Untitle

22 years old as of 2020

[yumebambi-writes]

👉👈 brahms x short and chubby reader, please (take your time)

Brahms Heelshire x Short!Chubby!GN!Reader (SFW)

cw: canon-typical creepiness, possessive behavior

brahms lovesssss that you're shorter than him because he loves the size difference between the two of you

he's constantly comparing your hands as his are much bigger than yours. this leads to him holding your hand. often.

he likes to rest his chin on your head and just stand behind your back, holding you tightly against him so that you can't escape him

not that you'd want to

he worships your body, no matter what you look like. he believes that the more of you there is, the more there is for him to love and take care of

although, you're usually the one taking care of him

it's not like anyone ever comes to visit the two of you, but if anyone ever did and they ever said anything about your size or weight, he'd probably just kill them

he understands societal beauty norms (thanks to his good-for-nothing parents forcing him to hide his scars), but he doesn't understand how anyone could see you as anything other than the beautiful human you are

if you're ever insecure in any way (which you shouldn't be, but self-image issues affect us all), he wouldn't quite know what to do. to him, you are perfect, so he doesn't know why you can't see that yourself. if he sees you upset about a specific trait or body part, he'll make sure to show that area extra love by petting it and kissing it through his mask

i feel like he's tall and lanky enough and you're short and stout enough that you can wear SOME of each other's clothes. like you can definitely fit in his oversized sweaters and cardigans, and he can fit in your t-shirts

he takes advantage of this and sleeps in your shirts every night

plus, he'd want to see you wearing his clothes too

he kind of treats you like you're a doll and likes to play dress up with you. this is part of how he "takes care" of you

loves to cuddle you

he can be either big spoon or little spoon, but with a chubby reader, i think he prefers to be big spoon

watches you sleep from the closet before he scooches into bed with you and cuddles into your soft body

WILL rest his head on your stomach and thighs, so i hope you're okay with that

doesn't want to let you go, and it's a hassle getting up every morning

he can't help it that you're better than any stuffed animal or doll

and you're all his <3

i love him so much i hope this was okay

[kaitlyn-imagines]

Easy Worship

Sammie Moore (Sinners) x Churchgoer!Reader

Words: 1201 Warnings: Some descriptions of church / religion

You look forward to church on Sundays, partly for the pretty clothes you wear, but mostly because you have a crush on the pastor's son.

You bounced your leg softly as you sat in the wooden pew, your fingers smoothing out the soft fabric of your white dress. The paint had long been chipped off in certain spots of the bench, and your stockings occasionally caught and snagged on the uneven surface. Your hair was styled tidily under your white church crown, passed down to you from your ma.

It was easily one of the nicest hats you owned, no wider than your shoulders and a pristine white color—your favorite part was the lace doily adornment that was lovingly sewn into the fabric by your late grandmother. Getting to wear the pretty piece every Sunday was one of the reasons you loved going to service each week.

That, and the preacher boy.

Pastor Moore was standing at the front of the old church, giving his sermon with typical vitality. “For weeping may endure for a night,” his strong voice called out, “but joy cometh in the morning!” The congregation assented their praise aloud, for the Spirit was alive within them.

You did your best to focus on the message of Psalm 30:5, but your eyes seemed to naturally shift from Pastor Moore to the man who stood behind him. There was preacher boy, dressed up in a clean, white collared shirt with his hands clasped together in front of him. His eyes gazed out over the heads of the gathered folk—fixed on the open barn doors in the back, as if he might be able to leave through them by the intensity of his stare alone.

You knew this look well enough to know he was already miles away, his thoughts far from this little rural church and traveling upstate towards St. Louis…maybe even further north.

You watched the preacher boy with rapt attention, your own mind beginning to wander and trail after his own. Was he thinking about picking up that ol’ guitar again? Would he bring it with him to wherever his mind had escaped to? Would he let you come along?

You felt your cheeks warm into a modest flush, and realizing you were pining during a time of worship, tilted your head down to stare at where your gloves rested on your lap. May God forgive you for your covetous thoughts…

At the end of the service, you stayed afterwards, hoping for a chance to speak to the quiet son of Pastor Moore. A few older women were crowding the pastor to ask for blessings and prayers, and you had to stand on the tips of your toes to try and look around them.

You chewed your bottom lip as you scanned the lingering crowd. You’d lost sight of the preacher boy, but when you turned your eyes to the back wall, you noticed that ol’ guitar he brought with him everywhere was missing.

Certain he had left, you exit the old wooden church. Folks were already getting into their cars to drive away down the dusty road, but you paid them no mind. You spotted him then, guitar in hand, as he walked towards the old grandfather tree that shaded the earth a little ways to the side.

You reached your gloved hands down to bunch your dress, raising it so you might follow after him through any tall grass without ruining your pretty Sunday garments. Your shoes sunk slightly as you walked after him on the unpaved grass trail.

You watched the ground so you wouldn’t stumble, but you would lift your eyes every now and then to glance at his back. He reached the trunk of the grandfather tree, and leaned his guitar against it with a tender intimacy.

You were quiet as you neared, but cleared your throat politely so as not to startle him. He turned at the sound, and you felt your flush once again as his eyes fell upon you. No longer was he staring absently at the church doors…he was staring at you.

What a sight you must have been, walking through the long grass in your best pair of shoes. You hoped you had not scuffed them.

“Miss,” the preacher boy said, jutting his chin down in a polite nod—a bow of sorts. You return the gesture, a shy smile gracing your lips.

“Hi Sammie,” you hummed, and his own mouth seemed to quirk up just a tad at the sound of his name. “Sorry you couldn’t join us this morning.” You stopped a few paces from where he stood at the base of the tree and released your dress. It felt gracefully down to hang by your ankles.

Sammie raised an eyebrow at you, and the perplexed look on his face made you feel as giddy as a school girl. “Miss?” he asked again, no doubt confused.

“Well, with your mind out and gone from here to Timbuktu,” you clarified, mirth in your tone. Sammie’s shoulders relaxed, and he rubbed a hand sheepishly along the back of his neck.

