#THIS WAS SO CUTEEEEE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hatethysinner · 10 days ago

Note

I had a cute idea for a fic! It would be really cute if the main character would be taking a stroll around at night and come across Remmick as he’s busking with his banjo and she gets him to sing an old Irish folk song 👀

ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰʟʏ ᴀᴡᴀʏ

ᴡᴄ: 2.8k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this song. please see maybe happy ending and all the other musicals on broadway this season if you can, truly an unmatched year! have y'all clocked me as an obnoxious theater kid yet 😭? dare i say it's the reason i have a speck of writing talent. anyways, i adored this idea because serenades have my heart and it'd be my first time writing one (it was so hard omg), so here she is! not too long relative to my other works because it really didn't need to be, but i hope y'all enjoy it all the same. i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: nauseatingly sweet pathetic remmick fluff, serenading, excessive mention and meaning placed on fireflies

The fireflies were out again.

They drifted low across the tall grass like they had nowhere else to be, blinking in slow, rhythmless patterns. Like stars that had come down to earth, curious and aimless. The night held them close and cared for, letting them hang in the humid air with nothing but time on their wings.

You’d seen them before, of course. All your life. But some nights, like tonight, they moved differently. Slower. Softer. Like they knew they were being watched. Like they were dancing just for you.

The Delta always felt quieter at night.

It was a quiet no one really trusted. Folks whispered about it, said the dark down here wasn’t like the dark in other places. Said the trees listened. Said the water could keep a secret. You weren’t sure if you believed all that, but you knew one thing for certain: the stillness didn’t scare you.

Not the way it should’ve.

You’d made a habit of it, these late walks. When the air got too thick with thoughts, or the day clung too heavy to your skin, you’d slip outside and let your feet wander. Down past the back fields, across the brush-lined path, until the water showed its silver face and the frogs started to hum. Sometimes you’d bring a jar and catch a few fireflies, just to watch them flicker in your palm. Sometimes you’d sit and count how long you could go without hearing a single manmade sound.

It calmed you. Cleared your head. Gave you something to hold onto when the world felt too loud.

They told you not to.

Warned you, gently but often, that a girl out here at night wasn’t safe. That anything could happen. That there were things in the trees older than time and twice as hungry.

But the quiet had never hurt you.

And the moon, hanging full and watchful above the cypress branches, had never turned its face.

So you kept walking.

Your boots crunched gently in the grass, damp from where the dew was already beginning to gather. You brushed aside a low-hanging branch and stepped over the uneven bend in the path, the one you always forgot was there until it nearly caught your ankle. The creek whispered up ahead, a soft, steady hush, like someone trying to soothe a restless child.

And then,

A sound you didn’t expect.

Music.

You stopped.

Not bugs. Not frogs. Not the wind through the reeds.

Something else. Faint and careful. The pluck of strings, soft but clear. A banjo, you realized, but played low and slow, like whoever held it was afraid of being heard. It had no clear tune yet. Just gentle wandering notes, testing the air.

You tilted your head.

The fireflies blinked around you, catching in your eyelashes and drifting past your cheeks. One landed on the fabric of your shoulder, pulsing like a heartbeat.

You took a step toward the sound.

Then another.

The grass parted beneath your feet, damp and forgiving. The trees thinned out just enough to let the moon through in ribbons. You kept your breath even, your pace light. Didn’t want to scare off whatever strange magic had found its way here tonight.

And still, the music played. Threading through the dark like it belonged.

Like it’d been there all along.

And then you saw him.

Closer than you expected.

Much closer.

You’d followed the sound as if it were drifting from far across the creek, notes carrying on the wind like feathers. But when you stepped past the last veil of tall grass and turned just slightly toward the right, there he was.

Not even ten feet ahead.

Seated with his back to you on a split log bench, angled just enough for the moon to catch on the curve of his shoulder. The banjo lay loose in his lap, not cradled so much as resting there like it belonged. His fingers moved slow across the strings, too gentle to make real music now. Just small sounds. Ghost notes.

He was lean. Pale. His shirt sleeves rolled up past the elbows. Collar loose and open, the dip of his neck catching the moonlight in a sharp, wet gleam. Sweat, maybe. Or something older.

Your breath hitched.

You hadn’t meant to spy on anyone. Didn’t want to. But when you realized how close you were, when you caught the slope of his shoulders and saw the way he rocked just slightly with each flick of the strings, something in your chest went tight.

There was no business for a man, any man, but especially one like him to be out so late. It didn’t sit right. There was no law in the woods, and even if there was, it wasn’t made for you.

You shifted your weight back slowly, trying to step away before he saw you. No sound, no sudden movement. Just a soft, silent retreat.

And then, snap.

A branch underfoot.

Loud enough to crack the night in half.

The man turned so fast it stole the air from your lungs.

You froze.

His head whipped toward you like he’d been yanked by a thread, and suddenly you were caught in the full force of his gaze.

