#Remmick thoughts

[wingedfuncomputer]

I have this thought that remmick with someone whose loving and has 0 survival instincts would be a relationship that would last for eternity.

Oh definitely 100% people may disagree but I feel like even though Remmick thrives on the cat and mouse game it’s just that. A game. Soon he’ll get tired and choose another person to torment. Though at its core I think he really craves being needed, to be given someone’s all while he stays as he is. So a person with 0 survival instincts that just loves him no matter what is the one who he would keep by his side. Till death do them part.

That doesn’t mean he truly loves them though, he’s selfish by nature. I think this relationship (any tbh) would cause harm.

Kind of reminds me of my Remmick x reader fic I posted. In the beginning of it we see reader be naive trusting and kind. Remmick loves the fact he can be at the center of her world without doing much apart from just existing and flirting here and there. It isn’t until she deviates from the idealized version of his head that he starts causing harm to her. EVEN IF HES THE EXACT REASON SHES ACTING THAT WAY!! you can’t win against him and his freaky but stubborn evil mind

Anyways I get too passionate but yes I agree with you none of what I say is canon to the actual sinners movie though so dont take it as such lol..

[innsanex]

I don’t know if it’s just me but whenever I read a “sinners x reader” I always assume the reader is gonna be black just because the movie is literally yk based around us😭 so when I read some of them and the reader isn’t perceived to be black im like.. “oh!”, Maybe that’s just me tho idk!!

[lon3lystarr]

he’s so sexy i can’t even

[faestunna]

Neeeed more of remmick calling reader pet names like sugar or darlin’

sweet as sugar

PAIRING: remmick x fem!reader

WC: 1.6k

WARNINGS: smut (18+), dom/sub, sir kink, thigh-riding, man-handling, dirty talk, slight humiliation, degradation, cum/spit play?, licking, oral/throat-fucking, crying, porn without plot

A/N: your wish is my command 😌 and i would like to thank luna for the wonderful and filthy discussion on this

masterlist

“Please,” you drag your voice out and pout your bottom lip, looking up at him through your lashes. Directly in between and underneath your legs is his thigh. You place nearly all of your weight on it.

It didn’t go by unnoticed. Remmick smirked down at you while his hand rested on your waist. “Please, what, darlin’?” You shivered at his touch. “Can’t treat you right if you don’t tell me what you want.”

You furrowed your brows; this was going to be harder than you thought. “You know what I want.” You squeezed your legs around his thigh, building the pressure on your core. The only barrier between you and him were his denim work pants and the cloth of your panties.

Remmick chuckles when he feels a warm wetness soak through his jeans and to his skin. He knows that feeling. “You’ll have to use your words, sweet girl.”

“Just wanna feel good.” Burying your face into his neck allows you to inhale the very scent of him. “You don’t even have to do anything,” you offer. The muscle of his thigh is as solid as stone. You shudder at the feeling against your clit. “I-I’ll do all the work.”

“That so, baby?” He smirks before leaning back in the seat. “Show me, then.”

And you do. You put on the entire show. You sit up and begin grinding your hips into his leg as hard as you possibly can. If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve thought you were straddling the wood floors (again, because Remmick liked to see you beneath him).

His hand reaches under your slip and lifts it until he can see the soft curve of you tits before taking one into his palm. Your head tilts back, lips parting open in response. “How’s it feel, angel?”

“S-so good,” You quicken your speed, spreading your legs even wider to amplify the pressure on your clit. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, what?” He holds the slip up to your chest and watches the way your breasts move with the rest of you.

You gulp and knit your brows together as a burning sensation blossoms at your core. His jeans are even wetter somehow, only adding to how delicious it felt to ride his thigh.

“T-Thank you, sir.”

Remmick knows you too well. He knows that you speak a little higher and your legs tremble around him when you’re painfully close. “Anytime, sugar.”

