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Crying in the club (never been to a club) over their love

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Vampires is different, maybe the worst kind. But they live on, even if the one that made them is killed. They gotta be killed, one by one.

SINNERS (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler

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Music in Film: Sinners (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler

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sinners (2025) dir. ryan coogler

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My final act of love is staying away from you for the rest of my life.

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can't stop thinking about how Remmick had a black eye after fleeing the Choctaw vampire hunters. Forget stakes and holy water and garlic; they were just straight up beating his ass

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destiny's child by vincent peters for the face uk (2001)

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SINNERS (2025) — dir. Ryan Coogler

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SINNERS 2025 | dir. Ryan Coogler

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TOUCHED LIKE A PRAYER | SAMMIE MOORE X F!READER

based on this request! thank you for inspiring me :)

You stared at Sammie as he sang and strummed his guitar mercilessly. He was taken entirely, as he played like the world would end if he stopped. It was awe-inspiring to see a man enraptured by his passion for music. He played like he loved it more than breathing. Sammie’s fingers were calloused and raw, chasing the next perfect note and melody even if it meant he’d draw his own blood. Something happened that night, the night Sammie got those scars on his cheek. He wouldn’t dare utter a word to you or anyone else, for that matter. But when he played, it seemed like he had travelled elsewhere; a part of you wondered if he had returned to that unspoken night.

I’ve seen it, haven’t you? How he keeps going, even when the scars are louder than the music. Even when they tell him he’s too rough, too raw, too Black for the places that matter. It’s gotten in the way of work, of gigs, of respect. But Sammie still plays. Because somewhere in all that ache, the music still says his name like a prayer. And watching him, you can’t help but love him for it.

He sat at the edge of the bed, guitar limp in his lap like a tired limb. It was a part of him after all. His shoulders sagged in defeat, under something heavier than the day, heavier than the Delta heat.

“I can’t keep doin this,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes fixed on the floor like it might offer relief. “They hear the sound, sure they always do. But as soon as they see me… it changes. Doors close, faces shift. That smile they had turns polite, then turns cold and demeaning.”

You stayed quiet, let the silence help fill the space for the ache that had succumbed your baby Sammie.

“I play till my fingers split. I write songs that make grown men cry for fuck’s sake! But it ain’t enough. Not with this skin, and definitely not with these scars. They look at me and see trouble, no talent.” Sammie finally raised his head to look at you, eyes glassy from unshed tears and pain he’d carried too long. “I ain’t got nothing to show for myself but a guitar from my cousins and torn up hands that ain’t even presentable enough for an interview.”

You moved closer, reaching for him. Fingers lightly tracing his jawline, the hairs of his beard prickling your fingertips. “All I’ve ever wanted was to be heard,” he said, his voice began to crack. “To be seen somethin’ more than the struggle. But this world– “ he kissed his teeth. “It don’t want men like me to dream out loud.”

Sammie looked at you then, with softened eyes. “You believe in me. And at times that’s the only thing keepin’ me from laying this guitar to rest for good.” Your hands found his then.

“I do believe in you,” you said softly. “But more than that, I see you. Not just the songs or the smile you wear when you’re trying not to fall apart. I see the boy who taught himself chords for Sunday service, his hands too tired from fieldwork. I see the man who still dares to dream with a foot on his neck.”

Sammie turned his face away, but not before you saw the tears begin to fall. He hated crying. Said the world wouldn’t give Black men room for softness, only survival.

“I know what it feels like to be told you’re too much and not enough at the same time,” you continued, regardless of his averted gaze. “My mama worked the same fields her mama did. Could’ve run, but stayed cause the land was the only thing that ever called her by name, and me?” You paused to swallow. “I got a voice, too. I write, I write stories that ain’t no one is ever going to read. Cause what if they say the same thing? That I’m just another Black girl with ink-stained hands and nothing worth saying.” Your last statement caught his attention. Sammie moved his body so that he was now fully facing you.

“Why ain’t you ever told me that?” He whispered.

“Cause I figured one of us needed to stay whole,” you said, now leaning in closer to him. “But maybe we’re meant to hold each other instead.”

You reached up and cupped his face. “You don’t have to carry it all alone, Sammie. Not your scars, or your songs, not even your silence.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. And when he leaned forward to meet you halfway, he rested his forehead against yours, the weight shifted just enough to make room for both of you. His breath was warm against your skin, and his forehead pressed against yours. Sammie closed his eyes like he was praying. For a long moment, neither of you moved. It was as if he was scared to make the first move. You could feel it in the way his hand trembled slightly in yours. His chest rose and fell, as if he were still trying to fight back tears. Still trying to stay strong, even as everything in him begged to fall apart.

