#human remmick

[u9h-as-if]

Love me to death

Synopsis: Why would you waste your time on them when he is ready to give himself so willingly to you?

WC: 1,432 (one shot)

Human!Remmick x Vampire!Reader

Tropes/themes: pathetic, desperate, needy Remmick

TW: blood and slight (kinda) goriness.

─── ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ───

You’re bent over the body, kneeling in the low, amber light in a way that could almost be mistaken for grief. Head bowed. Shoulders drawn inward. Your hand clasped tight around his, as though you mean to keep him tethered here a while longer.

The house sags quietly around you, swollen with damp and years it should not have survived. The night presses in through the walls; thick, wet, humming with insects and the slow, sweet rot of the earth. It clings to your skin, to the air in your lungs, until everything feels heavy with it.

Blood slicks your hands, dark and shining, trailing up your forearms where it gathers in the bend of your elbows. It warms your mouth, slips from your chin, and disappears slowly down your throat. You take your time with it, licking it away without thought, slow and deliberate, like something remembered rather than learned.

The man beneath you trembles once, just once, and your fingers tighten around his in answer. You hum, soft and distant, as your teeth press in again, careful and measured. There’s a gentleness to it that shouldn’t exist, something almost attentive, as though you are tending to a wound rather than making one.

Then you hush him.

It comes naturally. A quiet, shapeless murmur, barely more than breath, as your thumb begins its slow path across his knuckles. Back and forth. Back and forth. The rhythm is steady, unbroken, comforting. Loving, almost. The kind of touch meant for the frightened. For the dying. For something you intend to keep calm while it slips away.

Your mouth lingers too long at his throat. That’s where it turns. Where the tenderness sours into something else, something patient and consuming, something that does not mistake what this is, no matter how gently it’s done.

You do not rush. You never rush. This moment is yours, and yours alone. He is yours.

His hand slackens in yours, but you do not let go. Instead, your grip tightens, just slightly, anchoring him there as his body gives one last, faint, uncertain twitch.

“Shh,” you whisper with a soft certainty.

And then, without breaking that rhythm, you lean in again with quiet, terrible focus, as though you are listening for something deep beneath his skin, something fading, something precious, and you intend to follow it all the way down.

Behind you, boots scrape against the ground. You don’t turn. You don’t need to. You know that smell, sun-warmed cotton, old sweat, soil ground deep into skin. It clings to him like something he can’t wash out, no matter how hard he tries.

Remmick.

He’s breathing wrong. It’s too fast and too shallow for this small room.

You drag your mouth from the man’s throat, just for a moment, and lick the blood from your lips with slow care, like you don’t want to waste a drop. Your fingers follow, cleaning themselves one by one.

His breath catches, and when he speaks, his voice is unsteady, like it doesn’t belong to him.

“That should be me.”

You don’t look at him.

Not yet.

Instead, you adjust your grip on the dying man’s hand, lifting it slightly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles again; soft, attentive, tender. More tender than anything Remmick has ever been given.

He swallows hard, stepping closer anyway, eyes fixed on the body beneath you like he can’t stop himself.

“That—” he swallows, the sound loud in the thick air, “—that should be me.”

Now you look.

Your gaze drags up to him, slow and heavy, as if pulled by the sound alone. Your eyes don’t quite settle; they’re still distant, still consumed with something deeper than him.

His eyes fix, not on your face, not on the blood, but on your hand. That hand, curled so easily around another man’s, your thumb still moving in that slow, absent rhythm, as though the body beneath you might yet be comforted by it.

Remmick’s breath falters.

There’s a strange stillness to him, like he’s been caught mid-thought and cannot find his way out of it. His fingers twitch once at his side, then curl in, pressing hard into his own palm, as if testing the shape of something he hasn’t been given.

His gaze flickers, just once, to the man beneath you, slack, emptied, held.

Then back to you, but this time he doesn’t look away again.

He lowers himself to his knees. It’s not graceful or reverent. His weight hits the floor with a thud that’s too hard and too sudden. The sound of it lingers in the room longer than it should, he flinches at it, embarrassed by the noise, by the clumsiness of his own body. It’s pitiful, but he knows this position suits him, and so he stays.

His hands hover for a moment, uncertain what to do with themselves, before settling awkwardly against his thighs. Fingers spread. Then curl. Then still.

He tilts his head, only a little, just enough to look up at you properly from where he’s ended up. Waiting, waiting to be noticed, like a dog that’s learned patience gets it fed.

His mouth parts as though he means to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, his gaze drifts again, back to your hand where it rests around the other man’s.

He watches the way your thumb moves. Watches it like it’s something he could memorise. Something he might earn, if he stays very still.

“Don’t–” It slips out of him, thin and uncertain.

He swallows, tries again, the words tripping over themselves in his haste to keep them from disappearing.

“Don’t give it to them,” he says, quieter now, voice catching at the edges. “They don’t… they don’t know what it means. Don’t appreciate it.”