“Not quite so far as that,” he drawled, and you dared to inch another step closer. You felt pleased with yourself for initiating the pleasant conversation, but just as quickly you noticed it beginning to fizzle out.

“No need to worry your head none, preacher boy,” you reassured him with a wave of your hand. “I won’t tell your pa you’ve been distracted, no more than you’ll tell my own.” It was a sure enough bargain, considering your father stopped going to Pastor Moore’s church services after he switched denominations.

Sammie didn’t respond verbally, but simply nodded his head and leaned against the tree. “You ever going to play that thing for us in service?” you asked after a moment, nodding to the instrument beside him. You felt yourself wanting to fill the silence that threatened to fall over you both.

Sammie lifted his shoulders in a heavy shrug, followed by some noncommittal answer. “Think he’d rather me lead a sermon than a choir,” he muttered, a serious line forming between his brows as he stared down at the ground.

“And you?” you prompted quietly. “What’d you rather do?”

He looked up at you then, and you felt your breath hitch in your throat, because he was looking at you with the same intensity as he had those old church doors.

“I’d rather play,” he spoke as if it were the most honest and real thing in the world. “I’d play, and people would listen. And they won’t even need to hear nothing from the Book to worship.” He quieted for a moment, and rubbed a knuckle against the center of his chest. “They’ll just hear that guitar, and they’ll already feel it, right here.”

You felt breathless as he spoke, and vaguely you heard the sound of your pulse steadily beating in your ears. It was rhythmic, naturally musical by design—and you knew you would never know a sweeter song than the one your heart sang for the preacher’s son.

“Sammie,” your voice sounded, hushed.

“Miss?”

You swallowed the rising feeling in your throat. Raising your hand, you touched your pulse there, trying to feel the beat through your glove.

“I think I know just what you mean…”

[kaitlyn-imagines]

im so obsessed with sinners right now and i’ve had a couple of ideas floating around! one specifically has been driving me NUTS

reader being in a committed relationship with smoke, but sometimes her eyes drift to stack. smoke isn’t oblivious, but he also isn’t mad. maybe he arranges a little blindfolded “who’s touching you right now” with stack for his lady, just a one (or two) time thing!

Dude, YES SAME, I have been going nutso for sinners since it came out and I need to gush!!! I cannot, will not shut up LOL. I loooved this ask, thank you thank you, keep em coming hehe 😈

Smoke x Reader... x (Stack)

Warnings: Spice, blindfolds, wandering eyes, committed relationship with Smoke, ambiguous relationship with Stack

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾ 

Being with Smoke is everything you’ve wanted and more in a relationship. He’s dependable, calm and collected, and follows through time and time again. When he commits, he commits. You feel lucky every night you get to share your bed with him.

He makes you feel secure and safe in your relationship, and you trust him entirely.

And yet, despite how perfect and content you feel in your relationship with Smoke, every now and then you can’t seem to keep yours eyes off of his brother

They’re equal parts handsome in a literal, identical sense, so it’s unsurprising that you’d also find Stack attractive. However, that small fact does little to ease your guilty conscience

A night of dancing with your front pressed against Smoke’s firm chest, and all the while you’re staring over his shoulder to where Stack is grinding with some girl

Sitting on Smoke’s lap while both twins play cards at a table, and your eyes can’t help but track the way Stack’s throat bobs when he swallows his whiskey neat

Waiting in the car while Smoke and Stack handle business with Bo, unable to keep your eyes from glancing between both their asses

You tried your best to keep your eyes away from Smoke’s equally attractive brother, and yet at every opportunity you drifted them in Stack’s direction without meaning to

The worst part of it is…Smoke knew. He had to.

Smoke was not a foolish man—he kept tabs on every situation. You need to be vigilant when you work with risky money. He read social cues, picked up on subtle body language, and watched for signs of shady business. It’s what allowed him to command a room.

All this is to say, you knew that he knew.

And, if you weren’t convinced before, you definitely were after you caught Smoke staring right towards you… Caught in the act while you eyed the bulging veins on his brother’s forearm, lining up a shot at the pool table

You expected Smoke to have confronted you about it earlier. You expected him to get angry, defensive, accusatory, and jealous even.

It was no small stressor as you waited for him to bring it up in the following days

Yet, your reckoning did not come to you in angry words, but in the anticipation of them.

“Close your eyes darlin’,” Smoke spoke in that familiar, even tone—calm and collected as ever. But you knew he knew, and it unnerved you. You watched him loosen his tie, swallowing nervously.

His eyes narrowed at you, and with a twitch you realized he meant business.

“I said, close your eyes.”

You had little choice but to obey. Your nerves were firing off as your eyelashes fluttered closed. You heard the click of his shoes on the wooden floorboards, stepping closer in your direction.

You jumped slightly as you felt his fingertips against your throat—a ghost of a touch, so light that it brought goosebumps to your flesh.

Your breathing became shallower and more labored as you felt his knuckles trace delicately up to your jaw…and then the gentle brush of fabric as he used his tie to blindfold you.

“Can’t have your eyes wandering,” his voice was husky in your ear, and you knew without a doubt that your moment of reckoning had come. He knew.

Being unable to see brought with it an elevated level of sensitivity—the gentle, yet firm, feeling of his hands leading you to the center of the room. The warm fanning of his breath against the back of your neck. The sound of a door across the room opening and softly clicking shut.

A second pair of footsteps approached you, and you realized with a growing sense of anxiety and exhilaration that another had joined your company.

And then, another pair of work-worn hands touched against your arm, and you audibly gasped.

“My,” you heard Stack’s breathy laugh, recognizing it immediately. “Sensitive, aren't they?”

“Mm hmm,” Smoke agreed gruffly, his voice strong and poised. He had complete control over you and the situation at hand.

For a moment, no one spoke. You waited with baited breath as you heard the sound of fabric rustling. Someone was moving. Who?

You felt a large hand grab at your hip, and you jolted, startled. The hand coaxed you as if soothing a spooked animal, trailing up your side and stopping along your ribcage.

“Who’s touching you right now?” you heard Smoke’s deep and commanding voice ask from behind you. You were certain if you leaned a few inches back you would bump into his broad chest.

