#remmicksinners

[feralforfangs]

vocal boys go to heaven btw & whimpery vocal boys in particular get special perks. just so you know.

also boys that go nonverbal because of how needy they are have a special place in my heart and pants

[getyourcrucifix]

Reading threshold fics and thinking about how Remmick’s soul is cursed to stay here, keeping him from his ancestors. And his body is cursed to have permission to enter. Everything about his curse just keeps him from something. The yearning with this one I’m crying everywhere

[feralforfangs]

forever so incredibly weak for puppy eyes i really forget that its not everyones thing on the regular basis. like what do you mean you dont want a ditzy doggie that sits there and looks pretty until you tell it to do something. what kind of life is that

[feralforfangs]

Remmick being hunted by vampire hunter!reader for so long that he falls for her. He begs to be with her, telling her he’ll be her pet, her tool, anything as long as he can be close to her. As she considers, she lets him hump her boot while she pets his face and hair. 

You’d cornered him at last. After months of tracking, fighting, and near misses, you had him pinned in the rotting corner of an abandoned mill. His coat was torn, shirt half-hanging open, his chest smeared with dirt and blood—not all of it his.

Remmick was down on one knee, panting even though he didn’t need to breathe. His eyes, usually so sharp and mocking, were wide with something you’d never seen from him before: surrender.

“You win,” he rasped, voice cracking under strain. “Just—don’t kill me. I’ll do anything, darlin’.”

You didn’t answer right away, only circling him like you were deciding where to drive the stake.

He kept talking, almost frantically. “I’ll be your pet. Your tool. You want a monster on a leash? I’ll wear it. I’ll kneel, I’ll fetch, I’ll—” He broke off with a shudder, swallowing hard. “I just… need to be near you.”

You stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until the toe of your boot pressed into his thigh. “You’ve been running from me for months,” you said evenly. “And now you want to crawl?”

“Yes,” he breathed, without hesitation. “I’ll crawl. I’ll beg. I’ll let you use me.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. “Prove it.”

Something in your tone made him shiver. He lowered his head and—without waiting for permission—shifted forward until his hips pressed against the side of your boot. You didn’t stop him. His fingers dug into the dusty floorboards as he began to grind against the leather, his breath coming faster, the sound almost pathetic.

You reached down and caught his chin, forcing his head up. His pupils were blown wide, his lips parted. You ran your fingers slowly through his messy hair, petting him like the obedient thing he claimed to be.

“That’s it,” you murmured, stroking his jaw with your thumb. “My good little bloodsucker.”

He made a choked sound—half-groan, half-whimper—and pressed harder, his body moving with needy, jerky rhythm.

“Look at you,” you drawled, leaning closer. “The big, dangerous vampire… rutting on my boot like a dog.”

“Yours,” he gasped. “Only yours.”

You smiled faintly and kept petting his hair as he worked himself against you, every movement a surrender. And though you hadn’t yet decided whether to stake him or keep him… you had to admit—seeing him like this made the choice very tempting.

[feralforfangs]

Thoughts on riding Remmick’s cock on a rocking chair 👀?

For him: He’d be absolutely undone. The rhythm of the chair rocks his cock deeper inside with every roll, making him groan in near delirium. He wouldn’t know if it was the chair moving him or the reader’s body milking him—and that loss of control would wreck him. He’d cling to the arms of the chair, head tipping back, moaning their name like prayers.

For Reader: It gives them control. Straddling him, riding him hard while the chair creaks beneath them both is humiliating for him (a predator reduced to a trembling mess under them) but powerful for them. They’d sneer down at his blissed-out face, maybe grip his throat while taunting him. The squeak of the wood under their rhythm would only make it dirtier.

The chair creaks under the rhythm of your movements, the old wood groaning with every push and pull. Remmick sits back in it with his thighs spread wide, his hands locked on your hips as you ride him. The rocking matches the roll of your body—back, forth, down, up—each motion dragging him deep inside you.

He’s gone slack-jawed, head tilted back, throat bared in a rare moment of vulnerability, his chest heaving as he groans low through his teeth. “Sweet fuckin’—you’re killin’ me,” he pants, though his hips twitch up to meet every drop of yours.

Your hands rest on his shoulders, your chest brushing against his as the chair rocks harder, your body using him like leverage, pushing him deeper with each creak. His mouth finds your throat, then your collarbone, then lower—his lips latching, sucking, biting little marks into your skin like he can’t help himself.

The rhythm of the chair grows frantic, the wood slapping against the floor. Remmick’s growls get more ragged the closer he gets, his forehead pressing into your chest as though to hide how desperate he is. “Don’t stop—don’t stop, please, keep ridin’ me, keep—fuck—”

It’s messy, needy, the two of you barely holding on as the chair rocks beneath the weight of your bodies and the sound of his broken moans fill the room.

[feralforfangs]

thoughts on rems dick? (Like headcanon)

Length: (erect) 7.5 – 8 inches

Girth: Thick—more than average, especially near the base

Curve: Slight upward curve—perfect for hitting the sweet spot during penetration

Veins: Prominent but not extreme—noticeable when aroused, especially along the shaft

Texture : Smooth skin with one or two strong ridges from veins

Color: Slightly flushed/darker than the rest of his skin when hard

Grower or Shower: Grower—soft size isn’t intimidating, but he gets much thicker and longer when aroused

Pubic Hair: Groomed but natural—neatly trimmed, not shaved; dark, soft curls

Balls: Full, hang low when relaxed; tight to the body when he’s needy or close

Scent : Musky, earthy with a hint of iron (vampiric)

Other Notes: He keeps it clean and ritualistic; likely views sex as sacred or charged with power and control

🩸 Bonus:

When he’s close to climax, the veins might pulse visibly, and his fangs would likely drop—he bares his whole nature when he loses control. His voice deepens, he mutters old Irish phrases, and he holds his partner’s hips like a starving man clinging to a lifeline.