He wasn’t just pale.

His skin carried a strange, ageless warmth. Undertones like honey diluted with cream. Touched by moonlight but not drained by it. Like the sun hadn’t reached him in a long while, but hadn’t quite forgotten him either.

Sharp cheekbones. A strong jaw. A mouth that didn’t always know what to do with itself when it settled closed. Soft one moment, tense the next.

And his eyes. Lord.

Blue. Not light, not sky. Deeper than that. Like river water just before it turns black. Old. Tired.

Too large.

Too deep.

Too lonely.

With that faint, impossible pulse of red flickering behind the color, beating slow as a second heart. Like the fireflies floating between you.

And his teeth,

You wouldn’t have noticed, maybe, if the moon hadn’t hit just right. But it did. And there, under the gentle curve of his lips, two fangs caught the light. Not long. Not alien. Just... unmistakable.

He stood.

Not quickly. Not with menace.

But slow. Measured. Careful.

Hands half-raised like he meant to calm. To motion that he existed in peace.

You caught the glint of something at his throat. A simple gold chain, sitting warm against his chest, right in the hollow where his shirt gaped open.

Neither of you spoke.

Not at first.

The music was gone now. The banjo left where it sat on the log, strings still reverberating faintly. The wind had gone still. Even the cicadas hushed.

Just your breathing. Just his.

Just fireflies blinking all around you, slow and golden, their pulses barely out of sync with the red behind his eyes.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Ain’t know anyone else walked this stretch,” he said, voice breathy and rough, like it had been a while since he used it. Southern, but not quite. Something twisted at the end of each word. Something careful that he was trying and failing to mask. “Apologies if I startled ya, miss.”

His gaze didn’t shift.

Didn’t dart away.

But he looked almost… nervous. Like you’d caught him with something private. Something delicate.

You should’ve turned.

Should’ve run.

But you didn’t.

You looked back at him, heart still thudding, breath still short, and said:

“You didn’t startle me.”

A pause.

“You play real nice.”

His mouth parted.

Just slightly.

Like he hadn’t expected kindness.

“Oh,” he said. “Well. Thank ya kindly. That's very sweet of ya.”

He cleared his throat, glancing away from you for just a moment. Tried to stand a little straighter too, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that they weren’t holding the banjo. Or being watched by another human being.

“I- uh- I'm Remmick,” he said softly. “I like the quiet.”

His voice sounded careful. Like every word had to be weighed before it left his mouth. You caught the way his fingers twitched, half-reaching for the banjo again like it might steady him.

You nodded, finding your own voice beneath the pulse in your throat. “Me too.”

You told him your name.

He repeated it, soft, almost reverent, like he was tasting it. Like he wanted to make sure he got it right, to hear how it sounded in his own mouth.

He seemed to breathe easier at that. But then his eyes darted back toward the creek, then down at the ground, like maybe he’d overstayed already. His voice lowered, small and unsure.

“If ya’d rather be alone, I can go. Wasn’t meanin’ to trouble anyone.”

The words were earnest, almost clumsy. Like he meant them, but didn’t want to mean them. Like leaving was the last thing he wanted.

You glanced down at the fireflies drifting lazy circles around your boots, blinking like they were eavesdropping on the conversation. The moon made the water shine with silver streaks behind him. His banjo sat quiet at his side, one thin string still vibrating softly from where his hand had left it.

You didn’t know why the words came so easily, but they did.

“You don’t have to leave.”

His head lifted a little too fast, as if he hadn't expected that answer.

“Y’sure?” he asked, voice catching just slightly.

You smiled, small. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

The muscles at the corner of his jaw relaxed. He looked down, then back at you, the corners of his mouth tugging into something tentative. Not quite a smile. Something gentler.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The fireflies blinked between you, soft and patient.

Then his hand slid over the banjo again, almost hesitant. “Don’t usually have much of an audience.”

You tipped your head, voice light. “That’s a shame. You sound like someone with stories to tell.”

He let out a quiet breath of a laugh, the sound almost surprised. Ran a hand through his hair, tugging gently at the strands near the back of his neck.

“I got one or two,” he murmured. “Old ones.”

The quiet stretched again. Comfortable this time. The kind of quiet that felt like the Delta itself breathing around you.

Softly, you asked, “You know any songs with words?”

He hesitated. You saw it ripple across his face. The nervous flicker behind his eyes, the way his fingers hovered just above the strings.

After a moment: “...One or two.”

You didn’t push. Just stood there, letting the space between you settle.

Another firefly landed on the edge of the banjo’s frame, its glow reflecting faintly in his dark blue eyes. He watched it for a moment like it was the most fragile thing in the world.

And then, finally, his voice broke the stillness again. Faint. Shy.

“I can play you one… if you’d like.”

You nodded, breath light. “I’d like that.”

His eyes met yours again. Misty, uncertain, but grateful. You could've sworn a ghost of a smile had appeared on his lips, before it quickly flew away.

