#sinners roleplay

[anniensmoke3]

Beautiful @thebravofiles as Annie &Smoke❤️

[luaithreach]

Perhaps it was a fluke, or the whims of some unloving God, but Remmick managed to crawl away that fateful sunrise at the juke, albeit with a scar from the silver embedded in his head and burns from the sun to show for it.

He kept wandering, trying to find purpose, another filí, surviving one day at a time…

But he never regained a family. Decades pass him by, surveillance and law enforcement went up, and cities turned to sprawling, concrete, pulsing things, making fledglings a risky thing to have.

Remmick keeps putting one foot in front of the other. Nothing else he can do.

(Sometimes, he hums old songs from millennia past to himself. His memory is finite. His gaelich is obsolete. The tune is wrong. No one is there to join in.)

The 21st century was difficult to adjust to. The invention of smartphones and 24 hour culture bring untold risk to even the most careful creatures of the night— and Remmick never claimed to be the greatest at restraint. The night sky, once full of stars, is now covered in a perpetual dingy haze from the light pollution. The people he fed from have varied aftertastes from chemical additives and drugs and hormones.

And oh… music had no soul anymore. Everything is now made on a computer, in some big studio, backed by big corporations that sanitize everything and further retouch the results to synthetic perfection to the point of uncanniness.

(Sammie Moore’s passing at ninety-something left a hole in Remmick’s heart and a musical niche open that nobody could fill. He was the last of the real, as far as Remmick cares.)

This became his routine for many, many, years. Wake, feed, wander, avoid sunlight, sleep.

He doesn’t a house or a place to stay, but he usually found good cover in old churches, alleys, abandoned buildings. Remmick passes through life like a ghost— invisible to most, but always watching and listening.

After sunset, he busks. Keeps the spirit alive and his hands busy and his pockets full; singing century old songs in the most raw, understated way possible, nothing but a banjo and his voice and the thrum of the city around him. (Without a license, of course.)

Still, something is missing, even after all these years.

The vampire wasn’t sure if loneliness or bloodlust that compels him to seek out crowds, his mind and heart searching for a suitable subject in the crowds of humanity. He can smell the blood flowing in people's veins. He can hear their heartbeats, their pulse, the thrum of life beneath their skin.

In those moments of weakness, he lets himself imagine a family again. A chorus of voices in song. The thrill of teaching a fledgling how to hunt. The belonging he feels when their minds assimilate into his and his into theirs; stories and memories of tens and scores melding together into a beautiful tapestry like no other.

He imagines loving, and to be loved again.

It’s a foolish fantasy. He knows full well how difficult it was to raise a fledgling in this modern age. Too much surveillance. Too many cameras and people around. Too much social media able to spread missing persons reports in seconds. But the urge claws beneath his ribs nonetheless.

It’s just easier to be alone. Safer. Less messy. It’s fine. He’s fine. Remmick lived for centuries alone, after all. What were centuries more?

Despite all notions of safety and logic, some nights, the ache for connection, for belonging, would ravage him like a wildfire to tinder. Those nights, he’d find himself slinking past late night gatherings and parties, watching humans socialize and laugh and drink and dance. Unseen and unheard, he watches and listens, trying to drown out the loneliness with the sound of life around him.

The laughter and conversations of humans wash over him like a tide, reminding him of what he can’t have. Sometimes, when his heart aches too much, he even imagines what it’s like to be amongst them. What it’s like to join in their conversations, to laugh and dance and drink alongside them, to be one of them again.

In those lonely moments, he lets himself indulge.

Of course, centuries of experience remind him it’s too dangerous to linger, to tempt himself like that. And with great effort, he eventually pulls himself away.

Those encounters, those brief moments of connection... they always leave him feeling even more lonely and hollow afterwards. A cruel irony. In trying to ease his solitude, he only makes it worse.

Like a beaten dog, Remmick slinks back to the shadows. The realization that he could never truly be part of this world is a bitter pill to swallow; one that burns his gut for days.

Back the vampire would go to wandering, feeling even more a lost soul than he already is. He feeds, but the blood has no flavor. He finds cover, but the shelter presses in on all sides like a tomb.

Days could pass, sometimes even weeks or months before somebody even talks to him. (Well, outside of calling for help that wouldn’t come as he fed on them.) All of that loneliness, that longing, that aching, festers deep, deep in his chest; in that rotten old hole where his heart should be.