As your impending orgasm nears, your body falls weak onto his chest, head resting on his shoulder. The only thing keeping you up are your hands gripping his arms, but they soon wrap around you. Remmick’s fingertips dig into your hips so hard that they’re surely a part of you now.

“I’m close,” you manage to say. “Wanna cum all over you.”

He starts to move your hips for you, grinding you against his thigh. Remmick glances down for just a moment to see the wet spot even bigger now. “Go ahead, darlin’. All over me like the little slut you are.”

Your breaths turn short and quick, and you swear your entire cunt just popped with pleasure. The burning in your veins turns into a sweet bliss as Remmick’s hands slow the movements, letting you ride it out. A euphoric grin falls over your face before he suddenly pulls you up and away from him. You pout.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, his hand firmly landing against the soft flesh over your ass. “You know what to do now. How’re you gonna thank me, pretty girl?”

He sets you down on the floor—beneath him again. Remmick’s trained you well enough that you begin to fumble with his belt before he tuts, “Now, wait. Ain’t you gonna clean your mess up?”

Hesitantly, you nod, and it’s clear you don’t know what he means. His hand finds its way to the back of your head, pushing your face down right to where you just straddled his thigh. You feel the wet spot on his jeans as he smears it against your cheek.

Then, it clicks. You flatten your tongue against the denim, ignoring how rough it feel against your taste buds. The flavor of your arousal floods your senses in a strange yet interesting way. “Told ya that you’re sweet. You taste it now, don’t you, baby?”

You nod, continuing to lick at your mess. No wonder Remmick would bury his face between your legs so often.

Sweet as sugar.

But before you can enjoy it anymore, his hand in your hair pulls your head up. His other hand is already undoing his belt, and he doesn’t have to tell you to pull his pants to his ankles. Remmick opens his legs a little, “Right here. There you go, honey.”

His cock twitches before you instinctively wrap your lips around it, only allowing yourself a small bit of him. You wanted to savor this. Your tongue swirls over his tip, feeling it pulse with a pressure you’d assume is painful. His hand pulls your hair and you look up at him.

He moans at the sight of it. There were times like this where Remmick let you have only the slightest bit of control, and you revelled in it.

But not for long. He’s much stronger than you, so you don’t stand a chance when his hand in your hair pushes your head down just like he did over his thigh, only this time, the impressive length of him took up nearly every space of your mouth. The corners of your lips slightly burned as you opened your jaw further to take him.

“Oh, darlin’,” his head tilts back once your nose touches his lower stomach. Tears pool at your eyes, a few even streaming down your cheek. Then, he pulls you back up again. “Fuck, that’s it, right there. My girl always makes me feel so good, don’t you?”

You try to nod, but fail as he pushes you down again. Then up, and then down. And it becomes a seemingly endless cycle. Not a single muscle in your body moves—Remmick does it all for you. Each time he presses you down on him, you sputter around his girth, strands of spit connecting you to the base when he pulls your head up.

He doesn’t let you take a single breath. You begin to squirm in between his legs, small, muffled moans falling from your lips and getting caught in the luscious connection.

Then, like a miracle, he pulls you away completely. Air rushes to your lungs, creating somewhat of a numb feeling over your face as your mind goes foggy. “Look at you,” Remmick cooes. His other hand begins stroking himself as he takes in the sight of you. “Little whore loves to have a cock in her mouth.”

You nod rapidly, tongue flat and mouth open, awaiting the sweet feeling of him painting your face. But after a few moments of nothing, you open your eyes, brows furrowed in confusion.

He chuckles before slamming your head back onto him, his full length completely blocking out anymore air from your lungs. The room is filled with the symphony of your small moans, sputters, and gags. “Music to my fucking ears.”

If you were able to, you’d curse him out. He holds your head down pressed against him, trapping between his arms and his abdomen. There’s no escape. Your eyes flutter shut when his hips begin to move themselves, somehow forcing himself even deeper in your throat.

