a/n: I really love the Remmick community, you are all so funny and kinky and deserve flowers 🥹 thank you so much if you decide to give this a read, it’s the first fic I’ve ever posted <3 (Title is from Dust Bowl by Ethel Cain) Ill probably post around 3 chapters at a time
Summary: After the death of your mother, you put a candle outside your window every night waiting for her spirit to return to you. But an invitation cast into the wide, restless sea of the dead is never guaranteed to reach the one you long for. Anyone can answer. And someone did.
Warning: Grief babyy, blood kink duh, flirting to codependency pipeline, p in v, Oral, yearning obvi, mutual pining/stalking if you squint, some plot, did I mention flirting?, mad porch play 🙏
Chapter 1: The Flame on the Sill
Your mom said you used to talk to shadows as a child. Reach out with your tiny hands, like something somewhere may take them, may try to understand. It's not a habit one is meant to hang onto. Especially you. Your Nana raised you better, raised you to know what the night is. What it can take. That the later it draws on, the more weary the mind becomes, the more want it has to offer. You knew nothing of want until your mother died, now your mind screams with it. A desperation so rotten and depraved you don't know what you wouldn't give away to see her.
You begin rituals to make her feel closer. Lighting a small flame on the outer sill of your bedroom window. A beacon for her soul to return to. You wait every night for a sign. But nothing comes. No shadows in the yard, no deer in the field, no tear in the universe between life and death. It's just you. Your Nana. The house. And the silence that has replaced your mother.
It isn't until the summer two years after her death that you start to see shapes. Shapes that don't belong to the trees, that don't look like they belong to anything. But there's something there, pressed into the stillness of it all.
“You can come out, Mama,” you'd whisper, hands clutched tight, like they're holding in a prayer that could escape. You see nothing, no, but you feel it. Something clinging on. Your vigil burns brighter, the air grows thicker. The same instinct a sailor gets before a storm pulses through you now. The way the water warns, your land does in turn for you. Even your grass sways differently in the wind, like its bracing, like there's something from beneath the Earth walking atop it, moving through it. Waiting.
It's this way for weeks until you finally see it. A figure. A figure you wish so badly to be your mother, but this thing couldn't be. It emits none of her softness, none of her quiet warmth you had etched into your memory since childhood. For a moment, your mind begs, who is to say what a spirit looks like, what it contorts into when our flesh is shed. What does death do to a person? But no. You know better. This wasn't her. She would come to you.
This thing is still, rooted. Wrong. Yet, you stare at it until your eyes water. Until it blurs back into the other shadows. Hours go by and you finally concede, reaching for your lamp, perhaps it wasn't there at all.
Then you see it. A shift. Just a tilt, enough to raise the hairs on your neck. And though you shouldn't, you smile.
After that, it comes back, night after night. It returns to you.
“What are you?” you whisper, your chin resting on folded arms, your chest aches with want as you ask. “Who are you?”, the figure moves slightly and warmth spreads through your stomach.
You lean forward on the sill. “Are you watching me too?” You ask faintly, continuing to stare. It's shameless, but you have nothing to pretend at. It doesn't move again that night, but the shadows are thick around it. Like its attention is sharpening, honing in.
By morning it's always gone, but that doesn't stop you from sleeping at the sill each night, watching until your eyes give out.
The days bleed into months. You live for your nights now, stretching them longer, later, trying to keep the figure there.
It isn’t until late December, in the thick of winter that it truly begins. You draw the curtain and see it there.
He’s motionless, standing in the snow, no jacket, no undershirt. Your breath catches, the flame flickers, and your eyes demand him. The sharp lines of his jaw. The outline of his broad shoulders. The new details were still limited by darkness but they were new nonetheless and you wanted, you needed all of them.
When he lifts his gaze, something flickers in his eyes, a shimmer, like firelight. A red glint. Your mouth turns up into a smile, skin prickling as if your body already knows him.
You stare until sleep overtakes you and you repeat it again the next night. And the next.
You quickly begin to rely on his presence to ignite you. To raise your heartbeat, to make you feel alive again.
And yet, a certain unrest begins to settle within you when you realize you've started lighting the candle less and less for your mother... and more for him.
10pm and he's there, always there. Your heart races as he comes into view. You toy with the edge of the curtain, letting it shield part of your face. The figure's head tilts slightly to the right. You chuckle, pushing the curtain open further so you're fully in his view. “Better?” you ask quietly.
His head tips again, slower this time, as if cataloguing every inch of you. The weight of his gaze makes your pulse erratic. You shift slightly and the strap of your nightgown slips down your shoulder. You pull it back quickly, but not quickly enough, he sees.
His shoulders shift, the faintest motion that looks like he’s stifling a laugh. Then his eyes find yours, two sharp points of reflecting red in the dark. He holds, and you hold with him, like there's a thread stretched thin between you.