His fingers hovered over the strings for a moment longer as he sat back down, like he had to coax himself forward.

And then, soft and low, he began.

“Oh, the summer time has come…”

The words slipped out like a secret. Barely above a whisper. Unsteady at first. You saw the nerves tighten his throat as he sang, as if even speaking the melody was some kind of quiet confession.

The fireflies blinked in rhythm, their lights pulsing soft as the notes floated into the air. You held your breath without meaning to. Something about his voice, so painfully gentle and kind, wrapped around you like warm cloth.

“And the trees are sweetly bloomin’…”

His gaze kept falling to you between the lines, unsure whether to meet your eyes or drop his own. And each time his eyes caught yours, he seemed to find a bit more footing. Like your presence steadied him, grounded him.

“The wild mountain thyme Grows around the bloomin’ heather…”

You wondered, suddenly, how long it had been since he sang for anyone. Or if he ever had at all. The intimacy of it left your chest tight. Not romantic, not quite. But full. Like standing in a room too small for all the quiet things neither of you could say.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

The chorus came softer, steadier. His fingers strummed with more confidence now, like the melody was finally guiding him instead of the other way around.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go? And we’ll all go together…”

You watched his lips form each word, how his jaw tensed just slightly with the shape of every vowel. The moonlight caught faint on his chain. The gold glimmered like a second pulse beneath his throat.

“To pull wild mountain thyme All around the bloomin’ heather…”

The breeze stirred between you, lifting the humid air off your skin. And still, he played. Like this space, this moment, belonged to both of you and no one else.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

His voice dipped even lower as the next verse began. His eyes didn’t stray this time. They stayed locked on yours, as though the rest of the world had slipped away.

“I will build my love a bower By yon cool crystal fountain…”

The words stirred something in your ribs. Quiet, curious. A fragile ache you didn’t dare name. He sang them like a promise not meant for you, but falling in your lap anyway.

“And round it I will pile All the wild flowers o’ the mountain…”

The fireflies blinked again, drifting closer between you both, like they too wanted to listen.

You didn’t dare look away.

Not when his voice, his fingers, his eyes had all softened into something so painfully vulnerable it made your breath catch.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go? And we’ll all go together…”

The melody carried through the night, through the hush of the trees and the slow lap of the water. Even the frogs seemed to quiet, as though giving him room to finish.

“To pull wild mountain thyme All around the bloomin’ heather…”

His hands slowed on the strings as the final chorus slipped from his mouth.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

The last note lingered, floating light as a feather before dissolving into the warm night.

Neither of you moved.

The space between you was still there. The gap. But it no longer felt like distance.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came. Nothing fit.

So you just smiled, small and warm.

His breath hitched like that smile was worth more than any words you could have given.

And around you, the fireflies kept on blinking.

The silence stretched for a long moment after his final note. The soft night held it gently, like neither of you dared break it too soon.

Then, without a word, you stepped forward.

The grass whispered beneath your feet. The fireflies parted for you like little floating lanterns, blinking gold as you crossed the space between you.

Remmick didn’t move. Only watched. Quiet, careful. As if the smallest shift might startle you back.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the log beside him. Not close enough to touch, but closer. Much closer than before.

The distance between you narrowed to a small breath of air, shared under the wide Mississippi moon. His eyes flickered toward you once. And then back to the strings. Like even that one glance was almost too much.

He swallowed softly, throat working. You caught it out of the corner of your eye.

His voice, when it came again, was even gentler than before.

Another song.

No introduction. No hesitation. Just music.

And you listened.

Song after song, old ones you half-knew, others that sounded older than the land itself. His voice was steadier now. Richer, somehow. The nerves had melted away. He wasn’t singing to fill the air anymore. He was singing to you. Or maybe with you.

And when your lips finally, softly, quietly joined his on a chorus, neither of you spoke of it.

Your voices braided together like threads of silk.

For a while, you simply sang. As if the night had always been meant for this, for the two of you trading melodies under the low hum of cicadas and the blinking dance of the fireflies.

Hours passed unnoticed.

At some point, the moon shifted higher. The breeze cooled. But neither of you made any move to leave.

Remmick’s eyes, every time they lifted to meet yours, were full of something so profound, so reverent, it made your stomach tighten. Not desire. Not hunger. But something deeper. Something that looked like worship.

He never reached for you.

Never brushed your hand.

But you felt him there, anchoring himself to you with nothing but the weight of his gaze, the softness of his song.

Eventually, as the stars began to pull pale against the hint of coming dawn, his fingers stilled on the strings.

Neither of you said a word.

Instead, you both simply sat there as the fireflies blinked their slow farewell.

And for the first time that night, Remmick spoke again.

His voice was barely a whisper, but full of something that made your chest ache.

“Thank ya for stayin’.”

You smiled.

And in that quiet, you both simply stayed.

Together.