Preview 𖥸, do bunnies love peaches?, remmick x black fem! reader, kinda proof read? 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽 2.1𝓴
˚₊‧꒰ა 💌 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
𝒮peaking with him was a breath of fresh air. He wasn't a bad-looking man, either. After that night, I thought about it some more. My father had led a nice song throughout the night, and to my surprise, so did Remmick. He sat next to me, which I didn't mind. He told me where he was from—an Irish man coming down for a quick visit, he had said.
𝒞ℴ𝓊𝓅𝓁ℯ ℴ𝒻 𝒹𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓁𝒶𝓉ℯ𝓇
Early mornings and even earlier birds.
I wake up and rub my eyes slightly, trying to focus my vision. I then wash up and put on my morning gown. I brush and rinse out my mouth, the morning seemed nice and sunny. I was in the mood for something sweet to drink, so I headed to our kitchen and started making some pomegranate lemonade.
I was given some fresh ones that a neighbor brought over. I take them out of the woven basket and wash them off, and place the seeds in a bowl to be crushed.
I take some lemons and my brown knife to cut them. I then grab my momma's pitcher, the one with the fruit print over it. I add in some sugar and the fruit juices, I mix them up with the spoon.
As I mix I think back to him, why was I focused on him? It's been 4 days since I last saw him, where did he disappear off to?
“Yous up early,” my momma comes walking in the kitchen, her hair in her signature style.
Nicely rolled and pinned in place, her slippers slide against the floor as she walks over.
She stands near the counter, “Lemonade?” She asks me.
I nod, “I finally thought of something to do for them pomegranates,” I say and keep mixing. “You want some?” I ask her.
“Sure baby,” she nods. She watches as I pour her a glass, she glances to the screen door which appears…slightly open. “Did you open that door y/n?,” she asks me, staring at it.
To be honest I don't think I did, it was just closed. “Yeah I wanted some fresh air in, it's nice out” I say and sip my cup of lemonade. It was sweet and slightly tangy, the pomegranate and lemons was surprisingly a good combo. I enjoyed a little pulp in mine.
“You be watchful of that door honey,” she says and sips her cup. “When this evening comes close it.”
I nod to her. I knew what she meant, but we ain't had no problems with them yet.
She takes another sip of the lemonade, she seemed to enjoy it which made me smile a bit.
“Your father and I are going to head to Mrs. Solomon's farm for some stuff then go to the church, do you want to come with us?” She places the cup down in the sink and washes it out.
“Will she have peaches?” I ask my momma, I loved peaches, especially the big golden ones in the jars.
“Not sure, maybe, it won't hurt to look right?,” she lightly smiles at me. Sure, it won't hurt.
I quickly get washed up, and put on a nice dress. I picked something nice and flowy, since it was hot out. I put on one of my dresses that I didn't mind getting dirty, and some flat slip-ons.
I fix my hair in a cute style and head out with my ma and pa.
(The dress we wearing is similar to the first pic, your hair however could be either one. Two of my fav girls btw🤭iykyk!)
Pa drove the car down to Ms. Solomon's farm. Ms.Solomon was very nice. I enjoyed her talks and writings. She was a small writer, farmer, and a good friend of my mom's.
I sit in the car looking out the window, all the animals and many fields filled with produce. My father had the radio on, it played soft jazz which he liked.
I happened to bring along my purse as well, I took my stuff for crocheting with me in case I got bored. I started crocheting together a small brown bunny.
We finally get there and I hop out. I greet her and play with the animals for a bit. Unfortunately, she did not have peaches, so I got some apples instead.
However, I did enjoy playing with animals, who knew cows loved Jazz?
We drove back home and I walk inside the house. I place the fruit up and cut one up to eat. My parents then say they're gonna go to the church, I nod and tell them bye. My father walks out the house with his keys and hat but my momma stays for a bit.
She lightly pulls me into the corner, she seemed off, like she didn't have a good feeling.
“I really think you should come with us y/n, you can help with the crates and paintings.”
“Momma last time I touched them crates it nearly split my hand,” I say referring to my bandaged hand.
She sighs and nods her head, she then taps my hand lightly.
“Alright honey, just keep them doors locked. Don't open that door for nobody” she stressed on the words locked and nobody.
I nod and chuckle a little, “I will mamma, y'all gon be long?”
“I hope not, I do enjoy my bed and rest. Your father has got some meetings however,’’ she chuckles.
“Well I'll be here momma, did you want some supper when you all came back?”
“You're fine baby, we might go to a restaurant for a meal.”
I then nod and say bye to her, she kisses my head and walks out the door. After they gone I start putting up the fruits n vegetables. I then wash clothes just have time pass by. I then head back to the kicthen to wash the dishes.
It was getting later on in the day and im still washing plates and pots. As I'm washing the plates I hear a soft knock on the front door. Is Momma back already?, I ask myself. I wipe my hands on a cloth and place it on the table.
As I'm about to open the door I wait just a moment, if it was ma why would she knock on the door?
She literally has a key?
Instead of opening it, I walk back to the sink. I keep washing the dishes, scrubbing off extra food bits, which I hated. As I'm rinsing off the last plate I hear another knock, this time a little harder. I still wasn't gon open that door.
*knock knock knock*
Who the hell- I mumble, I then go to the door. I lightly opened it, I saw some shoes, I wasn't familiar with them, sure wasn't my father's. I opened the door and to my surprise stood that man Remmick.
“Hey pretty lady,” he says softly.
I lightly squint, now why is he here? I then smile and glance down at the jar of peaches in his hand. He turns over the jar to reveal the label brand of peaches. “Lil birdy told me you liked peaches, which happens to be good for me.” He says softly, “I love peaches.”
I was flattered in certain matters, but for one, how did he know where I lived? Where did he hear that I loved peaches? Ms.Solomon? My parents? Myself? No. I never told him that, I never-
“You're heads running huh?,” he chuckles, showing that smile. “I had, saw your old man at Ms.Solomons a little earlier, he was talking to her about peaches. And, you're the sweetest thing close to it, so I figured that be somethin you'd like?”
I lightly smile, how sweet… no what.
I stood there lost in thought before he broke my train of thought. “You gon take 'em? Or do I eat em myself?” he asks lightly, tilting the jar, he then holds out the Jar. I then slowly grab if from him and go to place it on the counter, I then come back to the door. “Thank you” I say trying to control my smile.
“Shouldn't leave that door wide open miss, anyone could walk in” he says, leaning against the door frame.
“You didn't walk in here?” I ask and fold my arms.
“I haven't been invited in yet, can't be rude to a lady. Need to have permission.” He says, eyeing me, “Do I have your permission doll?”
The name rolls off his tongue so easily, almost to where I was about to let him in.
“No sir” I say and scoff. “Sweet talk don't work on me,” I say firmly and stare at him. He smiles, and sits up from the frame, “Was worth a try hm?”
I roll my eyes and shift the weight to my other foot ,“It's late, you eat anything?" I asked him, why? I don't know, just for conversation. He did bring me a big jar of peaches.
He shifts his eyes back to me slowly.
“You worryin’ ‘bout me now sweetness?” he replies not mockingly, but softly. As if he was testing the words that came out his own mouth.
I roll my eyes at the name, “Don't flatter yourself, I just don't want no man fainting on my mommas porch, das all,” I reply.
He tilted his head just slightly, gaze drifting down the road like he was remembering something.
“I had somethin’ earlier,” he said, voice low. “Did the trick.”
That pause hung heavy. Not too long. Just enough to make the air feel thick. He didn’t look at me right away.
When he finally did, it was with that quiet, unreadable half-smile. “Don’t need much.”
“What kinda something?” I ask, turning fully toward him now.
That smile of his pulls at the corner of his mouth—slow, unreadable.
“Somethin’ warm. Quick, no fuss…”
Speaking in riddles I see…I think to myself.
His tone don’t change, but the air does. It gets heavier. Still. Even the night sounds seem to hush down to hear what he’ll say next. I don’t say nothin’. Just stare.
“What did you eat?,” I ask him carefully.
“Rabbit” He says too smoothly. “Rabbits can be fast, but get tired quick”
“Hm, I ain't never had rabbit, what it taste like,” I ask him, still feeling a little off about his answer.
He pauses, then answers plain. “Gamey. A little bitter, if it’s been scared too long.”
I look at him sideways. “That a thing?”
He nods once. “Fear changes the flavor. You can taste it. Makes the meat tough.”
I just continue to stare at him, fear changes…flavor….
He pushes off the doorframe slowly, sliding his hands into his pockets.
“I should get going. Gettin’ real late.”
“Yeah,” I say with a small nod, watching him.
“You enjoy them peaches now,” he adds, stepping back a bit. “And tell me how they taste.” That felt, oddly, intimate, or maybe I was just thinking with my flesh at the moment.
I let out a quiet chuckle, easing up just a little. “I will Remmick.”
He pauses mid-step, glancing over his shoulder.
“You remembered my name.”
It doesn’t sound like a question—more like he already knew I would. He pushes off the doorframe slow, sliding his hands into his pockets.
He steps down off the porch slowly, like he’s takin’ his time with the gravel under his boots. Doesn’t say much, just listens to the night for a second.
Then he looks back at me, a half-step into the dark.
“You get some rest, alright?” I nod, watching him.
“You too.”
He gives a little tilt of his head, a smile soft but sure.
“I ain’t the restin’ kind.’’ He holds my gaze for a moment longer than he should’ve, then turns and walks off, like we’re gonna pick up the same talk tomorrow. I close the door and think to myself.
The way he said it. Like he meant more than the words.
I press my lips together, shake the thought off, and make my way to the back. The house is still, cool, the hum of the fan in the corner the only sound now.
I slip off my shoes, climb into bed without turnin’ on the lamp. Lay there in the dark with my hands folded on my stomach, starin’ at the ceiling.
He ain’t do nothin’ wrong. Not really. But still...
Something about him just don’t sit right.
And yet...
I turn on my side, pull the cover up to my chin, and let sleep come slow, my last thought caught between his voice and the sound of boots in gravel.
𝑳𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 ✦ ⋆ ࣪.
My door creaks open, ‘’Y/n?,’’ I hear my mommas soft voice. I rub my eyes and sit up from my bed, ‘’Momma?,’’ I ask tiredly. She seems a little sad, she then comes over. ‘’What happened Momma?’’ I ask her still half awake.
“They found a body down at the juke joint,” the words come low, almost whispered—like speakin’ ‘em too loud might call the devil back to finish what he started.
“Said it wasn’t no accident neither. Blood all over the back steps. Like whoever did it… wanted to make sure folks saw.”
My eyes widen, ‘’what?’’
@𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝
☾.꒰ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ꒱˚✿˖°
𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 !
HIII thanks for the reads on the last chapter, I'm lowkey liking this fanfic I'm writing ngl. As always pls like n share, feel free to give tips as well <3
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I’ve been reading stories where Remmick meets the reader whose in a bad marriage with a cheating spouse. They’re good but I now want a different kind of AU, I want to see Remmick meets pregnant reader which the baby’s father dipped the moment he heard the news so basically Remmick steps in to take care of the reader and the baby. If it’s no trouble can you write it please? I don’t mind if you do or don’t add smut in the story
ɴᴏ ᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀʀʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ
ᴡᴄ: 5.1k
ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. I LOVE THIS IDEA ANON UR SO SMART! i was kind of hesitant to write this for some reason but the more i thought about it the more i was like oh my god this is gonna be so good! one thing led to another and well... is 5k words still a drabble? i'm not in love with my writing in this but i truly hope y'all enjoy it. i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: familial abandonment, grief, light religious mentions, birth though i don't think it's that graphic but mileage may vary, excessive divider usage, amateur knowledge of maternity(!!!), domestic lonely!remmick fluff
@prettyblntzz
You hadn’t planned to be alone.
Not like this.
Not with your belly round and aching, your fingers too swollen for the ring he slipped on with shaking hands that spring. Not in this creaking old house with lace curtains and porch swings and enough room for a family that hadn’t come.
The Mississippi heat hadn’t let up in weeks. It clung to your neck like grief, heavy and humid, the cicadas too loud to ignore and the crickets too quiet to trust. You moved slower now, out of necessity, not grace. The floorboards groaned beneath your bare feet as you made your way from the bed to the kitchen as if the house missed a second set of steps too.
You still caught yourself reaching for him at night.
Still caught yourself dreaming of the way he used to hold your waist like it anchored him. The way he kissed the back of your neck in the kitchen when you were stirring something sweet. How he'd whisper that you were going to be the best mother Mississippi ever saw.
He loved you.
He loved you.
Didn’t he?
But the day you sat him down, palms damp, breath caught somewhere between hope and dread, and told him you’re gonna be a father, everything shifted. Not all at once. Not with shouting or slamming doors.
Just silence.
First, he started staying late at the shop.
Then the notes stopped showing up with the groceries.
Then you woke up and he was gone.
No suitcase. No goodbye.
Just the weight of knowing his absence wasn’t an accident.
You’d told yourself it was a mistake. That maybe he was hurt. Maybe something happened. But the bank hadn’t seen him. The rail station hadn’t, either. He left. Left you.
Left this.
The whispers in town followed you like gnats. Women with their husbands at church, nodding politely, eyes drifting down to your stomach before flicking back up with something like pity, or judgment, you couldn’t quite bear to name. No one said it outright, but you heard it anyway.
Poor girl.
What a shame.
You still sat in the same pew. Still sang the hymns, even when your throat ached. Still held your chin high. But it was getting harder. Harder to feel beautiful. Harder to feel strong.
Harder to believe there’d be anything left of you once this child came into the world.
You’d made peace with that, sort of. With being a mother, even if you couldn’t be a wife.
Until the night he showed up.
It was late. So late, the world felt folded in on itself. The moderate rain only exemplified the quiet. The porch light had burned out weeks ago, and the only glow came from the oil lamp you kept near the window. The town had gone quiet save for the occasional bullfrog croaking out near the creek, and you’d just settled into your rocking chair, fingers pressing gentle circles into the small of your back, trying to coax the ache away.
Then the knock.
Soft. Barely a sound at all.
You startled.
Knocks didn’t come this time of night. Not unless someone was dead or dying. You wrapped your robe tighter and eased yourself upright, hand on the edge of your belly, heart already ticking faster.
You stood slowly, one hand on your lower back, the other braced against the wall as you moved toward the door. You didn’t bother to make yourself look presentable. Just adjusted your chest, padded barefoot to the front of the house, and peered through the fogged glass of the window beside the frame.
There was a man on your steps.
Not your husband.
A stranger.
Tall. Lean. Barely cloaked in a threadbare coat. He stood crooked against the porch railing, eyes tilted toward the sky like the rain was speaking to him. His hair was damp and clung to his forehead. His hands were empty.
You should’ve locked the door.
Should’ve turned off the light and walked back to bed.
But something in the way he looked up when you touched the knob, like he’d sensed it, like he’d been waiting, froze you in place.
You opened the door.
He didn’t move.
“Sorry to trouble you, miss,” he said, voice rough, worn down like old gravel.
You didn’t answer.
He cleared his throat. Rain had slicked down the collar of his coat and soaked through the fabric at his shoulders.
“I ain’t askin’ for much,” he added. “Just a night. I won’t touch nothin’. I just-” He hesitated. “It’s cold.”
You looked him over.
The way he stood didn’t scream threat. Didn’t scream drunk or high or desperate. But it didn’t scream safe either. He looked pale. Tired. Gaunt in the cheeks, but not unwell. Just… small, somehow, despite his size.
You shifted. Felt the baby stir gently beneath your ribs.
He noticed.
His eyes dropped to your belly. His whole face changed. Not pity. Not disgust. Just something sharp and unfamiliar, like recognition.
“I’ll sleep on the porch,” he said quickly. “Didn’t realize... I wouldn’t’ve knocked if I’d known. Honest.”
You didn’t know what possessed you then. Maybe it was the ache in your ribs. The absence of someone who should’ve been there to keep you company through all this. Maybe it was how needy he sounded. How soft his voice got when he said honest.
Or maybe it was the look he gave you when you gave him permission to step inside.
He didn’t smile.
Just nodded. Like you’d saved him from something you didn’t have a name for yet.
“Thank you,” he said, voice almost hoarse now. “Thank you kindly.”
You still didn’t ask his name.
You didn’t ask where he came from.
You just shut the door behind him, gestured toward the blanket chest by the hearth, and said, “There’s a quilt in there. Floor’s all I’ve got.”
He nodded again. Didn’t complain.
You watched from the corner of your eye as he lowered himself down, slow and careful, folding the blanket once before curling beneath it. No pillow, no cushion. Just wood and wool and whatever weight he’d carried in with him.
And when you eased yourself back into your rocker, listening to the soft tick of rain on the windowpanes, the baby shifted again, sharper this time. Like it knew something had changed.
You didn’t sleep well.
But when you woke the next morning, he was still there.
And that was the last night you ever spent alone.
It started with the dishes.
Not all at once. Just one plate, then another. A rhythm, like he'd done it a hundred times before. You’d returned from your afternoon nap to find the washtub full and your best rag already soaked, the scent of lye soap and something copper-tinged filling the air.
He hadn’t even looked up at first. Just kept scrubbing slow circles into a plate with that strange, methodical care of his. You’d stared at him for a full minute, waiting for him to stop, to say something, maybe even look guilty. But he didn’t. He just nodded toward the table, where he’d made a small spread of breakfast, only for you.
“Thought you might be hungry,” he said.
That was all.
You didn’t ask him why he’d done it.
You didn’t need to.
He’d been quiet like that all week. Hovering without hovering, close but never quite imposing. You noticed the way he watched you when you moved around the house, hands tucked behind his back like he didn’t trust himself not to help too quickly. He'd fixed the door latch before you'd even thought to mention it, patched the hole in the roof where the rain got in, even dusted your kitchen shelves with one of your old slips of cloth tied around his wrist like a makeshift cuff.
You hadn’t asked for any of that either.
But maybe that was what made it bearable. Strange, yes, but not frightening. Not threatening. He wasn’t a loud man. Wasn’t messy, either. He stepped light, didn’t slam doors, always kept his boots by the back steps and his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.
He didn’t touch you.
But he looked.
You caught him at it often enough. When you were washing greens, when you were folding linens. His gaze always softened around the edges, like he was watching something breakable and didn’t trust the room to keep it safe.
At first, you’d looked away.
Now you didn’t.
You weren’t sure what changed. Only that something about the way he moved, how slow and deliberate it all was, made your chest ache in a way you didn’t expect. Like you’d forgotten what it meant to be seen without being expected to perform.
He watched you differently than your husband had. That man, gone now, though not without taking a piece of your heart with him, had looked at you with something close to love. Maybe it had been love. You still didn’t know. But there had always been a shadow in it. A hesitation. Like he was trying to hold on to who you were before. Before the baby. Before the curve of your belly started showing in every dress. Before you started humming lullabies under your breath.
He didn’t do that.
He just brought you warm water for your feet in the evening and kept the fire going when the wind picked up through the walls. He hung herbs on the porch rail to dry, even though you hadn’t taught him how. Got it wrong the first time. Rosemary bundled with sassafras, but corrected himself without complaint. He had sharp eyes. Paid attention. Knew your schedule by heart now. When you took your walks. When you liked your tea. When the baby liked to kick.
And Lord, the way he fussed over that baby.
He listened for the kicks like they were gospel. Dropped to one knee anytime you winced or shifted, one hand already hovering like he could ease the weight of your belly just by being near. He’d murmur soft nothings to it sometimes, voice low and warm as molasses. Called the baby sweetheart, sugarplum, his little dove, like it already belonged to him, like he'd been waiting for it longer than even you had.
When the baby turned in the night and made your whole spine ache, he was already there with warm cloths and gentler hands. He never made a show of it. Never asked for thanks. Just laid his hand where it hurt most and waited until your breath evened out again. Sometimes you’d wake to find him asleep beside your chair, his head resting lightly against your thigh, still half-dressed from whatever he’d been doing before he heard you stir.
He carried buckets of water in the mornings without you asking, swept the porch, patched the leaks. Cleaned the chicken coop even though he hated the smell. Anything to spare you the strain. Anything to make things easier.
And he never touched your belly without permission. Not once. Always waited for a nod, for some small sign that it was alright. Then he’d press the flat of his palm against your skin like it was sacred.
He didn’t ask for much in return.
Just to be close.
Just to stay.
It was strange, all of it.
You’d said that to yourself more than once, lying awake with your belly high and heavy under the quilt, the fire crackling low in the stove and his footsteps creaking through the kitchen. It wasn’t fear that kept you up. It wasn’t discomfort either, not exactly. It was something quieter. Thicker. A feeling like you’d wandered into someone else’s story, someone else’s life.
You’d never expected company. Not after what happened. Not after the man you married, the one you’d whispered vows with in a sun-warmed church, turned pale and silent when you told him about the child growing inside you. You weren’t stupid. You’d known it would be hard. But you hadn’t expected the look he gave you, like you’d broken something between you. And then he left. Just like that. Like the baby had made you unrecognizable.