Neither of you break. Neither of you want to.
Months pass by. And your want grows worse. You need him closer.
The next night as you do your routine you consider a new offering for him. You position the flame in the window then you go into your kitchen, pouring the tea you just brewed into your favorite mug. You step outside, setting it on the edge of the porch, you don't linger, you step back in, shut the door and return to your window.
You don't see him that evening but by morning when you check the mug, the tea is gone.
So you do it again. And again. Every night.
One night, you step out just far enough to place the mug and you swear you hear it, a low, deep chuckle. Though you see nothing around you.
The next morning it’s empty again. You grin, taking the mug back in with you.
“Feeding strays?” Your Nan asks playfully.
You jump, cheeks burning. “I-No, I..”
Her eyes twinkle at you, pleased. “If you had a visitor last night, I hope they were respectful.”
“He is.” you nod quickly.
“Okay” she smiles. “Tell me about him later,” she squeezes your shoulder, amused. You rest one hand over hers for a moment.
You do it again the next night, and the next. Another ritual. Another ritual for him. The tea, the candle, the waiting.
Summer has begun again, the night is setting in. You start to push the door open with your left hand, the right is cradling a mug brimming to the top with steamy tea. You weren't even sure he ever got it warm. But you were going to perch it on the porch rail anyway. You swing the door open. He’s already there.
He's leaning against the post, slightly in the shadows. Your breath hitches in your chest, pupils blown.
Chapter II: A Tear at the Elbow
“Evenin,” he says, all low and warm. His voice knots in your stomach, like you're trying to trap the sound of it inside you.
You freeze in the doorway. “It’s you. You uh- you startled me,” you admit, timidly.
He glances at the cup in your slightly shaking hand, a small smile tugs at his mouth. “That for me?”
“Yeah,” you stare in disbelief, “who else?,” you trip over your words, extending the beverage to him. He takes it without looking away from you, his fingers brushing yours.
Up close, he's sharper and softer all at once. Strong cheekbones accompanied by soft mannerisms. Your eyes crawl over him, there are details to his face you'd never been able to see from your window, never been able to imagine. He has a strangeness. His skin is a soft pallor, his eyes a blue you'd only seen in a surrendering night sky. And there were little lines, fine lines that traced the corners and shadows of his face, deepening his already captivating expressions. Expressions that linger longer than they should.
He's beautiful. Unfairly so.
You glance down, trying not to stare, but your eyes betray you. They drag over him, taking in everything from his unpolished shoes, to his dark trousers which were a little ill-fitting, as though they'd belonged to someone else. His suspenders that wrapped over his broad shoulders. His light blue shirt, loosely tucked in, hugging his body, hugging his arms, your gaze follows one sleeve down, halting at the elbow.. your nose crinkles.
“That's a tear,” you say, your voice steadier than before. You gesture toward him. “Right there. In your shirt”.
His expression remains the same, but his eyes change, a flicker of curiosity crosses them.
He tilts his head, slow. Like you've reminded him of something, something old.
“You always this kind to strangers?”
“No.” You meet his eyes. “But you’re no stranger to me. Are you?”
He smiles. “You do put that little flame out for me every night”
“Put it out for my mom, actually.”
“Mhm.” He hums, leaning in closer. “You leave the curtains open for her too?”
You blush, finally turning away from him.
“My mistake" he coos. Insincere. “It's not worth the work, the shirt” he tells you softly.
“Dont be silly,” you counter. “Its no trouble.. And besides, I’d like to.” Your eyes flick up at his.
“Well, if you insist,” he drawls, taking a drink from the cup you brought him. “You comin’ out here to do it…or you want me inside?”
“Oh no” you say quickly. “Take it off out there. Leave it on the porch. I'll have it fixed by nightfall tomorrow,”you tell him.
He raises an eyebrow. “Think I can't sit still?” He prods gently.
“No,” you chuckle, your eyes dragging over him again. “You sit too still.” You smile shyly, looking over the familiar lines of his body yet again.
His grin explodes. “You think so? Yeah, you’d know. You've been watching me. Shoot, bet you’d recognize me anywhere, wouldn't you?”
“Yes,” you admit before you can stop yourself. You couldn’t help it. You knew his words rang true. That the mere outline of him was etched deep into your memory.
His voice drops a little lower, “I like you watchin’ me, darlin.”
“Always watchin’ back, aren't I?” His eyes travel over you.
Heat rises to your cheeks.
“You know why? Cause a girl like you keeps her curtains wide and open for a man like me.” His words feel like a weighted blanket.
“Maybe,” you dare, “Maybe I just forgot to close them.” you tease, eager for his reaction.
His grin sharpens. “That so?”
He slips his thumbs under his suspenders, tugging them loose, slow and deliberate, still looking at you. He slips them from his shoulders, allowing them to hang loose at his sides.
“What’re you doing?” you ask, eyes widening.
“You said you wanted to mend it.”
“I said to leave it on the porch.”
“And how else is it gonna get there? Could look away couldn't ya?”
His thumb latches onto the first button of his shirt, he's not in a rush, he undoes it and your stomach tightens.
The second button comes free and you can see his collarbones.
“All these months,” he looks at your lips, “you must have wondered.”
“Wondered?” you ask, your voice small.
He steps closer. “What’d it'd be like..” His eyes drop to your mouth. “What my voice might sound like. What my hands might feel like..” The last button gives, his chest is broad, his muscles visible.
“I-” you start to stutter.
He laughs but it's not cruel. It's amused, patient. Like he wanted it. He leans in. “Look at you, blushing for me. Sweet thing, you don’t even know my name.”
You try to straighten as he looks over you, taking in how you respond to him.
“Didn’t ask, did I? ” you ask quietly, trying to reclaim some dignity.
“Nah,” he says, eyes shining. “But I know ya want it. It’s Remmick,” he says, low and steady. “And sweetheart.. tomorrow night, you can say it all you want when I come back for this.”
He folds the garment, folds it perfectly before extending it out to you.
You swallow, taking the shirt from his hands. It’s not warm like you expected it to be, but it smells of him.
He’s halfway down the steps when he calls over his shoulder, “Don’t stay up too late watchin’ me,” he winks, a smug smile sitting on his lips.
You stand there, mind swimming, heart racing.
You don’t look out your window that night, but you don't go to bed either.
Almost immediately, you set to work on the garment. You shut your curtains, needle and thread in hand. Your fingers knot into the fabric.. You press it to your face, breathing him in. It smells like the woods, like sweat, like a human.
You take in the smell again.
You sew with urgency, and when you finish, you fold it as precisely as he did.
The audacity he had to make you wait. Couldn’t he just come over that morning?
But you do. You wait all morning. All afternoon. All evening. You wait. You wait for him…
You've re-folded the shirt up neat in your hands, a couple times now, trying not to crinkle it with your nervous hands. When you open the door he's already on the porch, leaning on the rail.
“Hey sweetheart.” His voice is unhurried, pleased.
“I fixed it,” you say hopefully, your eyes meeting his. “For you,” you add shyly, extending it out to him. He takes it slow, his fingers brushing yours a moment longer than needed. He grins looking at the fabric.
“Well look at you,” he drawls, teasing you “Wantin’ to take care of me, so soon.”
You roll your eyes, “Oh you flatter yourself” you say coolly.
“Mm don't I?” he hums. “Cant believe you got this done already. Eager girl.” His eyes focus on your hands. “I been thinkin ’bout you doin’ it all night. Those pretty hands workin the thread, stitch by stitch, thinkin ‘bout me the whole time.”
His mouth curves upward. “Oh no?” His voice is smooth, “I was thinkin’ about you touchin’ it. Lettin’ it sit in your lap. Bet you thought about how I’d look in it.” He steps closer. “How it'd fit over my shoulders.”
“Might have made it too nice for you.” You shrug.
He laughs lowly. “Careful, you're startin’ to sound like you like me.”
“I might,” your eyes glint.
He grins, you’ve made his night. Without breaking eye contact, he flicks open the first button of his shirt.
He holds the shirt up between you two. “Could try it on now,” he murmurs, tone dipping lower, “if ya let me in. Could watch me take this off.”
Your breath catches. “Oh, oh no” you blush, clutching the doorframe. “My Nan, she's sleeping.”
He presses a hand dramatically over his chest. “Darlin, you think I'd wake up dear old Nan? I’d be so quiet, you wouldn't know I was there”
You laugh with genuineness, “I don't think so, you'd be a disaster.” You mean it endearingly.
He steps closer, nodding his head. “No, I'd be good for you.” He promises softly. “Mind my manners and all.”
Your eyes narrow, “Not with that grin. You're a man up to no good.”
His grin only sharpens boyish and dangerous. Eyes hungry. “I'd be every kind of good you let me.” He leans in “Sweet…Wicked…Whatever you want..”
Your fingers tighten on the doorframe. Shaking your head, unable to stop your smiling.
“I’d keep my hands where you want ‘em’” He bargains.
“Remmick.” You reach out the door pushing him playfully. “Not tonight.”
“Alright,” he turns around taking a few steps before turning back. “Tomorrow?”
“You’re impossible.” You chuckle.
“I’ll be in there soon enough. You'll ask me too.” He folds the shirt under his arm. “Ill make sure of it.”
He leaves you with your pulse hammering, as per usual.
Chapter III: Choice
The knock comes just after 9. Two raps that electrify your evening. You open it. Remmick is standing there with the shirt on. A couple buttons are undone. The sleeves are rolled up carelessly, showing his forearms.
