.

He didn't look at you at first. Instead, the begging continued. Relentlessly.

“Please... let me in. Just- just let me in.”

Then his eyes met yours. Blue, sharp, ancient.

They held a kind of agony you weren't used to seeing. Not even in death. It made you instinctively crack the door further, against your better judgment.

He clawed himself forward, but stopped just short of the doorframe.

Didn't stumble inside, didn't even try.

He just knelt there. Beseeching you.

There was something else that surprised you, too.

It wasn't the bubbling skin, or the filthy clothes, or even the way he clung to your porch like a dying man gripping the edge of heaven. It wasn't how he hissed at the sunlight or how his body stayed frozen at the threshold like the house itself had drawn a line.

It was his skin.

Pale.

A white man in Mississippi. Begging you for help.

The sight alone could've gotten you dragged out of your own house and blamed for whatever mess he brought with him. White men didn't knock. They didn't ask. They didn't plead. And they certainly never begged.

Trouble always followed a white man, especially one burned in the light.

Still, he looked up at you like you were the only thing holding him to this earth. His voice cracked again, choking despite only uttering one word. “Please...”

And despite everything, your gut, your fear, your history, you opened the door wider.

“Come in.”

The moment those two words left your lips, he collapsed forward like a string had been cut.

His body hit the floor with a sickening slap, smoke curling off his skin like meat left too long on a flame. He didn't scream this time. Just groaned, soft and guttural, as if even his pain had worn itself out.

You moved fast, the way you did when a snake bite came through your door or an infected wound that gnawed away at flesh.

“Chair,” you said, pointing to the stool near the stove. “Sit if you can. Don't touch nothin' yet.”

He tried. Lord, he tried. Arms trembling like saplings in the wind, he dragged himself up bit by bit. Sat slumped, head down, that glistening gold chain now dull against his blistered chest.

You were already gathering. Mortar and pestle. Clean rags. A sharp knife for cutting fresh aloe straight from the stalk. The herb practically hummed in your hand, full and green and ready.

“It's like you're burnin' from the inside,” you muttered under your breath, though you didn't try hard to be inaudible. “Not just sun-sick.”

You sliced through a thick leaf, watching the gel ooze out like honey, thick and cool. You grabbed the peppermint oil next, then yarrow for the swelling, and comfrey for the sores. You didn't pause. Didn't ask questions.

Not yet.

“Strip that shirt off,” you said, not unkind, but firm. “Let me see what I'm workin' with.”

He didn't argue; clearly didn't have the strength. Just nodded, weakly peeling the ruined fabric from his body. Skin came with it in some places. You winced but didn't let it show.

You dipped your fingers in the aloe and started to work.

The gel clung to your skin, cool and thick. It spread easily across his shoulder, where the burns had bloomed the worst. Red turned near-black, skin puckered and peeling like old bark.

His muscles twitched under your touch, lean and long, the kind of frame that had seen many hard years but held strong through all of them. One that had moved. Run, maybe. Fought, more likely.

You didn't flinch when you reached the boils on his neck. They pulsed like tiny hearts, angry and hot, and the gold chain pressed into one of them. You worked around it with care, fingers sure and slow, your breath steady as you hummed under your breath. It was one of Mama's songs.

“Easy now,” you said, pressing a damp cloth against a split on his rib. “Aloe's drawin' the fire out. You'll feel a sting.”

He nodded faintly, lips cracked and dry.

You could hear the strain in his breath. Short, sharp, like every inhale had to fight through a thousand splinters.

“I'll get you water.”

You rose and moved to the basin. Poured from the cool jug you kept shaded on the windowsill. Found a clean tin cup and filled it to the brim, watching the water catch the light as you turned.

When you pressed it into his hand, his fingers barely curled around it. Still, he drank like a man who hadn't seen a drop in weeks. The water spilled over his lips, soaked his chest, but he didn't stop until it was gone.

“More?”

He shook his head, just once, leaning back against the wall behind the stool. You could see the tension leave his shoulders piece by piece, breath slowing, eyes half-lidded now.

You returned to his chest. Worked in a fresh layer of aloe with a touch of peppermint oil, just enough to cool the heat curled beneath the skin.

Every now and then, he made a sound. Low, not quite a word, but not quite a groan either. You didn't ask for stories. Didn't pry for the answers you desperately needed.

There'd be time for that.

For now, you just tended to what you could touch.

“Thank you,” he said, voice like gravel wet from rain.

It came out quietly, but it settled in the room all the same. You were just finishing the last bit of aloe, smoothing it across his lower side where the burns were thinner, more tender. His skin jumped under your fingertips, but he didn't pull away.

“Mm,” you replied, washing your hands in the basin beside you. “I don't do this for gratitude. I do it 'cause somebody needed it.”

You picked up on the way his eyes followed you. Slow, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the way you moved. Or maybe just remind himself he was still here.

You dried your hands on the edge of your apron, glancing out the window. Morning was still hanging on, soft and gold through the cypress trees. The world hadn't turned upside down, even if it felt like it should've.

“You eaten?” you asked, already turning toward the stove. “Ain't no point in mendin' skin if your belly's hollow.”

He blinked, surprised, as if the idea of a meal hadn't crossed his mind.

“No. I don't think so, at least,” he admitted, scratching lightly at the side of his neck where a fresh scab was forming. “Think I forgot what that feels like.”

You gave a little laugh, not mocking, just gentle.

“Well,” you opened your pantry. “I don't forget how to feed a body. Burned up or not.”

You made your way to the stove, brushing past the dried bundles of thyme and safe hanging from the walls, the scent of them catching in the air. You could feel his eyes on you, though he tried, and failed, not to make it obvious.

The pan sizzled to life as you dropped in a pat of butter. You reached for the cornmeal, then the basket of eggs you’d gathered just yesterday. Behind you, he shifted in the stool, the wood creaking beneath him, but he didn’t move much more than that.

“Ya always up this early?” he asked, voice a little clearer now, a languid drawl present in each word.

“Always. Plants don't wait on nobody, and neither does the sun.”

You didn't turn when you said it, but you could feel him smiling behind you. Not wide. Just a small pull at the corners, like his face was trying to remember how to shape one.

The grits bubbled thick and soft, and you stirred them slow, adding salt, pepper, and a touch of dried rosemary.

“You can rest here a while,” you said, finally glancing over your shoulder. “Ain't nobody gonna bother you way out here.”

Again, your eyes met his.

And for a long breath, neither of you looked away.

It wasn't just the quiet of the room that wrapped around you; it was the weight of his stare. Steady and slow, like he was memorizing the shape of your face. His gaze drifted just enough to trace your cheekbones, your nose, your lips, your curls, then returned to your eyes, almost bashful in how bold he'd been.

He blinked first. Let out a low breath, maybe a sigh. Maybe something else.

“I believe you,” his voice was quieter now, but somehow firmer. “'Bout nobody botherin' me here.”

A pause.

“Ya got a way about you. Like the world listens to you, not the other way 'round.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t try to say much. Just turned back to the pan and scooped the grits into a wooden bowl, set two fried eggs on top, sprinkled a little salt, a little pepper, a touch of dill.

You brought it over and set it on the small table near his stool, then filled another tin cup with water and placed it beside the bowl.

“Eat,” you said, soft but sure. “Still got hours left in the morning, and you’ll need strength to face ’em.”

He looked at the food, then at you, then back at the food, then at you again.

And this time, when he smiled, it showed teeth.

You noticed it, not all at once, but enough to make your breath catch.

They were white, strikingly so for a man who looked half-melted an hour ago. Clean, but... off. His canines were just a touch too long, too pointed, like they'd been honed on something harder, no, more precise, than meat. Not cartoonish, not obvious, but sharp in a way your eyes couldn't unsee once they caught the right angle of them in the light.

Predator's teeth, hidden behind a beggar's smile.

But you said nothing.

Just tucked that little detail away, same as you did with the tone of a bird's call. Not fear, just curiosity. Observation.

And when he took another bite, careful not to scrape his lip, you could tell he knew you'd seen.

But he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t lie.

Just chewed slow, and said nothing.

He took another bite, slower this time. Chewed. Swallowed. Ran his tongue briefly over those sharp canines like he was trying to smooth them down before speaking.

Then, without looking up:

“Do you live out here all on your own?”

The question was soft, careful, but it hung heavy in the air between you. Heavier than it had any right to.

You could feel his eyes on you again before you met them, like his gaze had weight, heat, shape. When you finally did look, he wasn’t just curious. He was studying you, the kind of look a man gives a locked door he’s dying to open.

You tilted your head.

“I do,” you said simply, but there was something warm curling in your belly as you said it. Not shame. Not pride. Just a quiet truth you suddenly wanted him to understand. “Ain’t been nothin’ wrong with my own company.”

His fingers, resting beside the bowl, twitched just slightly, like he might reach for something. Maybe the cup, maybe something less easy to explain, but thought better of it.

“That don’t surprise me,” he said, voice low now, almost reverent. “Ya seem like you belong to yourself.”

That stirred something in you.

You didn’t smile, not fully, but your eyes softened, and you found yourself watching the curve of his jaw, the healed patches of skin just under his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest now that he was breathing easier.

He shifted in his seat, eyes still on you, but with a touch more caution now, like he was stepping somewhere sacred.

“How'd you come to live on your own?” he asked. His tone was light, but the words carried something behind them. “'S not every day I meet a woman flyin' solo. Not out here, anyhow.”

He added it quickly, before you could bristle, his hand lifting, palm open, like he meant no offense.

“I mean that with respect,” he said, voice warm and sincere. “Truth be told, it’s a rare strength. I just… wondered what kind of road leads a woman like you to a place like this.”

You caught it. The way his eyes lingered on your hands, then your ring finger, bare as the rest. The question wasn’t just about how you lived.

It was about who you lived without.

You set your elbows on the table, leaning in just a touch, chin tilted like you were deciding how much of your truth he’d earned.

“My Mama and Daddy left me this place when they passed. Wasn't much of a question after that.”

He nodded like he understood more than you’d said. Maybe he did.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” he murmured empathetically, letting silence fall.

But the silence that followed felt different now.

Less like strangers making room for each other.

More like something in the air had shifted, tilted ever so slightly in your direction.

He looked down at his empty plate for a moment, fingers brushing crumbs that weren't really there. Then, something passed over his face. Not shame exactly, but close. Worse.

A furrow crept into his brow as he let out a low sigh, rubbed the back of his neck, and muttered, “Well, hell.”

You blinked.

He looked back up at you, face caught somewhere between apology and self-reproach, the edge of his accent rounding his words.

“Here I am, half-burned 'n beggin' on your porch like a fool, takin' your food, your kindness, 'n I never even asked your name.”

He exhaled, clearly bothered by it, his mouth pulling tight at the corners. “That's rude. I was raised better'n that.”

You felt something stir again in your chest, something warmer this time. Like the heat off a cast iron skillet, slow and steady.

He sat a little straighter now, eyes fixed to yours, and though his voice was low, the way he said it made your heart pick up all the same:

“I'd like to know your name.”

You paused, just a beat. Long enough to make sure the moment stayed. Long enough to feel the charge in the air, as real and tangible as the sunlight still spilling across the floor.

Then you told him.

Your name slid out like honey, at least in his mind. Slow, unashamed, yours.

And the way he repeated it?

Soft. Careful. Delicate. Like he didn't want to somehow shatter it on his lips.

“I'm Remmick,” he added after a moment, hand pressing lightly to his chest. “Just Remmick.”

And though he said it casually, like it wasn't worth much, the way his eyes lingered on you afterward said otherwise.

Said everything.

You broke the gaze first, not necessarily because you wanted to, but because you had to. Something about the weight of it, the softness, the pull, it was too much to sit in for long.

You stood up, hands moving on instinct, reaching for his dish like you'd done a hundred times before. It was second nature. Quiet, practiced care. A rhythm born of solitude.

But before your fingers could wrap around the bowl, his hand found yours. Not rushed, not rough. Just a gentle, callused palm over your knuckles.

“Let me,” he said softly.