But he didn’t seem to flinch.
He hadn’t run, hadn’t stared at your stomach like it was a problem that needed solving. Hadn’t looked past you like he was trying to remember who you used to be before the swell of your belly changed the silhouette of your body.
He just stayed.
And that was strange.
So was the way he moved through the house now, your house, though it hadn’t felt like yours in a while, with a sense of purpose that made no sense. You never asked him to scrub the floorboards or polish the handles or oil the hinges, but he did. Quietly. Methodically. Like he wanted to earn the space he took up.
Strangest of all, though, was how he spoke to your belly.
He didn’t talk to you about the baby. Not directly. But he murmured to your stomach like it was a person already. Asked questions. Told it things. Ran his hand, cool and callused, gently over the curve of you like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.
“Evenin’, little one,” he’d say, crouching to place a soft kiss right above your navel after bringing you tea. “You givin’ your mama trouble again?”
And when the baby kicked, he lit up like a man who’d just heard the voice of God.
The first time it happened with him, just a nudge, a little flutter against your ribs, you’d gasped and pressed your palm to the spot. He'd rushed across the room with a towel in one hand and a pail in the other, dropping them both like they were meaningless and was at your side in an instant.
“Was that ‘em?” he whispered. “Did they move?”
You nodded. And he reached for your hand so gently it made your throat ache. Placed it over his own, right where your skin had jumped. You watched his eyes flicker red in the dim candlelight as he waited. Then brighter. Brighter still when the baby kicked again.
You didn’t mention the glow. Not then.
You’d noticed it before. Brief, flickering, like something hiding behind glass. His eyes weren’t blue the way other white men in town had them. They weren’t even just blue. They had depth. Layers. Like river water after a storm, with light trapped somewhere deep inside. The red only came when the light hit just right, and was brightened when he was emotional. Happy. Or upset.
Or something else.
His teeth, too, were strange. White, yes, but sharper at the corners. His canines lingered a little too long. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, they always showed just a little too much. He never seemed to eat, not really. Said he had odd hours. That his stomach didn’t take kindly to most food.
But he cooked for you. Always. Carefully. Like the act of preparing your plate meant more to him than eating his own.
All of it was strange.
But you didn’t stop him.
Because when he sat beside you and ran a hand over your belly, there was nothing selfish in it. Nothing claiming or hungry. Just awe. Just devotion.
That was the word that kept coming to mind lately. Devotion.
He followed your pace. Matched your rhythm. Learned your moods before you even knew them yourself. If you sighed, he brought a shawl. If you shifted, he offered his arm. If you cried, when the tears came without warning, in the middle of cooking or brushing your hair or just trying to read, he said nothing. Just held you. Let you soak his shoulder and said your name like it was a promise.
Sometimes you caught him watching you.
Not in a lurid way. Not even in the way your husband used to, back when things were good between you. He looked like he was trying to memorize you. The way your breath hitched when you laughed. The way your ankles swelled at night. The way your fingers danced over the pages of your herbal guides even when you were too tired to really read.
You didn’t ask why he stayed.
You told yourself it was pity. Gratitude. Maybe a sense of guilt.
But something about the way he looked at you, like you were the only tether he had left to something real, made you wonder.
And more than once, you found yourself leaning into him just a little longer than needed. Letting your hand rest on his when he passed you a cup. Letting the silence stretch between you when the fire burned low.
It was slow.
It was strange.
But it was real.
And maybe, just maybe, it was enough.
It had been almost a month.
Four weeks of him sleeping on the floor beside the hearth. Of you waking up to the scent of ash and chicory. Finding the kitchen swept, the kettle hot, your shoes waiting near the door like you had a man who knew where you liked to go. Four weeks of strange cohabitation, of watching each other without asking too many questions, of wordless routines built out of necessity and slow, quiet trust.
And yet, still no names.
You knew the cadence of his footsteps. The shape of his shadow in the yard. How he always tucked his hands behind his back when he thought too hard about something. You knew the way he’d squint at the firewood pile before choosing a piece. And he knew you. When your hips started to ache. When your breathing changed. When the weight of everything, not just the baby, but the world, got too heavy and you needed silence more than you needed talk.
Still, he had never asked for your name.
And you had never asked for his.
It should’ve been strange. Should’ve felt unfinished. But it didn’t. Not really. Because whatever he was, he had never felt like a stranger. Just something old. Something waiting.
That morning, the sky had opened up with thunder and mean gray light. A storm sat heavy over the treeline, wet wind slicing through the cracks in the wood. You stood barefoot at the back door, mug in hand, and watched the trees sway like dancers out of rhythm. He was already outside, boots deep in the mud, securing the herbs he’d hung on the rail.
You saw it before he did. The string snapping, the whole bundle of thyme and yarrow whipping into the wind. He reached for it too late. You nearly called out.
But then he moved.
Fast.
Not just quick, but wrong. Not human. A blur of striped clothing and sharp motion. His feet barely touched the porch before he was in the yard again, herbs in hand.
He caught them. All of them.
And when he turned back toward the door, he looked surprised to see you watching.
His smile faltered.
But he walked toward you anyway, hands full of dripping stems and his coat soaked through to the elbows.
You opened the door.
“Got ‘em,” he said, like that explained anything.
You stepped back to let him in.
He didn’t speak again until he’d shaken the rain off his shoulders and laid the herbs gently on a dry cloth near the stove. You were still watching him. Something you’d been doing more lately. Not because he made you nervous. Not exactly.
But because you didn’t understand how someone could be so careful with the smallest things and yet move like that. Unnatural. Unsettling. And beautiful, somehow. Like a storybook thing.
He noticed your eyes. Of course he did.
“What is it?” he asked, quiet.
You didn’t lie.
“Just thinkin’ how strange this is,” you said, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. “You. Me. This.”
He didn’t answer.
“You sleep in my home. You touch my things. You know how I take my tea. And I don’t even know your name.”
That made him blink.
He stood there in the center of the room, rain still clinging to his lashes, one hand trailing over the spine of a chair.
“I suppose you don’t,” he said after a beat, almost sheepish.
You raised a brow. “What is it, then?”
He looked at you a moment longer, then stepped forward and said it in a voice like wet moss and river stones:
“Remmick.”
You let it sit between you for a second. The shape of it. Strange and clean. Like something unspoken finally made solid.
Then you nodded.
“Alright.”
He tipped his head, that small, half-hopeful smile curling at the edge of his mouth.
“You got one for me?”
You didn’t smile back.
But you said it, soft. Like you were reminding yourself it belonged to you still.
And maybe to him now, too.
You watched the way he turned it over in his mouth after you gave it to him. Like a word he’d chew through all winter, rolling it on his tongue like a secret, like a prayer.
He said it again.
Once.
Like a promise.
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, the ache in your lower back sharper now. You pressed your hand gently to the curve of your belly. He noticed. He always noticed.
Without needing to be told, he crouched in front of you and helped guide you to the rocking chair near the stove. His hands were still cold from the rain, but his touch was steady. He adjusted the cushion. Draped a shawl over your knees. Then sat beside you on the floor, arms draped loosely over his knees like always.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
The rain softened. The fire popped.
He reached toward your ankle, thumb brushing where your skin met the top of your sock. Not asking for anything. Just anchoring.
“I’m glad you let me stay,” he said.
You didn’t answer.
But you reached down and covered his hand with yours.
Because somehow, so were you.
The pain started low and slow, like a tug at the deepest part of you. You were in the kitchen, barefoot and brushing dust from the windowsill, when it hit hard enough to make your breath catch. You gripped the edge of the counter, then looked down.
Water.
A slow trickle at first, then more, pooling between your feet.
You didn’t panic. Not really. You’d read enough, listened to enough, prepared enough. Still, your heart kicked up in your chest like it was trying to warn you of something big coming down the road.
And it was.
“Remmick,” you called, steady but loud enough to shake the rafters.
He was there in an instant. Not from the garden or the porch like he usually was this time of day, but already in the hallway, already moving toward you with that eerie stillness he had when he was trying not to look like he was floating.
His eyes snapped to the floor, then to your face. "It’s time?"
You nodded once, slow.
Then the contraction hit, sharp enough to knock the air from your lungs.
He caught you before your knees buckled.
“It’s alright,” he murmured. His hand was at your back, the other already slipping under your knees. He lifted you like you weighed less than the apron still tied around your waist. “I've got you.”
You didn’t ask how he moved so quick. You didn’t ask how he got the basin already filled, or how the towels had been laid out on the bed before you even stepped inside the room. You barely remembered the lamp being lit.
But it was.
Everything was ready.
Remmick had prepared.
He moved with a purpose that didn’t belong to a man who had never done this before. There was no fumbling. No panic. He worked like someone who had learned the rhythms of birth from midwives long buried, had seen a thousand labors begin and end under candlelight and wood smoke.
He guided you through it all. Let you curse and sob and grip his arms so tight you left bruises.
"Good girl,” he whispered, again and again. “You’re doin’ so good. Keep breathin’, baby. Just like that.”
You didn’t have the energy to wonder how he knew what to do. You couldn’t ask. Not with the pain hitting like waves, not with the pressure bearing down. But somewhere in the middle of the storm, when your vision blurred and your body ached in ways you didn’t know it could, his voice was still there.
Low. Calm. Constant.
“Push now. There you go. You’re safe. I got you.”
His hands were slick with water and blood, but steady as stone. He never looked away. Not once.
And when the final push came, sharp, terrible, blinding, he caught the baby in his hands like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.
There was a moment after. A long one.
Where everything stopped.
And then, the cry.
Thin, high, beautiful.
You fell back against the pillows, sobbing harder than you thought you would. Not from pain. Not from fear. Just the release of it all.
Remmick didn’t speak at first. Just held the baby in both hands, his face unreadable.
And then he looked at you.
“It’s a girl,” he whispered, voice cracked and full of something you couldn’t name. “She’s perfect.”
You let out a breath that rattled your whole body.
He brought her to you, wrapped in a cloth so soft it must’ve been hidden in the dresser for weeks. And there she was.
Dark skin. Curling hair already damp against her forehead. Tiny hands twitching with life.
And Remmick, pale, bloodstained, glowing faintly in the dim lamplight, looked down at her like she was something holy.
She was.
To you both.
His fingers shook as he touched her cheek. Shook like he wasn’t sure he deserved to, like the smallest movement might shatter the moment into pieces he couldn’t gather again. His knuckles were bloodstained, and his hand was far too large, too scarred, too rough to be so gentle, but it was. He moved like a man touching glass.
“I’ll take care of her,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’ll take care of you.”
There was no promise in his voice, no boast, no plea.
Just fact.
You looked at him then. Really looked. Not through the fog of pain or the veil of exhaustion. Not with the wary glances you’d grown used to offering him in the first weeks. But truly. Fully.
His eyes were still wet. Still glowing. Not bright, not loud, but pulsing softly. Faint and sure, like something not ready to die.
His shirt clung to him in wrinkled, clumsy lines, soaked with sweat and streaked with all the effort he'd poured into your labor. The collar was limp and stained with blood, yours and hers. His sleeves had been rolled back at some point, but they'd slipped again, damp fabric bunched at the crook of his arms.
There was blood under his nails. Streaked across his jaw. A smear dried along the side of his throat like he'd wiped his face without thinking.
And his teeth, those strange, terrible things, peeked through when he spoke. Elongated. Cuspate. Pressed just barely over the curve of his lip like he hadn't remembered to pull them back yet. Like maybe, in this moment, he didn’t care to hide anything at all.
But they didn’t scare you.
They never really had.
This strange man. This mystery with calloused hands and a voice like river stones. This creature who could build fires from the dampest wood and wash clothes better than you ever had patience to.
This father to your child.
You nodded. Slow. Steady.
“I know.”
The way his shoulders dropped then, just slightly, made your chest ache. As if he'd been holding the weight of that doubt for weeks. Maybe longer.
He held the baby again, arms curling around her like she was the most delicate thing he’d ever seen. Like she might disappear if he looked away too long. She made a soft, squeaking sound in her sleep, and Remmick’s whole body tensed around her as though the world might threaten her simply for breathing.
“She’s yours,” he whispered, voice crumbling at the edges. “And now she’s mine.”
You didn’t correct him.
Didn’t want to.
There was no logic that could define this thing between you. No words that could make it neat. But you weren’t looking for neat anymore. You weren’t looking for anything.
Except this.
This house. This moment. These people.
There was no sense to be made of it. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But the three of you, somehow, you fit.
Remmick settled beside you on the bed. Not with the hesitant edge he used to carry, not like he was afraid you might change your mind and ask him to leave. But with something close to reverence. He moved slowly, gently, as if even sitting beside you might unmake the calm if done wrong.
One arm stayed curled protectively around the baby. The other slipped behind your back and pulled you close, cradling you like he didn’t know where else to put his warmth. You let your head fall against his shoulder, heavy with everything you’d just endured. Your body still ached, hollowed out and raw, but it wasn’t empty.
It was full in every way that mattered.
The fire popped in the next room, slow and lazy now, just embers and ash. Wind rattled the windowpane above your heads. The familiar kind of wind that came in every winter, dry and loud and aching through the trees.
But everything else was still.
The hush of the house held you like a lullaby.
Remmick kissed the top of your head, his lips barely brushing your damp hair.
The kiss wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even expectant. It was steady. It was sacred. Like sealing something between you.
“My girls,” he said, voice breaking just a little at the end. “My girls.”
His hand cupped the back of your neck. His chin rested against the top of your head. The baby shifted against his chest, small and soft and unaware that her world had just been born with her.
You closed your eyes.
Let the weight of him, the heat of her, the ache in your body, all of it,anchor you.
And for the first time since that long, lonely night on the porch when the world had changed forever, you didn’t feel afraid. Or alone.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: New York, 1970. You’ve come too far from Mississippi to be told no. Your agent, Remmick, calls you his masterpiece, and he’ll do anything to make the world see you the same. You don’t ask what it costs him, but every time the spotlight hits your skin, his eyes shine like it’s worth it.
ᴡᴄ: 22.5k (including cont'd)
ᴀ/ɴ: if there's any fanfic writer reading this, mix your settings up! it's so fun to go out of your comfort zone and just go batshit crazy with your ideas and that's exactly what i did. the fact that i had to split this into two posts makes me so mad like i promise i'm not interaction farming tumblr just can't handle the heat of 20k+ words. i've done grateful remmick, pathetic remmick, and now we've got obsessive remmick. collecting his archetypes like infinity stones 💋! as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too. enjoy reading divas!
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: (including cont'd) SLOWburn, obsession, murder, vampirism, blood, bloodplay i think, praise kink, breeding kink, body worship, eye contact, biting, cunnilingus, very light dubcon, exhibitionism, p in v, monsterfucking, overstimulation, dacryphillia, cockwarming, the wildest possible time to have sex (you won't guess it), i'm sorry yall this shit is just freaky as fuck, overt affection from the start, fluff, a little domesticity never hurts, remmick being an unhinged control freak but in the least toxic way possible, reader did not prepare herself for ts, maybe a little angsty but that depends on your definition, codependency, power imbalance but it's never abused(?), religious undertones if you squint, depictions of racism, texturism, and microaggressions in the fashion industry, amateur knowledge of 1970s fashion and modeling (i was living on the devil wears prada and a prayer), excessive use of dividers, minor vampire rule changes for writing convenience
New York City, 1970.
The city shimmered in the distance like a mirage, flickering orange and gold against the horizon, then hardening into glass and steel as you drew closer. Manhattan rose from the ground like something alive, wild and bristling, all sirens and streetlamps and noise thick enough to taste. The car hummed low beneath you, headlights slicing through the last stretch of night. You leaned against the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, watching the skyline appear piece by piece like it was being conjured just for you.
It had been a long drive. A strange one. Not quick, not smooth. Over twenty-four hours, maybe more. Time bled at the edges when you were with Remmick.
He wouldn’t drive during the day. Not once. Every time the sky began to lighten, he’d pull off the road. Into a gas station, a motel lot, once even behind an abandoned diner where the air smelled like rust and pine needles, and he’d wait. In silence. Crouched low in the driver’s seat, sunglasses on even in the dark. You’d offered to take the wheel more than once, half-joking, half-worried, but he’d only chuckled and said, "Ain’t no use rushin’. Best things bloom slow, darlin’. Let the night do her part."
The highways felt endless. Flat fields, flickering street signs, the quiet rhythm of tires against asphalt. You dozed in and out, lulled by his steady driving and the scratch of his thumb against his lighter. He didn’t play the radio. He didn’t sing. Sometimes he talked to himself, voice low and rhythmic like a sermon, words you couldn’t quite catch. Other times, he said your name like it was the only thing worth saying.
And then: the city.
He pulled the car to the curb, the engine softening into silence. You blinked up at the brownstone. Tall and narrow, made of worn red brick with black trim and a wrought-iron gate that looked older than both of you. The street around it was quiet, lit by just a few streetlamps buzzing with moths. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was nice. Too nice, as if it'd been detailed just minutes before you arrived. Clean front stoop. Big bay window. Flower boxes under the sills.
You frowned. “This yours?”
Remmick stepped out of the car, rounded the hood, and opened your door with a little bow. “Ours,” he said simply, like that explained everything.
You stood slowly, stretching your spine after hours curled in the seat. The New York air was colder than Mississippi. Sharper. The kind that cut clean and left you blinking. You looked up at the brownstone again. It had to be expensive. The kind of place a real agent might have. The kind of place someone powerful stayed, not someone who drifted into a backwoods general store and offered to make you a star.
But he just smiled. Like he already knew what you were thinking.
“Ain’t much yet,” he said, his voice low, accent thick and lazy and true. “But it’s the start. From here on out, we climb.”
You stared at him. Your so-called agent, your midnight stranger, the man who found you counting change behind the counter of your uncle’s store in Mississippi, under flickering fluorescents and a ceiling fan that squealed with every turn.
You hadn’t been looking to be found.
You hadn’t even meant to speak to him.
He’d come in just before closing, tall and tired-looking, dressed like he didn’t belong. Black turtleneck, coat that didn’t suit the heat, and those eyes. Blue, yes, but something off about them. Ancient. Red flashed in his pupils if the light hit just right, like a warning. You caught yourself staring too long.
Then he said it. “You ever thought about modeling, sweetheart?”
You laughed in his face.
He didn’t leave.
He came back the next night. And the one after that.
He didn’t try to touch you. Didn’t leer or flirt. Just leaned on the counter and looked at you like you were already on the cover of Vogue or Life. Like he was just waiting for the world to catch up.
“You’re a fuckin’ star,” he said again and again. “You don’t see it, but I do.”
Now here you were.
He carried your suitcase without asking, easy like it weighed nothing, and led you up the narrow staircase. Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of lavender and old books. The walls were clean, freshly painted, but the baseboards and window frames still bore signs of age. The floors creaked under your feet, polished wood catching the light. The front room had a velvet couch in a deep wine color, a small but elegant fireplace, and shelves that already held a few books. Some old, some new, all carefully arranged.
There was a vase on the windowsill. Empty, waiting.
It wasn’t just an apartment. It felt like someone had made space for you here.
You dropped your bag near the door and looked around slowly, jaw slack with disbelief.
“You… really live like this?”
Remmick leaned against the doorframe, his shirt collar open just enough to reveal the top of his pale chest. That red glint shimmered faintly behind his tired blue eyes, not threatening, just… different. Other. He didn’t hide it. You didn’t want him to.
He grinned, showing the faint edge of his canines. Too sharp to be human, too familiar to scare you. “I told you, didn’t I?” he said softly. “You’re gonna be a fuckin’ star.”
You stepped toward him, unsure if you meant to laugh or cry. “And this is part of that?”
He nodded once, serious now. “You deserve a place to start from. A place that ain’t tryin’ to drag you back down. I meant it when I said I’d take care of you.”
And in his voice, you heard it again. That vow he’d made in a gas station parking lot under moth-covered lights. That strange devotion that didn’t ask for anything in return.
You looked around one last time, then back at him.
“So what now?”
He stepped into the room, slow and certain, like he’d been waiting years for this moment.
“Now,” he said, brushing a stray curl from your face, “we get to work.”
You very quickly learned the situation you’d gotten yourself into.
It wasn’t subtle. There were no illusions of partnership or shared footing. You weren’t splitting rent, trading favors, or learning the city together like other girls who moved north with dreams and no real plan. No, you were being kept. Thoroughly, obsessively, deliberately kept.
It started small. You mentioned your shoes were falling apart. The next morning, a pair of Ferragamos appeared beside the bed. You half-joked about not owning a proper winter coat, and he was gone for twenty minutes, then returned with three. Leather. Wool. Something French you couldn’t pronounce, still with the tag attached.
The closet filled before you realized what was happening. It started with a rack of dresses, mostly black, some red, some blue, a few greens and golds, all tailored like they knew your body before you’d ever tried them on. Then came the heels. Then the jewelry. Not flashy, but real. Real enough to catch light. Real enough to turn heads.