“Well?” He asks, holding his arms out slightly.
“Lookin for praise, yeah?”
“Praise for your handiwork, that's all.” His eyes gleam.
“It looks good on you,” you smile, tilting your chin toward it. “Now that I've fixed it.”
He looks over the elbow where your neat stitches tighten.
“’It's my favorite one now.” He boasts.
“Yeah?” You cock your head, questioning. “Kind of liked the way it looked off of you.”
That earns you a slow, deliberate look. One that lingers. He shifts on his feet, thumb strumming the edge of your stitches.
“Mhm.” You try to subdue a smile, keeping your eyes on his.
“You worked hard on this, I can tell.” He says, calm, measured.
“That I did.” You confirm.
He gives the corner a tug, popping a stitch.
“Remmick,” you step forward, your tone sharp.
Another stitch gives way under his thumb.
“Make me stop,” he says lowly, daring.
You blink at him, heat pooling in your stomach, but you don't move.
The last of the stitches giveaway at the strength of his fingertips, unraveling with ease.
“Reckon it'll need to come off again.
“You could have just taken it off.” You bite back.
“Nah. Cause now you'll just have to spend the next hour with me fixin’ it again.”
You give him a flat look.
“You gonna tear it again if I do?”
“Yeah” he nods. “Every damn time.”
He steps in close, voice lowering to a velvet drawl.
“Say it like that again and you'll be sewing all night.”
“Remmick” you repeat, quieter, softer. Just for him.
He hums lightly, leaning in.
“One more time like that and it won’t be stitches keepin’ you up”
“Oh, you’re something dangerous” you breathe, chest expanding.
“Darlin’, I'd be so much more gentle with you.” He cooed. Quiet words, just for you.
“Yeah?” You swallowed, unable to keep up.
He watches you squirm a moment longer, amused. Then his fingers hook into the collar of his shirt, sliding it up and over his head. Easing it off his arms and letting it hit his feet.
He’s surreally beautiful. And close. So close you feel his coolness radiating. You lean forward, fully entranced.
“Am I interrupting?” Your Nan asks from the hall.
“Nans,” you step back, horrified, your face reddening with heat.
“It's okay, sweet girl.” She says with a soft chuckle offering a gentle wave to Remmick.
He straightens, taking a step back himself. You look over to him and catch the faint red gleam in his eyes you'd grown familiar with.
You turn back to your Nan, she saw. Her smile is gone. Her jaw locks, face come over with something you'd rarely seen.
“I see” she calculates. “Why don't you close that door and come back, in the morning, young man.”
He stares at the door, its swung open..inside the home. His posture tightens.
“Go on,” Nan's voice is steady.
“Sorry to bother ya,” he says evenly. “I won’t be inconveniencin’ your night any furtha.”
He collects his shirt, turns and steps off the porch. Turning back to give you both a final nod.
Nan shuts the door, latching the lock with a firmness.
“Kitchen or couch my love?”
“Kitchen.” You sigh, heading to the table.
“You know already. Don't you?”
“Creatures like that hunny, have long since lost the last reminders of humanity that once clung to their existence. In its place, they learn to survive on games, the kind that stretch across lifetimes. The kind that whisper themselves into bloodlines. Quiet obsessions. They live through others. Weaving themselves into their days, experiencing their life through yours, a puppeteer, a false god. A demon.” She warns.
“I don't even know what's true of him. But if that is his fate- Is it so wrong to want to feel alive again? He’s cursed Nana, don’t you pity him?” you asked, sincerity hitched in your voice.
“I pity him plenty. A life was stolen from him, but in the wake of that demise a hunger was born. One he’s fed, one he feeds now. It’s not wrong to want to feel alive darlin, but what’s the cost? It’s wrong to take life from others.”
“We don’t know what he does. What he is.” You say, eyes fixed on your hands as they shift restlessly in your lap.
“Best we don’t find out, love. Now I know better than to stunt a young girl's curiosity. I see what he’s birthed in you. You have a pull. A gravitation to one another. It has nothing to do with the supernatural, no fated destinies. Something worse.”
You stare at her, waiting.
Her voice comes out slow, reverent.
“Choice. That defines who we are. He’ll come looking. And it’ll be your decision, to let him in. There are tales that spirits like that can’t cross a threshold without an invitation, but he doesn't need permission to invade your life sweetheart. Who you are. Your heart. That's all I'm worried about.”
“I know he'll be back, I know you'll let him crawl, he wants to, but sweetie,” her gaze fixes on yours. “Don't let him in.”
Her lips tighten against each other.
“I love you.” She sighs, heavy.
“I love you too. We're gonna be fine, okay?”
She takes your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Its warm, grounding.
But in the silence you feel her doubt. And worse, you feel your own.