His eyes were upturned, looking at you with something that wasn't pity, wasn't duty, just earnestness. A sincere desire to give something back.

“You've done more'n enough,” his thumb brushed faintly across your skin before pulling back, the break of contact seemingly equally hard for both of you. “I got two hands and a sink in front of me. Least I can do is clean my own mess.”

You hesitated, your hand still tingling where he’d touched it. But something about the way he stood, slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to spook the air between you, made you let him.

You stepped aside, and Remmick moved to the basin, running a hand over his bare chest as if remembering the shirt that once clung to it. His muscles flexed under pale, healing skin, burn scars catching the light like thin rivers on a map.

He handled each dish like it might break in his hands. Careful. Thoughtful. A man who’d maybe forgotten what peace felt like, but still remembered how to honor it when it came.

And in the stillness of that little kitchen, the soft sound of water and porcelain, you watched him. This strange, scorched man with sharp teeth and gentler hands, trying to give something back.

Like he wanted to earn the space he’d been given.

Like he’d stay, if you let him.

He didn't stay.

Evening had crept in slow, lazy and golden at first, but it cooled quick once the sun dipped past the horizon. You'd made tea by then, set out an old quilt on the porch steps, and the two of you sat there in a hush, talking in spurts and falling into silence just as easily. The kind of silence that didn't press too hard. The kind that felt safe.

You'd asked if he wanted to stay the night. Not with any suggestion on your tongue, just plain hospitality. The offer of a roof. Clean linens. A second mug of tea.

“Thank ya,” he'd said, eyes low. “But I can't.”

You frowned. “Your skin's still healing, Remmick.”

“I know.”

“I could wash your clothes,” it was one of your most weakly veiled offers yet. You knew you were being too obvious, but you didn't care. “Get the sweat and scorch off'em. They'll dry by morning, fresh as can be.”

His smile was tired. Soft. “I've taken more'n enough of your kindness for one day. Besides, leaving you with the smell of me hangin' in your air all night? That'd hardly be gentlemanly.”

You stood anyway, brushing off your skirt. “I'll pack you something, then. Something for the road.”

Then, he reached out. Not to stop you exactly, just to touch your hand. Gentle again, thumb tracing the back of your fingers like a memory he wasn't ready to let go of.

“I'll be back,” he said, voice thick like molasses left too long in the jar. “I swear to ya, I'll come back. As long as you'll have me.”

You searched his face, and he let you. Even stood to give you a better look. Let you linger on the curve of his cheekbone, the hollows of his eyes with pupils that you could've sworn were glinting red, the hint of a regretful smile playing on his lips.

Then he leaned down, not to kiss your lips, but your hands. Both of them.

Held them between his own, like prayer.

And pressed his mouth, reverent and warm, to your dorsals. First the left, then the right.

It left you breathless. Still.

You didn't speak as he turned and stepped back into the deepening blue of dusk. Vanishing into the cypress and cottonseed mist like he'd never been there at all.

But the porch felt colder when he was gone.

You lingered there a while, arms folded, watching the trees sway like they were mourning something too. The screen door creaked behind you, and when you finally stepped back inside, the house met you like a hollow room. Still shaped by him, but quiet now.

You closed the door softly behind you, the latch clicking louder than it should've.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine.

You gathered the dish towel from the counter, folded it twice, then again, smoothing out invisible creases. You adjusted the chairs at the table, even though they weren't crooked. Put the leftovers of lunch and dinner back under their cloth coverings. Remmick loved seconds and thirds. Straightened the salt jar. Wiped down the basin, though he had left it spotless.

The floorboards creaked differently now. Not heavier, just... lonelier.

You checked your herbs hanging near the stove, even though you'd checked them that morning. The mint looked limp. The rosemary had drooped a little at the ends. The lavender hung tired, like it had lost something too. Even your yarrow, usually so full of pride, drooped ever so slightly.

You ran your fingers along their leaves anyway, whispering comfort to them you weren't sure you believed.

You pressed your hand to the windowsill. Still warm from the sun, but not the same warmth. Not his.

You went to bed early, though you didn’t sleep. The moonlight slipped through your curtains and painted silver lines across the floor, and your mind drifted without permission. Back to the curve of his smile, the rasp of his voice, the weight of your name when he said it like it belonged only to him.

When the rooster crowed, it startled you. You’d only just begun to drift.

But like every morning, you rose.

The sun was shy today, peeking out slowly from behind a curtain of cloud. You wrapped your shawl tighter around your shoulders and stepped out to the garden. The dirt felt cool under your feet. None of your plants greeted you like usual. No quiet whispers of good morning to be heard.

You knelt beside the aloe, your most recent, most favored little patch, and brushed the plumpest leaf with a fingertip.

“He’ll come back,” you murmured, not quite sure if you were speaking to the plants or to yourself.

Either way, they didn’t answer.

Four days.

Ninety-six hours. Five thousand, seven hundred and sixty minutes. Three hundred and forty-five thousand, six hundred seconds.

You hated that you knew the math. Hated even more that you’d counted.

It was foolish. Plain and simple. You had lived alone for years without a man’s company, without needing it, without asking for it, without even noticing the lack. The quiet had always been your comfort. Solitude your rhythm. But now... now it sounded hollow. Like a well too deep to draw from.

The nights stretched longer, like they were mocking you. You caught yourself reaching for an extra plate when setting the table, or pausing at the door before opening it, half-expecting him there with that crooked grin and boyish look about the eyes. You’d go to cut mint and think of how he’d inhaled it like it was the first clean breath he’d had in years. You avoided the basin, too, because every time your hands touched water, you thought of his bare back arched over the sink, washing your dishes like it meant something.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

Not here. Not now. Not in a world that didn’t even let you walk on the same sidewalk as a man like him without stares and suspicion and violence.

But it had.

And you hated that, too.

By the fourth night, sleep didn’t come. You sat by the open window, quilt wrapped around your shoulders, watching the moonlight pool across the floorboards. The stillness wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was restless, pressing, waiting.

You nearly jumped when the sound came.

Knock. Knock.

Not the desperate pounding from before. Not the sound of pain clawing for entry.

Just two clean, confident knocks.

You blinked. Sat up slow. Waited, unsure if you’d imagined it.

Then:

Knock. Knock.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Remmick stood tall and calm in the doorway, bathed in moonlight and cleaner than you'd ever seen him. His skin had healed to a pale, healthy glow, no longer bubbling or cracked. His deep brown hair was brushed back, catching the silver glint of stars. A collared shirt clung to his frame, pressed and buttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Trousers clean, belt buckled. A gold chain still hung around his neck, subtle under the open top buttons.

In his hands, held like something sacred, was a small velvet box.

“Evenin',” he said first, soft as the breeze curling around your porch. His smile was slow, a little shy, like he knew he was interrupting something sacred. Your silence, your steadiness, your hard-won peace, but he didn't know all that had gone out the window when he departed.

Then, after a beat, his sparkling, no, glowing eyes met yours and held. Beckoning you to entertain him.

“May I come in?” he asked, voice low and steady, but you could still hear the hope tucked inside.

As if on cue, the box in his hand gleamed under the moonlight.

You stepped aside without a word, but your fingers curled tightly around the edge of the door.

He entered slow, eyes sweeping the room like it was the first time all over again, though he didn’t say so. You didn’t offer him a seat. Not yet.

“You’re late,” you said, cool and plain, folding your arms so he wouldn’t see how your hands trembled. You were being difficult on purpose. He never gave you a time. But you felt the need to make him suffer for it anyway.

He looked at you then, properly. The tenderness behind those eyes made your breath hitch, but you held it down, buried it deep.

“You left me high and dry,” you went on, chin raised. “One day of amity and then nothin’. Not a note, not a whisper, not a soul to say you was all right.”

Remmick stepped in closer, just one careful pace, hands out like he meant to calm a storm that hadn’t made up its mind yet. Maybe that’s what you looked like to him. Thunder tucked behind your eyes, the kind of quiet that came right before something broke loose.

“I know,” he said, voice thick with regret. “And I'm sorry, truly. I should've sent word, should've come sooner. But I didn't want you seein' me the way I was. Still mendin'. Still not quite myself.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch, either.

He reached up slowly and brushed his fingers against your elbow. Just the edge. Just enough to feel the heat of his touch ghost over your skin.

“I meant to come back sooner, I swear it on every bit of gold I own,” he added with a sad sort of grin. “But I needed to be well. Presentable. Worth standin’ in your doorway again.”

Your eyes flicked down to where his hand lingered near yours. The space between your fingers suddenly felt loud.

“You think a fresh shirt and a fancy box makes up for worryin’ me near to death?” you asked, sharp, but your voice cracked just a hair.

He didn’t shy from it. “No, ma’am. But I think it’s a start.”

He lifted the jewelry box, but didn’t open it. He waited.

Then, softer: “Can I sit?”

You gave him a long, measured look. The air felt close again, like it had that first morning. Finally, you gave a small, reluctant nod.

He smiled. Barely there, like he knew better than to press his luck, and moved past you. As he did, the back of his hand brushed yours. Light as linen. Deliberate.

You didn’t pull away.

The table between you wasn’t much. Scuffed wood, worn edges, a single oil lamp casting gold across the grain. But the way Remmick looked at you across it, you might’ve been seated on a throne. His elbows rested lightly on the surface, one hand folded over the other, but his eyes were doing the real work.

His eyes traced the full curve of your nose, the gentle round of your cheeks, the dark velour of your skin in the lamplight. He studied the slope of your shoulders, the proud set of your jaw, the way your coils framed your face like a crown. His gaze lingered on your lips. Soft, plush, shaped by truth and silence in equal measure. Every detail of you, he took in like scripture.

You pretended not to notice. Focused on the kettle, or the way your fingers tapped along your mug. But your skin knew. It prickled under his gaze, warm and drawn tight with something you hadn’t named just yet.

“I brought somethin’,” he said at last, his voice soft as cloth but thick with meaning, and it hit you low in the belly, that sound. Like he’d been holding the words close, warming them with care, waiting for the right moment to let them go.

You glanced up, just as he set the velvet box between you. It looked wrong there somehow, too fine for your table, too soft for your life.

He opened it slowly, carefully, like it was something holy.

Inside, nestled in dark blue satin, was a necklace. Real gold. Rich, gleaming, honey-warm in the lamplight, and spaced along the chain were pearls. Soft, perfect things, like droplets of cream suspended in air. You blinked once, twice, sure you were dreaming, or mistaking it for something else.

Your breath caught.

“I know it ain’t… customary,” Remmick said gently, watching your reaction like it mattered more than anything else in the world. “But when I saw it, I thought of you. The gold... warm, like your voice. And the pearls… well. I reckon you’d make ‘em shine brighter.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You’d never pictured yourself in a thing like that, never even dared. Maybe in a younger daydream or an impossible story passed from woman to woman. But not like this. Not real. Not placed in front of you by a man with eyes that held no expectation, only hope.

He didn’t push the box closer. Just sat still, hands open on the table, waiting.

Your fingers hovered over the box like it might disappear if you touched it too quickly. You weren’t used to fine things. Things so delicate, so carefully made, things that shimmered without asking for attention. You slid the box closer, slowly, hesitantly. But when you reached for the necklace itself, your hand stilled. You didn’t even know where to start.

The chain gleamed in the lamplight, catching against the darkness like a promise. It looked too lovely to belong to you.

Remmick noticed. Of course he did.

He stood without saying a word, the chair creaking softly behind him as he stepped around the table. His shoes were silent against the worn floorboards, but your heart wasn’t. It was loud in your ears, wild in your chest, thudding like it might beat right out of you.

He came to stand behind you, and you didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

His fingers were gentle as they lifted the chain from the velvet. He didn’t fumble or hesitate. The clasp clicked open like it knew where it belonged. He cupped the curls at your neck with his featherlight touch, slow and warm, gently tucking them aside.

And then the chain touched your skin.

You swore you could feel every link. Every pearl.

He leaned in to fasten it, breath soft against the nape of your neck, and the whisper of it made you shiver. Not from cold, but from the sudden, aching nearness of him. His chest just barely grazed your back, not quite a touch but close enough to feel the heat of him, the weight of him in the air around you.