“Nuh uh, baby,” he ruts into your mouth. “Keep em open. Want you to see how good you make me feel.”

Even with your eyes open, you struggle to see him through your tears. “Atta girl,” Remmick says, leaning over you and planting a firm slap to your ass again. His hips don’t stop, blocking any air for you. “Gonna fill you up like this, then I’ll fuck your little cunt and fill her up too.”

Something warm and wet drips down your leg. You mentally thank God Remmick couldn’t see it or else you wouldn’t hear the end of it.

His hips stutter for a few moments before completing stopping. He holds your head down with just his forearm, but it’s too much for you to fight. You didn’t even try to—you wanted as much of him as you could get. And, as a man of his word, Remmick fulfills his promise.

His release slides down your throat with ease, hot spurts hitting your insides and leaving you a slobbering mess. Your name falls from his lips like a prayer—a sinful one, at that—as the taste of him takes up every last space in your mouth and throat.

When he releases his grip, allowing you to pull away from him. His cock still glistens with a residual shine.

Remmick’s hand gently caresses your cheek, chest rising with heavy breaths before he wipes the drool from your chin with his thumb. He lowers it to his own lips and moans at the taste of it. A small bit leaks from the corner of his mouth.

“Now, who’s the one droolin’?” You lightheartedly snicker, somewhat hoping he wouldn’t enjoy a tease.

His eyes, playful and dark, turn into a deep shade of red as he grabs your face with his hand, forcing your puffy lips to pucker. “Well, if you wanna be like that, darlin’…”

With one hand, he lifts you from your knees, curling his arm around you and folding you over his lap. He lifts the fabric of your slip and gently rubs the curve of your ass with his palm. He lands another firm slap, enjoying how you yelp from the stinging in your skin.

“I’m sure I can snap you back into place.”

© faestunna 2025.

[snailsfall]

Need him in ways that are concerning for everyone actually

[prettyliittleviolets]

freaky ass movie with three whole sex scenes and we can’t get ONE with this mf????? come outside ryan coogler i just wanna talk.

[tellingtell5]

Prompt

Not even a title, just wondering—if the ones Remmick turns feel his pain… do they feel other things too?

No plot, just porn.

“So…”

You move toward him, slow—not with confidence, but with need. Drawn, not certain. Like something inside you is pulled by a thread only he holds. You ache already, and you haven’t even touched him.

He doesn’t look up. He keeps carving, the knife you gave him glinting softly in the low light. That blade—he never uses it for anything but this.

His hands are steady. Strong. The way he turns the figure, considers it, breathes lightly over it—it’s reverent. And you wonder, for just a second, what it would feel like to be touched like that. To be held in those hands, examined like something rare.

You feel him. The heat of his body. The way his shoulders tighten, the slow, deliberate way he doesn’t react. But you know. He feels you. He’s just pretending not to. That string between you isn’t subtle tonight. It’s thick with tension, thrumming like it might snap from how much it’s holding.

You want him to look at you.

"What were ye sayin’, love?"

His voice is sin in velvet. Slow, amused, full of heat.He didn’t stop whittlin’, but turned his head toward you, lettin’ you know you had his attention.

"Can you feel what I feel?"

Your voice is quieter than you meant it. Not seductive—yearning.

His carving slows. His brow draws, eyes flicking toward you without lifting fully.

You step closer. Close enough that your breath might touch his skin if you exhaled too hard.

“I mean…”

You touch your neck.

Slow.

Your fingers trace the hollow of your throat, then drift lower—softer than breath, more dangerous than promise. You feel your own skin tighten as you move. Down over the sharp bone of your clavicle, across the curve of your breast. Just enough pressure to make your nipples tighten. Just enough to make your breath catch.

" If I do this..."

You let your fingertips brush over the curve of your breast. Not to tease, but to ask. To test some invisible line. And then he looks up.