You didn’t ask for it. Sometimes, you weren’t even sure you wanted it.
But he noticed everything.
You lingered a second too long looking at a photo in a magazine, the jacket the model wore, the earrings that matched her lipstick, and the next day, something damn near identical was folded neatly at the foot of the bed.
“Remmick, I don’t need-”
“Didn’t ask what you need, darlin’,” he’d say, brushing past you with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. “I asked what you want.”
He never lit that cigarette inside. Not even once. Wouldn’t so much as hold a lighter within ten feet of you. He’d smoke out on the stoop or disappear to the far end of the street, muttering something about “not stinkin’ up the air you breathe.” The first time you joked about wanting one yourself, just to see what the fuss was about, he looked at you like you’d cursed, warning “not with a smile like yours, not a chance.”
It wasn’t just the clothes.
You ran out of conditioner once. Just once. The bottle was still in the trash when you stepped out of the shower and found five new ones lined up on the bathroom sink. Different brands, all familiar, all from back home. Stuff you didn’t even think they sold up north. He’d stocked them like he’d raided a beauty supply store in Jackson and brought the entire aisle to you.
When you tried to thank him, he shook his head and looked at you like you’d insulted him.
“Don’t need thanks,” he murmured, turning the sink knobs absently, like making sure the water still ran. “Don’t want it neither. Just want you ready. Prepared. You look the part, they treat you like the part.”
That was the other thing. He never wavered.
You could be barefaced and groggy, hair wrapped, in slippers and one of his oversized shirts, and he’d still say it: “You’re the most beautiful thing in this city.”
Always with that voice, like gravel and honey, and always with that look. Like he was memorizing you for when you weren’t there.
He refused to let you carry groceries. Refused to let you pay at restaurants, even diners. The one time you tried, fumbling for your wallet while he was in the bathroom, he damn near lost it. Quietly, of course. Never loud. Never unkind. But the look on his face when he stepped out and saw you holding your purse?
He took your wrist gently and leaned in close. “You ain’t got to do that, darlin’. You never will.”
And you believed him.
Because Remmick didn’t make promises lightly.
He’d booked your first photoshoot before your second night in the city. He knew a guy who knew a guy. Shady as hell, probably, but the studio was real, the lighting was good, and the photographer never once looked at you sideways. You didn’t have a portfolio yet, didn’t know how to pose, but Remmick stood just out of frame, nodding, giving you small, soft corrections. Not criticism. Just reminders.
“Chin up. Eyes sharper. That’s it, darlin’. Just like that.”
He was everywhere. In the corner of the room, watching. Waiting. Always watching.
You got used to it. Maybe too fast. Maybe too easy.
But something about his presence didn’t unnerve you. It calmed you. Like if anything went wrong, if anyone tried anything, he’d handle it before you even knew to be afraid.
The girls you passed on the sidewalk in Harlem, downtown, SoHo, they looked at you with curiosity. Some with admiration, others with judgment. You didn’t blame them. You were the new face, the quiet one with an older man who opened every door and paid every bill and looked at you like you were something exquisite and holy.
And you noticed him too.
The way he never ate. The way his canines always looked a little too sharp when he smiled too wide. The way his eyes gleamed red sometimes when the light dipped low.
You weren’t stupid.
You weren’t scared either.
Because when he looked at you, it wasn’t hunger. It was worship.
Like he’d waited lifetimes for you. Like now that he had you, there wasn’t a single thing on this earth. living or dead. he wouldn’t rip apart to keep you standing.
And the strangest part?
You were starting to believe it.
You still didn’t know what exactly he was. He hadn’t told you, not directly. But there were nights when the city seemed to go still around him, when your reflection in the apartment window looked younger than it had the day before, when he came back from “errands” with dirt on his sleeves and a strange, metallic smell clinging to his coat.
You didn’t ask.
You just watched him move through your life like a secret you didn’t want solved.
And when he knelt in front of your vanity, helping you fasten the strap of your heels, he looked up at you like you were the moon.
“Whatever you want, darlin’,” he said. “All you ever gotta do is ask.”
And you believed him. Again.
The proofs arrived in a thick envelope, crisp and neatly stacked, smelling like ink and developer fluid. Remmick slit it open with his finger, careful not to smudge the edges, then spread the photos out across the kitchen table like cards in a high-stakes hand.
You hovered nearby, still in your robe, coffee cooling untouched between your hands. He’d barely said a word all morning, just paced between windows and rearranged the chairs until the light hit the table just right. Now he sat, back straight, fingers laced under his chin like he was studying scripture.
“Alright,” he muttered, nodding to himself. “Let’s see what we’re workin’ with.”
He picked up the first photo, held it close to his face, then glanced at you with a small, stunned kind of smile.
“Goddamn, darlin’,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Look at you. Look at those eyes. Like they know somethin’ nobody else does.”
Your lips twitched. “That good or bad?”
He flicked his eyes up. “That’s perfect.”
The next photo didn’t get the same reaction. He turned it sideways, then back, then let out a thoughtful little hum before setting it aside.
“Not that one?”
“Too wide on the lens. Warps the shoulder line.” He looked up again, serious now. “Ain’t you. That’s on the camera, not the subject.”
You sat across from him, watching the small pile of rejects begin to form at his elbow. But with each one he discarded, he gave an explanation. Real, technical, thorough.
“This one’s too soft. Focus is just off the eye, makes you look unsure.”
“Lighting’s dirty on this one. Sinks the skin tone. Not your fault, not on you.”
“Angle’s wrong here. Nose ain’t shaped like that, lens just thinks it knows better.”
He never let it seem like you’d done something wrong.
Even the ones he didn’t like, he lingered on first. Admired them. Complimented the tilt of your head, the curve of your mouth, the way you held your hands. He only tossed them aside if the frame failed you, if the shot wasn’t worthy.
“You’re not a problem to fix, darlin’,” he said at one point, tapping one of the keeper shots. “You’re a truth they gotta learn how to capture right.”
You were starting to understand how his mind worked. Not just as your agent, but as someone who genuinely couldn’t stand seeing the world misunderstand you. It mattered to him, deeply. Almost violently.
He ended up with four he liked. Four out of thirty.
“This one for the face,” he said, sliding the first forward. “No smile, just eyes. Says take me serious.”
The second: “This one shows the angles. That jaw? That neck? You’ll have girls tryin’ to grow bones like yours.”
The third: “Little softness. You look like someone’s dream here.”
And the last, his favorite, he didn’t explain. Just stared at it for a long while, thumb grazing the edge, eyes unreadable.
When you reached for it, he didn’t let go right away. Then he finally handed it over.
It was a shot of you mid-turn, hair caught in motion, dress pulling just slightly at the hip, your mouth parted like you’d been about to laugh.
You didn’t even remember posing like that.
“I love this one,” you said quietly.
“I know,” Remmick replied, watching you with something almost reverent in his face. “That’s why it works.”
You leaned your cheek into your hand, tracing the edge of the photo with your finger. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen myself like this before.”
“’Cause you haven’t had someone show you right. Not till now.”
He stood, collecting the rejected prints and sliding them back into the envelope. You watched him move. Graceful in that slow, deliberate way of his, like every motion was premeditated.
At the counter, he paused to straighten the stack of fashion magazines he’d brought home the night before, flipping through one until he found a dog-eared page. A model with your same cheekbones, but none of your soul.
“See that?” he asked, tilting it toward you. “They’ll chase this look ‘til they die tryin’, but you-” He tapped the table beside your photo. “You got it. Easy.”
He lingered a moment longer, then returned to the table, his thumb brushing a speck of dust from the corner of your favorite shot. You noticed his hands. Always busy, always precise. Even when they trembled a little, like they did now, like he was holding something too precious to mess up.
“Gonna send these four out by noon,” he said, tapping the chosen shots. “Couple magazines, two scouts. I’ll follow up by phone tomorrow.”
Your brow lifted. “That fast?”
He gave a small shrug, lips tugging into a lopsided grin. “You think I came all this way just to sit on my ass?” He leaned across the table, close enough for you to see the faint red gleam flicker at the edge of his irises. Subtle, quick. “Told you I’d make you a fuckin’ star. Didn’t say when. Just said I would.”
He leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly, then looked at you with that soft, satisfied expression he wore whenever he thought you weren’t watching. “Put somethin’ nice on, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and warm. “I’m takin’ you out tonight. Gotta celebrate your first real shoot.”
The look in his eyes told you it wasn’t just about the pictures. It was about you. Everything was.
He didn’t call it a date. Wouldn’t even come close.
When you stepped out of the bedroom in one of the dresses he’d picked out days ago, red, silky, and cut to fit like it had been stitched directly onto you, he only gave a low whistle and said, “Now that’s how a star walks into a room.” Not you look beautiful. Not I can’t stop starin’ at you. But it was there in his face, plain as anything. The way he let his eyes trace you, slow and reverent, like he was seeing something sacred.
He held the door for you like always, one hand at the small of your back, guiding you toward the black town car idling at the curb. The engine was quiet, the driver already waiting. No one had told you where you were going, and Remmick didn’t say. He just tucked you into the backseat like you were made of porcelain and leaned close with a grin, his fingers grazing your bare shoulder.
“Big night,” he murmured, low and warm. “You should eat like it.”
You didn’t expect what came next. The restaurant didn’t have a name on the front. Just a narrow archway tucked between a boutique hotel and a shuttered tailor shop, with a single golden plaque bolted to the brick. You wouldn’t have noticed it at all if he hadn’t guided you up the steps like he belonged there.
The maître d’ recognized him instantly. “Right this way, sir,” he said without even asking for a name, and suddenly you were being led into the kind of place people waited months to get into. The dining room was dim and hushed, wrapped in warm light and the clink of expensive silverware. Velvet chairs, fresh flowers at every table, real wax candles instead of electric flickers. The sort of atmosphere where everyone whispered even when they didn’t have to, because they could.
You were seated in the center of it all, surrounded by couples in tailored suits and silk shawls, sparkling jewelry and moneyed quiet. The moment you sat down, you felt them. Eyes, subtle and sideways, glancing over menus and martinis to look at you. You were the only Black woman in the room. Probably the only one who’d been here in a while, if ever. Their stares weren’t loud, but they were there. Lingering. Curious. Unwelcome.
Remmick didn’t miss it.
His hand was already on the table, fingers brushing yours. “Hey,” he said, soft enough only you could hear. “They look ‘cause they don’t get it. ‘Cause you’re sittin’ there lookin’ like a fuckin’ dream, and they’re not used to seein’ somethin’ that real.”
You looked up at him, and he was already watching you, something dangerous and steady behind the softness in his voice. “Let ‘em stare. You belong right here, sweetheart. You belong everywhere.”
That was all he had to say. The weight of the room shifted. Not for them, for you. Like suddenly you were immune. Like the whispering walls of that restaurant had never held a woman like you before, but they were damn lucky to now.
He ordered for both of you, waving off the menu like he already knew what was good. “She’ll have the oysters and the saffron risotto,” he said with a smile that was somehow both charming and firm. “Bring us the champagne. The good kind.”
You laughed and asked how he even got a reservation. He just shrugged. “Told ‘em I had someone I needed to impress. They didn’t ask more’n that.”
The food came in careful courses, small and perfect, each bite richer than anything you’d ever tasted. He didn’t eat much, just pushed things around on his plate while watching you. Every time you made a face or hummed in surprise at the flavor, he looked like he was cataloging it, like he’d remember what you liked forever.
“Tell me which dish you want me to learn to cook,” he said at one point. “I’ll have the whole damn kitchen figured out by next week if you ask.”
You told him that wasn’t necessary, and he smiled. “That ain’t the point.”
Between courses, he kept the compliments coming. Not like a man trying to win favor, more like someone stunned into reverence. He said it like a fact, like gravity: you were stunning, and you should already be on magazine covers. “The cameras don’t even get it yet,” he said. “They ain’t caught what I see.”
Still, he never called it a date.
Even when his gaze lingered on your mouth for too long. Even when he wiped a smear of sauce from the corner of your lip with his thumb and let it stay there for a beat too long. Even when his voice went low again and he said, “We’ll remember this night. First of many, I promise you that.”
You smiled down at your plate, cheeks warm, heart louder than it had been all day. He watched you like you were the only one left in the world. Like he could feel the pull of it just as much as you could, but wouldn’t name it. Not yet.
Dessert was something ridiculous with gold leaf and dark chocolate, something you didn’t ask for but he somehow knew you’d love. When you took the first bite, he grinned wide and leaned back in his chair.
“A star and her agent,” he said. “That’s all this is.”
But his voice was thick, and his eyes didn’t leave yours, and when he reached out to adjust the strap of your dress where it slipped on your shoulder, his hand lingered, slow and possessive.
“And stars oughta be spoiled, don’t you think?”
You nodded, quiet, caught between the warmth of the food and the fizz of champagne and the impossible softness in his voice. He said nothing more, just sat there across from you like he’d already decided you were the best thing he’d ever done.
And maybe he had.
Watching Remmick work was your favorite pastime.
You curled your legs up beneath you on the couch, still wearing the oversized tee he’d laid out for you. Not one of yours, of course. Something soft and perfectly worn, smelling faintly of cedar and whatever cologne he only ever seemed to wear around the apartment. The plate on your lap was empty now, just crumbs and the last smear of blackberry preserves from the toast he’d made fresh that morning. No burnt edges. No crusts. The way you liked it.
He’d sat with you through the whole thing, elbows on the table, watching every bite like it fed him instead. When you asked if he was gonna eat too, he only smiled.
“I’ll grab somethin’ later. You go on.”
He never ate around you, not really. Said mornings weren’t his time. Said he didn’t like the taste of breakfast. Said he’d already had his coffee. A lie, probably, because you never once saw him make a cup. But he’d sat there all the same, chin in his hand, smiling at you like you were the sunrise itself.
Now he stood across the apartment, back to you, the long cord of the house phone stretched taut from the wall to where he leaned against the kitchen counter. His voice was calm but firm, syrupy in a way that meant he was negotiating. You could only hear his side, but it was enough to understand.
“...I know what I’m askin’, but you ain’t looked at her yet, Mary. Once you see her in front of you, you’ll understand-”
A long pause. The hand not gripping the phone gestured in frustration, but his voice didn’t budge.
“Yeah. I get that. But what I’m sayin’ is, she ain’t just a checkmark on a theme issue, alright? She’s talent. She’s the face. Whether that issue’s in January or June or never, she deserves ink. You know it.”
Your stomach tightened a little. He hadn’t said what magazine it was, not directly, but you’d caught the hint yesterday when he started listing off dream shots. Glamour, he’d said. Cosmopolitan. Vogue, if they bite, but Glamour’s got that open slot sooner. At the time, you’d thought he was dreaming big. Shooting for the stars to see what stuck.
Now, listening to him wrangle a gatekeeper with the kind of slick charm only he could wield, you realized he hadn’t just dreamed. He’d promised.
And he was fighting tooth and nail to deliver.
“Mmhm. Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. I read it.” His voice thinned slightly, though he still sounded smooth. “Saw the whole spread. Good issue.”
A beat. You caught the flicker of his jaw tightening.
“Nah, I’m not sayin’ you shouldn’t have done it. Just sayin’ maybe you oughta take another look at your timing. Feels a little... seasonal. Like maybe you think color only matters once a year.”
Your eyebrows rose.
There was a longer pause now. You heard a faint tinny buzz from the other end of the line, though the words were too muffled to catch. Remmick didn’t speak. He just waited, staring out the tiny kitchen window at nothing. His fingers tapped the countertop, slow and even. You could feel it. The moment. That low boil of something restrained. Whatever she’d said next, it had hit a nerve.
Then finally, he spoke again.
“Listen, Mary. I’m not askin’ you to do her a favor. I’m offerin’ you a face your readers are gonna be grateful for. She’s got the look and the movement. She’s camera-trained and runway-ready, and she just got off a shoot with a photographer I know you’ve pulled from before. You want numbers? You’ll get numbers. All I need is fifteen minutes in front of your casting director.”
Another pause.
His eyes flicked to you.
You offered the smallest smile, and he smiled back. Just slightly, just enough to soften the line of his mouth. Then turned back to the phone.
“Perfect. Yeah. Tuesday’s good. Tell ‘em she’ll be there.”
He hung up with the kind of gentleness that didn’t match the fight you’d just heard in his voice. As if slamming the phone down would’ve undone the win. He stayed there a second longer, hand resting on the receiver, then turned toward you and ran a hand through his hair.
“Well,” he said, voice back to its usual slow drawl. “Hope you didn’t make other plans for Tuesday.”
He'd already made sure you didn't.
You blinked, throwing the first name that came to your mind out. “That was Glamour?”
He gave a short nod and crossed the room in two strides, crouching down in front of the couch. “That was me doin’ what I said I would. You’re in, sweetheart. Casting preview, ten a.m. I’ll walk you in myself.”
Your heart was thudding, too fast to hide. “Remmick... they said no at first, didn’t they?”
He didn’t lie. Didn’t pretend. Just shrugged. “Didn’t matter what they said at first. You got me. I make sure first ain’t never final.”
You looked at him, really looked. The way his blue eyes caught the light and shimmered red in the middle, something not quite right about them, something old and endless that had never scared you. Something that felt like fire behind glass. You’d never asked what he was, not out loud. But you knew.
And you knew whatever he was, it loved you. Or worshipped you. Or both.
“Remmick,” you said, quieter now. “What if it doesn’t go well?”
He reached up, thumb brushing just beneath your cheek. “Then I raise hell.”
You laughed, half from nerves and half from wonder. You’d come to this city with nothing but a suitcase, a dream, and a man who’d found you behind a dusty counter and said star like he already believed it. And now here you were. Toast crumbs on your lap, your agent on fire, and Tuesday morning shining in the near distance like something impossible.
You weren’t sure if you were ready.
But with Remmick at your side, it almost didn't matter.
Tuesday morning came earlier than you'd hoped, though you weren’t the one who set the alarm. Remmick had been up before the sun, half-dressed and humming under his breath in the next room while laying your outfit out across the back of the couch.
He’d picked it the night before, but apparently that hadn’t stopped him from fussing over it again in the morning. You heard the crisp flick of a lint roller, the brush of fingers smoothing seams, the rustle of tissue paper as he checked the shoes a third time.
When you finally dragged yourself out of bed, you found the kettle already whistling and the lights dimmed low, the way you liked them. Remmick was standing by the window, fingers pressed lightly to the frame, eyes flicking up toward the gray, dim sky like he expected it to turn on him.
You watched him for a moment, leaning against the doorframe in your feather-trimmed robe, half-curious, half-sleepy.
“You waitin’ on somethin’?” you asked.
He turned slightly, not startled, just aware. That quiet, humming attention he always gave you.
“Mm? No,” he said, too quickly. “Just checkin’ the weather. They were callin’ for sun earlier. Thought maybe it’d clear.”
You blinked. “And that’s bad?”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Only if you don’t want your hair frizzin’ before the cameras roll.”
You didn’t buy that, not fully, but you didn’t press. Especially not when you caught the way his shoulders dropped just a little with relief as he turned back toward the window and muttered, “Overcast’s good. Real good.”
Then, as if a switch had been flipped, all his focus was back on you.
“Went with the green. It’ll set off your skin like it’s already been retouched,” he said, running a hand over the fabric. “Open collar, mid-thigh hem. You’re showin’ just enough to make ‘em lean forward, not enough to make ‘em blink wrong. You’ll kill in it.”
He’d chosen your heels too. Pearlescent and soft. He bent to help buckle them before you could even sit down fully, kneeling in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. He looked up after the second one clicked into place.
He pulled you in front of the small mirror in the hallway, fingers brushing through your curls. Careful but firm, like he was memorizing every strand, every coil.
“You look damn beautiful like this,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that it felt like a secret meant only for you. “This hair? It’s got fire. It’s you. Ain’t no straightening iron gonna fix what’s already perfect.”
You watched his face, how his lips twitched into a rare smile, how his sharp canines flashed for a moment when he spoke. It was like he was showing you a piece of a world you hadn’t dared to claim yet.
“If they try to tell you to change it, you tell ’em exactly what I’m tellin’ you.” He leaned in, voice dropping lower, the kind of serious that makes you hold your breath. “If they don’t like this, they can choke on it.”
You couldn't help but laugh.
The walk to the Glamour offices wasn’t long, but he stretched it out like a runway. Kept looking you up and down with a quiet smile that made your stomach dip.
“You remember what to say if they ask about work history?”
“Freelance,” you said. “New Orleans, mostly. Catalogue stuff. A few showroom calls.”
“Good girl.” His hand found the small of your back. “And if they ask who’s representin’ you?”
“You.”
“Damn right.”
Every few steps, he’d stop to adjust your sleeve, or reposition your collar just slightly, or brush a speck of lint off your back like it was a threat. All the while, compliments rolled off him like breath.
“Walkin’ like you got six hundred cameras on you already.”