“Ya alright?” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath.

You nodded, knowing your voice had fled.

The clasp clicked shut. But he didn’t move right away.

He lingered.

His hands stayed at your shoulders, not gripping, just resting there, warm and steady. You let your eyes close for a moment. Just a moment. Let the feel of it wrap around you like the chain he’d laid across your collar.

“God…” he breathed, more to himself than to you. “You’re perfect.”

That broke something loose inside you.

You turned your head, slow, and found his eyes waiting. He was closer now, one hand rising from your shoulder to brush your jaw, soft and trembling. He looked at you like he’d been waiting years for this moment. Like he still didn’t believe it was real.

He leaned in, slow enough to stop. Slow enough to be stopped.

But you didn’t stop him.

And when his lips touched yours, it was like stepping into warm water after a long, cold night. Gentle, slow, full of heat that built from the center and spread until your whole body felt wrapped in it. His kiss wasn’t greedy. It asked. And you answered.

His lips moved against yours, soft and coaxing at first, but growing more insistent, more hungry. His hand, which had been resting on your jaw, slid down to your neck, thumb pressing gently against your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin. You could feel his other hand, still on your shoulder, tightening slightly, pulling you further back against him.

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, asking for entrance, and you granted it, opening for him with a soft sigh. His tongue met yours, tentatively at first, then with more purpose, exploring your mouth with a hunger that made your knees weak. You could feel the hard planes of his body against your back, the heat of him seeping into you, making you ache with a need that was growing more urgent by the second.

His hand on your neck slid down, tracing the line of your collarbone, then lower still, over the chain he had placed there, and lower, to the swell of your breast. He cupped you gently, his thumb brushing against your nipple, making it harden beneath your clothing. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening further, becoming almost desperate.

His other hand slid down your arm, then around your waist. You could feel his erection, hard and insistent, pressing against your back.

He broke the kiss then, only to trail his lips down your jaw, to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. His hands were everywhere now, one still on your breast, the other roaming, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, the softness of your stomach. You arched into his touch, wanting more, needing more.

His teeth grazed your earlobe as he whispered sweet nothings. His voice was hoarse, frantic, sending shivers down your spine. His hand left your breast, only to slide down your stomach, pausing at the waistband of your skirt. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, asking for permission.

You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps, your body aching with anticipation. His hand slid into the fabric, cupping you through your panties, his fingers pressing gently, making you moan. He smiled against your neck, a creeping, wicked smile, and began to move his hand, slow and deliberate.

His fingers pressed and rubbed, the thin fabric of your panties doing little to hide the heat and wetness building between your legs. You could feel how soaked you were, your body responding to his touch with a desperation that bordered on madness. He could feel it too, his fingers rubbing slow circles, teasing you, drawing out your pleasure.

“Mmm, you're so wet for me, darlin',” he muttered, a rumble against your skin, his accent thick and sultry. “I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me. Lord knows I've been waitin' for this since I first laid eyes on ya.” His fingers pressed harder, more insistently, and you bucked against his hand, chasing the pleasure he was building within you.

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against your back. “That's it, baby. Ride my hand. Take what you need.” His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finally touching your bare skin, and you cried out at the contact, your body trembling with anticipation.

He took his time, exploring you slowly, his fingers tracing your folds, spreading your wetness, circling your clit with a teasing touch that had you squirming and begging for more. “You're so fuckin' perfect,” he panted, voice hoarse with desire. “So wet. So ready for me.”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, and you pushed back against him, trying to impale yourself on his fingers. He chuckled again, a low, knowing sound. “Eager, ain't we?” he hummed, his fingers finally slipping inside you, slow and deep. “Fuck, you're tight.”

He began to move his fingers, pumping them in and out of you in a steady, deliberate rhythm, his palm grinding against your clit with each movement. You could feel your orgasm building, your body coiling tighter and tighter, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Ya like that, darlin'?” he grunted, voice taunting. “Ya like feeling me inside you, stretchin' you, fillin' you up?” His fingers curled, hitting a spot inside you that made your eyes roll back in your head, your body convulsing with pleasure.

“You're so fuckin' beautiful when you come undone like this,” he growled into your ear. You'd never imagined a man could speak like this, let alone hear it. “So fucking perfect. My perfect, wet, little mess.” His fingers moved faster, his palm grinding harder against your clit.

But just before you could cross that euphoric threshold.

He stopped.

Your body instantly ached, desperate for release. You whimpered, a sound of pure need and frustration. He returned the sound with a pleased, smug chuckle.

“Shh, darlin',” he cooed, planting a loving kiss on your neck. “I've got ya. I'm not gonna leave you hangin', promise.” His fingers slid out of you, and you mourned the loss, your body already missing the fullness, the pressure, the pleasure.

Then his hands were on your hips, turning you around, and you found yourself face to face with him, his eyes dark with lust, his breath ragged and uneven. He pushed you gently, urging you to sit on the edge of the table, and you complied, your legs shaking with anticipation.

He knelt before you, his hands sliding up your thighs with a deliberate slowness, pushing your skirt up with them, exposing you to his hungry gaze. His touch was firm yet gentle, his calloused palms rough against your soft skin, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your body.

“You're a sight,” he whispered, worship on his tongue. “All swollen 'n soaked for me.”

He began to kiss his way up your thigh, slow and deliberate, his lips soft and wet against your skin. He took his time, lingering, tasting, exploring every inch of you as if you were a delicacy he intended to savor.

When his hands reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin just below your hip bones. You shivered, your body aching with need, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He leaned in, his lips pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your inner thigh, just above your knee. You could feel the scratch of his stubble, the heat of his breath.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and hungry, and then, without warning, he leaned in and bit down on your inner thigh, hard enough to draw a small amount of blood.

You cried out, a sound of surprise and pleasure and pain all rolled into one. He sucked gently at the wound, his eyes locked on yours, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face as he watched your reaction. You could feel the blood trickling down your thigh, warm and wet, and it sent a primal shiver down your spine.

He released your thigh, his chin glistening with a mixture of your blood and his own saliva. He wasted no time licking away what remained of you on his lips.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your core, and you could feel the promise of what was to come. Your body ached with anticipation, your mind racing, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum, urging him on, begging for release, begging for more. And he obliged, his tongue snaking out, tasting you slowly, deliberately, from your entrance to your clit, and back again, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you, as he claimed you, as he worshipped you.

He started at your entrance, his tongue pushing inside, tasting your depths, fucking you with his tongue in slow, deliberate thrusts that had your body convulsing and your hands gripping his hair, holding him to you, urging him deeper.

“Ya taste like heaven,” his words came through muffled and damp, but the meaning was never lost. “So sweet. Like honey. Like nectar.”

His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently at first, then with more insistence, his tongue flicking and circling, driving you wild, making your body shake and tremble and buck against his mouth. You could feel his stubble, rough and scratchy against your inner thighs, a contrast to the soft, wet heat of his mouth, the sharp, tantalizing sensation sending you spiraling even further.

He pulled back, his chin and lips and neck glistening with your wetness, his eyes locked on yours as he licked his lips, tasting you, savoring you, a low, appreciative growl rumbling in his chest. “I could feast on you for fuckin' hours, darlin',” it seemed like he couldn't go even a second without talking you through it. “Like a fuckin' drug.”

He dove back in, his tongue pushing inside you, fucking you with long, slow licks that had your body convulsing. He pulled back, his tongue flat against your flesh, licking you from your entrance to your clit and back again, over and over, the rhythm steady and unyielding, driving you towards the edge of sanity.

He focused on your clit again, his tongue flicking and circling, his lips sucking gently, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. He could feel your body tensing, your muscles coiling tight, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He redoubled his efforts, his mouth open wide, taking in as much of you as he could, his tongue and lips working in tandem.

“That's it, darlin',” he purred, tone almost pleading, reminding you of how you first found him on your doorstep. It all felt like a distant memory now. “Come for me. Let me taste that sweet nectar. Let me drink it all up.”

With a cry that seemed to tear from your very soul, you came undone, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He drank you up, his tongue lapping at your folds, his lips soft and gentle against your sensitive flesh, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

He slowed his movements, his tongue gentle and soothing, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses against your flesh.

His chin and lips and neck were absolutely drenched, eyes locked on yours, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. He leaned in, his lips pressing softly against yours, and you could taste yourself on him, musky and sweet and intoxicating. He kissed you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth, sharing your taste with you. Only you.

He pulled away unhurriedly, his lips glistening with your essence, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he stood up. You could see the rise and fall of his chest, his breath still ragged.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and wiped his face with the back of his hand, a gesture that had you following his every move. He brought his hand to his mouth, licking and sucking your taste from his skin, his eyes rolling back slightly as he savored every last drop.

“You're somethin' else. Somethin' real special.”

He stepped closer, his strong hands gripping your hips and lifting you effortlessly off the table. You let out a soft gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support as your legs, weak and trembling, struggled to find their strength. He held you tightly against him, your bodies pressed together, and you could feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own.

“Easy, lass,” he soothed. “I've got you.”

He started to walk, his steps steady and sure, carrying you with an ease that belied your boneless state. You rested your head against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, as he navigated the room, his destination clear.

Gently, he laid you down on the bed, his body following yours, enveloping you in his warmth.

He hovered just above you, arms braced on either side, his eyes tracing every line of your face like they were reading scripture. His breath fanned across your cheek, warm and steady, and the way he looked at you, like you were something holy, made your chest ache.

One hand came up to fondle your necklace, rough knuckles grazing soft skin. “I’ll take ya up on that offer this time,” he mumbled, voice husky with something between gratitude and want. “To stay the night.”

He leaned in, kissing your forehead slowly, then your cheek, then your mouth. Each one a promise, a vow wrapped in silence.

And when he finally settled beside you, pulling you close until your bodies fit together like roots twining beneath the soil, the world quieted. The night wrapped around you both like a shroud.

For the first time in a long time, neither of you felt alone.

[hatethysinner]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀʀʏ ʙʟᴜᴇꜱ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱᴇʟʟᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: The bell over your bookshop door rings at midnight, and a stranger steps through. Tired eyes, old voice, and a hunger he tries to hide. He says little, but lingers like he's waiting for permission to need you. You should send him away, but something in you wants to see what he'll do if you don't.

ᴡᴄ: 12.8k

ᴀ/ᴄ: firstly, thank you so much to everyone who enjoyed and interacted with let the wrong one in! i am so proud and so disappointed to be posting this because it's so shameless. if the fbi showed up to my door i'd let them take me to whatever white padded room they had waiting. i was up past midnight multiple times writing this out and it shows. just a completely unhinged self-indulgent mess. do not read without a rose toy (/j). as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SLOWburn, remmick is truly a fucking loser (pathetic!remmick supremacy), remmick will not leave the reader alone, reader is a know-it-all manipulative ass thought daughter, she's lowkey evil actually, don't read unless you support womens rights and wrongs, mutual yearning and obsession, vampirism, dacryphillia, overstimulation, blink-and-you'll-miss-it exhibitionism, sub!remmick, dom!reader, cunnilingus, p in v, ride 'em cowgirl, spit kink, praise kink, matching each other's freak, offscreen but confirmed stalking, excessive divider usage, probable excessive usage of "ain't" because i got worried about my accent skills, amateur knowledge of 1930s literature and bookstores, religious undertones if you squint, i think y'all know what to expect i'm not writing out everything

You were one of the lucky ones.

That’s what folks said when they stepped through the little wood-framed door, brushing snow from their shoulders or sweat from their brows, depending on the season. They always paused in the entryway. Like the air was thicker inside. Warmer, gentler, laced with something that asked them to hush their voices and unshoulder their weariness. Most folks did. They’d glance around slow, wide-eyed and awestruck, like they’d just wandered into a place stitched together by warmth and paper. Because they had.

Your daddy built it like that.