“I d-don’t…” you stuttered out, unsure of how to answer, too tightly wound and agitated to risk a guess. What would happen if you were incorrect?

The hand on your ribcage disappeared, leaving behind a warmth that made the air in its absence feel cold. Then, a sharp nip at your earlobe…a punishment for taking too long.

“Smoke!” you yelped, knowing that had been him.

His dark chuckle sounded so close to your ear that a shiver ran up your spine. Something molten was already beginning to form in your chest. “Very good,” he praised.

You heard a low whistle directly in front of you—Stack, enjoying the scene in front of him.

You didn’t dare reach out for him. You didn’t have to, because within a moment he was pawing at your thigh, squeezing the plush flesh there. Bold, explorative, eager.

“S-Stack,” you choked on his name, and you didn’t need to see to know that his typical devilish smile was spread across his face.

“Don’t think you’ll need to train 'em for too long,” Stack spoke lowly to his brother. “Seems like they learn better when their eyes are closed.”

And Smoke mumbled his assent with his teeth against the nape of your neck.

[kaitlyn-imagines]

I’m cooking up some Remmick fic ideas, but first lets talk about the vampire hive mind in Sinners… 👀🥵

Remmick’s Hive Mind Takes:

Hive mind where you essentially share a mental phone-line, which directly connects a stream of consciousness between entities.

Emotions, thoughts, memories, pain, pleasure, and bonds are all communicated and shared through the hive mind.

Drones can choose when to share their mental faculties with one another, but the head of the hive has unbridled access to those vampires he fathers via bitten transformation.

Drones are naturally subdued, obedient, pleasant, and loyal to their head so long as they exist within the chain of command. Drones break free of the hive mind when the head is killed.

Drones naturally share a feeling of camaraderie and emotional intimacy to others within the same hive.

Drones can be compelled via the hive mind to act or speak a certain way. They can even be compelled to injure another vampire within the hive mind, but will resist a compulsion of self destruction.

The more powerful vampire heads can override the individual mind entirely and speak/act directly through their drones.

Vampire heads can host a large encompassing hive mind, multiple smaller circles, or individual bonds.

The smallest form of hive mind can be described as a mental thread linking two vampires which allows for the sharing of thoughts and feelings, but without the power imbalance of compulsion over the other. This relationship is called a bond.

Any vampire can host their own hive, but if you already belong to a head, the hive you cultivate risks falling under their command via the mental hierarchy

Some heads will eradicate drones in their hive if they are beginning to show signs of mental resistance to hive compulsion. Resistance can be built via prolonged, physical distance from the host or by building mental fortitude via a large hive of their own drones.

It is nearly impossible to transform someone into a vampire without imparting the hive mind to some extent. Therefore, most vampires will choose to feed without the commitment of transforming their victim.

Thoughts?? 👀

[kaitlyn-imagines]

Smoke PTSD Headcanons

Smoke most definitely has PTSD from his time serving in WWI, but also from his history with violent men—his father, the mobsters in Chicago, and even himself to some extent

He’s hyperviligant, constantly on high-alert and in a state of anxiety. Keen observation is as much of a defense mechanism as it is good for business. He picks up the subtle details and social cues most wouldn’t—like the twitch of a finger towards a gun holster, or the sound of anger in someone’s steps.

His trauma response is triggered by any sort of conflict—including even small doses of healthy confrontation. His brain associates conflict with anger, and anger with violence.

Before and after moments of conflict, his hands tremble violently. The only thing that seems to stop the shakes is tobacco. Stack usually rolls the cigarettes due to his shaking hands.

Despite the trembles, his muscle-memory overrides his trauma response and enables him to shoot a gun with perfect precision and mental fortitude. But it comes at a cost.

He distances himself mentally for his work, shutting off his emotions in lieu of a controlled, icy vacancy. He becomes a machine, burying the man so deep under frigid apathy that it is frightening.

It can be hard to bring him out of it and back into himself, and he may be distant for days after a job. So while effective for business, it is detrimental to his condition.

The smell of gunpowder and antiseptic can occasionally trigger episodes on a bad day, as well as sounds that imitate gunfire.

Episodes include trembling, flashbacks, sweating, heart palpitations, numbness and tingling in the hands and feet, and trouble breathing.

During an episode, he’s silent, and his expression goes vacant… Only those closest to him recognize his tells—body gone rigid, clenched jaw, and distracted by the onslaught of memories behind his eyes

Smoking is the only thing that steadies him. He never goes anywhere without his tobacco or his gun tucked into his belt. They are the guard rails that keep him from plummeting over into the abyss

Sometimes he has nightmares, and he’ll wake up gasping for air in a cold sweat. His nightmares are almost always of his father, and it takes a lot of hushed words and soft touches to convince him he’s not in that evil house anymore.

One of his biggest fears is that he’s grown to be exactly the kind of violent man his father was… Flashbacks of his father are the most brutal on his psyche, because he hates being reminded that he was glad to kill him.

Smoke will likely go his whole life thinking he’s violent and unwell man—that his ptsd is a sickness he inherited from his father. Ptsd was not formerly recognized as a mental health condition until the 1980s, and so his substance abuse is his only way of managing his hyperactive stress response.

Part of the reason he is so adamant about keeping up the appearance of a calculated, strong, and unaffected man is because he doesn’t want to be labeled as one of those WWI veterans who have ‘shell shock,’ as these folks were often dismissed as lunatics, labeled as cowards, or of possessing a weakness of the mind.

So he smokes like a chimney, and keeps the worst of his demons hidden away in the recesses of his mind, silently suffering while the worst moments of his life replay like a skipping record in his head.

[pocfansmatter]

Alright my theory about Remmick from Sinners & the Native Americans.

First we're gonna start off with a little history lesson then we'll get to what I think happened between them before the events of the movie.

15000 members of the Choctaw tribe were forcibly removed from the land in 1831 through the Indian Remival Act (1830) and they endured what is known as the trail of tears from 1831 to 1833. They were forced to relocated from Mississippi to Oklahoma. Although not all of the tribe left that was just the first round.