“No one else out here looks like you. That’s why they’re gonna remember.”
“God, darlin’, if they don’t pick you up after this, I’ll make a whole new magazine just to show ‘em what they missed.”
He meant it too. That was the thing.
When you reached the building, the receptionist barely had time to look up before Remmick had already introduced you both. “Ten o’clock, casting preview for senior editorial. We’re expected.”
He kept his hand low at your back as you were ushered toward the elevators, nodding politely but not waiting to be led. He knew the layout better than he should have. Knew exactly which floor. Which door. Which office.
You didn’t ask how.
Just like you didn’t ask how he managed the reservation for that dinner, or the money for the apartment, or the pull it must’ve taken to get a Tuesday meeting with Glamour on less than a week’s notice.
He stood with you right up to the waiting room. Talked you through every possible scenario. Repeated it all again. Not like he didn’t think you remembered, but like he needed to be sure. His hand curled around yours for a moment, thumb brushing your knuckles.
“You’re gonna go in there, and you’re gonna own it,” he said low. “Chin up. Shoulders back. They ain’t doin’ you a favor, darlin’. You’re the one bringin’ value.”
You smiled, even if your heart was loud in your ears. “You’re staying, right?”
“As long as they let me.”
The door cracked open then. A woman in a gray blazer stepped out and gave you a polite, clipped smile. “They’re ready for you.”
Remmick looked at her, then back at you.
“You got this,” he whispered, eyes catching the light like glass. “Go turn ‘em to mush.”
You stepped through the door with a deep breath, feeling him at your back even after it shut behind you.
The room wasn’t anything like you’d imagined. No flashbulbs. No velvet couches. Just white walls, a long table, and a row of people behind it. Only three today, though it felt like more.
The man in the middle leaned forward, adjusting his glasses as he looked you over. His suit was tan. His tie was brown. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a retirement brochure.
He didn’t smile.
His eyes landed on your hair, soft and natural, shaped carefully the way you and Remmick had discussed, and he frowned.
“You didn’t straighten your hair?”
The air thinned.
He said it casually. Like it was a reasonable question. Like you were the one who’d missed a memo. There was no malice in his voice. No edge. Just that neutral, evaluative tone. The kind that made your skin prickle.
You opened your mouth, unsure whether to answer. Whether to defend. But you didn’t get the chance.
Remmick’s words came back to you.
If they don’t like it, they can choke on it.
You straightened your spine. Lifted your chin.
“No,” you said, clearly. “I didn’t.”
His brow lifted, but he didn’t comment further. Just made a note on the paper in front of him and gestured toward the far end of the room. “We’ll have you stand there, please.”
You moved without trembling. Stood where he told you. But just as he looked up again, his tone shifted. Cool, clinical, condescending, like he was correcting a child.
“Next time, I’d encourage you to tame it a little,” he said, making a vague swirling motion near his own head. “It tends to interfere with the shape of the editorial spread. Distracts from the clothes.”
You held your breath for a second.
Then exhaled, choosing to respond with your silence.
You couldn’t see Remmick from here, but you knew, if he could, he’d be watching through the walls. Jaw set. Eyes sharp. Fingers curled around the armrest of some uncomfortable waiting room chair, burning with the need to intervene but holding back for your sake. Because he trusted you. Because he’d prepared you for this.
They smiled at you.
All three of them. The old white man in the center, still reeking of cedar cologne and importance. The younger one on his left with the narrow glasses and tight mouth. And the woman, quiet, polished, seated from the start, offered the warmest smile of all, like it might soften what was coming.
“You’ve got something,” the man in the center said, folding his hands like he was giving you the world instead of brushing you off. “Undeniably. And that face? It tells a story.”
You waited. Chin high. Shoulders set. The reader in you knew a setup when you heard one.
“But,” he continued, “we just couldn’t find the right fit for you on the cover. The concept’s already tight, and we’re working with established talent.”
The woman nodded sympathetically. “We’ll absolutely include you in the spread, though. There’s a great piece near the back. Beauty-focused, intimate lighting. You’ll photograph beautifully there.”
“Somewhere in the centerfold,” the younger man added. “Where you’ll pop.”
Pop.
You kept smiling. Even thanked them. Told them it was an honor.
The hallway outside felt colder than it had earlier. Like whatever heat had filled the building this morning had been drained just for you. You glanced around, expecting to see Remmick waiting in that same corner you assumed he'd been pacing in for the last hour, but he wasn’t there.
“Your agent?” the receptionist offered, catching your look. “He was asked to wait in the lobby. Waiting room’s only for models.”
You nodded, once. Of course it was.
You stepped into the elevator, then down through the marble lobby, each heel-click a reminder. Not of rejection exactly, because they hadn’t said no. But of all the ways a person can still be told not quite.
Remmick was already rising from the bench opposite of the window when you turned the corner. The second he saw you, he stood fast. Palms brushing down the front of his shirt, like his whole body was waiting for your cue. For your expression to tell him what to feel.
His mouth opened, but you beat him to it.
“They said I’ll be in the magazine,” you said.
His face didn’t move. Not right away.
Then slowly, his brow lifted.
“And?”
“Not on the cover.”
You watched it hit him. Watched how his expression stayed still for half a second too long. Just long enough for it to twist into something else. Something dangerous.
His jaw set hard. A muscle ticked. The color beneath his skin seemed to shift, just faintly, as if whatever fire lived inside him didn’t know where to go yet.
You almost thought he’d go back upstairs. March into that office and ask those men if they had any idea who they’d just handed a consolation prize to. If they knew how much talent they’d looked straight in the eye and passed over like it was nothing. He looked like he wanted blood.
But instead, he turned back to you.
His voice was quiet when it came. Measured.
“Well,” he said, lips tight around the word, “it’s a start.”
You gave a small nod. You didn’t trust your voice yet.
“And every star,” he added, smoothing his thumb along the back of your hand, “has to get her start somewhere.”
You looked down.
There was something about the way he said it. Not forced, not fake. But like he was trying to convince himself as much as you. Like he was clinging to the shape of the words because they were the only thing keeping him from sinking into whatever fury had been building behind his eyes.
“I wore what you told me,” you murmured. “Said what you told me to say. Stood still, smiled, kept my tone light. Did everything right.”
“You did more than right,” he said quickly. “You were brilliant.”
You looked back up.
“Then why wasn’t it enough?”
His face twisted. Something old passed over it. A flicker of pain he couldn’t hide fast enough.
“It was enough,” he said, voice low. “You are enough. You’re more than they’ve ever had walk through those doors, and they know it. That’s why they smiled so damn hard, ’cause they were too scared to admit they didn’t have the guts to hand you what you earned.”
You blinked.
He softened immediately.
“Darlin’,” he said gently, and that was the first time he’d called you that in a place like this. Not in the safety of your brownstone, not in the hush of his voice during quiet mornings or late nights. Here. Now. On a marble floor that didn’t want to carry your name.
He pulled you close, just enough to press his hand to the small of your back, shielding you from the glances nearby. “This is the last time someone underestimates you and walks away proud of it. I swear on my fuckin’ life.”
You exhaled, shaky. His hand rubbed small circles into your back, smoothing over the ache like he could press all the disappointment down until it flattened into something manageable.
“You said it yourself. You'll be in the magazine,” he went on. “A spread still gets eyes. Still gets press. They’ll see your face, your name, and the next time we walk into a building like this-” his voice dropped, almost growled, “-they’ll beg to put you on the front.”
You knew it wasn’t just a promise. It was a threat. A vow.
Remmick didn’t get loud. He didn’t need to. But the intensity in his voice had a gravity all its own, like if the world didn’t bend for you, he’d find a way to crack it open with his bare hands.
“I’ll make sure of it,” he said, softer now. “No matter what it takes.”
You leaned into him. Just slightly. Enough for him to steady you.
The world had felt heavier in the elevator. More than disappointment. It was like it had reinforced something you’d been trying to unlearn: that the door would still close, even when you did everything right.
But here, in the curve of his palm and the grit of his words, it felt manageable. Not fixed. But seen.
You didn’t say anything else as you both walked toward the exit, his hand never once leaving your back. His touch didn't say Keep moving. It said I’ve got you, and for now, that was enough.
He didn’t take you out that night.
You thought maybe he would. Half-expected it, honestly, with the way he’d looked at you in the car. Like you were glass and flame all at once, and he couldn’t decide which part to reach for first. His hand had stayed on your knee the whole ride, but not in that idle, drifting way men sometimes did when they got comfortable. No, his touch had been still. Focused. His thumb pressing slow, precise circles into the fabric, as if committing the shape of you to memory.
But when you stepped into the brownstone, he didn’t say a word about dinner, or drinks, or anything at all that required going back out into the city.
The door clicked softly shut behind you.
He locked it. Then checked it again, like he always did. Not once. Twice. Fingers lingering on the bolt like the world couldn’t be trusted not to knock again.
Then he turned, caught your eye in the dim hallway light, and you caught the redshift in his.
“Let me keep you in tonight,” he said.
Not a plea. Not a command. Just a fact.
You nodded before you even realized it.
It wasn’t long before the apartment was quiet again, save for the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of Remmick moving through the kitchen. You stood in the living room, still in your casting outfit, watching him open the fridge with that same thoughtful care he brought to everything. Like every bottle or jar might be hiding something important.
You didn’t expect him to cook. You’d never seen him eat. But the man knew his way around a pan, that much was clear.
He tied your apron around his waist without asking, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows as he set to work with the kind of slow, methodical focus that made the whole kitchen seem quieter.
Olive oil warmed in the pan. Garlic hit it next, the sizzle sharp and sudden before mellowing into something rich and familiar.
You leaned against the doorway, arms folded. Watching.
He didn’t look up, but you saw his shoulders shift like he could feel your eyes.
“I had somethin’ else in mind for tonight,” he said. “Somethin’ with music. White tablecloths. Wine list thick enough to kill a man. But figured you might need a minute to breathe.”
“I’m fine.”
“I know,” he said softly. “Still.”
You didn’t say anything to that. Just watched him toss fresh herbs into the pan. Basil, thyme, a pinch of something red from a spice jar he’d labeled in your handwriting. You didn't allow yourself to consider how he even learned to write like you.
“What’re you making?”
“Pasta,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “The real kind. Not that boxed stuff.”
You raised a brow. “You knead dough too, Remmick? That part of the agency job description?”
His mouth twitched, knowingly so. “Never hurts to be versatile.”
You smirked, but didn’t push it.
The radio played something low and old from the corner of the room, letting its dusty melody thread through the space like smoke. You sank into the armchair by the window, curling one leg beneath you as you listened to the rhythmic scrape of Remmick’s knife against the cutting board.
It was peaceful. Domestic in a way that felt almost unreal.
He plated your food with a flourish and brought it over without a word, setting it gently in front of you like he’d done it a thousand times before.
“Don’t wait,” he said, already moving to clear space on the coffee table.
You didn’t.
The pasta was perfectly done. Homemade sauce, deep and savory. You chewed slowly, trying to hide your surprise.
“You sure you didn’t work in a kitchen before this?”
“No ma’am,” he said, stretching out on the floor in front of you, back against the couch. “Just picked things up.”
He didn’t have a plate. You’d stopped asking about that after the third time it happened. He always said he’d eat later, that he’d already eaten, or that he wasn’t hungry. But the look in his eyes as he watched you always told a different story.
“Thank you,” you murmured, after a few more bites.
He looked up at you then. Eyes soft.
“You don’t gotta thank me.”
“I want to.”
Something shifted in his face. A flicker of something he didn’t say. He looked back down at the rug.
“I know today didn’t go like we wanted,” he said, voice quieter now. “But it’s a start. Ain’t no stars born in full blaze. You’ll get there.”
You hummed, letting the praise settle somewhere deep inside. The pasta disappeared slower after that. You were full before you finished, but you kept taking little bites just to keep him sitting there. Just to keep this moment still.
He cleared the plate when you finally set it down. Washed it, dried it, and returned like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t watched his shoulders flex through the thin linen of his shirt or followed the curve of his jaw as he leaned over the sink.
When he returned, he didn’t sit on the floor this time.
He eased onto the couch instead, the cushions dipping under his weight, the worn linen wrinkling beneath him. His body moved with the kind of slow care that wasn’t laziness, but calculation. Like he was measuring how much space he ought to take up, how much distance there was between your bodies.
Then he held out his hand.
Open. Bare. Still.
No words. Just that quiet, steady offering. Not an ask. Not a demand. An invitation.
You didn’t speak either. Just looked at him, looked at that hand, then back up into his face.
He wasn’t smiling. Not exactly. But there was a kind of soft hope carved into the lines of his mouth, a flicker in his eyes that said he needed the touch more than he wanted to admit.
So you reached for him.
Your fingers slid into his, warm and steady, and let him draw you forward. Not pulled. Not dragged or directed or coaxed, but simply… guided. Like gravity worked differently where he was.
You let yourself settle beside him.
His arm curled naturally along the back of the couch, but didn’t touch you. Not at first. He sat still as you tucked your legs beneath you, shifting until your shoulder just brushed his chest.
The lamp nearby cast long, slow shadows against the brick wall behind you. The whole apartment felt hushed, wrapped in soft amber and low sounds from the street that barely reached the window.
You tilted your head slightly, letting the silence stretch.
He looked at you then.
Really looked.
And not with that mask he wore around others, the one he used when smoothing the way for phone calls and photoshoots, all cleverness and quiet, careful charm.
This was different.
His hand slid from the cushion behind you, moved down and found yours again. He cradled it between both of his like it was delicate. Breakable. A thing too precious to be touched without veneration.
He traced the shape of your palm with the tip of one finger. Slow. Careful.
And said nothing.
You let him do it. Let him take your hand in his and explore it like it might disappear, like every line and fold and soft edge meant something more than flesh and skin.
You looked at him for a long moment, studying the lines around his eyes, the way his hair was still mussed from running his fingers through it. His jaw was tense, but not with anger. Something quieter. Something more internal.
“You okay?” you asked.
He smiled faintly. “Tired.”
“You sleep last night?”
He gave a soft snort. “Don’t need much.”
You let that go.
The apartment was quiet again. The kind of hush that felt deliberate. Sacred. The low hum of the refrigerator was the only thing keeping time now.
And then he spoke again.
“I ever tell you how much I hate bein’ helpless?” he said quietly. “Hate sittin’ in a hall waitin’ to hear how they gonna minimize you. Like I’m just supposed to swallow it.”
You didn’t answer. Just turned, leaning slightly into the curve of his arm where it hovered behind you.
“Hey,” you said after a pause. “You didn’t fail me.”
He didn’t speak.
“You hear me?” you pressed, voice firmer now. “You didn’t.”
He looked at you again then. That same old look. Like you were something just out of reach, Something he didn’t think he deserved but couldn’t stop staring at.
And then, like a dam breaking, he shifted.
His hand slid from yours, only to return a second later, cupping the back of your fingers, cradling them between both of his. He brought them close to his mouth, not quite kissing them, but holding them there like they warmed him.
“I just wanted it to be perfect,” he frowned.
You tilted your head.
“It is,” you said. “Not the job. Not them. But this? Us?”
He blinked.
“It’s getting there.”
That earned a small laugh. Quiet. Real.
You smiled.
“Thank you for dinner,” you said again, softer now.
His eyes lingered on your lips a moment too long.
“Anytime.”
And he meant it.
Anytime. Anything. Always.
Every inch of him said so.
You didn’t sleep much the night before.
Too much weight in your chest. Too many thoughts, all rustling like paper just out of reach. Every time your eyes drifted closed, they fluttered open again. The room was too quiet, the air too still. It felt like something was waiting. Or maybe you were.
But even if you had managed to drift off, you would’ve woken anyway. You always did, somehow, whenever he came close.
It was subtle at first. The soft creak of a floorboard just beyond the hallway. A change in pressure. Barely there, but enough to make your skin prickle. Like the atmosphere shifted slightly to accommodate him. The air grew heavier, like it recognized him before your eyes did.
You didn’t move. Kept your breath even. Let your lashes stay low, even though your eyes were cracked open just enough to see the shape in the corner.
Remmick.
Standing there. Still as a portrait, as if one stray blink might smear him from view. Bare-chested, in nothing but a pair of dark briefs that hung low on his hips, his skin pale and sharp against the dark. The moonlight didn’t dare touch him directly. It hovered in the corners instead, gathering where his shoulder met his throat, pooling in the shallow dip of his chest. His body looked almost carved. Lean, wiry muscle wrapped tight in skin that barely looked like it belonged to someone living.
But it was his eyes that held you in place.
They didn’t catch the light.
They made their own.
Twin glints of red shimmered low beneath his brow, steady and unblinking. Not the flash of a reflection. Not the glimmer of light hitting moisture. No. These burned from within, low and quiet, like embers buried deep beneath ash. They didn’t flicker. They didn’t pulse.
They glowed.
And in that glow was something else. Something wordless. Something ancient.
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t make a sound.
Just stood there at the foot of your bed, breathing like he didn’t trust himself to get any closer. Like he’d been walking through a dream all night and didn’t want to wake you for fear of it ending.
It wasn’t hunger in his face. Not lust, either. It was… awe. Disbelief, maybe. As if he wasn’t entirely convinced you were still real.
And as you watched him, quiet, breath steady, you couldn’t help but wonder:
How long had he been doing this?
How many nights had he stood in that exact spot?
How many times had you not woken up? Had you not noticed?
The thought didn’t scare you. If anything, it stirred something softer. Stranger. Like the ghost of a heartbeat rising from the floorboards beneath you.
You didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
And neither did he.
By the time the alarm sounded, the sun wasn’t up yet, but he was already in the kitchen.
You heard the clink of porcelain, the soft scrape of a drawer sliding open, the rhythmic hush of his bare feet moving across the floor. The smell of something warm and faintly herbal drifted through the air. Something like honey and mint, but darker underneath. Earthier.
You sat up slowly, still heavy with the weight of half-slept dreams, and blinked against the dim light spilling in from the hallway.
Your clothes were already laid out again. Pressed and folded across the back of the couch. The same place as last time.
A blouse in cream and cinnamon tones. High-waisted slacks. The matching heels you'd only worn once, but that he’d polished clean anyway. Everything laid out with such care it made your chest ache. He didn’t miss a detail. He never did.
Even your hair products, combs, oils, moisturizers, pins, were already set neatly beside a warm towel on the kitchen counter. Like he’d anticipated the exact order you’d reach for them, the sequence of your morning carved into his mind.
You stepped in, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and found him whistling. Low and unhurried, some old tune you couldn’t place. He stood at the stove, stirring something in a small pan, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was a quiet light to him this morning.
His hair was combed back, not slicked, but neat. The buttons on his shirt done all the way up, save for the top two, leaving his throat bare. His slacks were creased to perfection, and the leather belt cinched around his waist gleamed like he’d buffed it just for the occasion.
He looked over his shoulder at you, and his face lit up like it always did. Like you were the very thing he’d been hoping would walk through that doorway.
Because you were.
“Evenin',” he said with a smile, voice rough but still sweet.
You raised a brow. “It’s morning.”
His smile widened, almost sheepish. “Don’t feel like it.”
You moved closer, the floor cool beneath your bare feet, and leaned your hip against the counter beside him.
“You been up long?” you asked.
He shrugged, eyes flicking back to the pan. “Long enough. Wanted to make sure everything was just right.”
He handed you a steaming mug of tea without being asked. Your favorite, of course. Just the right amount of honey, just the way you liked it.
“You nervous?” he asked softly, not looking at you.
You didn’t answer right away.
Instead, you watched him. The set of his jaw. The way his fingers flexed slightly on the wooden spoon. His body was still, but the tension was there. It always was. Like the storm never fully left his bones.
“Not really,” you said. “Not yet.”
He nodded. Then turned toward you fully, wiping his hands on a towel tucked into the waistband of his slacks. He studied you, head tilted slightly, eyes trailing over your face with that same intent scrutiny you were starting to get used to.
You didn’t flinch from it anymore.
“C’mere,” he said gently, holding out a hand.
You hesitated. Only for a second.
Then reached forward.
His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and careful, and he tugged you closer. Slow, but certain.
“I had a dream about you,” he said softly.
“You were wearin’ that same look. All bright-eyed and sharpened up. Like you’d walked straight out of some storybook meant to ruin someone,”
He laughed, soft and half-embarrassed, but didn’t look away.
“You make it hard for a man to think straight, y’know that?”
You didn’t respond right away. You just let the words settle, warm and slow in the hollow of your throat. Something in the way he said those words made your stomach twist. Made your breath stick somewhere deep in your ribs. It didn’t feel like the usual flattery. Not cheap. Not performative. Not the kind of thing you’d heard a dozen times back home or whispered at castings with a sleazy grin.
This was different. Lower. Honest. Like it surprised even him.
And maybe it did.
Because as soon as he said it, he seemed to catch himself. Barely. His throat moved with the effort of swallowing it down. His eyes dropped, and he took a small step back, as if distance might fix whatever he’d let slip between you.