He opened the shop before you were tall enough to reach the counter, when your shoes still lit up when you walked and your teeth were missing in the front. A modest space, more narrow than wide, with walls that sometimes whispered when the wind pressed in. It was tucked between a shoe repair, where the scent of leather and oil clung to the brick, and a bakery that changed hands too often to name. But the bookstore never changed. It stayed.

He fought for it with every drop of charm he had and a stubborn streak the size of a mule. The bank didn’t make it easy. Nor the city. Nor the neighbors. But he didn’t flinch. Just smiled, signed the lease, and started sanding old shelves he bought for cheap from a shut-down place across town.

It wasn’t grand, but it had room to breathe.

The shelves didn’t match. The floors creaked. The ceiling had water stains shaped like cloud spirits. But the space had rhythm. Light pooled in through the front windows in the early afternoon, catching the golden flecks in the pine wood counter he carved by hand. You watched him do it over the course of a summer. His shirt clinging to his back with sweat, sawdust settling in his hair like snow. That counter had curves in it, places smoothed by a thousand passing fingers, elbows leaned, coins slid, mugs thunked down in thought. It remembered everyone who ever stood there.

The aisles were just wide enough for two people to pass without brushing shoulders, if one of them turned slightly. In winter, the windows fogged from the warmth of breath and the hiss of the radiator under the front table. In summer, he cracked the front door and the back one just right so the breeze cut clean through, carrying with it the scent of magnolia and newsprint. When the light hit right, the dust in the air sparkled, like it was carrying secrets you could almost read if you squinted hard enough.

He dreamed of it since he was a boy, back when books came secondhand and beat-up, passed along like contraband. Borrowed if you were lucky. Bought if you were white. His eyes always got faraway when he talked about those days, like he was watching some other version of himself hiding from the world with a paperback gripped tight like a life vest.

“There’s magic,” he always said, tapping your chest lightly with one thick finger, “in knowin’ a story nobody else does.”

So he painted the sign himself and hung it crooked on purpose, because he said perfection made folks nervous. He sold trinkets and newspapers and penny candy at first, just to keep the lights on. He let local kids read in the back for hours so long as they didn’t dog-ear the pages. And when folks started to drift in off the street, curious, then charmed, he opened the door wider.

People noticed.

Not all approved.

But he smiled at the right times, kept his voice low when he had to, and stayed on his side of town like they told him to.

But inside those walls?

He was king.

You took it over after he passed.

Not because you wanted to. You hadn’t planned for that. You thought you’d leave, travel, study something big with a title hard to pronounce. But when he died, sudden, quiet, the way only the kindest men seem to go, it was like the shop exhaled. And no one was there to breathe it back in.

So you stayed.

Not because you had his gift for conversation. You didn’t. Your voice didn’t carry like his. You didn’t know how to make strangers feel like they’d known you all their lives. But you had his steadiness. His eyes. His love of ink.

And the shop had raised you.

You’d spent your childhood curled between the shelves with your knees pulled tight to your chest, the pages of books flaring open like wings in your lap. You used to fall asleep in the window nook under stacks of fairy tales, the glow of the streetlamp outside pooling on your shoulders. You learned to read by tracing the letters with your fingertip, mouthing the words like spells.

You grew up there. Quiet, clever, a little too serious for your age, and always full of questions. The kind of questions books were made for. You learned the world in chapters, one page at a time, growing taller alongside the stacks.

Even now, the shop holds you like a memory refusing to fade.

The floorboards creak the same way when you step heavy by the register. The bell above the door still dings off-key. There’s a worn spot in the paint where the heels of his boots used to rest, and you never painted over it. The walls know your heartbeat. The ceiling hums with it.

The place smells of paper, cedar, and something floral you still can’t place. Not perfume. Not fresh. More like dried petals tucked in a forgotten book. There are candles flickering low behind the counter, their flames soft and steady, casting halos of gold on the spines of the hardbacks lining the shelves.

Outside, the windows are tinted now. Reflective. You can see yourself in the glass, wrapped in lamplight like a ghost caught in the pane.

It’s not strange for you to be up this late.

You have a habit of rereading old favorites until the pages feel like skin. You like the quiet. The familiar shuffle of turning pages. The low creak of the chair under your legs. The steady tick of the clock in the corner, marking time nobody’s watching.

The radio went quiet an hour ago, the static fading to silence when the last gospel track drifted away. Now there’s only the sound of night outside. The rustle of trees, the distant hum of a train slicing through the dark, far beyond the city line.

But tonight, something feels off.

You don’t know why. Not yet.

But your candle’s flame flutters suddenly, like it’s caught a breath. Not a wind. A breath.

You look toward the door.

There’s no bell. No sound.

But the air feels... thick. Like it’s waiting.

You don’t move right away. You sit there with your thumb hovering over the page, caught between the lines of a sentence and the prickle on the back of your neck.

You don’t want to turn it.

Not yet.

Then the door creaked.

A sound so small it barely pulled your eyes from the page. Your heart didn’t jump. Not right away. It didn’t need to.

The bell rang just after. Clear, bright, and true. Same one you fixed the summer it snapped off in a storm so thick the trees bowed like they were praying.

So that bell was yours. It knew what time it was. It didn’t ring wrong.

That’s what made the sound feel off now. Just a shade too sharp, too clean, like a voice cutting into a dream you didn’t know you were having.

The sign still said “Come In.” Your fault. You’d meant to flip it hours ago but got lost in the pages, lulled by the rhythm of ink and stillness. Still, no one ever actually came this late. Not really. Not unless they were meant to be here.

You closed the book. Not slammed. Just firm. A quiet full stop.

And there he stood.

Tall. Pale.

A white man.

Out of place in every way that mattered.

He filled the doorway like he didn’t know whether he wanted to be let in or turned away. Light from the streetlamps slanted behind him, casting his face in half-shadow, like the world couldn’t decide how much of him to reveal.

You didn’t move.

Your fingers curled around the spine of the book, thumb against the front cover, the weight of it grounding. The silence stretched between you.

He just stood there, breathing slow like he didn’t want to startle anything. His eyes swept the room, not lazily, but searching. Hungry. And when they landed on you, they stayed.

His voice came quiet. Almost careful. “Evenin’.”

You stared.

“We’re closed.”

Your tone was even. Flat. Not rude. Not kind, either.

Still, he didn’t leave.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move at all, not really. Just shifted the weight of his stare, like he was trying to remember a script. Like he’d played this scene in his head a dozen ways and still didn’t know which one this was. His smile was a flicker. Half-done. It twitched and died on his lips before it could mean anything. But under it, something desperate. Thin and frayed, like he was holding on to a thread he couldn’t name.

“Apologies,” he said with a shaky drawl, dipping his head toward the window, where the sign still swung faintly in the breeze. The porchlight caught the paint in the glass. “Saw the sign.”

You didn’t believe that for a second.

Nobody came here by accident. Not after midnight. Not across town lines like these. Everyone knew where they were supposed to be. Supposed to go.

He was tall, yes, but not in a way that meant anything. His frame was lean, his movements all hesitation and nerves. His coat didn’t fit right, like it had belonged to someone stronger once, someone he was still pretending to be.

You stood slowly.

The book stayed on the chair. Your skirt brushed the floor as you crossed barefoot to the counter, each step deliberate. No rush. No fear. Just weight.

You weren’t afraid of the man. You were afraid of what kind of story this was turning into.

He watched the whole way, his eyes flicking between your face and your hands, trying to read the space between your breaths. Like he expected you to call for someone. To yell. To throw something. To raise your voice.

You didn’t.

You let the silence answer.

“What can I do for you.”

No question mark. A line drawn in the sand.

He flinched, barely, but you saw it. Like a thread pulled too tight.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to cause any trouble,” he said, voice thinning out at the edges. “Just… seemed like a place a man might find a bit of quiet.”

You raised a brow, not moved.

“You always find quiet in closed shops?”

He scratched the back of his neck. A nervous tic, maybe. Or maybe it was just something to do with his hands, which kept twitching like they missed holding something heavier than a coat hem.

“Only the ones still lit up inside.”

He tried for a smile again. It trembled. Didn’t hold.

“Then I’d suggest you pass through quick,” you said. “I need to lock up.”

“Right,” he said, nodding too fast. “Of course. Sorry. I just-”

But he didn’t leave.

He stepped forward, just an inch, like something was pulling him. Then stopped himself and stalled in place, weight shifting foot to foot like the floor might open up if he stood still too long.

“I… don’t suppose you’ve got anything by Hughes?” he asked suddenly. Then, without pause, “Or Hurston?” His voice cracked a little on Hurston, like the name had caught on something inside his throat.

You blinked.

That was new.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just studied him.

A white man. Midnight. The wrong side of town. Asking for Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston.

It didn’t make sense.

It didn’t fit.

Men like him didn’t read voices like theirs. Not unless they had something to prove. Or something to steal.

He met your stare but his hands betrayed him, fidgeting at his sides again, tugging at the seams of his coat like he could pull himself together if he just gripped hard enough.

“You from around here?”

He laughed. Short, sharp, like he didn’t mean it. “Not anymore.”

Then quieter, “Ain’t got much left to be from.”

That silence stretched again. Wider this time. You didn’t try to fill it. You let it grow heavy.

He looked down at the floor like it might offer him a script.

You should’ve told him again to leave. Should’ve flicked the light off and locked the door and gone back to your chair and the soft, safe pages waiting there.

But you didn’t.

You said, “Hughes is second shelf, left of the register. Zora’s in the back, top shelf”

You paused. Watched him.

“And they ain’t alphabetical. You’ll have to look.”

He blinked.

Lit up like you’d handed him something holy.

“Right. Thank you. I- thank you.”

He stepped into the shop like the floor might vanish beneath him. Light. Careful. Fingertips trailing along the spines of the books nearest him, like the wood might spark or whisper if he touched it wrong.

And you watched him the whole way.

You didn’t trust him. Not even a little.

But something about the way he stood there, asking for voices not his, trying not to tremble. Something about his need made you pause.

It intrigued you.

You tried not to listen.

Tried to stay still behind the counter, eyes fixed on the book you’d set aside, though your finger hadn’t moved past the corner of the page. You heard the soft drag of his coat brushing the shelves, the sound of someone trying to move quietly without knowing how. The occasional squeak of a shoe sole. The low shuffle of indecision.

Then his voice floated back.

“Sorry to bother, miss. You said left of the register?”

You closed your eyes.

He’d been in the aisle all of sixty seconds.

“Second shelf,” you called, sharper than you meant it. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

A pause.

“It’s just, uh… the labels are all faded.”

You exhaled through your nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite not one.

You pushed off the counter and stepped out from behind it, your skirt catching the air as you moved. He was standing a little too close to the shelf, squinting at the bindings like the titles might blink first. His coat hung open now, revealing a loose button-down tucked half-heartedly into worn slacks, belt twisted like he’d dressed in a hurry. His hair was still damp at the edges from the relentless humidity outside. It made you wonder why he was wearing something so warm in the first place.

He looked up when he heard you.

Not just looked. Jumped.

Shoulders startled up an inch, like you’d crept up behind him with a switchblade instead of bare feet and a mild expression. His eyes flicked to your hands again. You noticed that. Clocked it.

“Ain't mean to pull ya from your reading,” he said quickly. “Just didn’t wanna grab the wrong thing.”

You said nothing.

You crouched low instead, running your fingers along the lower shelf until they stopped on the slim spine of The Weary Blues. You tugged it free, checked the inside cover, and stood.

Then you crossed past him, just enough to brush by the nervous way he lingered too close to the wood. At the back shelf, your hand found the worn copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God with the creased corners and sun-faded cover. You held both out to him.

He hesitated.

Not out of disrespect. Out of something else. Like touching them would make it real.

When his hand reached for them, it touched yours first.

Only for a second. Less than. But it landed like heat.

You watched his fingers twitch at the contact. Watched him pull back slightly, then steady himself like a man who’d stepped into unexpected water. His skin was cold, lonely. Like someone who hadn’t had cause to brush against kindness in a while.

You gave him the books anyway.

He took them with both hands, careful not to touch you again. His eyes met yours briefly. Then dropped.

That should’ve been it.