"Approximately 15,000 Choctaws made the trip between 1831 and 1833. One-quarter to one-third perished from disease, starvation, exposure and murder. They called it a “Trail of Tears and Death,” a name that would later be used for the Removal of other southeastern tribes."

The Trail of Tears: Why we remember - Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma

The Choctaw people were forcibly removed from their homeland 193 years ago. From 500-mile bike rides to memorial walks, descendants of the p

I'm not gonna go into the horrors of the Trail of Tears because I dont want this post to be too long. Feel free to research on your own and come back here.

Now over 10 years later The Great Famine of Ireland or the Irish Potato Famine hit between 1845 to 1852.

Despite just dealing with the pain of the Trail of Tears in 1847 the Choctaw collected a donation of 170 dollars equivalent to 5000 today and sent it to Midleton in County Cork, south of Dubli in aid of families experiencing hunger during the Famine.

In 2015 a sculpture honoring the Choctaw's generosity was placed in Midleton's Bailick Park called Kindred Spirits.

Now we get to 2020. You remember it I'm not going to get into the gory details. Ireland raises nearly 8 millions dollars through go fund me to send to the Navajo and Hopi nations which were hit the hardest during covid. They also sent medical supplies, water, and food. They site the Choctaw's original generosity for their donations saying they were "paying it forward".

Those are the main highlights but there are other events that show the continued relationship between Ireland and the Choctaw but I'm not gonna put everything because this is still about Sinners remember.

So let's get back to the movie. Please bear with me I only say it twice & I'm going based off memory. Ryan Coogler is very deliberate with his choices. We know that this film was multilayer and full of double meanings. We also know he does his research. I think the relationship between the Choctaw and Irish is the reason he had the Choctaw tribe chase Remmick to Bert & Joan's house. He could've kept it vague and called them "Indians" never specifically named the tribe but he puts in the dialog that they are Choctaw.

Something I caught right away is when Remmick gets there he asks for help and says "they killed my wife... I thought they were going to help me" and when they ask who is chasing him he says the "Choctaw" to which Joan replies there are no "injuns for miles". That's when Remmick notices the white hood & bribes them with gold. The thing that immediately struck me is he calls them by their actual tribal name "Choctaw" where as most white people (even today) around that time period would have just called them Indians which is shown in Joan's response. Being Native myself I immediately clocked the specification. It's not something that happens regularly even today. I remember the first time a white man looked at me & said "you're *my tribes name* aren't you?" I was shocked and could just nod. That's something that happens when someone is very educated and actually cares about the tribe enough to call them by their true name. Remmick showed a level of respect in that one word than people realize when watching the film.

Remmick knows the Choctaw because he's Irish.

So my theory is that what if Remmick isn't lying and he had a wife... maybe he had a whole family of vampires. Remmick's whole thing was "fellowship" and building a "clan with love", he wanted Sammie because of his ability to conjure his ancestors. He said he had some people he wanted to see again.

I think Remmick came to America looking for more family to turn, and being Irish knowing the Choctaw helped his people in the past, thought they would be his friends, that they would "help" him. When he got there however the Choctaw knew immediately he was a bad spirit and started to hunt him instead.

I think they killed his wife and any other vampires he had with him. I think he was the only one that managed to escape. I think they hunted him and his family one by one all day and the only thing that saved him was finding Joan and Bert's house and appealing to their racism. That and the sun setting were the reason the Choctaw washed their hands of the situation because the racists clearly didn't want their help.

What do y'all think?

People who wanted to be tagged:

@waywardconsultingtimelady @botanicalbias @bostontearave @kaitlyntalks

[seaglassdinosaur]

New headcanon. Pearline protested eating a clove of garlic because her parents had her eat garlic whenever she had stomach troubles as a kid, and she complained about it every. time. Because raw garlic is awful. Then her parents would tell her to stop complaining and eat the clove. She hasn’t liked garlic since because she associates the flavor with being sick.

[oneiric-wanderlust]

Remmick & The Celtic Hare

Before Remmick arrived in America in 1911, he must have terrorized Ireland and other European countries for over a millennium in search of a Filí (or any cultural equivalent of talented, veil-piercing musicians). Maybe his search didn’t amount to anything. People might have suspected what he was, so he left before they could act on it, or perhaps some European vampire hunters chased him away, forcing him to flee. So, he set off to the U.S. on the Celtic Hare, along with his fellow Irish immigrants. When it arrived in Boston, it was a ghost ship. 

“Upon boarding, they found blood-soaked decks, burned remnants and a haunting silence. There were no survivors, and no bodies to be found.”

“Witnesses reported seeing strange flickering lights, and hearing music as if an Irish celebration had been taking place on the ship the night prior as it approached.”

“But the festivities must have turned to horror. The ships cabins were destroyed, and scorched furniture lay scattered— only signs of brutal violence and fire remained.”

“As workers approached, a local woman claimed to have seen a lone man fleeing the scene, his skin reportedly smoking as he disappeared into the shadows.”

This happened over a few days or weeks, in between days and nights. He must have picked them off one by one, turning them to join his vampire hivemind, to keep them on his side and under his control. It seems impractical; however, he would’ve been outnumbered by humans who may have figured out how to stop him, and revolt. He could also keep tabs on the other survivors through the hivemind. It’s clear the human passengers fought their hardest, but to no avail. Eventually, the vampires outnumbered the survivors. I’m sure some of the passengers didn’t want to turn, maybe they jumped off the ship. By the end it was full of vampires, and they burned up before arrival.

I still wonder if there was a Filí on that ship, though.

Or maybe he just got hungry, and everything went to hell.

Imagine setting sail to start your new life in America, but you're unfortunate enough to board a ship with an ancient vampire, and the trip becomes a survival horror simulator.

Jack O’Connell was so much fun to watch in this. Remmick is one of my favorite villains, a mass-murdering vampire cult leader with a messiah complex, he offers a twisted version of everlasting life and cloaks his selfish needs and desires under a veil of altruism.

[nessie-posts]

Remmick (Sinners)

NSFW and SFW headcannons

reblogs and likes are appreciated

SFW

-he is so domestic its concerning. cleaning the house, making dinner you name it, hes doing it.