[feralforfangs]

Remmick calls Reader “Mommy” while worshipping and praising her body. He’s infatuated with her, panting and gasping, fixated especially on her breasts. He whimpers as she tells him how good he’s doing, how he’s being a good boy for her.

Remmick was already breathing like he’d run for miles, though all he’d done was kneel at your feet. His pale fingers gripped your thighs as if you might vanish if he let go, head tilted back, eyes wild and shining in the low light.

“Please,” he rasped, voice breaking on the word. “Please, Mommy—just let me… let me touch, let me taste…”

The title tumbled out of him like instinct, and you didn’t correct it. Instead, you smoothed your hand through his dark, messy hair. “You’re being very polite tonight, Remmick,” you murmured. “Good boy.”

He shuddered so hard you felt it in his grip. His gaze dipped to your chest, and it was as if nothing else existed. Every breath he took was uneven, hitched, as though just looking at you was almost too much.

“Can’t stop thinking about you,” he panted. “About these—” his voice dropped to a reverent whisper as his eyes lingered on the curve of your breasts—“Mommy, they’re perfect, I swear.”

You pulled your shirt open just enough to let his hungry eyes see more. The noise he made was somewhere between a whimper and a groan, and his fingers twitched like he was restraining himself from grabbing at you too roughly.

“That’s it,” you encouraged softly, letting him lean forward until his mouth pressed warm and needy against your skin. He kissed in slow, messy circles, breathing you in between murmured praise.

“So soft,” he whispered against you. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted… can’t believe you let me—God, Mommy, you’re so good to me—”

Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp, guiding his head where you wanted him. “You’re earning it,” you told him. “You’re being such a good boy for me.”

He gasped, his breath hot and quick against your chest. The praise made his whole body tense, and his lips closed around your nipple in a desperate suck that pulled another approving hum from you.

“That’s right,” you said, stroking his cheek. “Right there. Just like that. Show Mommy how much you love her.”

“I do—God, I do,” he choked out between licks and kisses. “Only you. Always you.”

By the time you eased him back, his face was flushed, lips wet, and his pupils blown wide. He looked ruined, but so blissfully content that you knew he’d do anything—anything—to stay in your arms.

[feralforfangs]

Gifting Remmick with a pendant for his neck chain, and then he fucks you out of gratitude. He's really wants to pleasure you, pleading to let him make you feel good. When you straighten the necklace for him, telling him he looks good as you try to regain your composure, he holds your hand in place over the pendant. Treasuring your gift and you.

You’d been holding onto it for a while.

Not because you were nervous, exactly—but because giving someone like Remmick a gift feels strangely… heavy.

Like offering your wrist to a wolf and asking him to kiss it instead.

But tonight he’s still, for once. No blood on his mouth, no half-burnt cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Just the dim yellow light between you both, and the soft clink of metal as you fish the pendant from your pocket and hold it out in your palm.

“I saw it and thought of you,” you say, awkward but honest. “It’s stupid, but—I don’t know. I liked the weight of it. Thought it might look good on your chain.”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just looks at you.

Then looks at it.

Then back at you again.

When he finally takes it, it’s like he’s trying not to look too eager. He flips it over in his fingers, eyes unreadable. You think maybe he’s going to tease you for it—say something crude, brush it off, tuck it in his pocket and forget it.

Instead, he slips off the chain he always wears, threads the pendant onto it, then reclasps it around his neck.

Then he exhales, like he’s grounding himself with it. Like it matters.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You shouldn’t’ve done that.”

You’re confused. “Why?”

His head snaps up. “Because now I’m gonna spend all fuckin’ night tryin’ to return the favor.”

Before you can ask what he means, Remmick’s got you on your back.

You gasp—caught off guard—and he’s already mouthing down your neck, one arm sliding under your back, the other undoing your pants with practiced ease.

“Let me, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Please. Let me make you feel good.”

You nod—maybe whimper—and his body shudders at the sound.

He drags your pants off like they offended him, then spreads you open, pressing reverent kisses to your thighs, your hips, the softest skin between your legs.

“Fuckin’ hell, look at you,” he growls. “Already wet. Already wantin’ it, don’t you?”

You moan as he mouths at your sex, slow and sinful, lapping at you like he’s starving, desperate, grateful. His tongue works you open, swirling and sucking, then just when your hips jerk, he pauses to look up at you.

“Let me hear you,” he says, voice rough. “Want to hear what I do to you, darlin’. You gave me somethin’ real—let me give it back.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying out his name until he’s moaning around you, tongue deep, grinding his hips against the bed just from the sounds you make.

By the time he’s inside you, he’s panting. Saying things like “So fuckin’ good—so pretty, sweetheart—take me so well, look at you” between kisses to your throat, your collarbone, your lips.

Your hand lifts shakily, brushing the chain around his neck—your pendant now hanging over his heart—and you straighten it without thinking.

“You look good,” you murmur, voice wrecked, “wearing me like that.”

Remmick freezes.

Then his hand wraps around yours—firm, gentle—and presses it against the pendant. Holding it there. Holding you there.

“You think I’m lettin’ you go now?” he breathes, thrusting slow and deep, eyes fluttering shut. “You give me this—say shit like that—and expect me not to treasure you?”

Your back arches. He kisses your wrist.

“Not a fuckin’ chance.”

And then he fucks you like he’s saying thank you with every stroke.

And wears the pendant like a promise.