But something in the way he flinched, not in fear, but in startled awareness, left a strange twist in your stomach. Not danger. Not quite.

You narrowed your eyes at him. Watched how he shifted. How he clutched the books like they were lifelines. How still he got under your gaze.

And maybe you should’ve gone back to the counter. Maybe you should’ve left it there.

But you didn’t.

You leaned just slightly closer, voice low. Baiting.

“You always get jumpy when someone tries to help you?”

He looked up again, tongue wetting his bottom lip like he was about to speak, then thought better of it. Instead, he nodded, too fast, like agreeing might save him from saying the wrong thing.

And that, that, made you want to keep going.

Just to see what else he’d do.

You led him back to the front in silence.

He didn’t try to fill it this time. Just followed, books clutched against his chest like they might steady his breath. You could feel his gaze brush the curve of your shoulder, your hands, the soft glow of the lamps pooling on the floorboards.

You stepped behind the counter, but didn't fill the space.

You stayed close. Leaning forward in a way that was probably too obvious.

The register clicked open with a metallic sigh. Your fingers moved slow over the worn buttons, each press deliberate. He laid the books down gently, almost mechanically, their spines aligning like he'd meant to do it. Like he’d practiced.

The light caught his face now, full on.

He looked younger in the shadows. But here, beneath the gold of your lamp, he was something else entirely.

His face was long and wide, covered in stubble that somehow looked neat and unkempt at the same time. Hollowed cheeks. A narrow nose that sloped like it had been broken once and never quite healed right. His mouth was set in a line that kept trying not to tremble. But his eyes...

They were wrong.

Not in a way you could name, not in any way you’d heard told, but wrong just the same. Too dark, too deep. And old. Old. You didn’t know how you knew it, but it pulled at the back of your neck. Some instinct deeper than language whispering that those weren’t eyes meant for a man that looked barely thirty.

Then there were his teeth.

You saw them when he smiled, faint and soft, like he didn’t mean for it to happen. A little too sharp. Animalistic, almost. Pointed just enough to make you question how close you wanted to stand.

And still, you didn’t move away.

“That’ll be four even,” you said, and held out your hand.

He blinked. Fumbled in his pockets. Fingers pulling out a crumpled bill like he hadn’t checked how much he had. When he offered it, your hand met his again, and this time you didn’t let go too quick.

Your touch lingered.

Not an accident.

Your fingers brushed his palm, smooth and dry and colder than before. You watched his throat shift like he’d swallowed something wrong. The money crinkled between you, forgotten.

You dropped it in the drawer without looking down.

Counted back the change slow. One coin at a time. Let your fingertips ghost over his as you pressed each one into his hand, watched how he tried not to flinch, not to twitch, not to breathe too fast.

There was something in his mouth now. A hitch. A tension.

You tilted your head.

His accent. It hadn’t struck you before. Too quiet. But now, with him this close, you could hear the undercurrents. Southern, yes. That lazy hush to his vowels, that slant that curled around the ends of his words like smoke. But buried beneath it was something else.

Not from here.

A roll that didn’t come from any county near yours. A roundness to the vowels that didn’t quite match the cadence of Mississippi. It had weight to it. History. Like old hills and cold winters. European, maybe. English, Scottish, Irish? Or something older still.

But the twang was real, too. Earnest. Like he’d worn it long enough to convince even himself.

You watched him shift under your gaze, trying to shrink inside that too-big coat.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

Simple.

But your voice dropped half a note, low and steady like it was loaded.

His eyes flicked up again. Held yours.

“Remmick, miss.”

Just that. No last name. With an unusual politeness in tow.

You didn’t smile. Nor did you give your name. You wanted him to work for that.

“Right,” you said. “Remmick.”

He shifted the books under one arm, his free hand ghosting over the edge of the counter like he wanted to say more, ask more, be more, but didn’t dare.

“Well… good evenin' to ya,” he said softly. The words caught at the edges, like they didn’t quite belong in his mouth.

You didn’t answer at first. Just watched him take a step back, then another, boots creaking against the old wood floor.

Then, finally, you raised your hand.

Not a wave, exactly. Just a slow lift of your fingers in something halfway between farewell and warning.

He seemed to understand.

The bell over the door chimed once as he slipped through, swallowed by the dark.

You didn’t move.

Not until the sound of his footsteps vanished completely.

The next night came heavy with quiet. Midnight again. And you were sitting in the same chair, same blanket folded over your knees, same book splayed in your lap. Different pages, but you hadn’t turned one in ten minutes.

The lamp cast its familiar pool of amber over the counter, the window, the shelves. Everything was still. Too still.

You hadn’t flipped the sign.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was habit, that your mind had simply been elsewhere. The story had you hooked, maybe. Maybe you were chasing some lost line between chapters, maybe that’s why you kept glancing at the door without realizing it.

The “Come In” flickered faintly in the glass, reversed in the dark like a whisper only the street could read.

You licked your thumb, turned the page. Tried to focus on the words. You didn’t remember them, even though you read them yesterday. Or maybe it was last week. Or maybe it didn’t matter at all.

It wasn’t like you were waiting.

You just hadn’t gone to bed yet.

You shifted. Crossed your legs under the blanket. Then uncrossed them. Stared at the “Come In” again. Just a sign. Just a little slanted piece of painted wood that always tilted left because the hinge was loose and you never bothered to fix it.

The wind slipped through a crack in the front window. Barely there, just enough to nudge the edge of the lace curtain and carry in a scent from the dark. Not smoke, not rain, something earthbound. Loamy. Cold.

You turned another page. Didn’t read a word.

Your candle’s flame danced sharp again, almost gleeful. You rubbed your thumb over your palm without thinking, the way you did when something was close. Some old habit from childhood, back when your parents told you to trust your instincts, even when they made no sense.

The bell rang.

Not loud. Not rushed. Just a single chime, clear as a knock to the chest.

He stepped through like he’d been summoned.

No coat this time. His shirt was pressed, collar sharp. Sleeves rolled just past the wrists in that careful way that said he’d redone them three, maybe four times. His hair was a little less wild, tamed with pomade and willpower. His boots were clean. Like he’d stood outside brushing dust from them just to make a better second impression.

And yet, nothing about him looked natural. Not the tidiness. Not the polish. He wore it like a child wore Sunday shoes. Tight across the toes, heavy on the ankles, stiff enough to slow him down.

His eyes, still dark, still glinting, scanned the room like he already knew you’d be there. They landed on you. Lingered. Not just in greeting, not just in recognition, but in reverence. Like he was taking inventory of you. The slope of your nose, the fullness of your lips, the tight, coiled crown of your hair haloed in the light. Like he was memorizing every feature he'd never had the right to admire this openly before.

And when they did, he smiled. A small, practiced thing. One that almost reached his eyes.

Like he was proud of himself for coming back.

And like some shameful, stubborn part of you was glad he had.

“Evenin’.”

Same greeting, but not quite the same voice. Still quiet, still that drawl sugar-coated in something older, something foreign, but this time with the faintest edge of self-assurance. Like he’d practiced it on the way over. Maybe even out loud. Like he hoped it’d sound natural if he said it just right.

You didn’t answer.

Not with words.

You rose instead, slow and smooth, letting the silence stretch as you crossed the shop in bare feet. Your skirt brushed the floor again, soft as a whisper, trailing you like smoke.

He stood straighter when you neared. Or tried to. You watched the twitch in his shoulder when your fingers reached toward him, the way his breath caught behind his ribs. The little gold chain around his neck winked against his shirtfront, barely there, nearly hidden beneath the buttons.

You reached for it without asking.

“It’s crooked,” you murmured.

It wasn’t.

Your thumb grazed the thin line of metal, adjusting it ever so slightly, letting your knuckles drift down the hollow of his chest. Just enough to feel the warmth beneath the cloth. Just enough to make sure he noticed.

He noticed.

Froze like someone struck dumb. Not like he didn’t want the touch. No, not that. Definitely not that. But like he didn’t know what to do with it. His lips parted on a soundless breath, his eyes locked somewhere over your shoulder like he was staring down a spectre only he could see.

The pulse under your fingers thudded once. Hard. Then again, faster.

You watched it.

You leaned in, just slightly, letting your hand linger longer than it needed to. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. But you could feel the tension ripple through him. Tight. Brittle. Wired.

When you finally let go, he exhaled like he’d been holding air since last night.

“There,” you said softly. “Better.”

He didn’t answer right away. His throat moved as he swallowed, mouth opening like he might say something, then closing again when nothing came. His eyes met yours, flicked down to your mouth, then jerked back up with a flicker of something like guilt.

It was a touch.

That’s all it was.

But the way he looked at you now...

It had unmade him.

You let the silence sit for a beat longer, watching how he stood there like he didn’t dare take a full breath without permission. Then you spoke, softly, like an idea you hadn’t quite finished shaping.

“I’ve got a thought,” you said, turning back toward the shelves. “Wait here.”

But you didn’t mean that.

Because you paused, half-turned, eyes sliding back to him, that little hook in your voice coiled just so, and added, “Actually… no. Come with me.”

He obeyed without hesitation.

No question, no protest. Just a nod, and then his steps fell in behind yours like they were always meant to. You didn’t look back to see if he was following. You already knew he was.

You smirked before you even realized you were doing it.

He’s learning.

The rows of shelves narrowed the deeper you went, books stacked tall and mismatched. Some still had penciled notes in the margins. Others bore names and stamps from a dozen different hands. You moved with practiced ease, fingers gliding along the spines, then stopped sharp in front of a little patch of well-loved paperbacks with sun-faded covers and creased corners.

You didn’t say a word. Just stepped aside and gestured.

His brow knit faintly. Then he reached out, tentative at first, letting his fingertips hover above the titles before settling on one with a cracked pink spine and a watercolor couple leaning too close beneath an umbrella.

You raised your brows but didn’t speak.

Interesting.

He held it up like he was asking permission.

You nodded. “Good. Take that. Go sit by the window.”

Again, no hesitation.

He moved, soft steps, book clutched in his hand like it might disappear if he wasn’t careful. He didn’t glance back once as he settled into the reading nook. A curved wooden bench carved into the front window’s alcove, piled with cushions in muted tones, threadbare but clean.

The light from the lamp behind the counter cast the glass in warm gold, bouncing off his hair and skin in a way that made him look more real than he had last night. Less ghost. More man.

You watched him a moment longer, then followed.

Your feet made no sound on the floorboards. You crossed the space and sank onto the bench beside him. Not too close, but not far. Not far at all. The cushions dipped with your weight, the fabric between you folding with tension that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

He sat stiffly, book unopened in his lap, hands folded atop it. Like he didn’t quite know what to do now that he was here. Like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

You.

Your gaze lingered on the side of his face.

The light revealed the fine things. His lashes, full and surprisingly long. The faint lines around his mouth that didn’t come from smiling, but from pressing his lips together too tight for too many years. His skin was fair in a way that didn’t come from the sun but from time, the kind of pallor that hinted at long shadows and colder places. Places you couldn’t name.

His hair had been combed, too. Not just finger-swept like last time, but deliberately styled, though it curled stubborn at the ends like it wanted to fight back. That little gold chain still gleamed at his throat, straighter this time. Not crooked, like you convinced yourself it was.

Still, he hadn’t changed enough to fool you.

Not with those eyes.

Ancient, heavy, and out of place in a face that didn’t look old enough to carry them. They flicked toward you briefly, then darted back to the book in his lap, as if afraid to hold your gaze too long.

“You gonna read it?” you asked, tone soft but edged with amusement.

He blinked like he’d forgotten that was the point.

“Right,” he said quickly. “Yes ma'am.”

You watched him flip it open with care, thumbs brushing the pages like they might bruise. The moment hung quiet, thick with unsaid things and the scent of paper and dusk. His breath was steady but shallow, as if he were still adjusting to the shape of this closeness.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t speak.

You just leaned back into the cushions, eyes on him, letting him pretend he was focused on the words.

When both of you knew damn well he wasn’t.