His eyes find you like gravity. And for a heartbeat, neither of you breathe. There’s something wild in him now. Raw. Like your touch called it up from somewhere deep. And yet he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

You stroke lower. Tease the edge of your bodice with your nail. You hold your own gaze. Let your lips part. Let your breath go ragged.

"Can you feel that?"

Your voice trembles. You hate how much you need his answer. He exhales—slow, like he’s trying to cage something.

"Aye, I feel it”

The sound he makes is not human. It’s a growl buried in laughter, a sound that tastes like need.

“Straight in me bollocks, darlin’."

The words are rough. Hot. But behind them, there’s something else. Something startled.

He grins, slow and sharp. But his eyes—they betray him. They’re dark. Hungry.

"But not quite the way you think."

You don’t answer right away.

Your breath stutters in your throat, soft and ragged. Your chest rises and falls in shallow waves, thighs pressing tight together like you could dam the flood building deep inside you. But the ache’s no longer shy. It throbs. It opens like a bruise. It begs.

You only meant to tease. Just play with the edge of the bond. The thing growing between you—raw and thrilling, strange and new. You only wanted to know: if I touch myself... will he feel it?

But that’s not what happened.

He moves with no rush. No shame. Just purpose. The carved wooden figure drops to the table, forgotten. He unfolds to his full height, that lazy, devastating grace. Storm in a man’s body. His eyes pin you, and you feel the room tilt—air thick and slow like honey over heat.

“Aching, are ye?”

His voice slips through you like smoke, warm and dirty, velvet soaked in whiskey. It lingers. Clings. Your skin prickles in its wake.

“You did that to yourself, love...” He took a single step forward, and it was like the air itself bent around him. “Thought you were being clever, hm? Testing the thread between us?”

Your mouth parts, but your voice is gone—lost to the hitch in your breath, the pulse in your throat. Your eyes are blown wide, your hands gripping the edge of the table like it might keep you grounded. Like you’re not already lost.

“But it’s not your touch I feel.”

He smiles then. Slow. Sinful. And it’s not just confidence—it’s intent.

Then, without looking away, he brings his hand to his own chest. Not careless. Not hurried. Every movement is measured—performed. For you.

You watch his fingers graze the hollow of his throat, glide over his collarbone. Down the center of his chest. Over the tight muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. He exhales, low and knowing.

You feel it.

Not just like a phantom echo. No. Like it’s yours.

Like your hand is sliding down your own body.

Like you are dragging fingers across your chest, teasing your own skin until your nipples stiffen and your stomach tightens and your legs try to close around nothing.

He keeps going. Lower. His palm glides down over the front of his trousers—slow—and presses.

And your world splits.

The pressure, the heat—it strikes through your core like lightning. Your gasp is helpless. Your hips twitch forward. Your spine bows. You nearly moan his name but it dies in your throat, torn apart by pleasure.

He rubs—not hard, not fast. Just enough. Enough to torment. Enough to unravel.

His breath hitches. Yours follows like a shadow. Because it’s you. It’s your palm feeling him.

He watches your every twitch, every broken breath. Watches the way your knees weaken. The way your lips part in disbelief at the depth of sensation. Then, still watching, he pushes his shirt up with his free hand—just enough to show skin. The faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband.

Then—he rolls his hips into his hand.

And your body detonates.

You cry out. Not polite. Not pretty. It tears from you, raw and ruined. Your thighs are soaked. Your vision blurs. The table behind you groans beneath your grip.

And he moans, soft but unfiltered. Not performative—offering. He strokes again. More pressure. More drag.

You feel every ridge of muscle flex under your ghosted palm. Feel your grip tighten. Your wrist flick. Your pace build.

Except it’s not your hand. It’s his.

And he’s doing it for you.

His head tilts back. His throat arches. His breath grows heavier—but never wild. Always in control. Always intentional.

“See, mo chroí…”

His voice is reverent now. Worshipful. Thick and low and meant to ruin you.

“When I touch me...”