And when Remmick finds a good street corner, surrounded by tall buildings amplifying every sound and people passing him by even at the wee hours of the night, all of that pain would finally break free when he sits down on an overturned trashcan, banjo in hand.

The banjo is incredibly old, its wood worn smooth by decades of playing and repairs. Remmick’s hands move with practiced ease as he picks a slow, melancholy tune— something from 1933 that hasn’t been played ever since. The strings hum under his touch, the sound cutting through the city’s constant nouvelle drone like a blade.

A few passersby glance his way— some curious, others wary— but no one stops. No one ever stops anymore.

He plays on anyways. What else is there to do? Feed? Hide? Sleep until each night bleeds into each other? Walk into the sun and hope it burns him down to dust this time?

His voice joins in, low and rough from disuse, when it comes time.

“Somebody take me, in your arms tonight…”

[remmickofficial]

There's a stray dog been lurking around your porch. Eyes wet bluered and pleading.  Got a kind smile, a sweet manner about him.  Handsome, in his own unassuming way. Imploring. Harmless.  "Won't you let me in, darlin'? I'm starvin' out here." He's persistent. Determined.  A needy thing, looking for a gentle hand-  To hold? To bite.

1,300 year old Irish vampire far from home, wandering aimlessly. Only a few gold coins and a charming smile to his name. Manipulative, charismatic, and an eternal fan of music. Come and share your songs and stories.

The ask box is open. | Headcanons | RP Memes

Rules & Guidelines under cut.

Rules & Guidelines

21+ Minors will be blocked. Mun and muse are 30+.

Content on this blog will contain dark themes. Possible content can include: gore, murder, non-con, sexual harassment. All the things Remmick does in Sinners.

Asks are open to all: RP blogs, fandom blogs, whatever. Questions are always welcome but this isn't a complaint desk.

If you let him in, he will kill you. Bad ends 300% possible. Join the hivemind. Fellowship and love.

IF you want your character to become a thrall, please have an idea where you'd like their story to go. No bratty thralls. Hivemind members are happily changed according to Sinners canon.

This is a side-blog, follows will come from @teamun.

Respect the IC / OOC line. Mun and Muse are two separate individuals. Opinions aren't shared.

No follower restrictions, but please don't reblog RP threads you're not involved in. Everything else is fair game.

Yes you can reply to any post of mine, I'll respond IC or OOC depending on my mood.

No godmoding or metagaming; this should go without saying. base level RP etiquette.

Unless it's a canon relationship or we've discussed the relationship between our muses? Your muse doesn't know my Remmick and Remmick doesn't know your muse off the bat.

Cross-over, OC, and duplicate friendly. 

Single shipping with my Remmick and the position is filled.

DMs are open but OOC. They are for OOC discussions and RP plotting only.

Sending an ask doesn't guarantee a response. Ask box abuse / spam will result in a block. 

No format requirements or style preferences for Role-Play threads. All I ask is you 'yes and-' replies. Give me something to respond to, else I can't create engaging responses.

If a thread goes unanswered for 2+ weeks, I archive it. Feel free to DM me about if if you want to continue the thread.

All content on this blog is fictional writing from the POV of Remmick of the movie Sinners(2025). The writing here is not intended to be official works related to the movie Sinners(2025), life advice, guidelines, or instructions.  

Pinned by @teamun | Divider courtesy of @saradika-graphics | Icons courtesy of @anthologicals

[nuttyassquirrelshit]

do you and joan still live alone together as vampires? or did remmick just decide to stay with y'all?

the idea of remmick forcibly becoming the third wheel is really funny to me

Oh, he’s always ‘round somewhere - he comes and goes as he pleases, like an outdoor cat. 

And thank Heavens, ‘cause havin’ him in your head 24/7 would make anyone walk right into the damn sun - ya don’ wanna know half the shit that goes on in that mind o’ his.

Hell, I’m toleratin’ him ‘cause Joan took a likin’ to the bastard, but when we said we wanted a kid, that ain’t remotely what we meant… he’s a handful all right. 

And I get a man’s gotta eat, but he don’t clean himself before bargin’ in when he comes back from his shenanigans, so ya can bet your bottom dollar he’s gettin’ the hose before steppin’ into our home. 