It was the way he held the book that told you first. Not the usual adulation you got from the diehards who lived and breathed these novels. No, this was different. His hands didn’t cradle it like treasure. They held it like a bomb. Like one wrong shift in pressure might set the whole thing off and scatter the pieces between you.

His thumbs rested too gently on the pages, barely pressing enough to keep them open. Like he was worried his fingerprints might offend the paper. As if the book itself might recognize him as an intruder. He wasn’t turning pages so much as he was coaxing them along, seemingly afraid they’d snap if he asked too much.

He read strangely.

Slow.

Stilted.

Each word passed through his lips like it needed permission. Like it carried weight. His lips parted with the occasional word, mouthed in silence, and then closed again just as quickly, like he hadn’t meant to let them slip. There was something priestly about it. Ritualistic. A prayer offered in secret.

His eyes, those impossibly ancient eyes, scanned line after line not with hunger but with hesitation. A wary sort of awe. Like he hadn’t held a romance novel in centuries. As if the softness written into the pages was a dialect he’d nearly forgotten how to understand.

And every time you moved, even just a flicker of a shift, a breath caught a second longer than usual, he looked up.

Not startled. Not afraid.

Attentive.

You scratched your cheek, his head lifted.

You smoothed your skirt, his eyes snapped upward.

You uncrossed your legs, then crossed them again, he swallowed, too loudly.

At first, you thought he was just skittish. Just someone not used to sitting this close. But then the rhythm set in.

He matched you.

Without realizing it.

Without even trying.

You leaned back in your seat, slowly. Felt the cushion press against your spine.

A second later, he leaned back. One beat behind you, stiff at first, then settling.

You tilted your head, absently, the way you always did when thinking.

He mirrored it. Not perfectly, but close enough to notice.

You shifted your breathing, let it slow. Long inhale through your nose. Shorter exhale.

So did he.

So precisely that it didn’t feel like coincidence.

It felt like mimicry.

Like you were the song, and he was trying to follow along without missing a note.

You frowned slightly, gaze narrowing. Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe you were reading too much into the silence, into the soft rhythm shared between bodies in the same room.

So you changed it.

Inhaled twice quick, then held the third.

Exhaled through pursed lips like you were cooling tea.

He matched it. Exactly. No hesitation. No thought.

Your pulse gave a slow thump. Not fear. Not quite delight.

You did it again, even stranger this time. Shallow breaths, uneven tempo, a stutter at the end.

He copied it like he’d been waiting for instruction.

Not a second too soon, not a second too late.

Not even pretending he wasn’t. As if he couldn't fake it if he tried.

It was eerie.

Unnerving.

You’d had admirers before. You’d had men try to get close. Men with charm and swagger, who leaned too close too fast, who spoke in low voices like they were offering you a secret. Men who wanted something.

But Remmick didn’t want.

He ached.

He ached to stay.

To keep.

To not mess it up.

It wasn’t that he feared you.

It was that he feared what being with you might require of him.

He feared being found unworthy.

And something in you, something cold and clever and mean, maybe, was curious enough to let it keep going.

You watched his knuckles flex where they held the spine. Watched his breath stutter when you shifted forward ever so slightly. Watched his gaze flick to your lips before darting away, embarrassed.

There was devotion in the way he sat.

There was hunger too, yes, but buried under layers of control so tight they might as well have been prison bars.

He wasn’t scared of you.

He was scared of doing anything that might make you not want him here anymore.

He was scared of disappointing you. Of offending you. Of being sent away.

Like he’d never had the chance to be with a woman like this. Not just someone beautiful, Not just someone sharp, but someone who saw him and hadn’t yet told him to go.

Someone who let him sit.

Let him read.

Let him exist.

You leaned back, let your fingers curl loosely around the edges of the cushions. Not looking at him this time. Just listening.

His breathing matched yours again.

You heard it.

Felt it.

Let it echo in your ribcage like a second heartbeat.

He hadn’t read more than five pages. Probably hadn’t retained a single one. But he was trying. Oh, he was trying.

Trying not to ruin the moment.

Trying not to ruin you.

Trying not to ruin himself.

And you watched it all. Watched him struggle to be small, to be quiet, to be acceptable, and something in your chest twisted. Not out of pity. Not even out of care.

Just fascination.

You wanted to see how far this would go.

How far he’d go.

And more than anything, you wanted to see if he could keep it up.

He hadn’t turned a page in three minutes.

You timed it without meaning to. Just sat there, letting your own gaze blur against the shape of his fingers still resting on the edge of the paper, and noted how still they’d gone. How he stared not at the next sentence, but straight through it. Breathing shallow. Body gone tense in the shoulders, like he was bracing.

Then he blinked. Once. Twice.

“Ya always light the window candles,” he said softly, not looking up.

The words were nothing at first. Just air. Noise.

But your stomach still curled.

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t move. Just let the silence soak it in.

“Every night,” he added, quieter now. “Right ‘round eleven. Even if ya ain’t got customers.”

Still, you said nothing.

He turned another page, finally, but you watched his eyes. They didn’t scan. They didn’t read.

“You notice that just now?” you asked calmly.

He hesitated.

You leaned forward, hands steepled under your chin. “Or’ve you been noticin’ for a while?”

His lips parted. Closed. He looked over at you now. The air between you suddenly sharper.

“I-” he started, then tried to smile. “It’s just… somethin’ I seen. That’s all.”

You cocked your head. “From where?”

He faltered.

“That little inn down the road don’t got a view of this side.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out cracked. “I walk at night. Helps me think.”

“Does it?”

He nodded too fast. “Y-yeah. Sometimes I pass by. That’s all.”

You didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.

“Funny. You said yesterday you just stumbled in here.”

His jaw twitched.

A beat passed. You let it stretch like taffy, long and slow, until it thinned to almost nothing.

“I... did,” he said eventually, voice paper-thin. “Didn’t plan to come in that night. But I-I'd seen the place before. So I guess it felt familiar.”

“Familiar.”

“Mhm.”

“You been watchin’ me?”

His whole frame stiffened. A flicker of shame, or panic, or both, ghosted across his face. But it wasn’t the embarrassment of being caught in a lie. It was older than that. Worn. Like being cornered in a truth he thought he could keep buried.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

You shifted in your seat, leaned in just slightly.

He didn’t move away.

“You been starin’ at my windows from across the street, Remmick?” you asked softly. “That it?”

He flinched. Not from your tone, which stayed silky smooth, but from the shape of your words. The accuracy of them.

“I ain’t mean no harm,” he whispered. “It weren’t… like that.”

You gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Then tell me how it was.”

His eyes dropped to his hands. You could see the effort it took not to wring them.

“I just… I saw ya. Few nights in a row. Sometimes through the window, sometimes outside closin’ up. You’d have your book in one hand, your keys in the other. Didn’t even know your name. Just-”

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Ya looked steady,” he said. “A place that don’t change. Like you’d always be here if I needed to come back.”

That should’ve sounded sweet.

But it didn’t.

It sounded like a confession. A possession waiting to take root.

And for reasons you weren’t yet ready to name, you didn’t shut it down.

Didn’t throw him out.

Didn’t call it wrong.

Instead, you asked, poised and deliberate...

“How long you been watchin’, Remmick?”

He looked like you’d just asked him to open his ribs and let you see inside.

But you didn’t repeat the question.

You didn’t need to.

The pause spoke louder than anything he could’ve said.

Then, finally, his lips parted. “Few months.”

Your brow twitched, just slightly. Enough for him to see it.

“I-I ain't mean to,” he said quickly, eyes wide, hands lifted like he was surrendering. “I just- I saw you one night and then… it was easy to keep passin’ by.”

You leaned back slow, fingers dragging along the wood between you.

“You been lurkin’ outside my shop for months?”

His face crumpled like the word hurt. Lurkin’.

“I wasn’t-” He stopped. Started again. “I wasn’t tryna frighten you. Weren’t like that. I ain't know how to come in. Ain't think I should. Thought maybe if I stayed far enough back, you wouldn’t see me.”

“I didn’t.”

He winced.

You could’ve pushed. Could’ve watched him stammer his way deeper into the hole he’d already dug with his own too-honest mouth.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

You tilted your head, voice softer now. “So why now?”

His mouth opened. No sound came. Then...

“I got tired of bein’ scared.”

You stilled.

He didn’t look up. Just stared at the woodgrain of the table, like it might open up and swallow him if he wished hard enough.

“I been scared so long, I don’t know how not to be. But I kept watchin’, and you kept bein’ here. Kept leavin’ that light on. And I thought… maybe that meant somethin’.”

He finally looked at you.

And the way he looked at you, like you were the last fire in a dead city, made your breath catch.

He wasn’t lying.

And that was the strangest part.

You were used to men who talked. Who wrapped their hunger in charm, or cleverness, or teeth. But Remmick… he was bare. He didn’t even try to be anything else.

“You think I leave that light on for you?”

“No.” He shook his head, fast. “I- no. I ain't mean that. Just that… I hoped it meant I was allowed to come in.”

That did something to your chest you didn’t expect.

And suddenly, you didn’t want him to look at the table.

You wanted him to keep looking at you.

Only at you.

You leaned forward again, chin resting in your palm. “Well. You’re in now.”

He blinked. Almost like he didn’t believe it.

“Don’t mess it up,” you added, slow and sweet.

And Lord help you, he nodded like it was a commandment.

You watched his eyes. Watched how they clung to you like a lifeline, like the mere sight of your face was the only thing anchoring him to the moment. You could see it, plain as anything. The panic winding tighter beneath his skin, the quiet horror that he’d said too much. And maybe he had. Maybe he hadn’t said enough.

And then you smiled.

Not warm. Not cruel. Just knowing.

“Well,” you said, slow as molasses, “that still makes you a liar, don’t it?”

His shoulders tensed.

“I ain’t-”

You raised a hand.

He stopped.

“Watchin’ me for months and pretendin' you just stumbled in? That’s dishonesty, Remmick.”

His mouth opened again, then shut.

He looked like he wanted to explain. Wanted to pour out the right words, dig his way out of the pit he’d slipped into. But the silence between you left no room for excuses. And you didn’t fill it for him. You just stood, smooth and sure, brushing imaginary dust from your skirt like you were done with the whole performance.

The way his breath hitched…

You almost felt bad.

Almost.

His voice cracked, desperate before he could tuck it down. “I ain't mean no harm. I swear it.”

You walked to the door.

Unlatched it.

The bell above gave a soft jingle as you pushed it wide, letting the warm night air curl inside like smoke. The light spilled out into the dark, carving a golden archway he didn’t dare cross.

“You can go now.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

“I- what?” He stood too fast, nearly knocked himself over. “I ain't mean nothin’ bad. I just- don’t send me off like that. Please.”

You turned, hand still on the doorknob, gaze calm.

His breath was coming faster now, eyes darting like he was trying to find the version of you that wouldn’t be doing this. “I’ll sit quiet, won’t say a word. You won’t even know I’m here. Just don’t make me go.”

He took a step forward.

You didn’t move.

“Please,” he said again, voice ragged now. “Please don’t make me leave you.”

Leave you.

Not the shop. You.

And wasn’t that just the most pathetic thing you’d ever heard.

You tilted your head, quiet.

“I said you could go,” you repeated, soft this time.

That made him stumble.

But not back.

Forward.

Toward you.

But not close enough to touch.

Just close enough to be seen.

And you let him sit in it. That want. That begging.

The humiliation of it.

You could see how tightly his hands were balled at his sides. How his throat bobbed with every failed swallow. How badly he wanted to collapse to his knees and sob at your feet.

“You can come back tomorrow,” you said lightly. “If you behave.”

He swallowed so hard you heard it. Loud in the hush of the room.

Then he nodded.

Not like a man, but like a child handed a punishment he knew he deserved.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t move.

You gave him time.

Let him make the choice.

And when he did, it was with slow, aching reluctance. Every step backward like a string snapping off of him one by one.

“Evenin’, Remmick,” you said, voice sugar-sweet now, hand still resting on the open door.

He stood there a moment longer. Still. Wrung out.

Then, quietly: “G’night, ma’am.”

You didn’t answer.

You just watched him go.

Watched the dark swallow him.