“Go wash up,” he said, voice quieter now. “I’ll get breakfast finished.”
You didn’t argue. Just nodded once and moved toward the bathroom, heartbeat louder than your footsteps.
By the time you stepped out again, hair wrapped in a towel and skin still warm from the steam, the apartment smelled faintly of sage and something sweet. Peaches, maybe. Or brown sugar. You couldn’t tell. Just that it was soft. Comforting.
The living room had a golden hue now, touched by early light filtered through overcast skies. Everything looked gentler, as if the whole city had been wrapped in gauze.
Remmick wasn’t at the stove anymore. The burner was off, the kettle still hot beside it.
He stood at the window instead, one hand resting on the sill, the other pulling the curtain back just a fraction. Not enough to see out fully. Just enough to check.
When he turned back around and saw you, whatever he’d been worrying about fell clean out of his face.
His eyes widened slightly. Jaw slackened. His whole posture shifted, like the breath had been pulled straight out of him.
“God damn,” he whispered, nearly under his breath. “Look at you.”
You didn’t need a mirror to know what he was seeing. The high-waisted pants he’d picked out the night before, fitted just right to your waist. The blouse with its delicate neckline and little pearl buttons, catching faint light. Your curls still damp but styled soft and neat. Face clean. Mostly bare, but radiant.
You let yourself smile. Just a little. “You picked the outfit.”
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t nod, either.
Just walked toward you, slow and careful, like approaching something sacred. His boots barely made a sound on the old wood floor.
“Still,” he purred, reaching out to brush something, nothing, really, from your sleeve. His fingers lingered a little longer than needed. “You wear it better than I dreamed.”
He fussed over you the entire time. Fixing buttons. Adjusting seams. His fingers lingered where they shouldn’t have. On your hip, on your collarbone, but always under the guise of perfection.
“You’re gonna hate the cabs in this city,” he chuckled, smoothing a wrinkle from your skirt. “Good thing we’re not takin’ one.”
You raised a brow, though you weren't at all surprised. “We’re not?”
He looked up, pleased with himself in that quiet way. “Got a car waitin’. Somethin’ a little easier on the nerves. And the shoes.”
You laughed. “You got us another driver?”
“I got you a driver,” he corrected gently, brushing something invisible from your sleeve. “I just happen to be taggin’ along.”
His words tried to sound offhand, but his hands kept pausing. Kept hovering like they couldn’t quite bring themselves to let go.
The last touch lingered too long on your lower back.
“If it comes down to it,” he added lowly, “I’ll carry you myself.”
You smiled at the joke, but when you met his eyes, it wasn’t a joke at all.
He meant it.
And for a second, the air in the room felt heavier. Pressed in close. Charged.
You cleared your throat. “We better go.”
He nodded once, like it snapped him out of whatever spell he’d drifted into.
But just before you reached the door, he caught your hand. Gently. Held it between both of his, the edges of his fingers slightly trembling.
“Today ain’t just a shoot,” he said, voice steady, low. “It’s your beginnin’. Your real one. So when they look at you, don’t flinch. Don’t fold. Let ‘em see what I see.”
“And what’s that?” you asked softly.
He didn’t smile.
“Perfection.”
The car rolled to a stop outside a tall brick building tucked deep into SoHo, the kind with no sign on the front and a buzzer system you had to know how to work to get inside. From the curb, it didn’t look like much. A delivery van was parked at the corner. Two men with light meters and cases of film were hunched over a dolly at the service entrance. But inside was something different.
The photographer’s studio took up the entire top floor. High ceilings, polished concrete floors, wall-to-wall windows dressed in gauzy white fabric that filtered in the pale morning light like milk through cheesecloth. You stepped in and immediately noticed the quiet chill in the air, too sterile to feel artistic. Not cold exactly. Just... clinical.
The space had clearly been prepared. No one had cut corners. A fresh bouquet of lilies and peonies sat in a vase by the makeup station. Garment racks overflowed with gowns in every imaginable shade, some still tagged, some borrowed from designers who only lent to the best. Studio assistants buzzed around with clipboards and cups of coffee, walking fast but talking softly. Respectfully. Not to you, but to him.
Remmick.
He stood just behind your shoulder, as he always did, not saying much but radiating authority in a way that made people clear a path. There was no need for volume, no need for presence to be announced. His silence had weight. The kind that made a room shift without realizing it.
You saw it in the way spines straightened when he stepped close, the way assistants lowered their voices mid-sentence, as if whatever they were discussing might offend him by accident. He didn’t bark orders. He didn’t need to. His gaze alone, steady, unreadable, somehow both patient and predatory, did most of the work.
Every time someone turned, they looked at him first. Their questions never quite made it to your lips. The makeup artist. The stylist. Even the photographer, who was trying too hard to act like he didn’t notice. His eyes flicked to Remmick’s figure once, twice, like he was trying to place him. Like he didn’t understand why he felt nervous.
You’d started noticing it more often. How his presence rearranged a room. How the tone changed, the pace shifted. Like the energy bent around him before anyone knew it was happening.
The photographer, a trim white man in his late thirties with thin lips and thick-framed glasses, finally stepped forward. His pants were pressed too stiff. His cologne smelled sharp and expensive, but didn't mask the sweat already building beneath his collar. He gave you a quick glance. Nothing warm. Nothing memorable. Just a skim of the eyes like you were a fabric sample. He didn’t offer a name.
Instead, he turned his head, nose wrinkling ever so slightly, and addressed the stylist behind him.
“She’s darker than I expected,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. Not even a whisper of shame. “We’ll need to be careful with lighting. That undertone catches weird on film.”
You felt Remmick stiffen behind you. So subtly you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t been so attuned to the way he breathed.
There was a silence, sudden and sharp, like someone had shut a drawer too hard.
But he didn’t speak.
Not yet.
You didn’t need to turn to know his hands were probably flexing at his sides, slow and deliberate. His restraint wasn’t the brittle kind. It was the kind that bided time. Waited for the perfect opening.
You kept your face smooth. Not blank, not soft, just controlled. Every inch of you brimming with dignity he clearly hadn’t expected. You caught one of the assistants glancing up from her clipboard, eyes wide and flicking from the photographer to you with something like alarm. Her jaw tensed, but she said nothing.
No one corrected him.
No one said a word.
But you simply walked past anyway, toward the makeup chair, head held high.
The chair sat beneath a ring of lights, too white and too bright. You sank into it with practiced grace, smoothing your robe over your thighs as a stylist bustled over, her nervous smile stretched too wide.
“Hey, sweetie,” she chirped. “Let’s get you glammed up, yeah?”
Her hands were quick, efficient. She swatched shades across your jawline with a speed that spoke more to panic than precision. None of them matched. Too yellow. Too gray. Too red. You didn’t say anything. Just watched as she fumbled, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for another palette.
“Your undertone’s so unique,” she muttered. “Really gotta find that balance... can’t let the camera flatten it...”
You knew what she meant.
And what she didn’t say.
Remmick hadn’t moved from the edge of the room. He leaned against a column, arms crossed, eyes locked on the back of your head through the mirror. Not breathing heavy. Not shifting. Just watching.
Guarding.
The stylist was careful with your hair, at least. Didn't try to fight it. Just lifted and pinned and fluffed with dutiful fingers, whispering tiny praises under her breath like she was scared of doing too much. She was trying, you gave her that. Whether it was guilt or fear or something closer to decency, you didn’t care. So long as she kept her hands gentle and her thoughts to herself.
“Camera loves your cheekbones,” she said, and that part sounded honest.
When you were done, you stood slowly, caught your own reflection in the mirror.
You looked like yourself.
Yourself, but sharpened. Framed in gold and plum. Lips glossed, lashes full, jaw set just right.
Behind you, Remmick shifted. You saw him in the glass, his eyes not on the outfit, not on the hair.
On you.
Always on you.
You didn’t smile. Not yet. But something eased in your chest.
The first few rounds of photos went smoothly enough. You moved between backdrops in different gowns. Deep purples, yellows, something champagne-colored with a sheer overlay that caught the light like water. The fabric floated when you walked, whispering against your legs, pooling at your ankles in gentle, liquid waves.
You didn’t pose so much as exist the way Remmick had taught you: shoulders open, chin tilted with certainty, mouth soft but deliberate. Posture like armor. Expression like invitation. You didn’t chase the camera. You let it come to you. Let it find the angles it wanted, as if it had no choice but to follow the pull of your gravity.
The flashbulbs burst in rhythmic intervals, bright and brief, filling the space with the scent of heat and ozone. Stylists moved around you in a silent, efficient orbit. Patting down your skirt hem, adjusting the hang of your sleeve, brushing an invisible strand of hair from your brow. But it was the photographer who kept lagging behind. You could feel it in the pauses. In the hesitations. In the way he kept glancing toward Remmick like a man who had questions he didn’t know how to ask.
He didn’t know how to handle it.
“Give me something more demure,” he called at one point, standing behind the camera with a squint and a frown. “Less... confrontational. Softer eyes.”
Your brows lifted. Not high. Just enough. And just for a moment, you let your tongue slip.
“I’m looking into a lens.”
“Well, yes,” he said, chuckling like he thought that’d smooth things over. “But it’s just... try to be less direct. You’re a feature, not the focus.”
You didn't say anything back.
Your mouth didn't even twitch.
But Remmick did.
“She’s exactly the focus,” he said, stepping forward from the edge of the lights, voice low and firm and without a speck of humor. “That’s what centerfold means.”
The room went still again.
Even the stylist’s hands froze mid-pin near your waist. The assistant by the reflector stiffened, eyes darting between the two men.
The photographer adjusted a light. His fingers weren’t as steady as before.
“I meant it compositionally,” he said, clearing his throat, not quite meeting Remmick’s eye.
“No, you didn’t.”
Remmick said it without blinking.
His tone hadn’t changed. Calm. Crisp. But the weight behind it was enough to press the silence flat between every heartbeat in the room.
And for a moment, the only thing that moved was the slow flicker of the overhead bulb as it warmed.
The photographer looked down, fiddled with his light meter, and muttered something about “another angle.”
Eventually, the shoot resumed.
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t fold.
But you caught the way Remmick stayed closer now. Just outside the frame. Arms still crossed. Watching the photographer like a man making mental measurements. Every time the camera clicked, his eyes weren’t on the flash, but on the hands that adjusted it. On the words that came next. On every breath, every shift in tone, like he was deciding whether or not to let this man finish his job.
As the final shots were taken, dramatic lighting, a sheer backdrop, your hair full and proud against the white, he moved beside the stylist and spoke low, voice barely above a hum.
“She’s done after this one,” he said. “I’ll be handling approvals.”
The stylist didn’t argue. Just nodded, lips pressed together, hands folding neatly at her waist.
You were back in your clothes ten minutes later, the silk blouse clinging a little from the heat still radiating off your skin. The dressing room felt more cramped than it did before, the air heavy with setting spray and leftover perfume. Your throat was dry. One of the assistants handed you a paper cup with a straw, and you accepted it without a word, sipping slow, letting the cool water settle the heat in your chest.
Someone knelt beside you, working at the straps of the heels. Your feet ached, throbbing faintly from hours of posing. Never quite standing, never quite walking, just holding beauty in place.
Remmick was waiting by the door.
He hadn’t moved the entire time. Coat over his arm, one hand resting lightly against the wall as if to anchor himself. His body didn’t sway. Didn’t fidget. But his jaw ticked every few seconds, like he was grinding something silent between his teeth.
When you joined him, blouse tucked, shoulders square, he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at you.
Looked long.
“You were perfect,” he hummed, voice barely above a hush.
“But?”
“But nothing,” he said, tone rough at the edges. “You were perfect.”
He opened the door with his free hand, held it until you passed through, his touch naturally settling the small of your back.
He didn’t comment on the photographer again.
He didn’t have to.
You saw it in the way he walked beside you. Shoulders set too tight, gait too rigid for someone supposedly at ease. His jaw was still clenched, the muscle there twitching with the rhythm of his steps. His fingers flexed every now and then, as if rehearsing something they’d wanted to do but hadn’t been given permission to.
And when you stepped into the elevator, he stood still. Hands folded in front of him. The red shimmer pulsed once, subtle and slow. You reached out, gently brushing the tips of your fingers against his wrist.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t flinch.
Just looked at you, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor.
You weren’t sure what he would’ve done if you hadn’t been there to stop him.
But you were.
And he let you lead this time.
Just this once.
It had been a week since the shoot. Seven full days since your skin was powdered and styled, since camera bulbs flashed like lightning, and since Remmick’s hand hovered behind your back like a second spine. Steadier than any wall, quieter than any breath, always there.
And now, a week later, the magazines were out.
The sun hadn’t even gone down when you heard the lock click. You were barefoot in the living room, tea cooling untouched on the windowsill, your thumb slowly dragging across the same corner of the same page in a book you hadn’t really touched since morning. You weren’t reading. Just looking. Letting the quiet stretch long around you.
The soft hum of traffic rose from below, dulled behind brick and double glass. Somewhere across the alley, a radio crackled faintly from an open window. But inside, the air was hushed and warm, filled with the scent of sweet almond and black vanilla. Something Remmick had lit before he left, soft and curling in the corners of the apartment like memory. A clean smell. Luxurious in its calm.
You turned your head at the sound of the door creaking open.
Remmick stepped in, arms full. No coat, he hadn’t worn one in days now, but his favorite fitted blazer was slung on his shoulders. Brown and a little rumpled like he’d worn it too long. His sleeves were pushed to the elbows, forearms exposed, the collar open at his throat. His skin looked flushed, not from heat, but from effort. From thrill.
And in his hands?
Magazines.
Stacks and stacks of them.
Glamour. Thick, glossy. Dozens, no, maybe hundreds of copies, some with their spines still crisp, others already peeled open, like he couldn’t resist peeking before bringing them home. He kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his shoe and dropped the load on the coffee table in a huff of breath and triumph.
You blinked at the pile.
Then looked up at him.
Then back down.
“…Remmick.”
He beamed at you.
Actually beamed.
And for just a second, just long enough to make your stomach flip, you saw them.
Fangs.
Not teeth. Not canines. Fangs.
They hadn’t fully retracted. The points glinted faintly behind his bottom lip, his mouth too wide with joy to contain them, like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to hide.
He didn’t notice. Not yet. Just stood there, catching his breath, eyes glowing faint and sweet in the lamplight like he'd returned from battle with spoils no one could take from him.
And you, watching from the couch, weren’t sure what took your breath first. His smile, or the fact that it wasn’t quite human.
“Every shop had a limit,” he said breathlessly, already tugging the first magazine open. “Three per customer, some of ’em said. Five, if I smiled real nice.”
You raised a brow.
He licked his thumb, flipped a page. “So I went to every damn shop in Manhattan.”
And he meant it. His shirt was damp at the collar, sleeves wrinkled at the elbows. A thin line of sweat traced his temple like he’d run half the way home. You could practically see the city on him. Subway grit on his cuffs, the faint scent of cold air and ink clinging to the folds of his blazer. He looked like a man who’d carried your name through the streets like it was gospel.
Then he found the spread.
Your spread.
Dead center in the glossy pages, your face filled the left half. Your body, the way they’d posed you, half reclined, your mouth parted like you’d just finished saying something worth listening to, took up the right. Above it, the title gleamed in embossed gold:
A Southern Star on the Rise
He whistled low. “Would you look at that.”
He turned the magazine toward you like you hadn’t already lived it. Like you hadn’t memorized every contour, every careful arch of your brows, every piece of your expression caught in that still moment of light.
But he held it like it was sacred. Like scripture. Like he was revealing something you hadn’t quite grasped yet.
“Damn,” he muttered, opening another copy. “Print didn’t dull you a bit. Thought maybe it would. Thought maybe it’d catch you wrong. But no. You shine right through.”
He pulled open another magazine. Then another.
In seconds, your entire coffee table disappeared under layers of your own image. Identical pages laid side by side, all turned to the centerfold. There you were, over and over again. Still. Composed. Glowing.
Like a constellation laid across the living room. Like stars, just rearranged.
Remmick crouched beside the table, smoothing one copy flat with the care of someone laying down silk. He didn’t blink, just studied the page like it was breathing, alive. Like he was waiting for it to reach back.
Then he rose to full height, tucked a copy under his arm, and walked over to you. Still barefoot. Still silent.
Still watching.
And you, frozen on the couch, felt your throat tighten with something you hadn’t named yet.
“You seen yourself in these?” he asked, voice quiet and smooth. Like the question itself was fragile.
You nodded once.
He grinned and leaned in to kiss your cheek. Just a brush of lips. But slow. Like it meant something. Like it had waited all day to land there, and now that it had, the world could keep spinning again.
Then he reached for your chin. Callused fingers gentle as they tipped your face up, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw.
“I want you to say it,” he demanded, though so gently you could've mistaken it for a polite question.
You blinked. “Say what?”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at you. Really looked. His pupils were blown wide, red bleeding through the blue, burning steady in the low light of your living room.
Not glowing out of hunger.
Not now.
Out of pride. Out of something heavier. Older.
He waited.
So you said it.
Soft at first. A breath, barely formed.
“I’m a fuckin’ star.”
His smile widened. Slow, hungry, like it’d been waiting just beneath the surface.
So you said it again.
Louder this time.
“I’m a fuckin’ star!”
And this time, he didn’t stop at your cheek.
He kissed the corner of your mouth. Gentle. Noncommittal. A press of gratitude, of awe. Like you’d just named something holy.
Then he straightened, tapped your shoulder once with two fingers like sealing a blessing, and turned back toward the coffee table. Toward the sea of open pages like he couldn’t stand to look at just one.
He crouched again. Fingers drifting over the print, barely touching the paper. Just enough to feel the ink. Just enough to make sure it was real.
Behind him, you stared down at your own face. Again, and again, and again, until the whole room felt covered in you. Until your name echoed back at you from every glossy surface.
It was too much.
It wasn’t enough.
You reached for one of the magazines and ran your hand over the fold. The version of yourself staring back was powerful. Beautiful. Alive. You looked like a woman who knew exactly who she was.
The only thing stronger than the pride warming your chest was the look in his eyes every time he flipped a page.
He thumbed through another copy, quieter now. As if just the sound of turning paper was too loud. Then, almost absentmindedly, like the thought had just resurfaced between page turns, he said it:
“Oh, Vogue called.”
Your head snapped up.
He didn’t look at you right away. Just kept flipping, smoothing down a crease on one of the centerfolds.
“Said they had an opening next month. I booked it. Thursday, ten.”
You blinked.
“Vogue.”
“Yeah.” His voice was soft, distracted. Eyes still on the magazine in front of him. “Figured it was a good fit. Didn’t wanna wait.”
“You... booked a Vogue shoot?”
He finally looked up then, eyes wide and sincere, brows pinched like he was only just realizing something might be unusual.
“I mean… yeah. I told you, didn’t I?”
You stared at him.
He stared at your photo.
And then you laughed. Soft, incredulous, stunned.
Because of course he had.
Of course Vogue had called Remmick.
Of course they had seen the piece and knew exactly what they were looking at.
He hadn’t had to knock on their door, hadn’t begged or bargained. They came to him.
Because when they saw you, they didn’t see a gamble. They didn’t see a request.
They saw inevitability.
And Remmick?
He treated it like the most obvious thing in the world.
“You,” you said, smiling now, “are insane.”
He blinked once. Then gave a faint shrug, turning back to the magazine.
“Maybe,” he murmured. “But I’m not wrong.”
And when he looked at you again, spread out across a dozen pages, glowing under lamplight, you could see the truth settle in his expression.
He wasn’t just proud.
He was certain.
You were everything he said you were.
And now, the world was catching up.
You woke to the scent of freshly peeled citrus and the low sound of Remmick humming. The windows were still closed, the curtains drawn against a morning sky that hadn’t quite made up its mind. The apartment smelled sharper than usual. Grapefruit, maybe. Lemongrass. Something he knew cleared your head. You were still blinking the sleep from your eyes when his silhouette appeared in the doorway.
“Up,” he said gently. “Got somethin’ to tell you.”
You sat up slowly. “What time is it?”
“Little after six. But don’t panic,” he added, smile curling at the corners. “You’ve got hours.”
You raised a brow. “Remmick... what?”
He walked in, holding your outfit already pressed and draped across one arm. Light blue silk. Crisp ivory slacks. A bold, gold-buttoned jacket you didn’t recognize.
He held them out. “We’re goin’ to Vogue.”
You blinked. “I know. You said the shoot was today.”
He hesitated. Then, sheepishly, almost boyish, he added, “Right. But, uh… I didn’t tell you everything.”
You stared at him.
He cleared his throat. “It’s the cover. They want you on the cover.”
Your mouth went dry.
He took a step back. Just one. Holding the clothes like a peace offering. “Figured if I told you earlier, you’d start worryin’. Fret about posture. Or pores. Or your walk. Or-”
“Remmick.”