-when his nails get super long he gives back scratches and he somehow always knows where to scratch?? hes just good like that

-when he's hungry, he brings home people and hides them in the outhouse so he can go outside and snack on them when he feels like it

... or if you're feeling generous he'll snack on you

-he definitely sleeps on his back like a true vampire but cuddles with you when he's awake so you don't feel alone

-since he's basically nocturnal he is has to force himself to sleep during the night just so he's with you

-he loves cheek kisses. small pecks, long kisses that linger, he does not gaf. just loves feeling your lips on him. but especially loves it on his cheek.

-remmick is like 400 years old so this man KNOWS stuff. he has lived through so much shit he can talk about it for hours. and he will. if you let him.

nsfw under the cut

NSFW

-i dont care what anyone says, this whore is a SUB. either a full on, twinky little sub or a service dom. either way, he wants to please you, not be rough or hurt you

-... however.

-he is a vampire. and he does have fangs. and he will gladly use those fangs on you if you wish. he will not turn you.. yet.

-his favourite place in the whole world is between your legs. his heart doesn't beat so he technically doesn't need to come up to breathe, right?

-has accidentally overstimulated you many times.

-sometimes he comes in the house covered in blood and you offer to wash it off him. that being said, when he's in the bathtub, getting the dry blood cleaned off his arms he can't help but ask if you can join him

-some light choking. receiving and giving. its just when he's so deep in you and your head tilts back- god your neck is right there its so perfect he just has to hold it and see the way your eyes roll back when he applies a tiny amount of pressure.

-he doesn't leave the house during the day. of course he doesn't, he will burn alive. so when you come back home and laugh about how you were hit on in town by some random drunk he's seething. as a message, he'll leave hickeys and bites in places that can't be easily hidden by a few dabs of concealer.

-can (and will) go on for hours. until he's shaking and your clawing at his back which is another little kink of his

---------

short little drabble while i have the motivation

[anna-theacorn]

Remmick Headcanons

I spent last night conjuring up some headcanons for my glorious king Remmick. And yes, most of these are 18+. Some of these I made up myself and some I got from fanfics I read. And a lot of them are probably very out of his character but who cares. So yeah, enjoy :)

He usually switches up from time to time. But I feel like he likes to be bottom the most.

But whenever he is top, he would have your legs propped on his shoulders (I might use this in future fics, who knows 👀)

Would leave bites on you. But not hard enough to puncture a lot of skin. Just little love bites :)

Is an absolute DEMON when you’re on your period. He will eat you out like a man starved during this time. And he’ll rest his head on your thighs just so he could smell that sweet iron (sorry💀). He’s a vampire. So it makes sense.

Would fuck you in the forest (Lady Chatterleys lover reference).

Definitely talks you through it. Especially in Gaelic.

His nicknames for you would be: Sugar, Darlin’, Lampkin, Baby (mainly during sex), My love, Precious, Mo Chroí, Bonny (a Celtic term for an attractive person), Lass, Sweetheart, and that’s all I can think of.

Would definitely be the type to sit outside your window with his banjo and sing to you (The book of life type shit).

Would teach you how to play the banjo.

Would Definitely be a girl dad. I got this idea from @hatethysinner’s head canons.

Would have you sit on his lap. Not even in a sexual way most of the time.

Would have you hang onto his gold chain during sex.

Would get on his knees and beg to taste you if he has to.

This man will yearn.

Will go to sleep with his head on your chest. And if you try to get up he’ll whine and hold onto you tighter.

Eats you out most of the time. But lets you give him a blowjob on special occasions.

Is the king of aftercare.

Will get on his knees and worship you. Especially if you were ever feeling bad about yourself. He hates seeing you in distress.

And these are all I can think of rn. If these are two freaky for you, then don’t read them. And I’m not gonna delete this. Honestly, I might make a part two.

[wakandama2]

Smoke tryna Court Annie🤣

@uzumaki-rebellion @brownskincheyenne @spaceshipsandpurpledrank @free-range-tiddies @lizbehave

[hatethysinner]

kinda messed up toxic!remmick x pregnant reader

ᴛᴏxɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ

ᴀ/ɴ: NOTHING IS TOO MESSED UP FOR ME ANON!! please heed the warnings, they are there for your benefit <33! went more serious than my normal headcanon writing bc even though i love writing dark themes i never want to come off as too silly when approaching these topics. i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MDNI (!!!!!!), shamelessly gratuitous smut, unapologetically dark (!!!), malicious fluff (i'm coining this), obsession, manipulation, isolation, lovebombing, dubcon (!!!), noncon (!!!), mental/emotional abuse (!!!), heavily abused power dynamic (!!!), breeding kink, pregnancy kink, lactation kink, praise/degradation kink, cunnilingus, fingering, p in v, free use, overstimulation, dacryphilia, unreliable narrator-ish, read at your own discretion

remmick loves you so much it’s suffocating. tells you so every single day, in a voice dripping honey, in words soft enough to be a lullaby. “ain’t nobody in this world loves ya like i do, darlin’. not your friends, not your family. nobody.”

and he’s so good at making you believe it. at making you think he’s the only one who ever could.

he’s doting in ways that would be sweet if it wasn’t all followed by iron chains. he insists on cooking every meal for you, pressing kisses to your temple as he sets a plate in front of you, murmuring, “gotta keep my best girl strong. my baby needs ya strong.” he does the chores, every single one, moving around the house like a gentle shadow, humming while he sweeps, while he folds your clothes, while he rubs oil into your growing belly at night.

he draws your baths, tests the water with his fingers, carries you to the tub if your feet are sore. he brushes and combs through your hair with long, careful strokes, cooing, “such a pretty girl. my pretty little wife.” and sometimes it almost makes you forget the other side of him.

almost makes you forget the hours he’ll lock you in your room when he’s angry, pacing on the other side of the door, telling you it’s for your own good. makes you forget how you never get a private moment anymore, not even to bathe or change clothes, because he’s always there, eyes tracking every breath you take, every twitch of your fingers.