Third wheel sounds ‘bout right - at this point you can call us a m’fucking tricycle. 

 

⨳ He remembered the very first time their minds connected after he was turned. 

  The violent wave of second-hand memories: 1000 years of trauma, pent up anger, agonizing loneliness - overcoming his brain like a flood, suffocating, breathtaking - far too much to handle for someone with only 30-odd years of life experience under his belt. Trying and failing to rise above that water, gasping for air, like he did moments before when he exhaled his very last breath on the hard, cold floor of the nursery.

  The ruthless, careless violence of those English men - the bloodshed, the desperate screams piercing through his brain like someone taking a bolt pistol to it. Violence so overwhelming but almost so familiar, that his Daddy’s face flashed before his eyes for a second.

  But he could relate to Remmick’s loneliness - he felt it so deeply before he met Joan - like he never truly belonged with that family, like they never thought he belonged with them either. 

  His only connection to his father was sharing his name, something he abandoned the very same day his family chose to abandon him by not showing up to the wedding. 

  The day he realized that there was no life before her.

  And in the end, he was grateful to Remmick for keeping them together, and most of all, for allowing him to turn her himself.

  He knew that Remmick could feel their love and that he thought it was beautiful - and that he understood that they can never bear to be apart for even a minute - never before and never again ; and they could feel their love reflected through him as well - it was now shared, multiplied, amplified, and more tangible than ever - he understood Joan better, if that were even possible - and he understood Remmick. 

  This strange, unexpected man, who stormed into their life like a hurricane just to pull their home apart and rearrange it onto new foundation - and he was broken, in pain and sometimes cruel, but now, he was family.

  And they stayed, not out of fear this time, but by choice. ⨳ 

[first-born-of-a-lost-hive]

Ꮯꮖꭺꭱꭺ́ɴ Ꮐꭺꮮꮮꭺꮐꮋꭼꭱ

First Born of a Lost Hive

[ Inspired by : Cassidy ( Preacher ), Roy Goode ( Godless ) and Billy the Kid. So yeh, he's whimsical. But he also has a mouth on him and a temper to boot. Often reckless.]

Ciarán is affiliated before his death and rebirth with the early stages of the IRA that was originally Irish Volunteers who hadn't quite been established until 1913. But were merely the whispers of their beginnings in formed rebels against the English boot up until his immigration into the Americas in 1911. Stealing from the rich to feed the poor. He had met Remmick through these exploits. The young man was part of his first hive coming into America. He was beguiled and turned by Remmick at the ripe age of twenty. His metamorphosis had also been before the voyage into the states. So he walked onto that ship, the Celtic Hare, with his maker. Both as predators with an agenda shared through their hivemind link. Purpose driven. Hunting as one. They had turned majority on ship amidst their gluttony. Under promise of family, community to thrive on the echoes of home in a foreign land. However, as the tabloids reveal -- it didn't quite work out as planned. Most perished to flame set ablaze by the sun's early rays. To the public it had been discarded as engine failure that caused this unexplained fire to erupt. To quell hysteria. He was thought dead after their arrival. Ultimately split apart by the fiery star. Yet he had managed to seek shelter through soil, narrowly escaping true death. For a time he laid within river clay earth , nursing those wounds. His connection with his sire had been lost upon this hibernation. Neither of them knew, or could feel if the other had survived. Matters had worsened when Remmick had met the fate he had during October 1932. It wasn't until Ciarán's awakening , that he began to hear tales. Whispers of an incident down south, down amongst the Mississippi ridge. Seeking answers, he pursued the trail of stories. He was born December 15th in Carrigrohane (Carraig Ruacháin), Co. Cork , Ireland, 1886 to a family of two other siblings. A family plagued under the English boot if not due to their already staged poverty. Their father had been abusive to him and the youngest of their liter, whilst leaving his eldest brother on a pedestal built for favoritism. He shot and killed his father one night over these abusive episodes. Protecting himself and his little brother. Thus leaving their mother a widow. For she soon blamed him after in doing so, not listening to reason over why he had done what he done. Thus a mother's love churned sour and he left home to rebel out against the English oppressors in any way he can. He never saw his brothers again after. Age : Looks forever Twenty. Real age about forty six. Species : Vampire ( First Born to the lost Hive prior to the Celtic Hare ) Height : 5'11 Weight : 185 Eye Colour : Wintry scaled crystalline blue. Reflective sheen upon a predatorial edge simmers upon gradient amberish marigold. Flecks that imitate cooled embers. This becomes semi permanent within the iris when the beast's true nature takes hold. Hair Colour : Clove brown Ethnicity: Irish Stature : Athletically lean, though more on the lanky side of things. Favourite meal : The blood type 0 / 0 negative, or blood with high levels of alcohol consumption. Since alcohol has lost it's natural taste since his rebirth. Peculiar traits : Always seen wearing a revolver tucked away inside a gun rig across his hip. Fond of the flat billed short sloped top hat, hardly seen without it. Surprisingly an excellent marksman. An remarkable fiddle player, and an exceptional uilleann pipe player. His lineage can trace back to the Fili, quite possibly the reason Remmick had his eyes on him. However, those traits waned by his generation. As for the story of him obtaining an American gun rig and revolver . He stole it off a British officer, who in turn won it on a trip over seas. After that officer had told stories about gunslingers and outlaws in the Americas. A very young and impressionable Ciar fell in love with those stories , and in his obsessions, became the sole culprit why he acts and dresses the way he does. Fast forward to after the events of Club Juke. Ciarán is a conduit to Remmick's resurrection.