He looked at you then. Earnest. Glowing.
You pressed your palm against your chest, trying to slow the way your heart was kicking against your ribs.
“The cover?” you whispered.
“Front page. Full feature.”
It should’ve floored you. Maybe it still would. But right now, all you could do was nod and let him help you out of bed.
He guided you through the morning like a man who’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Hands careful, patient. Shirt laid out before you needed it. Jewelry untangled before you even glanced at the box. He pressed a warm cloth to your face, careful not to disturb the curl of your hair, freshly done the night before.
“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead,” he said, and you knew he believed every single word.
And then, quieter, almost to himself: “And I’ll be right there to see it.”
The car was waiting downstairs. Sleek and black and already running, the driver greeting Remmick with a nod and holding the door open for you like he’d been coached. Your nerves didn’t settle, not even on the drive. But Remmick’s hand rested gently against your knee the entire way. Grounding. Warm.
The studio was quiet when you arrived. Museum quiet, gallery quiet. The kind of stillness that felt curated, intentional, like someone had taken great care to make the space feel more like a cathedral than a workplace. The polished concrete floors were cool under your heels, spotless and reflecting faint outlines of the high arched windows that lined the walls. Exposed brick, original to the building, gave the room a sense of old, lived-in charm, and soft white curtains billowed ever so slightly from vents high above. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender, linen, and something powdery-sweet.
You moved through the entrance with Remmick just behind you, his hand barely grazing the small of your back. Never guiding, just anchoring. He didn’t speak, didn’t announce himself. He didn’t need to. His presence always did the talking.
The photographer met you before you’d taken more than three steps inside. “Étienne,” he said, with a faint bow of the head. His accent was French, thick and rounded at the edges, the syllables slipping from his mouth like warm sugar. His hair was silver at the temples, his blazer draped and elegant, and his handshake was firm but not aggressive. Warm, like he’d waited a long time to meet you.
“It is my absolute pleasure, mademoiselle,” he said. “I’ve admired your spread in Glamour. You moved with the camera. Not many know how to do that.”
He didn’t say your skin glowed.
Didn’t ask about your hair.
Didn’t say anything about being “surprised” by your presence.
He just met your eyes, quiet and open. Like you were someone worth listening to.
“Today,” he said, “you belong to the camera. Let’s make her fall in love.”
You let yourself breathe, just a little.
The rest of the team introduced themselves in a calm rhythm, one by one. No rushed hands. No clipped instructions. A stylist with a soft Brooklyn accent asked gently before adjusting your collarbone. A makeup artist barely older than you murmured a few compliments while swatching shades along your jaw. Matched your undertones on the first go. No hesitation. No apologies.
Your hair wasn’t “a challenge.” It wasn’t “big.” It was just yours. One woman, sharp-eyed and efficient, studied the fullness of your curls for a beat, then nodded once and said, “Let’s let it speak today.” No flattening. No translation.
You didn’t feel tolerated.
You felt expected.
Appreciated.
The way the room moved around you was not with caution, but with respect. Like your place had already been made, and they were just moving to match it.
And Remmick, he didn’t hover today.
He didn’t pace. Didn’t step in or offer unnecessary notes. He took a chair near the edge of the set, legs crossed, hands loosely clasped over one knee. His coat lay neatly across the back of the chair, and he looked like he was simply waiting for a performance he’d already seen, waiting to watch it unfold in the flesh.
He watched you the way a man watched a storm rolling in. Calm. Certain. Unwavering.
His eyes tracked your every step.
And when the camera clicked, when Étienne raised the lens and tilted his head just so, it began.
Soft commands, never harsh.
“Lift your chin just a touch, oui. That’s perfect.”
“Let the shoulder dip, like you’re sighing.”
“Not a smile. Just the idea of one.”
And you you didn’t pose. You existed. You did what Remmick had drilled into you for weeks: you let the room adjust to you. Shoulders drawn back, chin at just the right angle, spine fluid. You didn’t chase the lens. You let it orbit you.
Each frame caught something new: your strength, your softness, your refusal to shrink.
Backdrops shifted behind you. One faded into the next. Cool eggshell white to a moody, smoky grey. Then to a blush-rose curtain lit from behind to mimic early sunrise, and finally to a gold-toned gradient that bathed your skin in warmth, turning every line of your body into a celebration. Your hands, your mouth, the arch of your back. You weren’t just in the photo.
You were the photo.
At one point, as you adjusted in the sheer champagne gown, the stylist stepped close to smooth a wrinkle on your shoulder. She paused, tilted her head, then muttered under her breath, “I swear, you don’t have a bad angle.”
Remmick smiled at that.
Didn’t say anything.
But you saw his fingers twitch against his knee.
And when Étienne pulled the camera down after the final shot, when the room held its breath and the lights warmed one final time, he exhaled slow, his voice dropping.
“Mon dieu,” he said. “You are going to be the beginning of a new era.”
There weren’t cheers. No grand applause. Just a quiet stillness that settled over the room like snowfall.
The stylists nodded. One of the assistants wiped her eyes.
Your name passed around the room in whispers.
Back in your own clothes again, the familiar weight of your own scent folded into the fabric, you stood in front of the mirror, unsure what exactly had changed.
Something had.
You could still feel the echo of the lights on your skin, the soft heat of the set, the way Étienne had whispered magnifique under his breath more than once without knowing you heard him. The clothes they’d dressed you in had been draped and pinned and sculpted to fit your body like a second skin, but now that they were gone, what lingered wasn’t fabric.
It was power.
You weren’t wearing a magazine dress anymore.
But you still felt like a cover.
You gathered your things slowly. Slipped on your shoes one at a time. Tucked the lipstick you'd needlessly brought. Gave the studio one last glance over your shoulder, just to make sure it had all been real. That the lights weren’t a trick, that the hush in the room wasn’t some illusion of grandeur.
And then you saw him.
Remmick.
Standing at the edge of the studio floor, right where the light faded into shadow. His coat was folded neatly over one arm, the other hanging at his side, still and sure. He didn’t lean against the wall. Didn’t shift his weight. He just stood there like he’d been waiting for this exact moment, this exact you, to turn and meet his eyes.
And when you did?
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t grin. Didn’t offer some teasing remark or coy turn of phrase.
He just looked at you.
Like he couldn’t believe it.
Or maybe he could.
Like he’d known it all along but still wasn’t prepared for the truth of it staring back at him now, standing in her own skin, quiet and luminous and ready.
He extended his hand.
Not rushed. Not hesitant.
Like a gentleman.
Like a vow.
You stepped forward, each footfall soft against the studio floor, and reached out to take it.
His palm was warm. Slightly callused, as always. Big enough to hold you steady.
And when he leaned in close, closer than necessary, just so his breath could touch your ear, his voice dropped so low it barely cleared the air.
“They’re never gonna forget this.”
A beat passed. Two.
Neither did you.
Not the way the stylist said your name like it mattered. Not the way Étienne had bowed when the shoot wrapped, saying Merci, étoile. Not the way your hands hadn’t shaken once. Not the way Remmick’s thumb had grazed your knuckles on the way out, subtle and steady.
The door clicked shut behind you.
And the city welcomed its newest star.
You should’ve known not to get your hopes up.
Remmick had warned you once before. To not believe in the win until the ink dries and the check clears. And still, the moment the phone rang, you felt the breath catch in your chest like something was finally about to settle right.
It was early, too early, and the tea in your hand hadn’t even cooled yet. Steam curled in the morning light, soft and golden through the windows.
You heard him answer it in the kitchen. Not loud, not sharp. Just steady.
“Remmick.”
His voice, smooth. Polished. Still cold from sleep, but clipped with that quick professionalism he always wore when someone else was listening.
There was a pause. Long enough to tighten something at the base of your neck.
“…Come again?”
That was the first red flag.
You stood. Not rushed, not loud. Just enough to hear better. Half-expecting him to wave you off with a flick of his fingers, that little sideways smile he gave when things were under control.
But he didn’t.
He turned his back instead. Shoulders hunched slightly. Quiet. Like he didn’t want you to hear what was coming next.
He rubbed the back of his neck once, then pressed his thumb into the edge of the counter like he needed the grounding. His knuckles whitened around the phone cord, twisting it once, twice, tighter.
“Yes,” he said carefully, “I’m familiar with your lead editor.”
Another pause.
Then something darker entered his tone.
“Yes. The one with the impeccable eye for trend pieces.”
Your stomach dropped.
There was silence on his end. Long. Tense.
And then:
“They what?”
His voice didn’t rise. Not yet.
But it changed. Dropped lower. Flat and cold like steel before it’s drawn.
You stepped closer, quiet as breath, barefoot against the hardwood. Leaned just enough to see the side of his face. The angle of his jaw, sharp and flexed. The twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“They’ve already had their one for the year?” he repeated.
Low. Disbelieving. Dangerous.
His free hand came up, rubbing slow at his temple like he needed to press the words back out of his skull.
“Who’s they?” he asked, quieter now, but you felt the weight of it in your chest. “Go on. Say it clear.”
There was no response.
Just static. A voice on the other end fumbling for footing.
Remmick’s brows drew together.
“No, I’m not upset with you,” he said, voice thinning again into something cool and even. “I understand you’re just passing the message along.”
He closed his eyes a moment. You could see him working to keep it in. Like something old and sharp was waking in his blood, trying to claw its way out of his chest.
“I’d like to speak with the editor directly,” he said, softer now. “Yes. I’ll hold.”
And then his hand dropped to the counter. Fingers drumming.
Waiting. Ready.
The line clicked.
Then his jaw twitched.
“Good morning,” he said. Different now. Calmer, colder. Stripped of the courtesy he kept like a glove around secret hands. “Didn’t expect to catch you so early.”
You still couldn’t hear the voice on the other end. Not a single word. But you didn’t have to.
You could see everything you needed in him.
The stillness of his posture, the death grip he had on the base of the phone, the fine tremble running through the muscle of his forearm beneath that rolled-up cotton sleeve. It wasn’t the kind of rage that burst outward. It was the kind that boiled, thick and patient, one degree at a time.
“Yes,” he said, so polite it sounded rehearsed. “I was just speaking with your assistant.”
He closed his eyes a moment. Not a blink, but something longer. As if he needed to press the lids down tight to keep from rolling them.
“She told me they, meaning you, have reconsidered the cover.”
The pause that followed was electric. Tense.
Then, low and even:
“Right. Of course. Marketable. That’s the word you’re going with?”
He said it like the word itself offended him. Like it was dirty in his mouth. Too small for what he knew you were worth.
You moved forward without thinking. Just enough to lean your shoulder against the hallway wall. Careful. Watchful. Your arms folded tightly across your chest, heart beating fast and slow at once. He hadn’t seen you yet.
And you weren’t sure he was aware of anything anymore beyond that call.
“I see,” he said softly.
That was the shift.
The sound of something sliding into place. Like a bolt locking. A fuse catching.
“So let me get this straight,” he continued. Slow. Measured. Precise in a way that made your skin prickle.
“Your board approved the shoot. Your casting team signed off. Your editor watched the proofs. Sat on them. And now, after all that, you want to scale her back to a feature because you already had your cover for the year.”
The quiet that followed wasn’t empty.
It was dense.
He didn’t yell.
He didn’t curse.
He didn’t raise his voice by an inch.
But every word landed like a coin dropped on concrete. Heavy. Sharp. Deliberate.
“You think this city’s gonna run out of covers?” he asked, the ghost of a laugh in his voice, but it wasn’t amusement. It was disbelief, slicked with venom. “Or is it just that you think she’s the kind of beauty you ration out, so you don’t have to explain yourselves twice?”
His free hand braced against the counter now, steadying himself.
“Was she too sharp? Too soft? Too dark?” he asked, the last word clipped so hard it cracked in the air.
You watched him as he stood there, completely still except for the way his shoulders were rising. Measured. Controlled.
But underneath that, underneath every inch of him, he was seething.
He wasn’t shouting.
But something inside him was.
And you knew it. Could feel it.
Remmick was holding onto composure with a thread, not because he didn’t want to break, but because he knew what would happen if he did. Because if he said what he really meant, what lived behind that voice, that mouth, those glowing eyes, he might set the whole building on fire.
And you hadn’t even heard the worst of it yet.
His voice didn’t rise at first.
It stayed low, clipped, deliberate. But the sharpness in it grew. Line by line. Word by word. Like something uncoiling inside him, slick with heat and venom.
“You listen to me,” he said, voice climbing with a force that prickled the air, “and listen real good, if you think for one goddamn second that this is a numbers game, a market play, a token, you’ve already lost the future.”
You flinched. Not because he was yelling at you. He wasn’t.
He was yelling for you.
“You want safe? Go print another profile on Gunilla Lindblad. You want forgettable? Put some washed-out French girl on the cover in a turtleneck. But if you want history, if you want impact, you don’t remove the only name worth remembering.”
He turned then. Saw you.
And his eyes didn’t soften. Not even a little.
“She’s the only thing your readers are gonna remember come fall,” he snapped, jaw set, nostrils flaring. “Not the blonde. Not the brunette. Not whatever recycled face you’re tryin’ to float next. Her.”
There was a sputter of protest from the line. You couldn’t hear what was said. Didn’t need to. You were watching Remmick’s knuckles flare white around the phone.
“No, I don’t care what the board says. I don’t care what the sponsor says. And I sure as hell don’t care what you think’ll sell. I know what sells. You’re lookin’ at the future and treating it like it’s a fuckin’ one-shot.”
His voice cracked with how tightly it hit the consonants. Near shouting now, not just raised. Commanding.
“You owe her the same shot you’d give any other girl in her place. And if the only reason you’re pulling her is because you already had your one,” he hissed the word like it was venom, “then you better grow a spine before I walk you into a lawsuit so loud it echoes into next year’s masthead.”
Silence on the other end.
Remmick didn’t wait.
“I want you at the brownstone tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Alone.”
His next words were a knife dragged slow.
“We’ll talk in person.”
And then he hung up.
Didn’t slam the receiver. Just lowered it with a kind of deliberate grace, a calm that only made the burn beneath more terrifying. He stared at the cradle for a moment like he could crush it just by looking hard enough.
Then sat, slowly, at the dining table. Exhaled through his nose.
He didn’t look up at you right away.
Just stared at the wood grain beneath his fingers, the set of his jaw making it clear he was holding something in.
Then his hand rose.
Palm up.
You crossed the room without a word and slid your fingers into his.
He pulled you down gently, like you were breakable, into his lap. One arm curled low across your waist, the other resting across your thighs. His hands were steady, even though you could still feel the tension in the muscles of his forearms, coiled and waiting, like it hadn’t quite drained from him yet.
His cheek pressed to your shoulder, his breath warm against the side of your neck.
“You’re goin’ on that cover,” he said, low and final.
There was no fire behind it. No venom.
Just certainty.
Like he was telling you the weather. Like it was already written in the next day’s paper.
You turned slightly in his arms. His hands tightened to keep you balanced, to keep you close. “Remmick…”
“No,” he cut in, soft. “No more backpedalin’. No more maybe next times. We play their game, we lose. You hear me?”
You nodded. You didn’t trust your voice not to shake.
He looked up then. Met your gaze dead on. The light in the kitchen caught in his irises, a faint, simmering red just beneath the blue. Not bright. Not threatening. Just there. Alive.
“Which means,” he continued, more gently now, “you’re not gonna be here tomorrow night.”
That made you blink. “What?”
“I want you out the house. Just for a few hours. Somewhere comfortable. I’ll make sure your ride’s arranged. I don’t care if it’s the theatre or a restaurant. Hell, spend it with friends if you want.”
You didn’t have any of those yet.
He knew that.
Still, his tone didn’t waver.
“I just need the place. Need it quiet. I don’t want you hearin’ what might be said.”
His fingers grazed your wrist, his thumb brushing along your pulse. You leaned back, just slightly, the movement slow. Measured. Testing.
“What are you gonna say?”
His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker. “Enough.”
That was all he gave you.
And somehow, it was enough.
He kissed your temple then. Just once.
The kiss wasn’t sweet.
It was solemn.
Like a promise.
Like a man setting something in motion.
And you, sitting in his lap with your arms around his shoulders and your pulse kicking hard against your ribs, believed him. Felt something shifting under your skin.
A current.
A warning.
You’d seen Remmick angry before. Seen the quiet tension in his jaw when someone spoke over you. The cold way he looked at men who looked too long. The clipped tone when a stylist suggested straightening your hair or brightening your skin.
But not like this.
Not cold. Not still.
This wasn’t bluster.
It was a verdict.
You pressed your forehead to his, and he closed his eyes like the touch settled something in him. His fingers slid slowly along the small of your back. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t grip.
He just held.
Quiet and firm.
And somewhere, under all your nerves, you felt that same fire rise too.
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 you 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.
From the heart of unimaginable suffering, I want to sincerely thank everyone who has supported my family 🙏🏻
Right now, famine is hitting us harder than ever, my heart cries whenever I go to the market to buy any basic necessities! The prices are crazy, and most days my children survive on just bread Hunger and thirst are destroying us, and cooking on fire increases our suffering unbearably! Severe eye and chest sensitivity, in addition to constant stomach pain due to the type of food and the way it is cooked.
All this while we flee from one place to another in fear of bombing, bullets, and imminent danger! I cannot describe what I feel, but it is a feeling beyond exhaustion!
Despite the exhaustion, your support gives us strength and I hope you will not let us down
If you can donate, please do so, or at least help us by sharing, so we can reach those who can
Your kindness truly keeps us going
>> Our campaign is vetted by gazavetters list at Momen & his family
Hello Everyone,
I am Nour Al Madhoun, 30 years old, a computer engineer from gaza, my h… Tahir Awad needs your support for Help my family r
Gaza is full of oppression #The worst is yet to come #Genocide #A resilient people
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I like sweet boys, yk the ones that hold your hand. Open your door for you. Give you a soft kiss on your hand. Constantly staring at you with adoring eyes. Telling you how pretty you look 28/5. Would do anything for you, treat you like you're an absolute goddess. It's like there unreal too good to be true even. And plus they got fire dick :) Dick so good it has your toes curling, eyes rolling back. Making inhuman noises. Yeah.. men like that. That's what I call a man
I’m just gonna toss my two cents in the void as I’ve been seeing this discussion on the TL.
I personally don’t care about people writing Remmick x reader fics or shipping their ocs with him. I knew as soon as I saw the movie the first time there was going to be people who’ll find him attractive. It doesn’t take away from the main story in the movie and there can still be discussions about his character and his role in Sinners. However I won’t support or stand by people who ship him with Sammie or write fanfics that include slavery or whatever fucked up shit people will think of, especially if the reader/oc is a bipoc. Be respectful and mindful at the end of the day and don’t be weird
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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♥ AN: I've been watching too many demonic possession shows, so it inspired me to make this. What if Gyutaro wasn't a demon like those in demon slayer, but the kind of supernatural demons we see in horror movies? Gyutaro is an incubus (sex demon) that haunts your new home.
♥ WC: 1,820
Repost from my old blog mrsshabana-archive
Your new house was weird to say the least. It was perfect and suspiciously inexpensive. Large, beautiful, and surrounded by wilderness. It was hard to believe that it hadn’t been occupied for over a decade.
The strange part though was the way that the house made you feel. Either that or something within the house itself. Especially after you found that pentagram in your basement.
The abnormal occurrences started a few days after you had moved in. Your hair would be tugged on as you walked through the halls at night, only for you to turn around and see nothing there. Once the sun had gone down, that’s when the house came alive. The shadows would watch your every move.
It never got too serious, until now.
You lay asleep in your king sized bed. Suddenly awoken by a deep guttural growl. You find yourself unable to speak and your body is frozen. There’s a heavy weight atop your body, alarmingly human. Yet inhuman at the same time.
Something had its arms wrapped around your torso, with its face nuzzled into the crook of your neck. Sharp bones prod at your flesh as the creature rolls its hips into the meat of your thighs.
It growls deeply, feeling the rumble of its chest rattle your core. You’ve never been more terrified in your entire life. The only thing you can see is an unruly head of black and green hair. You can barely make out something swaying in the darkness. Trying to make it out. Could it be… a tail?
The creature groans before lifting its head. Showing off its fangs with a twisted grin.
“Oh? Awake now are we?” its voice makes your skin crawl. Deep and raspy as the words that come from its lips are drawn out.
Observing the features of this beast, it resembles that of a man. But everything is just off. His skin is ashen gray and covered in dark splotches. However, his eyes are what really strike fear into your soul. Green irises, red pupils, and yellow scleras. This is no human.
He sits up to straddle you, giving you a better view of his body. It’s terribly deformed. A sickly middle contrasted by a healthily muscular upper. Two horns poke out from beneath his mismatched hair.
“Been so long since I’ve had a guest…,” he rasps as he trails a clawed finger up your stomach, “and you’re so pretty too…” He leans forward, caging you beneath him. Not like you had any chance of escaping, as you are still unable to move your body.