he buys you gifts constantly, filling the house with flowers and silks and gold, draping you in it like he’s gilding a shrine. but you’re not allowed to go out and show it off. “don’t want all them eyes on ya, baby. you’re mine to look at. mine to keep.”

he isolates you, sweetly. softly. makes sure you know the world outside the house is cruel, full of people who’d never understand you the way he does. “ain’t safe out there for a pretty thing like ya. folks’d try to hurt ya. i’d kill ‘em if they did.”

sometimes you believe him. sometimes you want to run. but even the thought of running makes your stomach flip, because you can’t imagine where you’d go without him. you can’t imagine being alone.

and he loves you so thoroughly that you start thinking maybe you’re the one who’s being cruel. for doubting him. for crying when he touches you. for saying no. for not wanting him every time he wants you.

because he always wants you.

he’s obsessed with the way you look carrying his baby. the round swell of your belly, the fullness of your breasts. runs his palms over you like he’s petting something precious, voice low and reverent. “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful, baby. didn’t think it was possible for ya to get prettier, but look at ya now. full of me. just like y’should be.”

he talks about putting more babies in you before you’ve even had this one. about keeping you pregnant for the rest of your life. about how your body was made for this. “gonna keep ya so full, folks won’t even remember what you looked like before i bred ya.”

he adores your milk. even before it’s fully come in, he’s latched to your tits whenever he can get them, licking and suckling and praising you for how sweet you taste, even if you’re crying. especially if you’re crying. “shh, darlin’. let me have it. s’just me. always gonna be just me.”

he’s always touching you. even when he’s pretending to be gentle. fingers stroking your belly, your thighs, slipping between your legs while he murmurs, “need to make sure you’re still stretchin’ nice f’me. can’t have ya closin’ up on me now.”

he’ll tell you how good you are in one breath and tear you down in the next, lips soft against your ear. “such a good girl lettin’ me use ya like this. my sweet little broodmare. nothin’ but a hole to keep my kids warm.” and when you sob, he groans, hips snapping harder. “cry all y’want, sugar. ain’t gonna stop me.”

he lives for the taste of those tears too. for the way your voice goes high and broken when you’re crying and coming at the same time. loves licking the salt off your cheeks and telling you how pretty you are when you cry. “ain’t no sight sweeter than my girl in tears. means i’m doin’ my job right.”

eating you out isn’t even something he asks permission for. you’re his. he’ll spread your thighs, mouth hot and relentless, licking you until your legs shake and your tears spill, ignoring your babbled pleas to stop. loves how your blood sings under your skin when you’re aroused, how your pulse hammers, how your body betrays you even when you’re trying to crawl away.

and fucking you while you’re pregnant is nonnegotiable. he’ll go slow sometimes, murmuring about how delicate you are, but most nights it’s ruthless. bent over the bed, your swollen belly bouncing with every thrust, your breath catching on sobs as he snarls, “takin’ me so good, even with my baby inside ya. gonna stretch ya wider. gonna make room for all the rest.”

he uses your body whenever the urge strikes him. nothing and nowhere is off limits. slides his cock between your thighs while you’re folding baby clothes, or pushes you up against the pantry shelves while dinner’s bubbling on the stove. he’ll slip his fingers between your legs while you’re half-asleep on the couch, or drop to his knees to eat you out right there on the countertop. sometimes he bends you over the bathroom sink, fucking you slow and deep while steam curls around you both, and other times it’s fast, frantic rutting on the front porch as moonlight spills over your bare skin. sometimes he comes just from grinding against you, his fangs scraping your neck, red eyes rolling back as he groans, “can’t help it, baby. can’t fuckin’ help it.”

but remmick never seems satisfied, no matter how many times he takes you. he’ll fuck into you for hours, fingers or tongue or cock never stopping, dragging you over the edge again and again until you’re shaking so hard you can’t hold onto him anymore. even when you’re sobbing, whispering you can’t take any more, he only kisses your temple and murmurs, “just a little longer, darlin’. just one more.” and that’s when he finally bares his fangs and sinks them into your throat, drinking you down as your body convulses around him, making sure the last thing you feel is the bright, dizzy pleasure of giving him everything he wants.

and you want to hate him for it. you know you should. but sometimes, curled against his chest, feeling the weight of his palm over your growing belly, hearing him whisper how you’re his whole world, you wonder if maybe this is love after all.

because you can’t remember what it felt like to breathe without him.

[dreamivyisla]

🀥 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 🀥

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ➤ Elias “Stack” Moore

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ➤ you were just getting started in the pstar world, new to the scene but catching attention fast. when you hit up Stack for a collab, you weren’t sure if he’d answer. he did—quickly. your chemistry was obvious from the first shoot. the video blew up, and so did your career. now, people can’t stop watching the way he touches you like you’re the only one in the world.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ➤ uh.. my first time doing headcannons, i think i wrote too much for headcannons— if so then, i apologize! def took inspo from august alsina. anyways, enjoy!

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➤ pstar!Stack, pstar!reader, face-sitting, spit kink, modern au, mirror play, lingerie kink, mutual masturbation, black reader (but anyone can imagine themselves), possessiveness. 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈! 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓! 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃!

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈·✦

𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑!𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 loves mutual masturbation on camera just as much as fucking. before your scenes even start, he likes to sit across from you, stroking himself while you do the same. he watches every movement, mouth parted just slightly, breathing slow like he’s absorbing every detail. it’s not rushed or performative—it’s real, raw. he likes seeing you take your time, fingers circling your clit, back arching under the soft lights. he talks to you the whole time, voice low and full of heat, telling you how good you look with your legs spread, how he’s already aching to be inside you. by the time either of you actually touch, the tension is so thick it almost feels like foreplay could’ve been the whole scene.

𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑!𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 has a serious thing for lingerie—especially when it contrasts against your skin. he told you once he’s obsessed with how certain colors look against you. deep red, sheer black, even pale blues—he likes the tension of silk and lace stretched over your thighs, hugging the curve of your waist. before shooting, he’ll ask what you’re wearing under the robe and make you show him slowly. sometimes he won’t even start filming until he’s had a full moment to admire you, hands resting on your hips, lips brushing your neck. he doesn’t rip the lingerie off either. he fucks you in it—slow strokes at first, thumb tracing the strap on your shoulder while his other hand tugs the panties to the side.

𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑!𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 is into face-sitting—and not just for the visual. when you filmed your third collab together, he asked if you’d ever sat on a man’s face on camera before. when you told him no, he smiled and said it was overdue. he laid back, hands gripping your thick thighs the second you climbed up. he loves how heavy you feel, how your body molds over his mouth. he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, his tongue deep and greedy like he’s trying to swallow every sound you make. what made the footage go viral was how clear it was that he loved it—eyes half-lidded, hips shifting beneath you, like getting smothered by you was a reward.

𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑!𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 gets possessive during collabs—but in a quiet, focused way. you noticed it during shoots when other people are involved. his strokes get deeper, more deliberate. he holds your jaw so the camera can see your face when you moan his name. he’ll pull your leg higher or change angles just so the viewers can watch how good he’s making you feel. off-camera, he jokes that your chemistry’s just for the brand, but the way he kisses you between cuts, fingers tracing your stretch marks like he’s memorizing them, says otherwise. he wants the camera to know it’s him who draws those reactions out of you. not the lights. not the script. just him.

𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑!𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 has a spit kink—but it’s subtle, intimate. he doesn’t announce it or make it messy for the sake of shock. it’s in the way he’ll spit slow and precise on your clit before eating you out, watching it drip while his thumbs spread you open. sometimes, when he’s deep in your throat and your eyes are watering, he’ll pull out and press a slow spit against your tongue, murmuring how good you’re doing. it’s not degrading—it’s loaded with control and closeness. he likes how filthy it feels without taking away the softness of it. it’s not about humiliation. it’s about connection.

𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑!𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 loves mirror play—and he always positions you just right. the first time you filmed in a hotel with wall-length mirrors, he turned you toward them before even unzipping his pants. he stood behind you, big hands on your waist, both of you watching the way your brown skin looked stretched around him as he slid in. he whispered in your ear the whole time, guiding your eyes to the way your ass bounced, how your breasts moved when he grabbed a fistful of your hair. he likes scenes where the viewer can see what you see—how flushed your skin gets, how proud he looks every time he makes you moan. it’s about showing you off and showing you to yourself.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈·✦

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐕𝐘𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐀.

[anna-theacorn]

Head cannon that nobody asked for:

I like to think that the dress that Annie wore when she met Smoke in the afterlife at the end of the movie was the same dress she wore when they got married 😊

[dreamivyisla]

Hello! Can you make a Smoke Headcannons? If you can add a NSFW section? Please and Thank you so much❤️

🀥 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 🀥

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ➤ Elijah “Smoke” Moore

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ➤ of course! here you go! enjoy!

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➤ emotional withdrawal, avoidance, fear of abandonment, rough sex, spit play, oral sex (implied), praise kink, control kink, black reader (but anyone can imagine themselves), light bondage (implied), overstimulation (implied), dirty talk, mirror play, and possessiveness. 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈! 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐓𝐄, 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃. it ain’t even always about food, really. elijah be pickin up lil things like the way your energy drop when you ain’t had enough protein or how your skin get extra dry when you been skippin meals outta stress. he won’t nag, never does—just slide through your apartment while you at work and stack your fridge up, leave post-its on the door sayin “don’t be stupid, eat sum.” if he there when you cookin, he always sit at the counter, rollin up slow and watchin you with that lazy-ass smirk, callin you “chef girlie” under his breath even when all you makin is some boxed mac and a baked chicken. he love seein you nourish yourself, ’specially when it’s for you and not just for him.

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑, 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐍’𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘. he ain’t grew up knowin what to do with curls, coils, edges, none of it—but the first time he seen you sittin on the floor between your homegirl’s knees gettin your scalp oiled, he ain’t say nothin for a good five minutes. just stared. then after that, he got quiet every time you brought out your bonnet or your wide-tooth comb. not cause he ain’t care—nah, cause he was tryin to learn. eventually, he started offerin to grease your scalp himself, real slow with his fingers, thumb pressin right where it felt good at the base. “this what you like, huh?” he’d ask, voice low, lips on your neck. he always kept his hands warm for you, too.

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐀𝐈𝐍’𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐆𝐈𝐍 𝐍𝐎𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘, 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔. you could feel it in the way he moved when y’all fought—that sharp, clipped silence he slipped into, like he was already pullin away from you before you finished yellin. he ain’t say sorry unless he meant it, and sometimes he ain’t mean it, even when he hurt you. “i love you” ain’t stop his pride from showin up first, loud and reckless. but it was the way he looked at you after, like he ain’t know how to reach out but still wanted to. he always let you go if you needed to walk away, but he never moved from the spot you left him in.

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓. he’d press you into the mattress real slow, hand wrapped firm around your jaw, thumb draggin over your bottom lip while his eyes stayed locked on yours. “you gon be good f’me, huh?” always a question, never a demand. but you could feel the weight of his voice in your chest, the way his fingers slipped past your waistband like he already knew you was wet for him. he liked keepin you there, teeterin between a moan and a plea, legs wide open while he took his time. he was obsessed with makin you feel it everywhere—fingers, tongue, voice, all in sync like he practiced it. and maybe he did, in his head. said you was “his lil prize” like it was scripture, like the world ain’t deserve to see what you gave him.

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐀𝐈𝐍’𝐓 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔. he’d back you up against the bathroom mirror, one hand between your thighs and the other pressed flat against your lower back, like he tryna fold you in half. “look at how messy you get f’me,” he’d growl in your ear, draggin his lips down your throat while his hips ground slow, deep. he loved seein you lose your words—watchin you stutter, eyes glazed, mouth open while he whispered filth in that heavy voice. praise, too, when you took him real good. “yeah… just like that, pretty. don’t run now.” spit play? that was his shit. had no shame spittin in your mouth while he fucked you slow, callin you “good girl” like a reward. rough hands, soft lips. and the smirk he gave when you couldn’t walk right the next morning? cocky as hell.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐕𝐘𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐀.

[boonoonoonus]

Smokestack Twins & Music Headcanon's

The twins LOVE the CLIPSE. Deadass play their albums on repeat and rap along - Smoke is No Malice, Stack is Pusha T.