Follows under @soil-from-slaghtaverty . This is a side blog. All are welcome as long as they're of age. Duplicates are most welcome. OяɪɢɪηαƖ Cʜαяαᴄᴛєя from ᴿʸᵃⁿ ᑦᵒᵒᵍˡᵉʳ'ˢ Ꮪꮖɴɴꭼꭱꮪ ᴿᵒˡᵉ ᴾˡᵃʸ ᴮˡᵒᵍ | Rules and Guidelines | Multi / Semi paragraph | Multiverse | Alternate Universes | Cross - overs | Mature Role Play 18 + / Mun is 30 +

This blog is ONLY  made for those who are  over the age of eighteen, no minors will be permitted to take part. Mature Content inside. Dead Dove : Do Not Eat. Devouring flesh, drinking blood, other visceral gore depictions and real life horrors ( racism , colonization ). These subjects will be present on this blog; I must stress, please do not follow if you are not comfortable with these topics. I feel I must remind some, that I do not condone the actions of this character written; his actions do not reflect the writer of this blog. He is an antagonist, and villain to some --though tragic, but still a villain in his own right and a monster in most light.

[dearlyremmick]

Good evenin', Darlin's. Just your 1300 or so year old vampire. Yer friend. Yer confidant. Shoulder to cry on when ye need. I'm all 'bout that fellowship an love. Imma be 'ere for a long, long time. 😏 Come on by, 'ave a chat, a cuddle. An I may even give ye a nibble.

● You can ask questions, be silly, whatever honestly, just here to have fun. This is also a roleplay blog.

● 18 + content may appear on here, so if you're a minor please DNI. (So come have a good time, ask your questions, play along in the universe, whatever you like.)

● Content Warnings: This blog may get dark. May include: dark themes, sexual content, talking about gore, blood, biting, and all in between. So please keep that in mind.

● The ask are open: Ask away. Please note. I may not get to all the ask or pick and choose which ones I will answer.

● This is a side blog for me. So please be patient with me. I have several things going on at once. I.E. my other blog related things, work, sleep, (Maybe....I am nocturnal). Thank you for understanding.

● I know I'm not the only RP blog out there, but I will do my best. I will attempt to keep things within the canon universe, but I will deviate. It is RP after all.

● I'm just here to have a good time and give back to the community. 😊🥰

(Author of this blog is 21+ years old)

[eternallydamned1]

Ya can run but ya can’t hide from me..and if I catch ya..well that’s where the fun begins..

[roleplayfinder]

hi! i'm 21+ they/them looking for other 21+ people to roleplay on discord! i don't really have any triggers but i'm always down to chat about anything before going over to discord. this doesn't have to include nsfw but it can, we can do fade to black if that's preferred. all characters will be 18+ as well.

i am looking for the following things:

something based in the 'sinners' universe. preferably with fcs of color! i would be down to play stack if we want to incorporate canon characters.

something in the baldur's gate 3/dnd universe! we can use canon characters or we can use ocs, i don't mind either way. i have both.

the walking dead! again we can use canon characters or just use ocs, or both. i'm game for anything.

like this and i'll message you!

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