Tears begin to fall from your eyes as he starts humping you again, his erection prodding at your core. Please let this be a dream.
“Oh poor girl,” he coos, “Are you scared?”
He chuckles deeply before bringing his long pointed tongue to wipe away your tears. A shaky moan leaves his lips as he savors the flavor of your fear.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath. Hastily getting off of you to remove his pants. Seeing his aching cock makes you panic even more. It’s larger than any you’ve ever seen, and not only is it covered in the same black splotches that litter his body, there are large veins wrapping around his length. You swear you can almost see them pulsing as they pump the blood to his shaft. It looks angry, hungry even. The sight only makes your tears flow heavier.
“What?” he snaps, “It’s that ugly, huh?”
He frowns and aggressively hikes up your nightgown, exposing your panties to his gaze. No longer filled with lust, but replaced with anger. He didn’t care that you thought he was ugly, he would do with you as he pleased no matter what you thought. But it still pissed him off.
Snaking a long bony finger under your panties, he begins to run his finger along your slit. His eyes widen before he begins cackling. The sound is unnerving, causing every hair on your body to stand on end.
“You don’t think I’m ugly,” he brings his fingers up to his lips and runs his tongue between them before continuing, “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be so wet.”
Your eyes are red and puffy now, as your sobbing has yet to cease. You don’t want to be taken advantage of by this thing. And seeing his throbbing cock only causes your vision to blur even more. So much so that you almost don’t notice him moving up your body. So far up that he’s straddling your neck, his thighs on either side of your head.
Using one hand to force you to look up at him, while the other languidly strokes his aching length.
“Don’t worry,” he says as he wipes a tear from your face, “promise I’ll make you feel good.”
With a perverse smirk, he holds the base of his dick and slides it across your cheeks, gathering the tears that have accumulated there. This only makes your crying worse, exciting him even more as he continues to lube himself up with your tears.
“F-fuck,” he moans breathlessly, “Can’t -ngh- can’t wait anymore.”
To your relief he backs away from your face, only to move between your legs. His desire to wreck you completely overtaking him, he rips apart your panties and nightgown before tossing them to the side.
Hovering over you, he wastes no time. Almost immediately pushing the head of his cock past your folds. It hurts. You’re wet, but not nearly wet enough to accommodate his size.
Your body resists him, but he doesn’t care. Forcefully pushing forward and spreading you apart. Spearing you on his length, he sets an aggressive pace. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust, selfishly chasing his own pleasure. His heavy balls slap against you as he violently thrusts into you. Your body feels like it’s tearing apart…
He truly doesn’t mean to be so rough. You’re just squeezing him so tightly he can’t help it.
“So-so tight…” he tilts his head back as a needy moan leaves his lips.
Something wet and slimy splatters across your cheek. He’s so drunk on the feeling of your pussy fluttering around him, that he can’t control himself anymore. Drool rolling down his chin and dripping onto your face.
The claws of the man above you dig into the flesh of your hips as his pace quickens. He pushes his face against yours, cheek to cheek. Moving to wrap his arms around your torso to hold you as close as possible, his hips stutter. Animalistic snarls and growls fill the room as you feel him reach his climax.
You can feel the muscles in his dick convulse as he pumps his load into you. A warmth begins to spread in your lower half. His chest heaves as he continues to orgasm longer than any normal human ever could. Cum overflowing you, beginning to trickle down your ass and his balls, only to pool onto your bed sheets. All of the years of not having a release was being forced into your warm hole.
When you finally feel the spasm of his muscles stop, a wave of relief washes over you. It’s finally over.
He lays there for a moment before moving his head to your chest. To your dismay he hasn’t softened at all and is still seated deep inside of you.
“You’re the most fuckable human I’ve ever met…'' he slowly pushes his hips forward. Straining the tip of his cock against your cervix, forcing more of his seed to spill out of you.
He begins to pull out, only to abruptly slam his cock as far inside of you as humanly possible. And with that, a sharp pain begins to spread across your chest. The monster is latched onto your breast, sharp teeth firmly seated in your soft flesh.
Groaning deeply as your blood fills his senses, he resumes the harsh pace he had set earlier. Though this time his mind is slipping. So overcome by pleasure that his grasp on you is loosening. You slowly begin to gain control of your body. A pained whimper leaves your lips as your ability to speak returns.
The sounds coming from you only encourage him more. Now eager to hear the cute little noises you’ll make just for him.
Clawing at his back you cry, “Please… ah it-it hurts.”
He unlatches his fangs from your flesh, blood dripping down his chin. He looks you in the eyes as he gives you an especially hard thrust, resulting in a yelp coming from you.
“So pretty,” he pants, “Told you I’d make you feel good. Now -ah- keep making those pretty little sounds for me.”
On his knees, he partially holds you up. One arm wrapped around your waist, holding you against his body as his other arm holds himself up. You wrap your legs around his waist, and your arms around his neck.
When his eyes meet yours, the look he gives you is different than it was before. This time much softer, almost loving. His thrusts are less violent, and he’s angling himself so he’s hitting that spongy spot deep within you. Thrusting slower and more deliberately, more passionate.
You can feel yourself getting closer to release. The monster begins kissing and suckling at your neck as he feels his climax approaching as well. Lustful moans and the wet slapping of skin fill the room.
Every vein of his cock can be felt gliding along your walls, the twitching of his muscles adding extra sensation as he quickens his pace.
He knows you're close.
Crashing his lips into yours. you reach your limit, gushing all over his pelvis. You can’t help but scream in pleasure as his tongue glides over your bottom lip in an open kiss. He inhales your screams, internalizing them.
Your body trembles in his arms as he spills inside of you again. Pushing himself as far within you as possible, needy moans and gasps escape him. You return his affection and softly suck his bottom lip as he rides out his high. Slowly thrusting, forcing his cum to overfill you and drip onto the bed.
A shaky breath leaves his lips as he gently sets you down beneath him. That was so intense that your entire body is numb and your brain is fried.
The man lingers above you, wanting to stay but knowing he should probably leave.
You weakly wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close. He returns the embrace and you hold each other. Before you drift back to sleep, he says one last thing.
“When you want me again, just call my name…”
“…Gyutaro.”
~
At first, when you had awoken in the morning you thought it was all a dream. It was too surreal… too good to be true. But the aching between your legs, the stinging pain on your breast, and the wet spots littered across your sheets beg to differ.
ᡴꪫ sum. what’s your favorite scary movie? is it carrie? psycho? or maybe nightmare on elm street? perhaps picking up the phone was a bad idea, but you don’t scare easily! or do you?
you deadpan, almost as if you’ve seen this movie before. it was around close to midnight. you were the only one sober at some random frat party you got dragged to. everyone besides you were probably wasted or shoving tongues into mouths. sitting up on a cushioned bed, you hold the landline up to your ear. “mean girls two. bye.”
“….girl what? that’s not a—”
you hang up, averting your eyes back towards the tv screen that displayed some cheesy soap opera. about precisely thirteen seconds pass before the landline screeches a loud deafening ring again.
sighing, you answer it. “stop calling this number. prank calls aren’t funny.”
“no.” the voice replies, and it’s very deep—you swear you’ve heard something like it before. a best way to describe it was that it had a gruff pitch to it, baritone running all underneath it. his voice was also a bit sly too. “i just wanna talk to you.”
“bother some other girl. bye.”
“don’t hang up on me.”
for whatever reason, you don’t hang up. his voice sounded a bit stern—you sit up before growing quiet. you’re fully alert now.
pressing your back against the comforter, your thighs squeeze together. with another vexed sigh, you say the most random movie that comes immediately to mind. “halloween.”
“pft. basic.”
“wha— you’re the one who asked.”
“oh, doll i’m just joking. but anyway, you like slasher movies, yeah?”
for whatever reason, the more you talked to this total stranger, you start to feel a sudden uncanny stir delve around your stomach. you weren’t scared, yet at least, but it was oddly peculiar. his voice sounds a bit familiar the more you listen to it. with how teasing the caller on the other line appeared, it was strangely intriguing. you kind of didn’t wanna hang up anymore, besides this party you were at was quite … not the best.
“not really. i am a jamie lee curtis fan though, i only watched because i make fun of the deaths.” you mumble.
“hmmm,” the voice hums through the other end. it’s as if he’s pondering what his next choice of words will be to you. “so…you got a boyfriend?”
you were taken aback by how abrupt the change of subject was. the man on the other end laughs at your awkward silence before you finally speak.
“no, and it’s not like it’s any of your business.”
“easy, girl. i’m just curious. besides, what if i wanna ask ya out?”
you grow quiet again before rubbing your neck, you were growing a bit hot.
“whatever. no, i don’t have a … boyfriend.”
“ooh. you hesitated there.”
you grumble. “shut up. i’m hanging up.”
the man immediately replies with a chortle.
“wait, wait. heh, serious though. you never told me your name, doll face.”
with an eye roll, you utter, “why do you wanna know my name?”
“because i wanna know who i’m looking at.”
“what?”
“what?”
each word he spoke breaks through the phone due the deep mess of his voice. a few rough sparks from his dialogue punctures through the soundbox of the device. again, he did sound oddly familiar. you just couldn’t put your foot on it.
the man chuckles before responding in a more sly tone—changing the subject again.
“you know doll, you sound kind of out of breath. call me crazy, but before i called you, were you playing with yourself?”
your legs suddenly squeeze shut, you were wearing one of your borrowed hoodies and shorts underneath. any sane person would have hung up eons ago, but for whatever reason—you felt your heartbeat start to race. the more you listened to the deep voice on the other end, the more you started to grow more curious. what’s wrong with playing around for a little bit? besides, what’s the worst thing that could happen—you dying?
you scoff, thinking this was nothing more than a dumb prank call—you decided that playing along wouldn’t hurt. you had nothing else to do anyway.
“so what if i was playing with myself?”
“i bet you didn’t even make yourself finish, doll.”
his voice, the more it spoke in that rough pitched tone—you couldn’t help but press the landline up to your ear just a bit further. you furrow your curled up brows, lowering your guard a bit. probably foolish, maybe you’d regret this later, but alas, reality wasn’t on your mind at the moment.
“are you saying you can make me finish?” you mutter, growing amused now.
“oh i know i can. i can make you get off from just from my voice alone.”
he was toying with you, but it was too late to back down. you intake a honed breath before humming.
“okay, prove it then.”
he chuckles.
“mhm. take those panties off first. actually no, slide them to the side for me.”
you really felt like you were in a movie, shamelessly at this random guy’s beck and call. as the show played in the background, you press the middle part of your thumb against the volume button to turn it down four notches. the room was practically silent now, the only noises heard were from the blaring beat drops of edm music downstairs. sprawling your legs out, you creep a shaking hand between your thighs.
the voice grows quiet, you finally move your panties toward the side before slouching back against the pillow.
“you must be really bored. talking to a random girl at the m-midnight.” you exhale.
“heh, m-maybe,” he mocks your falter. “but i’m sure you’ll keep me entertained with that cute voice of yours.”
he was so smooth. smooth as if he was prepared for every word that flew out of your mouth. as your fingers glide against your now exposed entrance, you let off a shaky breath.
he was right, out of boredom you tried to play with yourself— yet, that didn’t work out because you could never make yourself finish. your attempt was basically useless. with a frowning pout, you reply. “now what?”
“finger yourself, silly. and i wanna hear, put the phone up against that pussy for me, doll.”
he was filthy.
you felt yourself start to throb before removing the landline from against your ear and placing it right against your doused entrance.
with heavy jagged breaths becoming more irregular, the person on the other line hears the wet sloshes of your cunt up against the phone. again, he grows quiet—it’s almost like you can make out his deep attractive breaths and it makes you pulse even more.
“bet you’re so nice ‘n soaked. sounds so sloppy.”
gnawing on the softness of your bottom lip, your thumb briefly skims past the nub of your clit and you whine. you were already a bit sensitive from before, starting to stroke your fingers against it. bringing the phone back up to your ear, you ease a single finger inside. it feels warm—you were slick, coating your own finger with a nice amount of your obscene arousal. it doesn’t take long for you to start to pant, slithering another finger inside of your cunt before moaning. it fits nicely, nice and snug.
“you sound so pretty. i want you to imagine those are my fingers, pretty girl. can ya do that?”
“y-yeah,” you start to stammer, feeling a sudden spongey texture inside of you—you gasp, not expecting to reach your sweetened g-spot so soon. it was a mere bumpy texture, gloopy gummy walls involuntarily accepting your two slender fingers with an open gesture. “fuck, ‘m still a bit sensitive.”
he guffaws lowly.
“yeah, i bet you are. poor baby can’t even make herself cum.”
you swallow, the playfulness in his voice making your thighs start to tremble a bit. with relaxed fingers stretching throughout your walls, you focus on your breathing. each pant that came out of your hot breaths seemed like it was gonna be your last. after a while, your toes start to curl up in pure pleasure—you moan, feeling a sudden rush of weightlessness nirvana overtake you.
“find your g-spot for me. tell me when you do.”
“i- i already found it,” you whine, a sheaf of nerves that store inside of your pussy pulsating at a rapid speed. your head throws itself back as you’re just moaning melodically. “fuck, why don’t you just come over ‘n finish for me already.”
the voice laughs again.
“yeah? you want me to come over instead? maybe i should use my tongue since your fingers are so useless, dollface.”
at this point, you didn’t really care. maybe making simple rational decisions today just wasn’t in your favor. the eerie voice, each second you spent listening to it the more aroused you became. maybe getting off to a pure stranger’s voice was embarrassing but you were feening. the air felt suddenly thick. so thick you could cut it with a knife. with your bottom lip being chewed on like gum, you briskly shiver. cold, wintry air wafts against your skin and you moan for the nth time. an unforeseen chill runs down your spine before you hold back yet another whine.
“f-fuck, just come ‘n finish for me. i can’t do it. please.”
he grows quiet for a solid good four seconds before replying in a cheeky tone.
“okay. turn around.”
your panting stops and instantly, you turn your head the other way—of course, no one was there. figures, the only things your eyes were met with was the wooden headboard. with a disappointed grimace, pulling your occupied fingers out of your cunt, you turn back around. as you’re about to speak into the phone again, you open your mouth before pausing.
there, you’re met face first with what appears to be some guy in an infamous ghostface costume. he was tall, staggering inches on him before you don’t see one but two. they both had the same getup, ghoulish ghost mask, a long black robe, and the same spectral, tilting head-stance.
one of them takes off a mask and it’s suguru geto, your roommate.
your eyes concisely widen. once he yanks off the mask, his silky well-kept black strands fly loose. no wonder the voice sounded a tad bit familiar. the other removes his mask and it was nanami, two of them—now you really felt like you were in a movie. “you always did say how much you liked scream,” and then you glance at nanami who had a sheepish expression. “don’t be shy now, someone’s gotta help ya finish.”
“o-oh,” you remember, sitting up against the bed. now you were embarrassed. just a few seconds ago, you were getting off to your roommate’s voice. suddenly, you felt even more hot. you did end up talking their ear off about your adoration for the beloved franchise, ranting about your cute little ghostface obsession.
truth be told though, you didn’t know they’d make it a sheer reality for you. the two of them get on the bed towards you before nanami brings a gloved hand to your chin. he strokes your chin softly, and geto moves underneath.
“sorry princess,” he whispers. “suguru wanted to scare you but i told him we should just show ourselves,” and as he’s speaking, you get lost in his soft, honeydew eyes. such gentle compared to geto who was a bit more—crazed. “he didn’t scare you too bad, did he?”
you moan once you feel geto run a thumb against your already exposed cunt. with a firm head shake, you huff. “no, n-not really.”
“aw what. i thought i was pretty scary,” and you whimper out once he blows against your folds. for a concise moment, geto stares up at you—dark eyes keeping a strong gaze on you. “tell us what you want, pretty girl. you want us to help you finish?”
you nod, feeling geto spread your legs apart further.
nanami, with a gloved hand purses your lips together, forming them into a tight squeeze before humming. “words, princess. use them, okay?”
the more you feel geto’s breath fan against your clit, teasing you—you were about to go feral. you stare up at nanami before letting off a sweet whine. “i- i want you both to help me finish,” you stutter out, stumbling over your pathetic words like you’d stumble with an untied shoe. “make me cum, please kento.”
he leans in to kiss your forehead and you hear geto scoff underneath. “i’m the one between your legs but whatever,” and you feel his soft lips kiss against your pussy. “kento, keep her distracted for me, will ya?”
“you’re so pretty,” he mutters, lightly lifting up your chin. as he wore black gloves—the fabric gently brushes against your lip, popping a thumb into your mouth. he doesn’t expect for you to happily take it in his mouth, sucking on it. “oh,” he breathes, a bit speechless. you stare into nanami’s eyes, swirling your tongue around his thumb in such an erotic way. lowly hooded eyes stare at him the entire time, you moan once you feel the flatness of geto’s tongue run against your sweet clitoral hood. his tongue—the texture of it was so cold, the moment he digs in he makes you know the pure definition of sloppy. all with his tongue, he slowly flicks it against your nub before delving his tongue deeper between your soddened folds. nanami pulls your chin to face him again before softly purring, “don’t look at him, look at me pretty girl.”
as your eyes focus back towards nanami, you could already feel your legs quavering. you felt hot, the lewd way geto drags his tongue against your pussy makes you gasp out three strained second puffs of air.
“k-kento,” you moan, pawing your hands at the low part of his robe. he watches, lowering his head at you before you reach there. nanami’s bulge, he has an abashed expression as he realizes what you were fondling at. “take it off.”
“ah, ask nicely,” he coos. your lips were now glossed with your own spit he smears against you as he pulls his gloved thumb out of your mouth. even though nanami was more tame than geto, his voice had a bit more dominance in it. he grabs your chin gently, cocking his head toward the side. “tell me what you want ‘n i’ll give it to you.”
your legs felt like they were standing on its last few hinges—geto’s tongue runs down your slit, taking a moment to depart his lips and spit on it, only to then lap it up again. a few annoyed grunts escape out of him partially due to his long strands of hair getting in the way. “so sweet,” he mutters, you whimper once he prods two fingers against your outer entrance. every few seconds he’d kiss near your thighs, leaving a few bite bite marks before focusing back towards your folds. “mhm.”
barely even able to keep focus, you gaze back up at nanami who’s standing near the edge of the bed—you’re laid back against the pillows with geto between your thighs. finally, a sweet mewl of words leave your glazed lips. “i- i wanna taste, ‘ken. wanna suck you off,” and he gives you a playful eyebrow raise, prying his pink lips open a few inches apart before you correct yourself. “pretty please.”
“better,” he murmurs, a hand of his reaching towards your head to give it a good pat. “good girl. go ahead, lift it up ‘n enjoy the meal.”
with a soft slackened sigh, you lift up the obsidian black robe. you’re met with ripped jeans, for some reason you just figured he’d already be sprung out for you. as geto’s still lapping up every drop of your taste, you unzip his fly before yanking down his pants. you were so impatient— and with geto’s demented pace, you were getting close. he chuckles, watching you struggle with the zipper for a bit before finally reaching near his boxers. they were a cerulean blueish color, his bulge was just appetizing. the entire shape of it, you felt yourself starting to drool the longer your eyes made direct contact against it. so rounded and full. with clammy hands, you tug them down before his thick cock springs out.
“it’s okay,” he whispers with a nod, watching you glance up him—a silent gesture as a way of asking if you could go further. nanami brings a hand towards the crown of your head, gingerly massaging his fingers through the crevices of your scalp. “you can be a little messy for me.”
a wretched whine that was raw rips from your throat once you feel geto’s tongue latch against your cunt. by now, he was sucking against your folds. the squelches were so sloppy, a hand of yours grab onto his hair for leverage and he shoots you a sly smile.
“don’t be shy girl, yank on it.”
dark pooled irises linger into yours for a long time before you get a good grip of geto’s hair, dragging him closer towards your entrance. over and over and over.
he giggles, hot breath ghosting against your folds and you throb even more. with dilated irises staring back towards nanami, you wrap your free hand around his length—he was so thick, such full balls that you just wanted to run your tongue all across it. he had a few veins skim down his beige, weighty cock. you could make out a few drops of lustrous pre-cum that decorates near his very tip. “u-ugh,” he shakes, the warmth that your tongue provides has him smothering his lips together. nanami watches, you’re slow but deadly.
pursing your lips together, you gradually start to sink him into your mouth.
geto’s still between your thighs, shoving two fingers in and out of you now—he surrounds your clit with his mouth, the suction he creates with just his lips was brutal. you’re moaning, even whilst your noises were pretty much muffled due to nanami’s fat cock. “easy,” he whispers, tapping a thumb against your cheek. “no teeth, okay? you’re doing s-so good.”
nanami groans, goading the same thumb against your cheek before you inch yourself further and further down. he has a shy smile at the way your hair forms in musses due to his tight grip. within no time, your throat’s already stuffed and few droplets of your own saliva trickles down the sides of your mouth. geto’s still making sure to thrust his gloved digits in and out of your soaked cunt and you don’t know which roommate to focus on.