“Sammie,” you whispered, barely more than a breath. “It’s okay to break. I’ll hold you.”

You lifted your hand, slow and careful, brushing his face with your fingertips. Your thumb found the scar along his cheekbone, the one that curved like a crescent moon, soft but deep. You traced it slowly without hesitation, the scar was rough beneath your touch, ridged and unyielding in places. Sammie flinched. He wasn’t used to being touched there with such tenderness and love. The world has a way of carving its name into Black men, and Sammie wore its signature across his skin.

He let out a shaky laugh, “You always know the right thing to say, even when it hurts and I ain’t ready to hear it.”

“I’m not here to fix you,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “Just want to be where it hurts… with you.”

“You ever feel like maybe this… us. Might be the only good thing that makes sense right now?”

“Every damn day,” you nodded.

He came in closer, slow and uncertain, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. Your lips met delicately at first, like neither of you wanted to scare the other. Sammie’s guitar slid gently to the floor, forgotten. His hands found your waist, pulled you flush against him, and everything else just melted away. You kissed him back like you meant to rewrite every song he ever bled for. Every chord that bruised his fingers. Every time the world told him no.

You felt him, all of him, in that kiss. His hunger, his hurt, the way he kept his heart wrapped tight even when it was breaking. In return, he felt the same way about you. Your hands moved up his chest and back to his face, grazing his scar again. Underneath it all, it was him, warm, real, and only yours in this moment.

When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours again, breath uneven. “You sure?” He asked, scared and full of want.”

You nodded, lips still parted from the kiss. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

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Childhood friend! Sammie, whose first love was the blues and second love was you. 

Childhood friend! Sammie, who, since diapers, had been inseparable from you. Your mama was a member of the congregation at his father’s church, and the two of you would steal away from the sermon to play behind the small, white building, kicking up dirt and rolling around in the grass. You remember earning several pops from your mama for ruining the pristine white church clothes with mud and grass stains.

Childhood friend! Sammie, who, as yall grew up, was the shyer one of your dynamic duo. He stood just two paces behind you (and three inches shorter), eyes downcast and knuckling the neck of a guitar 3/4ths the size of his body, whilst you flew away at the mouth, telling the older boys that fucked wih him to go straight to hell!

Childhood friend! Sammie, who couldn’t shake the habit of lacing his fingers with yours even as he grew up, just now only opting for private spaces and quiet moments between the two of you. 

Childhood friend! Sammie, who when you got your first “boyfriend” at the age of eleven, cried and cried for days, terrified he would no longer be the number one “man” in your life. You crassly reminded him that your daddy was the number one man in your life, which made him wail even harder.  

Childhood friend! Sammie, who stuck his chubby little finger out and made you promise you’d be his wife when y'all became grown, snot running down his nose and face puffy from how much he got worked up from this whole ordeal.

Childhood friend! Sammie, who chuckled softly when you hooked a finger under his signature brown fedora, which was always leaned three more inches to the right after he came back from hanging with his older cousins, Smoke and Stack. 

Childhood friend! Sammie, who was your first kiss. You both didn’t wanna enter your late teen years not having experienced something as small as a lil kiss. Oh, how his heart nearly pumping out his chest when you leaned in, eyes closed and clearly more sure of this than him. 

Childhood friend! Sammie, who always gloated about how cool his older cousins were, eyes sparkling whenever he brought em up. He ain’t give a rats ass about the rumors of all the unpleasant things they were doing up north, and continued to let you know how he was gonna convince them to take the both of you up to Chicago on their next adventure. 

Childhood friend! Sammie, who always included you in his plans for the future. When he became a big blues musician in the big cities, he was gon’ put you to work as his manager and split the profits with you. The features on his boyish face fell when you vehemently disagreed, saying you've been his bodyguard since he was eight, and he needa find someone else to do the job.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

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if smoke and stack decided to let remmick in, i feel like his white ass would step through the door, there would be a record scratch, and then everybody in the juke joint would look at him like this:

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Sinners (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler

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"There are legends of people born with the gift of making music so true, it can pierce the veil between life and death. Conjuring spirits from the past and the future." SINNERS (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler