𝐀 𝐆𝐇𝐑𝐀 - 𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈.
sinners x outlander | remmick x black! fem! reader
a mysterious necklace you find suddenly transports you back to catholic-occupied ireland, where you stumble across a rather charming farm-hand and his father. together, you all work to try and send you back to your time, all while avoiding the dangerous powers that be. but even once you make it home safe, you're quick to realize that an ancient flame had been patiently awaiting your return. as well as your countless others.
𝑶𝑹…
no matter what time period he finds you, fate has a twisted way of keeping him from your embrace. but he never stops trying, loving and losing and loving again countless times just to remain in your presence. a man who could never die, and a woman who could do nothing but.
cw - period typical racism, violence, gore, death, vampirism, mature themes, 18+, language barriers, gaeilge (i'll do my best), old english (i'll do my best), profanity, love throughout the ages, outlander inspiration, will still tie back to the sinners movie.
XVII. California - 1972
Remmick’s head was still reeling.
“The hell are you doing here?” his voice came low, taut as a bowstring. “And don’t start with your riddles... just answer me.”
The witch only smirked wider, leaning a little too casually against the log beside him, eyes darting toward the path you had taken, “Still handsome, still broody, and still barkin' orders. I’d forgotten how adorable ya are when you’re lost.”
He growled under his breath, “I’m not lost, I’m—”
“—enchanted?” she cut in, her lilting Irish vowels curling around the word like smoke. “Aye, I can see that plain as day. And gods above, isn’t she something? That face. That laugh. You always did have impeccable taste.”
Remmick’s eyes narrowed, “Don’t talk about her.”
“Oh, relax,” she teased, almost singing the words. “If it’s any comfort, I’ve crossed her path more than once these past hundred years. She never knew, o' course. Just a stranger in a crowd, or a woman passing her on the street. Watching her live the little lives she gets before...well, you know.”
His jaw clenched, and he shifted closer, “Why now? Why here?”
Her smirk softened just slightly, though the mischief still danced in her eyes, “Tell me, Remmick... are you finally ready to be with her? The real her?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Aye, you do," she leaned in, her voice lowering to that honeyed, dangerous tone she’d used centuries ago. “I’ve grown tired of watching ya stumble through the ages like a lovesick fool. Tonight… tonight’s the night you reunite with your love.”
His chest tightened.
“How?” he asked, almost frantic. “Tell me how.”
She tilted her head toward the campfire, eyes glittering, “Like you did before. Read the inscription on the stone.”
His brows knit, “It’s… that simple?”
The witch chuckled, shaking her head, red hair catching the firelight like molten copper, “You never been the brightest candle in the chapel, Remmie.”
Before he could fire back, movement caught his eye.
You were returning, your bohemian dress swaying against your thighs, that smile lighting your face.
Remmick turned back to the witch—
—but the log beside him was empty.
The air still smelled faintly of her clove cigarettes, and somewhere deep in the dark, he swore he heard her laugh.
You caught sight of him, still sitting there with that unreadable expression—like he’d just been caught between a dream and a memory.
“You alright?” you asked, a hint of teasing in your voice as you sank down beside him, the glow of the campfire kissing your skin gold.
Without hesitation, you tossed your legs over his lap, the movement easy, natural—as if you'd known him for years instead of minutes.
The sudden weight of your legs—soft, warm, bare against him—stirred something low in his chest.
Remmick’s mouth curved into that slow, wicked smile, all Southern charm dripping from the edges, “Just fine, darlin’. Nothin’ worth worryin’ your pretty head over.”
He leaned back slightly, one arm resting behind you on the log, the other settling across your legs like it belonged there.
“’Sides,” he drawled, voice smooth as warm molasses, “I’d be a damn fool to let anything distract me when I got company like this.”
You smirked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear in a way that was entirely too knowing, “You always this good at schmoozin’?”
“Only when I’m inspired,” he shot back without missing a beat.
Your laugh was soft but edged with interest, and you leaned in closer, the smell of incense and weed clinging to you, “Mm. Sweet-talker.”
“Maybe,” he murmured, keeping his gaze locked on your—steady, deliberate, the kind of look that didn’t just meet your eyes, it held you there. “But truth is, darlin’… you’ve got a beauty that doesn’t need sweet talk to make it shine.”
That made your eyes soften, even if your mouth curved coyly.
“Careful,” you teased, “keep talkin’ like that and I might start believin’ you.”
“That’s the idea.”
The air between hummed—charged, taut—while somewhere in the distance, the band on stage had slowed to a dreamy, romantic number, its bassline lazy and hypnotic.
The heat from the campfire mingled with the tension between, and though you tried to play it cool, you didn’t pull your legs from his lap.
If anything, your toes brushed lightly against his hip, just to see what he’d do.
Remmick didn’t move, didn’t flinch—just let that slow smile deepen as if to say, Go on, sweetheart. Keep testin’ me.
Your smile curled like smoke, slow and deliberate, your gaze never wavering from his.
“Y’know,” you began, voice low and teasing, “I’m startin’ to think you’re holdin’ out on me. You sure we haven’t met before? ’Cause I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere. Maybe you’re some movie star slummin’ it with the rest of us.”
Remmick’s laugh was rich, warm, and threaded with that lazy drawl, “Can’t say I’ve ever been on a silver screen, sweetheart. But I’ll take the compliment.”
“Mhm,” you hummed, clearly unconvinced, your eyes glinting with playful suspicion. “I don’t buy it. You got that look about you... like someone I should remember.”
“Maybe I’m just memorable.”
You let out a small, amused huff, tilting your head as though to study him better.
Then, without warning, your hand slid slowly up his chest, your fingertips tracing deliberate patterns over the fabric of his shirt.
The instant you touched him, the world tilted.
The music, the chatter, the crackle of the campfire—everything dimmed, funneled into the heat of your hand and the rhythm of your pulse.
Your perfume was warm and faintly sweet, the scent winding around him like silk.
He couldn’t tear his eyes from yours, those deep, shining pools that threatened to drown him whole.
“Then at least,” you murmured, doe-eyed and coaxing, “tell me your name.”
“Remmick,” he said, honest and unhesitating.
Your lips curved in satisfaction, “Remmick.”
You repeated it like it tasted good in your mouth.
Then you leaned in, slow and deliberate, until your forehead rested lightly against his temple.
Your nose brushed down to the crook of his neck, inhaling him, feeling the shiver that raced down his spine.
A low, involuntary sound escaped him—half groan, half warning.
“Darlin’, you keep that up,” he murmured thickly, “I ain’t gonna be responsible for what happens next.”
Your smirk was pure sin.
“Well then, Remmi,” you cooed, drawing out his name, “how would you like to go back to my tent?”
He grinned, all teeth and mischief, “You ain’t said nothin’ but a word, darlin’.”
In one smooth motion, he slid an arm under your legs, the other bracing your back, and lifted you clean off the log.
You gasped—a startled, delighted sound that quickly melted into laughter as you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck.
“Warn a girl next time,” you teased breathlessly, though you made no move to be put down.
“Where’s the fun in that?” he drawled, smirking as he carried you away from the firelight, the night swallowing you both as you disappeared toward the shadowed sea of tents.
.
.
.
The tent was dim, lit only by the faint amber glow of the campfire bleeding through the fabric walls, shadows dancing lazily across the space.
The air was warm, thick with the scent of pine, earth, and something sweeter—the mingling of your breaths.
Remmick’s shirt was long gone, tossed somewhere in the corner, his bare chest catching the low light as he leaned over you.
The fur rug beneath you was soft, almost obscenely inviting against your bare legs, your bohemian dress riding high from the way he had lowered you down.
His hands moved with the surety of a man who had been holding you for centuries, palms warm against your hips, fingers brushing your skin in ways that made your pulse skip.
You weren't shy about touching him either—your hands dragging over his chest, down the ridges of muscle, up over his shoulders like you were mapping every inch of him by touch alone.
There was a hunger there, but also a kind of reverence, as though you couldn’t believe he was real.
You lips parted, your body arching subtly toward his, the unspoken question in your gaze.
You wanted to keep going.
To drown in this.
But just as you began to move, his hands stilled your.
“Hold on a moment, darlin’,” he said softly, though there was tension in his voice. “Not ’til I bring you back.”
Your brows furrowed, “Bring me back? What are you talking about?”
He hesitated, his eyes searching yours like he was measuring how much truth you could bear.
Then, deciding words weren’t enough, he brought both hands to your face.
His touch was achingly tender, thumbs grazing your cheeks as if you might break beneath them.
And then, with no more warning, he slammed his lips into yours.
Your eyes flew wide at the sudden force of it... before the world inside you erupted.
It hit like a lightning strike.
The stone.
The years.
The blood.
The centuries.
1504.
1932.
1957.
Your Remmick—always your Remmick.
Every laugh, every tear, every goodbye that had carved itself into your soul came rushing back in a flood that left you breathless.
When he finally pulled away, you gasped, then threw your arms around his neck, holding him so tight he could barely breathe.
“Remmi!” you blurted, voice breaking with joy and relief. “Remmi, I remember! God... I love you!”
His own voice cracked when he answered, “I love you too, darlin’. I love you so much it hurts.”
You pulled back just enough to see him, cupping his face in both hands as your thumbs swept across his cheeks, your eyes glassy and searching.
Then your fingers tangled into his hair.
“Your hair,” you half-sniffled, half-laughed, the sound trembling.
For a heartbeat, he looked almost uncertain, “You… don’t like it?”
His tone was careful—protective—like he was bracing for you to say something cruel.
The fluffy, feathered seventies cut was far from his old styles, after all.
Your smile was molten warmth.
You leaned in, kissing him deeply.
“I love it,” you murmured against his lips.
The kiss deepened, slow at first, then growing more urgent, more consuming.
Your hands roamed over him with intent, your body pressing closer, silently asking for more.
But once again, he stopped you—though this time it was harder.
His lips left yours only to trail in a feverish storm over yours jaw, your neck, your collarbone, even your chest, his restraint unraveling by inches.
“Hold on, baby,” he muttered between kisses, his breath warm against your skin. “Can’t let ya get hurt again. Gotta go back ’fore somethin’ happens.”
“I need you, Remmi,” you sighed into his ear, desperation bleeding into every syllable, "Right now."
"M'not takin' any chances, darlin'," he denied.
Hastily, he cupped your cheek.
“I gcuirim an mhaighdean mhín seo ar ais dá haimsir féin. Imthe go deo. Riamh mo,” he recited, the Irish words rolling from his tongue like an old prayer—one he had carried for lifetimes.
"I send this fair maiden back to her time. Forever gone. Never mine."
Your breath caught at the sound of it.
He pressed one last, lingering kiss to your lips, his hand brushing a few loose strands of hair from your face.
Then his forehead rested against yours, his voice dropping to a whisper, raw and certain.
“I’ll see ye soon… a ghrá.”
And before you could speak, his hands gripped your shoulders—and with one firm shove, you stumbled backward out of the tent.
The full moonlight swallowed you, blinding white, and in an instant... you were gone.
.
.
.