And made no move to close the door until long after his shadow disappeared.

You knew he’d come back.

There was no need to check the sign. No reason to glance toward the door, or listen for the bell. You didn’t need to do anything at all. The air had already shifted, thickened with the weight of what was inevitable.

You were curled into your chair like you’d been there all night, though you hadn’t been able to concentrate for more than five minutes at a time. You told yourself it was the book. It was always the book. But your eyes traced the same paragraph for the third time, and your fingers tightened just slightly at the edges of the page.

Still, you didn’t look up.

You wouldn’t.

The clock ticked. Somewhere, a train whistled. The candlelight wavered once, then stilled.

And then you heard it.

The bell.

Soft. Perfect. Like a cue whispered by the world itself. The clock chimed midnight.

You didn’t lift your gaze, but you heard him. Felt him. The uneven shuffle of his steps. The small hitch in his breath.

He was back.

You turned the page.

The scent hit you first. Not bad. Just weary. Tired. Like sleep had refused him all night, and he’d wandered instead. Rain-damp clothes. Paper. Something earthy, mineral-like, maybe even metallic. Like he hadn’t meant to be anywhere but had found himself out in the wild with only his thoughts for warmth.

He didn’t speak at first. Didn’t dare.

The sound of the door shut behind him.

“I been good,” he blurted out.

Your lips twitched before you could stop them.

Still, your eyes didn’t leave the book.

“Real good,” he continued, voice cracking slightly with the rush of words. “Ain’t even come near the shop. Walked past it, but that don’t count. That’s just the sidewalk, right? Just pavement. I didn’t linger. Ain’t even look in the window. Well, I peeked, but only ‘cause I missed the smell of it. Missed you.”

That earned a slow blink from you.

He stepped further inside. His boots dragged slightly on the floor like they were too heavy to lift. Like his shame lived in his heels.

“I sat still all morning,” he said. “Didn’t wander, didn’t do nothin’. I thought ‘bout what you said. Over and over. Thought about why it was wrong. What I did. Even wrote it out. I did. Wrote it out.”

You closed the book softly.

Still, you didn’t rise.

Remmick stood in front of you now.

And good Lord, he looked a mess.

His shirt was wrinkled at the collar, sleeves rolled and uneven. His hair had a wild, raked-through look like he’d been dragging his fingers through it for hours. The shadow beneath his eyes was sharp, and the line of his jaw was clenched in barely-held desperation. Not even his chain looked presentable. He didn’t smell unclean, but there was a wildness to him now. Like if you stood too close, you’d hear the hum of his blood vibrating beneath his skin, frantic and restless.

“I didn’t lie, not really,” he said. “Just… held it. In. ‘Cause I didn’t wanna scare you off. Ain’t had someone like you before. Not in a long time. Maybe not ever.”

His accent pulled at the words, thinner now, stretched tight with pleading. That strange, syrupy Southern lilt gave way to something raw beneath. Sharper, guttural, not quite human in the way it frayed at the ends. It slipped, like his mask was crumbling, revealing a voice that hadn’t begged in centuries. Not just a borrowed twang anymore, but a whisper of whatever place had taught him that hunger in the first place.

You finally looked up.

He froze.

Then, slowly, like the world trembled beneath him, he knelt.

He didn’t say another word. Just lowered himself to the floor like it was natural. Like the hardwood was the only place he deserved to be.

Your legs were crossed, the hem of your skirt brushing his boots. He didn’t touch you, not yet. Just sat with his hands in his lap, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

You studied him.

He tried not to move under your gaze. Failed.

You tilted your head slightly.

He flinched.

“I ain’t sleep,” he admitted. “Couldn’t. Just kept seein’ your face. Thinkin’ of how soft your hands were. How still your voice is. You’re not like other folk. You look right through me, and it-”

He broke off, jaw flexing.

“I want to do right,” he said, softer. “Tell me how. Please. I’ll listen. I’m yours.”

You leaned forward.

He didn’t dare meet your eyes, not at first. Not until your fingers brushed the side of his face.

His head snapped up slightly.

You cradled his cheek in your palm, watching as he leaned into the touch. Like the heat of your skin might be the first kindness he’d felt in years.

He was trembling.

Not from fear.

From want.

His eyes closed, lashes fluttering like moth wings. You stroked your thumb along his cheekbone. Cooler than expected, but not cold. Never cold. Not with you.

His hands rose without thinking, resting on your legs. Then his shoulders followed, and soon, most of his weight was against you, folding like a supplicant at an altar.

You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t move.

Let him rest there.

Let him need.

Because that’s what this was. Not desire, not lust.

Need.

He was breathing in sync with you again, like your rhythm had become his only truth.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His mouth moved against your knee.

Not in a kiss.

Not yet.

Just a whisper.

A plea.

You cupped the other side of his face, anchoring him.

He let out a sound. Quiet, fractured, grateful.

And stayed right there.

The weight of him on your legs wasn’t light. But it wasn’t heavy, either. It felt like gravity doing what it was always meant to. Like he had been built to collapse right here, in the hollows of your thighs, the shape of him fitted to the shape of your waiting.

You ran your thumb along the corner of his mouth, picking up a string of saliva along the way. Drool, thick and abundant. His lips parted. A breath spilled out.

He didn’t dare look up.

So you said it.

“Kiss me.”

Not a whisper.

Not a barked command.

It landed like a fact. Like dusk falling, like snow melting into earth. A truth that didn’t ask to be believed. It just was.

He didn’t move at first. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.

He lifted his head like a man surfacing from deep water. His eyes, those beautiful, imperiled, bloodshot eyes, searched your face for any sign that you might take it back. That it might be a test.

It wasn’t.

You didn’t flinch.

And that was all it took.

He surged forward, and his mouth met yours with a force that stole the breath from your lungs.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t the kind of kiss you read about in the first chapter of a romance novel. It was the kind that belonged in the final act. The kind that felt like something was ending just as something else began.

His hands fumbled for your waist, your back, your shoulders. Any part of you he could grab to prove you were real. He held you like he was scared you’d vanish between blinks. Like you were smoke and he’d never had lungs strong enough to keep you in.

He moaned into your mouth. Low and wounded and starved. Not loud. Not filthy.

Desperate.

And grateful.

Like this was more than he thought he’d ever be allowed to have.

You clutched the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling tight in the rumpled linen, and he gasped against your lips like the pressure burned. He kissed like someone who hadn’t touched another soul in a hundred years. Thousands, maybe. Not properly. Not intimately.

Like every part of this might be the last.

He pulled you closer, though there was nowhere left to pull. His teeth caught against your bottom lip, breaking skin. Not intentional. Just too much, too fast, too hungry.

He pulled back immediately, breath hitching in horror.

“I’m-” he started, but your hand curled in his collar and you kissed him again, harder this time, and it unraveled something in him so completely that he made a noise against your mouth, something guttural and ruined.

Your hand tangled in his hair.

His arms caged you in, trembling with restraint, with fervor, with some old broken thing inside him that was only now waking up.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. His mouth chased yours, like instinct, like starvation.

He was panting.

You were panting.

And his forehead dropped to yours.

“I didn’t mean to-” he started again, but you shook your head. Barely a gesture.

He was still gripping your waist like the floor was about to give out.

He pressed his lips to your cheek. Then your jaw. Then your mouth again. Softer now, but still with the same unbearable urgency.

“I dreamt of this,” he whispered, voice all but crumbling. “Every night. Since I saw ya.”

You believed him.

How could you not?

He kissed like this moment was the dream. And he was scared of waking.

His breath shuddered against your cheek as he pulled back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were wide, dark, feral. Stripped down to the fundamentals of human existence.

“Please,” he begged. “I need to- can I-”

His hands were already moving, slow and reverent, like he was scared you'd vanish beneath his touch. They skimmed the sides of your waist, your ribs, the curve of your spine. Like he was learning you through touch alone.

He swallowed hard, throat working. “I wanna see ya. All of ya. Been dreamin’ ‘bout it. Wakin’ up in a sweat, reaching for something that ain’t there.”

His fingers found the hem of your shirt, toying with it. Not lifting. Not yet.

“Please,” he said again, softer. “Lemme see ya. Lemme-”

He cut off with a sharp inhale, like the words hurt coming out. Like they'd been buried in some deep, untouchable place inside him.

“I won't touch,” he sounded so earnest. So wrecked. “Not ‘less you want me to. But I swear, if you lemme, I'll worship every inch. I'll-”

He broke off again, jaw flexing. His eyes were pleading, desperate, broken.

“I'll do anything,” he breathed. “Just... please. Lemme look at ya.”

Your heart was beating too hard, too fast. Like it was trying to reach for him through your ribs.

“Yes,” you whispered. “You can look.”

And that was all it took. The floodgates opened. He surged forward, hands suddenly urgent, suddenly everywhere. He was mapping your skin like it was the only geography he'd ever need. Like you were the only country left to explore.

He peeled off your shirt, slow and cautious, like he expected you to change your mind. Like he expected you to pull the rug from under his feet, again.

But he didn't linger. Didn't stop. Shaking but determined, tugging at fabric, pulling at buttons, dragging clothing aside until there was nothing left between his gaze and your skin.

And then he just froze. Stared. Took you in like a dying man taking his last breath.

“God,” he whispered, voice sapped. “You're...”

He didn't finish the thought. Couldn't. Just looked at you like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking all his life. The beginning and end of every prayer he'd ever whispered.

And you smiled, being looked at like that. Like a God. A deity that commanded his unwavering, exclusive devotion. And like any God, you demanded more.

“Undress for me,” you said softly.

It wasn't a question.

His breath shuddered out unevenly, and he nodded. Not a hesitation in sight.

He stood slowly, like his body was weighed down by the gravity of what was happening. Like he could feel the significance of this moment in every bone.

His hands went to the buttons of his shirt first, trembling just slightly. He fumbled once, twice, then let out a soft, frustrated noise and just tore the fabric open. Buttons scattered.

You didn't flinch.

He shrugged the ruined shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His undershirt followed, tugged over his head in one fluid motion.

And then he just stood there, chest bare, skin seeming to tighten under your gaze. Like your eyes were a physical touch.

His boots were next, kicked off with barely a thought. Then he went to his belt.

He paused for just a second, looking to you for confirmation.

You nodded.

He exhaled shakily and fumbled with the buckle. It came undone easily, the leather sliding out of the loops with a soft hiss.

He toed off his socks, then shoved his pants and underwear down in one motion, kicking them aside.

And then he was bare. Completely. Not just in body. In everything.

He stood before you, chest heaving.

His cock was hard, achingly so. Thick veins wound up the shaft, pulsing with each shudder of his heart. The head was swollen and pink. Glistening. A bead of precum pooled at the tip before spilling over, tracing a slow path down his length. He twitched, but made no move to touch himself. As if he didn't consider it a possibility until you allowed him to.

And you wouldn't. You had him exactly how you wanted him.

Slowly, he lowered himself back to his knees, hands resting lightly on your thighs, his touch gentle yet possessive. He looked up at you, his eyes laced with desire and something more profound. Veneration is the word that came to your mind.

“Please,” he pressed, as if trying to convince himself that he deserved it more than convincing you to relent. “Lemme taste ya. Just a taste. I swear I'll make it good for ya.”

His lips brushed against your thigh. A soft, tentative kiss that sent shivers down your spine. He lingered there, his breath hot against your skin. He squeezed your thighs gently, urging them to part.

You could feel his desperation, his need for your permission. He was squirming, his body aching for more, but he held back, waiting for your consent.

“Please,” he begged again, sounding tortured. “Need to taste ya. Need to feel ya on my tongue. Need to-”

You cut him off with a nod, a small smile playing on your lips. “Yes. You can taste me.”

The words were barely out of your mouth before he was moving, hands urgent and eager as he pushed your thighs apart, his body leaning in, his mouth already seeking your core.

He started at your knees, kissing his way up your inner thighs, his lips soft but his touch urgent. He was a man possessed. Gripping your thighs. Worshipping your skin. You could feel his hunger, his need, his desperation to please you.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused for a moment, his breath hot against your most intimate place. Then, with a slow, deliberate lick, he tasted you. His tongue slid through your folds, a long, slow lick that made you gasp, your back arching off the surface beneath you.

And then he dove in, his hunger relentless. His tongue explored every inch of you, hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he feasted. He sucked and licked and nibbled, his movements desperate and urgent, like a man starved and finally given a meal.

His groans of pleasure vibrated against your sensitive flesh, sending waves of sensation through your body. You could feel his enjoyment, his pleasure in pleasing you, and it only served to heighten your own.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and feral, mouth glistening with your wetness. “Ya taste like heaven,” he growled against your skin. “Even better than my fuckin' dreams.”

And with that, he redoubled his efforts, his tongue delving deeper, his sucks more insistent, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you to him as he devoured you.

Remmick didn't slow, didn't pause, didn't come up for air. His tongue was a relentless force, moving from your folds to your clit and back again at a breakneck pace. Each flick, each suck, each lick was a testament to his insatiable hunger for you.

You could feel the tension building in your body, a coiled spring ready to snap. Your hips bucked against his mouth, meeting his movements with your own desperate rhythm. Your hands found his hair, gripping tightly, holding him to you as if he might try to escape the torrent of pleasure he was creating.

His groans vibrated against your sensitive flesh, sending shockwaves of sensation through your body. He was as lost in this as you were, his actions fueled by a primal need to satisfy, to please, to devour.

“Remmick,” you gasped, pleading. “Don't stop. Please, don't stop.”

As if to answer, his tongue moved faster, his sucks more insistent. He pulled your hips tighter against his mouth, gripping your waist, holding you to him as he feasted.

You could feel yourself falling apart, your body tightening, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The world around you narrowed to the point of his tongue, the suck of his mouth, the grip of fingers

And then, with a cry that tore from your throat, you shattered. Your orgasm crashed over you, a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. Your body convulsed, your hips bucking wildly against his mouth as he rode out the storm with you, his tongue never ceasing its relentless assault.

But Remmick didn't stop. Even as your body began to relax, he continued, his pace slowing but his hunger undiminished. You were overwhelmed, your nerves on fire, every touch sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. The sensation was almost too much to bear, your skin hypersensitive, your mind a blur of ecstasy. He looked up at you, his eyes wild, mouth soaked, a sinful smile giving you another look at his predatory canines.

“Again,” he was near unintelligible, now. “I wanna feel ya come again.”

“No,” you whispered, hoarse from your cries of pleasure. “Remmick, no more.”

He froze, his body tensing, his eyes widening in alarm. The fog of lust cleared from his eyes. Replaced by a look of concern and uncertainty. “Did I hurt ya? Did I do somethin’ wrong?” That tone of genuine, unabashed fear returned. As if he was standing in front of that open door again, begging you not to send him away.

You smiled gingerly, your hand still cupping his cheek. “You were perfect, Remmick,” you assured him, gentle yet firm. “Now, I want you to move to the reading nook. I want to see you there.”

He nodded immediately, a mix of relief and eagerness in his eyes. He stood up hastily, his body still glowing with a sheen of sweat and desire. But before you could even think about moving, he was there, offering his hand to help you up. You took it, appreciating the strength and support he provided as you stood on legs that felt like liquid.

He didn't just lead you to the nook. He made sure you were steady on your feet the entire way. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close as he guided you to the cozy corner by the window. The nook where he read to you. Mimicked you. Begged you.

His body was still tense with anticipation, his breath slowly returning to normal. You could see the mix of emotions in his gaze. Desire, fear, hope. Something deeper, too.

“Remmick,” you said softly, your voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. “I'm not goin' anywhere. Not tonight.”

He let out a shaky breath, a deeply insecure smile playing on his lips. “I wanna make sure you're happy. That I'm doin' this right.”

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “You are. Now, just relax and enjoy this. Enjoy us.”

He nodded, a small, content smile playing on his lips as he leaned back, though not fully. You followed, straddling his hips as you positioned yourself above him.

“Lay down,” you commanded softly, and he complied without hesitation, his body molding to the contours of the nook as he stretched out beneath you. Those prismarine eyes bore into you, filled with nothing but adoration.

You could feel the length of him, hard and ready, pressing against your entrance. You took a moment to admire the sight of him, his chest heaving with each ragged breath, his muscles taut and defined.

“Hold my hips,” you instructed, and his large hands immediately gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you with a possessive, desperate strength.

You began to lower yourself onto him, inch by slow, agonizing inch. You could feel every vein, every ridge, as he filled you completely. His eyes rolled back, a guttural, incoherent moan escaping his lips, a sound so primal and raw it sent shivers down your spine.

You bottomed out, your body flush against his, your breasts pressing into his chest. He let out a shaky breath, body trembling beneath you. “Please, move, please,” he begged, hoarse with need. “I need to feel you move.”

You smiled, a slow, sensual curve of your lips, and began to ride him. You started slow, a gentle rocking of your hips, feeling him slide in and out of you, the friction building with each movement. But it wasn't enough. Not for either of you.

You picked up the pace, your hips slamming down onto his, taking him deeper, harder, faster. Each impact sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, your nerves alight with sensation. You could feel his hands on your hips, guiding you, urging you on. His fingers digging into your flesh, leaving marks that would fade but never be forgotten.

He chanted in an old language you weren't familiar with, likely the mother tongue of the faraway place you guessed he came from. His head thrashed from side to side, eyes squeezed shut,

You leaned down, your lips capturing his in a fierce, hungry kiss, your tongues dueling as your bodies moved in sync. You could taste his desperation, his need, his sheer, unadulterated ecstasy. You pulled back, looking down at him, his face a portrait of pure bliss and agony.

“Open your mouth,” you commanded, and he complied without question, his lips parting, tongue resting heavily in his mouth. You spit, a slow, deliberate stream of saliva that dribbled down his tongue, pooling at the back of his throat. He swallowed reflexively, his Adam's apple bobbing, his eyes never leaving yours.

You could feel his body coiling tight, his muscles tensing, his breath hitching. You changed the angle, your body leaning back slightly, giving him a new depth to explore. He let out a low, guttural groan, his body quaking beneath you as he found his release, his hot seed spilling into you, filling you completely.

But you didn't stop. You kept moving, your hips slamming down onto his, riding out his orgasm, drawing it out, milking every last drop of pleasure from his body. His cries turned to whimpers, body shaking and trembling beneath you, hands gripping your hips with a desperate, almost painful strength.

And then, the tears came. Silent, shuddering sobs that wracked his body, tears streaming down his temples, disappearing into his hair. You leaned down, your lips pressing soft, gentle kisses to his cheeks, tasting the salt of his tears.

“Shh, it's okay,” you cooed, almost taunting. “Let it out, baby. I've got you.”

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with unshed tears, body still shaking with sobs. “You're so f-fuckin' beautiful,” he managed to choke out, completely spent. “So fuckin' p-perfect. I can't… I can't even…”

You smiled, merely shushing his whines. You had never seen anything so beautiful, so raw, so real.

You could feel your own orgasm building, nerves on fire as your muscles instinctively clenched. You changed the pace again, your hips moving in a slow, deliberate grind, feeling every inch of him, the way he filled you, the way he completed you.

“I'm close, Remmick,” you gasped, raggedly so. A far cry from the steely demeanor you always carried.

He looked up at you, his eyes wide and intense, body still trembling with exertion. “I know, darlin’. I-I can feel it. You're somethin’ else when you're like this,”

His hands gripped your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you to him as you moved, as you chased your release. He was still hard, still pulsing inside you, but you could feel the tension, the strain, the sheer effort it was taking for him to hold on. To be there for you in this moment.

“You're doin’ so good,” he encouraged. “Just let it go. I'm right here with you. Ain't goin’ nowhere.”

And with that, you shattered. Your orgasm crashed over you, body trembling, hips bucking, nails digging into his chest. He let out a low, guttural cry. A sound of pure, selfless pleasure. His body tensed as he rode out your orgasm with you, hips moving in sync with yours, giving you everything he had left to give.

The world outside the window was still black.

Not the kind of black that came with sleep or stillness, but that deep, oceanic kind that pressed against the glass like it might swallow the shop whole. A cold wind tapped once, then again, against the panes, but the sound was too soft to pull your focus. The only thing you could hear was Remmick’s breathing. Still ragged, still uneven, like he hadn’t quite landed back in his body yet.

Your own chest was rising slower now.

The adrenaline had drained out of your limbs, leaving only warmth behind. Thick and heavy and strange. The cushions beneath you were slightly askew, the throw blanket hanging off one edge like it had tried and failed to cover something uncontainable. The air still smelled like him.

You weren’t sure you could breathe without pulling him deeper into your lungs.

Your hand rested low on his abdomen, where the tremors hadn’t stopped yet. He was flushed, head tilted back, mouth parted slightly as if waiting for something. Maybe breath, maybe words. The slick between you had cooled slightly in the open air, but neither of you moved.

The moment didn’t ask for motion.

Outside, the wind howled once. Higher this time, almost mournful. But no lights flickered. No car passed. No one knocked.

You were still alone.

Still unseen.

Still safe.

There was a thrill in that. Not just privacy, but secrecy. The knowledge that the two of you had made something here, something raw and holy and utterly indecent in a world that would never, ever be able to comprehend it. No one would guess. No one would imagine it.

You leaned forward slowly.

His eyes fluttered open. Glazed, desperate. Still begging, but quieter now. Not for forgiveness. Just for the chance to stay.

You kissed him.

Gently, firmly, like sealing a letter before sending it somewhere far away. He melted into it. Helpless again, the way he always was with you. And you tasted the salt at the edge of his mouth, not knowing if it was his tears or your sweat, and not caring either way.

When you pulled back, he followed instinctively, chasing the kiss without knowing he was doing it.

His breath hitched.

“I…” he started, but couldn’t finish.

You rested your forehead against his.

He let out something between a sigh and a sob.

“I wanna be better,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I wanna deserve this.”

“You don’t.”

He froze. Just for a moment. Then his throat worked, and his whole body shuddered.

But you weren’t cruel about it.

You reached up, brushed your fingers through his hair, and let your voice drop to a hush. “You don’t need to earn me, Remmick. That’s not how this works.”

He blinked at you like that didn’t make sense.

But he didn’t argue.

Didn’t say another word.

You let him stay there. Small and grateful and unraveling against you. One hand resting at your hip, the other fisted weakly in the blanket like he might drift off if he didn’t anchor himself to something.

You stared past him, at the darkness beyond the window.

There was no morning yet. No birdsong. No hint of light. The world hadn’t returned.

And you liked it that way.

His breathing was steadier now. Shallower. Slower.

His lips moved once, not quite forming a word. He was trying to stay awake. You could tell. Trying not to miss anything.

“Hey,” you said softly, pulling his attention back.

His eyes opened again.

You traced a slow line across his jaw, following the path of stubble like it meant something. He watched you like it did.

Then, finally, you said your name.

Quiet.

Careful.

Deliberate.

Just that.

Just your name.

His eyes went wide, and then impossibly soft. His mouth parted in disbelief.

You’d never told him before.

You weren’t sure why. It had always seemed too personal, too final. Like once he had it, he’d have a piece of you no one else did. But now that you’d said it, now that it was in the air between you.

You didn’t regret it.

He mouthed it back to you.

Once. Twice.

Then again, this time with sound. Reverent. Fragile. Yours.

You smiled.

Not the kind you gave to strangers or ghosts.

The real one.

And in that tiny, echoing silence, while the window fogged from the heat of your bodies, and the shadows stayed long and untouched, and the world outside forgot to turn, Remmick finally let himself exhale. Finally let himself rest.

You held him through it.

And didn’t let go.

[hatethysinner]

Pleading, begging, and whimpering

[hatethysinner]

good lord in heaven

[hatethysinner]

my follow up one shot to let the wrong one in will be posted at 7 pm est tonight 😋

[hatethysinner]

if i said my pathetic!remmick fic might be done tomorrow night...

[hatethysinner]

5k words through my next remmick fic... 5k more to go