“m-mphm,” was all you could manage out, your legs in a swift spread-eagle position. as you’re outstretched, you feel yourself about to cum. you’d recognize that feeling anywhere—the feeling when a swelling pool of heat residing inside your stomach tickles throughout your entire abdomen. that same feeling of nirvana courses through your veins as you’re now leisurely bobbing your head. every time you pull on geto’s long hair, he grunts—spanking your clit in response and that only causes you to whine for more. nanami strokes your face as he starts to feel his dick prod against the roof of your mouth. for a split second as you’re breathing through each nostril—you gag, long lashes fluttering in sync together.
your legs couldn’t hold still, geto’s continuously pushing you towards your limit before you whimper out. your tongue lathers over the splotches of pre-cum that paints nanami’s tip a pretty shade of snowy white.
he just couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, especially not with a face like that.
low eyes, sheepish smile, furrowed eyebrows. you’re convulsing profusely all in geto’s mouth, the sides of your thighs occasionally hitting against his face and he titters. “such a sloppy m-mouth,” nanami inhales deeply, and he starts to gently drag your head against his cock. he’s got your mouth filled with so many inches—your cheeks were all puffed up from his immense length, sheeny slobber emanating all down the sides of your mouth before he pants. “gonna make such a mess ‘n your mouth, princess. ‘s that what you want?”
you nod, feeling the vein that runs down his girthy cock twitch in your mouth. you moan, he’s feeling weightless—you’ve got his knees trembling, a hand’s still attached to your head like velcro before gyrating your tongue all over the crownhead of his shaft. “such a pretty face,” he gruffs lowly, swiftly pulling your hair side to side to take every inch. “s-shame i gotta ruin it a little.”
even nanami’s dirty talk was tame— it was cute to witness, the way his blond brows would tug into a furrow. he’s so pent up, and out of nowhere—you feel a sudden rush erupt within your cunt. before you could even react, you end up cumming hard. it shoots out of you like a rough wave, it’s such pure bliss that it takes you a few seconds to realize. geto’s making out with your pussy, slowly sliding his two protected fingers in and out of your sopping wet entrance and you shudder. “what a fuckin’ mess,” he hums, taking sight at how saturated you were. as geto laps his tongue against your folds once more, he stares back up at you and nanami. “aw. look at you two,” and he leans down to kiss your forehead. “slobbin’ everywhere, messy girl you are.”
your eyes go back up towards nanami, he’s sweating.
he felt as if the fabric of his robe stuck against his skin. while he’s holding it up with one hand, you sneak a stare at his abs, perfect washboard abs that looked quintessentially sculpted against his body. “g-gonna cum,” and he stares at geto, growing a bit flustered once all attention’s on him. “suguru, don’t just stand there. p…praise her.”
geto scoffs, kneeling beside you on the bed before moving a few strands from your face. “so bossy,” he grits before giving you your second head pat. he leans up close to your ear, grabbing the voice changer again and brings it up to his lips. “c’mon, doll. make ‘ken cum, yeah. doin’ so good for us. you’re gonna make him whine for you, heh.”
nanami’s legs felt like mush, he throws his head back, his long black robe syncing with his movements before he’s gently pulling your head against his thick cock. he shudders, welts of twinges close in on the undersides of his thighs before he finally finishes. it builds up gradually before you find him pouring into your mouth with a nice amount of parching hot cum. it’s hot, a good mass of satiny ropes coat the flat middle part of your tongue and you moan. “f-fuuuck,” he heaves through heavy lungs, it’s still trickling, you savor the taste. it’s bitterly sweet. he pulls out of your mouth before letting off a tremulous sigh. “good girl, f-fuck.”
“aw. don’t hog her, give me attention too,” geto sneers, softly grabbing you by the neck, making you face him. with his right hand, he squeezes your lips together with a rigid grip. “ah, don’t swallow yet. c’mere.”
with half-lidded eyes, you do—leaning into his touch before geto plants his warm lips onto yours. you’re caught by surprise for the umpteenth time today, prying your mouth open for him and he lolls his tongue down your throat. you let off a whine, feeling his gloved hands rub against every inch of your body. immediately, he tastes the candied flavor of nanami’s cum and it makes him groan. he didn’t even bat an eye—you return the kiss, feeling geto’s hand slither further down towards your ass. he caresses it, giving it a mean spank to make you moan out in ecstasy.
after a while, he pulls away, humming at nanami. “ken ken, don’t be so shy. you want a taste too?”
“yeah,” he mutters, needy eyes staring at your lips that were lubricated with your own sheeny spit. “can i?”
you nod, and he’s so gentle with you. a hand nimbly wraps around your throat before he brings you into a deeper kiss. geto’s still for his hands on you, strumming his fingers near your pulled to the side panties. you let off a soft pant, feeling the spiral of nanami’s tongue go against yours. he tastes sweet — savory even, his flavor was purely mouthwatering. a thumb drags down the passageway of your throat before he pulls away. it’s slow, a polished concoction of saliva departs from each mouth and you whimper. you were throbbing, desperate for more and they both knew that. if this— whatever this was was some sort of movie, you never wanted it to end. you never wanted the credits to roll because you felt like you were floating on cloud nine.
with the two of them, you were stretched in every way possible. if you could compare who was bigger, actually you couldn’t. throughout multiple positions, you felt as if you were gonna snap in half. they had you so stupid. pink tongue rolled out, full lungs of oxygen departing out such hot breaths of air, you were the definition of stupid.
cockdrunk at its finest. each orgasm that got ruthlessly snatched out of you had your head spinning, heart racing entirely.
you felt like something was creeping up behind your shoulder, chills. whenever you’d coax out yet another teeth-shattering orgasm, all you felt was stone cold chills. time after time, it felt like pure bliss—you thought you were in a whole new world, barely even able to move your thighs an inch. being sandwiched between the two of them, perhaps you were a little greedy but you just couldn’t get enough. geto’s degrading you whilst nanami’s whispering sweet pleasures into your ear, you’ve never felt more soaked.
you didn’t wanna stop—
currently, you’re straddling nanami. he’s got two rough hands gripping your waist, intaking every inch of your pretty physique. his stare sends you butterflies, his shaft was underneath you and only then pulls out. with a cute, “phew,” he swipes a sheet of sweat that expands across his forehead. you rode him so good that he couldn’t even figure out what to say. he was so flustered, tips of his ears a reddish hot before he watches geto creep behind you. “think she wants more, suguru.”
“bet she does,” he whispers, bringing a few sweet kisses near the inner corners of your neck.
you’re promptly sat up straight. the brief sounds of booming speakers roar from downstairs as you wrap your arms around nanami. geto licks near your collarbone before purring seductively. “say, doll. how ‘bout you try to take us both? would ya like that?” and with a gloved hand he gives your ass a squeeze. “wanna be the final girl ‘n prove your worth? our final girl?”
without an inkling of hesitation—you nod, mewling out a sweet, “yes, yes jus’ hurry up, sugu. ‘m still c…close.”
“so wet, so impatient,” he whispers once more, and with two hands he makes you sit up from nanami. you gulp—swallowing whatever sanity you had left, preparing to be quite literally double stuffed with your roommates. you aren’t so sure why, but the fact that they both still had on their ghoulish costumes made you pulsate a bit more. geto’s helping you slide back down onto nanami’s length before slowly making his way into you also. “god, you’re so hot in here. gonna fuckin’ swallow me whole.”
you moan, everything goes so slow—your cunt was a ticking time bomb. you clamp down on each before slumping into nanami’s chest. you’re met with kind eyes, he strokes your forehead before kissing the bridge of your nose, panting in a hushed voice. “eyes on me, princess. just relax.”
you wriggle a bit at the positioning—being on nanami’s lap, geto directly behind you, you’re quite literally being filled in every orifice by thick inches of cock. nanami’s words were soothing, filling up your tummy with a pool of fluttering butterflies. you keep your eyes on him, clenching down on geto a bit before you hear him hiss in response. “ugh. doll open up for me a little m-more, yeah.”
his voice was deepened heavily—you let off a cute gasp once they’re both finally in and a few shaky breaths exit past your lips. “hold my hand, i got you,” nanami coos, and that’s when geto starts to rock. he had more control between the two of you, the grip on your hips was firm and you let off a sweet babble. each individual entrance was stuffed, you swallow the invisible lump in your throat as you start to feel the sweltering friction of your thighs slap against nanami. “you’re so pretty like this,” and he kisses the temple of your cheek.
every kiss presented from nanami makes your heart race—being sandwiched between nanami and geto, you really did feel like the main character.
your lip tremors, grinding back and forth between each of them, you feel geto wrap his thick fingers around your neck.
whilst you’re still straddling nanami—you moan again and again, feeling a free hand of geto’s spank your ass. the stretch that you continuously felt had your mouth watering. you heard the harmonic pap pap pap’s until it rang throughout your ears. “fuck, ya like being stuffed don’t you, pretty girl? feel full enough?” geto rasps, pressing his body right up against you. you felt his hot temperature go against your skin. making you feel every amount of his heat. your brain’s swelling up with fog. giving him an inert nod, you hear him click his tongue. “didn’t say to nod your head, doll. i wanna hear that sweet voice.”
whenever geto lowers his voice a bit, you feel the abrupt tension arise between your legs. leaning against nanami, you whine out a, “hngh y-yesss, ‘m so full, sugu. want more, stuff me more.”
“let me stuff your mouth too then.”
and before you could come up with a reply, geto removes his glove—shoving your mouth with two fat digits. he grunts, watching as you’re so compliant with your throat being filled with his fingers. nanami stares at the entire scene in front of him, his dick idly twitching inside of you. your tongue runs down his fingers before your own spit starts to seep down the corners of your lips. it was messy—you were messy. your hips jitter and judder and you knew with having both holes stuffed you weren’t gonna last that much longer. it was probably the dozenth orgasm your pussy’s been introduced with and you could feel the creeping pleasure brew up inside your abdomen.
“suguru, ‘m gonna cum.” nanami groans, bringing his own hands to wrap around your waist. you lessen your tense from his touch before gagging a bit from the prodding of geto’s fingers way back into your throat. “she’s s-squeezing me so good.”
geto snickers, making eye contact with nanami. “are you? ‘ken, you’re more whinier than usual today.”
“shut up.” he grumbles, slapping a hand over his face in embarrassment — nanami wasn’t so known to be all flustered and abashed, but whenever he was, it was so cute.
you’ve still got a mouthful of geto’s fingers before he pulls them out only to shove them into his own mouth. he hums, sharp hips snapping into you repeatedly as his other free hand tightens its secured grasp around your hip. “mhm,” he groans, feeling himself reaching his peak also. “you taste like a final girl. so sweet like candy.”
with the piston of geto’s vigorous hips, you’re so loose that you feel the fleeting sensation of your cunt gaping.
its cavernous, you jerk forward against nanami before seconds later — geto groans, abruptly finishing two seconds early. even his moans were pretty, he tugs his fingers out of your mouth to wrap them around your neck. strands of black hair glue to his forehead and he puffs out a single breath. licking a stripe near your neck, he feels thick volumes of his cum ooze into your hole. it’s so sticky, you bring your hips to a slowing halt before nanami shoots inside you too.
“f-fuck, sugu,” nanami grunts, feeling his thighs stick underneath you. he was panting heavily, each breath that ran from his lips sounding more and more wearied. “damn, so m-much.”
everything spurts into you at once. they mirror each other inside of you perfectly. callused stubby fingertips of geto’s squeeze your neck softly, watching as you’re just being filled with bulky strings of cum, it floods your cunt until it drizzles further into your womb. you’re drooling, it feels so hot, sweltering hot. it sticks against your entrance before your arms wrap around nanami. “so f-full,” you whimper, and he returns the gesture by brushing his thumb against your waist. droopy eyes hang low before nanami pulls you into another deep kiss. you decided—this was far better than some dumb party. the cottony fabric of the ghostface robe pricks against your skin as you lean into his heinous touch.
you shift your weight against nanami’s lap, feeling geto pull out before he leans down between your legs. “spread your legs,” he mutters, and in the midst of your tongue roaming down nanami’s throat, you part your thighs—gasping once you feel geto’s own tongue lap against the freshly created mess. he makes little tiny licks, tasting the ropes of crisp cum that’s sloppily easing out of every entrance—you pulsate before he chortles, warm breath ventilating against your sobbing pussy. “so messy. don’t want any spillin’ out. gotta push it back in.”
you’re moaning, after a while you break away from nanami’s lips before he strokes your cheek lovingly, a cute drowsy look before he huffs, “did you hear me, pretty?” and he gently pokes your cheek. “you always do this..”
confusion hits you before your eyes suddenly open—you jolt up, both of your roommates beside you, gawking at you with a look of deadpan. you’re leaning against geto, the third movie of scream playing in the background—it was near the ending where the killer was being revealed. you sit up, staring down at your legs and you were fully clothed—there was no geto eating between your legs, no being stuffed with nanami, nothing.
“hellooo, earth to roomie,” geto waves his hand in your face, you stare at him before furrowing your brows. “you okay? you fell asleep on me again. what’s got ya so spooked? looks like ya seen a ghost.”
so it was a dream?
a mere glimpse of your lewd imagination—?
you have a sudden sheepish look, running your fingers near the nape of your neck. “huh. oh, i’m fine. i thought the movie would be over by now.”
nanami rubs your back. “we still have like twenty minutes left,” and then he looks at you with a concerned look. so gentle—so tender. “are you sure you’re okay? we can watch a rom-com if you want.”
“i’m okay,” you insist, slumping your head back against geto.
that was weird, out of all the dreams you’ve had throughout your life—none of them ever felt as surreal as that one. for some reason, you were still aroused though, you were a bit out of breath and feeling chills all over your body.”
abruptly, your phone rings,
“sugu, can you pass me my phone?” you sigh, trying to relax. you were pretty bummed you weren’t at that party getting stuffed with your two roommates but instead—in your generic dorm watching a scary movie.
he hands you the phone, grabbing the remote to turn it down a few notches.
once you take it, succinctly, your eyes scan across the screen—it reads that it’s from an unknown number. not really thinking much, you decide to answer, swiping the green button to answer. “um, hello?”
“hello.”
“hi,” you rub your eyes. “can i help y-”
“what’s your favorite scary movie?”
rolling your eyes, you peer at your two roommates beside you, nudging them and peeling the phone away from your ear for a moment. “very funny, suguru.”
geto gives you a look of confusion and nanami mimics the same. he shrugs, averting his eyes back towards the movie. “very funny what.”
and suddenly your laid back, unbelieving expression was expressed with a weird feeling. if it wasn’t them then who—
that same chill eerily creeps up your spine before you put the phone back near your ear. it’s that same low voice you heard from before, each word it speaks pitches deeper before you grow quiet at its final haunting response,
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Warning! Y/n is black!! I write for black readers if you didn’t know already. But anyone can feel free to read this! Connie and eren are Hispanic, and me not knowing how to speak Spanish like at alll unfortunately I have to use the translator💔. Please bare with with y’all😭. There will be an oc :) oh and please excuse my grammatical errors! <3
“Y/n will you be able to come to this race? Cause we don’t have a fourth.” Your friend begged you over the phone. “Kasa, you know ion race no more like that.” You said laying your edges down. Even though you were saying all of this, you were getting ready so that you could race.
“But y/n please please please please.” You just sighed. “Fine.” You said with a giggle. “Yayy omg when you come I’m going to literally kiss you everywhere.” She said as wind blew having the phone make noise on mikasa’z end. “Okay just call me when you get here y/n.” Mikasa said before handing up. You just sighed as you grabbed your purse and walked out the house. You checked and made sure that you had your cash on you cause you had to pay to enter a race.
You unlocked the door and walked up to your purple sports car. It was a little on the older side but that’s what made it unique and exciting. You dragged your hand across the door as you opened it and sat down in the car. You began to pray before you drove off and to the race site.
“Whew.” You sighed before pulling up. When you pulled up no one could see who you were due to your tents being dark. Your engine roared catching the attention of the other racers. Mikasa turned around quickly knowing that you were there because she knew the sound of your car. She and Sasha squealed and jumped up and down with eachother before walking over to your car.
“Kasa who is that?” Jean asked as mikasa opened your door. “One of my friends what will be the fourth today.” She simply said with a large smile on her face.
“Se van a avergonzar.” Connie said with a snort. You just smiled and ran your tongue across your teeth. Eren, ony, and armin all just laughed.
They’re going to embarrass themselves.
“Would you like to show them whose driving?” Mikasa said as she leaned over your car. “Nahhh.” You said shaking your head and smiling revealing your smiley piercing. “Okay we’ll good luck y/n.” Mikasa said taking the was of cash from your hands and pecking your cheek. She closed your door back and walked over to the boys to collect their money too.
“Bru he driving that girl ahh car. How they gone win?” Connie cackled. “Choke.” Mikasa said before taking his money. “When we beat them mikasa you gone have to give us our money back plus $1,000.” Mikasa shrugged. “Mmhm yeah that’s if y’all win.” She said nonchalantly. “Whatchu mean by that?” Mikasa just shrugged.
“When she beat y’all don’t come crying to me,cause y’all was doing all of that talking.” Mikasa shrugged and walked back to the little booth. “SHE!?” All of the boys asked in confusion. They all looked over to your car trying to get s glimpse of how you looked hut couldn’t due to your tents. “READY!” Your adrenaline began to pump. You forgot how good it felt when you were about to race.” You pressed your foot on the gas reviving your engine. You turned on your radio having TBH by party next door come to and end and welcome to the party, by party next door started playing.
The bass from the music blasted in your speakers having your seat vibrate and you just smiled at this exciting moment.
You smiled at the sounds of the other cars. “SET!” You rolled your windows down as you just kept your focus on the road ahead of you. You felt eyes starring at you on the right side of your face. They seen your beautiful brown skin and your red lace wig that complimented your skin.
“GO!” Everyone took off. You turned your music up loud as you smoothly drove past three cars. You were in second place, being that the one with E.Y on the back of his car was in the front. Hm..
There was a turn incoming you stepped on the break and grabbed the clutch having a smooth drift. Due to eren having a slight mess up you flew infront of him. You went around the track two more times before crossing the finish line, having eren after you, and ony after.
You just got out leaning on your car waiting for everyone to finish. Mikasa walked up to you and the both of you smiled and she squealed. “You did yo shit once and againnnnn.” Mikasa said as the both of you laughed. “Yk I had to show out for my gurl.” You said winking at her.
This was sitting in my drafts for a while 💀. Anyways Jesus loves you ml <3
Note - Y’all this is something y’all can have while i continue to work on this armin fic 😝 ! Hope y’all like it .. i’m a lil rusty with the writing tho lol !
BUSINESS!OWNER ONY - The man who works hard to be able to provide for you and your soon-to-be-born baby. Trying to make the best out of everything he has.
BUSINESS!OWNER ONY - The man who is proud to call you his wife. He doesn't care who that individual is because he’s not scared of anybody taking you from him, He’s that confident. People need to know exactly who you are to him regardless of the situation. Yeah, he gets jealous A LOT, but he knows you wouldn't leave him.
BUSINESS!OWNER ONY - The man who always reassures you every time you start to overthink about what other females are around him. You know that since he’s always out and busy, he works with a lot of people. You get jealous just like Ony does, but he always proves to you that he’s yours only.
BUSINESS!OWNER ONY - The man whose heart melts when you call him while he’s working just to check up on him, to make sure he isn't over-working himself, like he used too.
BUSINESS!OWNER ONY - The man who isn't afraid to give you money so you can spoil yourself. He knows that you’re independent and can take care of yourself alone, but with you being pregnant, he wants you to enjoy yourself before going through all that pain.
BUSINESS!OWNER ONY- The only man who helped you in person and through the phone when you were having thoughts about how you probably weren't ready to have a kid. Thinking how you probably weren't gonna be a good mother. He helped you see that you two would be together and that you both can go through it together.
BUSINESS!OWNER ONY - The man who would drop work for you any day. If you're having issues or if you truly need him. He will call off for your needs. You're more important to him than any job.
BUSINESS!OWNER ONY - The man who called off of work and was speeding the limit to get to you when he heard your water broke. That's all he needed to hear, knowing that you were alone and in pain made him try his best to reach you as fast as he could.
BUSINESS!OWNER ONY - The man who got into a car accident trying to get to you. The car almost tumbling off the side of the highway as he pushed and forced his way out of the drivers seat. His mind still only thinking about you. His mind only wondered if you were okay.
BUSINESS!OWNER ONY - The man who got out in time but was still severely injured. How he only wanted to make sure you weren’t hurting anymore even though he was the one half conscious. Crying out your name to the pandemics, crying out how your water broke and how you needed him, how you needed some type of assistance.
BUSINESS!OWNER ONY - The man who never even got to see his own son as a newborn. The family he worked so hard to provide and care for.