Smoke listens to straight R&B, Jazz, and Blues and not just the 90s, he actually prefers the 60s/70s/80s and takes the King of R&B conversations so seriously, you have to be qualified and certified to talk to him about it. (So only Delta Slim can chat him at the moment LOL !) The sole exception is Reggae, he listens to everyone but Bob Marley - can't stand him.

Stack loves Rap, but also is obsessed with Dancehall music and knows what's happening across the diaspora. Anything someone can shake ass too, he's heard it and has an opinion.

Smoke and Jedidiah talk gospel alot, low conversations on the porch/veranda. They don't always agree but love the artform and both accept Kirk Franklin as the last gospel musician. They don't play with the new stuff and have strong feelings about the roles of choirs.

Stack cultivated much of Sammie's taste, and he's who Sammie runs new music by because he's open-minded and has extensive musical references, but also because he won't ever make him feel a way about experimenting.

Smoke is a good percussionist, and Stack plays the fiddle, but both only play in private or around family. The exception is when Smoke and Annie's little girl was in the hospital, they sang/played for her every day to drown out the sound of the machines.

Their father was a session musician, bassist who toured with the greats think Gap Band, Aretha, Chaka etc but was a raging alcoholic (Stack has this tendency, they keep an eye on it) and their only good memory of their father Solomon, is him playing Smokestack Lightening and telling them about the blues when he was sober.

At the clubs they own, their favourite features an old school gospel and soul hour before the club closes. It is mandatory, implemented by Smoke, and he doesn't care about complaints - you will slow dance, you will slow whine, and catch feelings because maintaining traditional club culture is important to him.

Janet Jackson's song Discipline is about Stack. It's a long story, and he will never elaborate on it.

Janet Jackson was one of Stack's childhood celebrity crushes; Smoke's is Jill Scott. She's also his hall pass, and Annie has no issue with it; she finds it sweet. (Her's is Sterling K Brown, and Smoke HATES that man)

Stack's theme song: Stay Schemin - Rick Ross

Smoke's theme song: I Gave You Power - Nas

Joint Twins theme song: Ace Trumpets - Clipse

[mingapace]

What do you think pet!Remmick would do if someone broke into their home at night?

𝕳𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝕾𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖈𝖊

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴅᴀʀᴋ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ(ɴᴏᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ), ꜱᴏꜰᴛ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ(ᴡɪᴛʜ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ), ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ.

ᴀ/ɴ: ɪ'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ, ᴋɪɴᴅʟʏ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʟᴘᴇᴅ ʙʏ @abbessofflesh ᴡʜᴏ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇ ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴀᴅᴅᴇᴅ.

Oh, well, whoever had the audacity to do that, I hope they’ve already dug their grave and ordered the flowers for their own funeral.

It doesn’t matter if Remmick was dozing off in your arms or out on one of his hunting sprees—if anyone dares to trespass on your territory uninvited, he is already drawing the war axe (or claws, in this case).

If he were still clinging to you, he’d slip out of bed like the night itself, not making a single sound to wake you—because he knows you’ve got a long day of work ahead of you in the morning.

Remmick barely holds back a growl when your face is so close to his. He doesn’t want to leave the warm space between your arms or the scent of your skin—but he also can’t let someone walk into your home and stroll out like it’s nothing. He leaned down to your ear, whispering, “I’ll be right back, darlin',” before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead and slipping out from under the covers.

Remmick is a predator who enjoys playing with his prey, so he’d watch for a while, curious about what exactly pushed some complete stranger to break into your home.

But he’s not exactly the best at hide and seek with those big glowing red eyes. The intruder would notice him almost immediately—but before he could do anything, Remmick would already be there. One hand over the mouth. One on the throat.

“Ah, don’t be squeakin’, little mouse. I’d hate for me darlin’ to wake in the dead o’ night and drop dead of fright, all ‘cause some feckin’ gobshite thought it was grand to break into our home.”

Turning the guy was out of the question. Remmick considered transformation a gift to be granted, not a punishment. Letting him go? Just as risky. Who knew if he’d come back with a weapon—or worse?

So, he’d snap the man’s neck in under a second. No hesitation. No chance for explanations. Not even time for regret.

He wasn’t about to risk your wrath. And really, who would report a criminal missing? No one. So, out of sight, out of mind.

He’d dispose of the body—though not before draining it first (who was he to refuse dinner when it showed up at his doorstep all nicely wrapped up?).

Remmick looks down at the body, folded into an unnatural position, carefully wrapped in one of the rugs. Meanwhile, he sips slowly from one of the blood bags he’s filled, like a satisfied child savoring fruit juice while admiring one of his masterpieces. He glances down the hallway, but beyond the closed bedroom door, there’s no sign of movement. You were still asleep. He hadn’t woken you.

Then, muttering a few curses and careful to stay in the shadows, he would drag it out back—hoping no nosy neighbors was still awake and watching from their window.

“Not exactly the brightest choice ye made tonight, now was it? I mean, breakin’ into our house when old Mrs. Humphrey’s is just across the bloody road?! That deaf oul’ cow wouldn’t’ve even heard ye comin’ in.” He growls softly as he drags the rug by one end across the garden. He moves carefully, skillfully avoiding the small saplings he had so thoughtfully planted in the days before.

After burying it with practiced precision—years of experience had granted him a certain efficiency—he would head back inside without haste, wiping away every trace of mud his boots had left on the hallway carpet and then return to bed, completely at ease.

“Rem?” You mumble when you feel him slide under the covers again and press his cold nose to the back of your shoulder. A faint smell of earth fills your nostrils. “Did you go hunting?” “Sort of,” he replies. “Did you wash your hands and teeth?” You hear him growl in annoyance, but he gets up and goes to wash up just like you asked.

Then, as you drift back to sleep, he would gently run his claws through your hair—the very same claws that had just snapped a stranger’s neck.

But you’ll never know.

In the morning, you’ll only notice the antique dish slightly out of place on the hallway shelf, the door locked with one extra twist, and the neighbor's friendly cats keeping a very respectful distance from your back garden.