Another stroke. Long. Deep.

“…you feel it.”

You can’t breathe. Can’t speak. You’re caught in him—through him. Everything he does coils inside you like heat and hunger made flesh.

“That’s the thread. That’s how deep it runs.”

He steps closer. You feel it in your bones.

“You don’t push it outward, love...”

Another grind into his palm. Another gasp from you.

“You receive it.”

He’s in front of you now. Heat radiating off him in waves. You can barely stand it.

“If I ache... you ache.”

He strokes harder. Rougher. And your legs shake.

“If I burn…”

He growls—deep, primal. You scream. Not loud. But wrecked.

“…you blaze.”

Then—closer still. His mouth at your cheek, his breath hot. His lips barely brushing.

“So be careful what you start, sweetheart.”

His voice is sharp silk.

“Because I’ve got centuries of hunger in me…”

He pauses. Waits for your breath to catch. Watches your body fall apart.

“…and now, so do you.”

[anonymousavenger]

Imagine having an absolute breakdown/crash out and then there is a group of people Irish jigging outside…

I swear that’ll be my last straw 😭

[seaglassdinosaur]

It’s not just ‘the colonized becomes the colonizer’

It’s the historical context of Black-Irish conflicts, rooted in the anti-Blackness of the United States and the rampant anti-Irish discrimination that placed Irish people below White folks, but above Black people.

It’s that the Irish weren’t ‘really’ white at the time because Whiteness is a social construct not based in phenotypic presentation, but culture, behavior, and power.

That the Irish however were able to ‘become’ white as the rules of whiteness changed, a dichotomy so strongly personified by Remmick.

It’s that the Irish were also hated by the KKK, same as Black folks, but in a depiction of ‘becoming’ White, Remmick is able to change enough of himself to gain the trust of the Klan and become the head of their power structure.

[rhaenyraeri]

absolutely no one:

remmick: SAMMIE

[hatethysinner]

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

ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ɢᴏᴅ

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

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

Remmick was here, of course.

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

That you hadn’t disappeared.

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

It was on the box in your pocket.

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

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

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

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

His presence was enough.

His quiet was never empty.

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

He looked good.

Not polished. Not composed. But full.

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

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

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

He’d never had a proper gift before.

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

And yet you’d bought the cufflinks anyway.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t.

You just looked at him.

Really looked.

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

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

You just wanted him to know.

That he was thought of.

That he was wanted.

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

You closed the distance slowly.

Not rushed.

Not dramatic.

Just real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have somethin’ for you.”

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

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

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

That did it.

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

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

Remmick went still.

Completely still.

Like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re yours,”

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

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

He said it like a prayer.

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

And he hadn’t even tried them on yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stared at you the whole time.

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

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

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

Not loud. Not sharp.

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

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

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

He didn’t blink.

You didn’t look away.

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

You smoothed down his cuff with your thumb.

“They suit you,” you said.

He blinked like he’d forgotten how to.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then: “You’re not scared of me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No,” you said, eyes closed.

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

“No,” you said again.

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

This was your secret, after all.

Yours and Remmick’s.

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

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

[faestunna]

that first pic, i NEED to be on top of him

[iamyourwayout]

Ok, so I finally figured out why Remmick's outfit was so awkward -- the pants are too high-waisted for his height and frame.

And then I realized they are Bert's who is a good 3 inches taller.

That is so fucking smart and funny

[urfavesim]

The way people r so quick to try n demonize the non demonic parts of sinners is lowk kinda crazy…like sammie is not demonic for deciding to continue to play music!!!

[bambilott]

Idk if someone already has said this or if this was already confirmed i only watched the movie once but I wholeheartedly believe that remmick had sammys ability to conjure up spirits and ancestors with music when he was alive and thats exactly what he was trying to do in the dance circle with all the vampires. He was desperately seeking community throughout the whole movie, but his performance felt more cult like than spiritual (unlike sammy’s).