His hands lift before he seems to realise he’s doing it. They hover there between you, awkward, trembling, suspended like he expects to be struck down for the attempt. For a second, it looks like he might pull them back.

He doesn’t.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches forward and takes your hands. Your blood-slick fingers slide into his palms too easily. The warmth of it spreads at once, thick and unmistakable, pressing into the lines of his skin, settling there as it belongs. It stains him deep, seeps into the creases of his knuckles, the beds of his nails, darkening him in a way that doesn’t look like it will wash out.

He draws in a sharp breath. Not in disgust, but something closer to relief.

His grip tightens.

Like he’s afraid it might be taken from him.

Like he’s been waiting for this without knowing how to ask.

“Please,” he whispers.

Whatever thin structure he had left, it breaks, clean through him.

“Let it be me.”

There’s nothing noble in it, nothing offered, no sense of sacrifice. Only raw, unhidden, want, dragging him lower even as he speaks.

“I’ll stay,” he rushes on, words tumbling, desperate to be enough before you can refuse him. “I won’t fight you,I won’t make it hard, I swear it.”

His thumbs move without thinking, dragging clumsily across your knuckles, spreading the blood further, pressing it deeper into his own skin. Smearing it until it looks less like something borrowed and more like something claimed.

“I’ll be good,” he says, softer now, but no steadier. “I’ll be real good.”

His head dips slightly as he says it, shoulders folding in, like the shape of him is trying to make itself smaller. His fingers tighten again around yours, and he doesn’t seem to notice how hard.

“I won’t move, I won’t make a sound”, he adds quickly. “Not unless you want it. I’ll stay just like this.”

He swallows hard, breath catching, eyes flicking up to you for only a second before dropping again, like even that was too much to ask.

“I won’t waste it.”

He leans closer on his knees, drawn in without meaning to, the movement slow and inevitable, something in him has already decided, and the rest is only catching up.

The blood has spread further now. Across his palms, worked deep into the lines of them. Dragged carelessly over his fingers, pressed into the soft skin at his wrists, where his grip has smeared it higher without thought. It clings there, dark and stubborn, like it has found somewhere willing to keep it.

He holds tighter, like letting go might take whatever small, terrible closeness he’s been given and leave him empty again before it ever had the chance to be his.

“Just—” he starts, and falters.

“Just give me a chance.”

[u9h-as-if]

And the deep glen sea dreary (Remmick One Shot)

A/n: I’m on a trip to Iceland and visited the Gullfoss (the “Golden Waterfall”). There’s a plaque there telling a 17th-century love story. It says that crossing the river Hvitá above the waterfall is nearly impossible to wade and unlikely even on horseback. Yet, according to legend, a young farmer’s son from Brattholt managed to cross it. He spent summers herding sheep upstream, while a girl from Hamarsholt did the same on the opposite bank. With the river between them, they watched each other from afar.

That story naturally made me think of Remmick before he got turned, and I wrote this on the bus ride back to the hotel.

Parings: Human!Remmick x Reader

Rating: SFW

Themes: yearning, impossible love.

Remmick found not peace but a tolerable stillness at the lip of the crag, the sort granted to a man who has exhausted resistance. The land ended there with no ceremony. It did not fall away so much as withdraw, relinquishing itself to distance and thunder, as though the earth had grown weary of continuity.

He returned in all seasons. Rain stitched cold needles through his coat; winter hardened the stone beneath him until it seemed he sat upon bone; summer light exposed every fissure in the rock with merciless clarity. The wind alone remained faithful, tireless, interrogative and pressing against him as if determined to discover how little would suffice to unmake him.

Yet he never approached too closely.

He kept the careful distance of one standing beside something sacred or irrevocable: a grave not yet occupied, a truth not yet spoken aloud.

Below, the wade split the land open. No gentle river passed there but a violence imprisoned in motion, water flinging itself downward with such relentless fury that the air trembled continuously, as though the world endured a wound that refused healing. The roar persuaded the mind of depth; without it, one might have believed the torrent plunged endlessly into nothing.

Across that impossible breadth lay the other shore.

It troubled him. Heather consumed the hills in royal excess, purple trembling under the wind until the land appeared almost animate; breathing, shifting, alive in ways his own barren side refused to be. Grass rose thick and indulgent despite grazing cattle, and light lingered there unnaturally, softened as though reluctant to depart.

His own ground endured. That one lived.

He seated himself upon the same stone each visit, a ritual he would not have named devotion yet practiced with religious precision. Between caution and desire, between endurance and surrender, he felt suspended, diminished by distance yet enlarged by wanting it.

The tiompán rested across his knees.

He played softly at first, notes scarcely surviving the cataract’s fury. Sound dissolved almost instantly into mist and thunder, yet he persisted, gaze drawn always, helplessly, toward the far bank.

He told himself it was the landscape he watched. He never believed it.

The melody came before he saw you.

A thread of humming crossed the abyss, impossibly slight, carried not above the river but through it, as though the land itself remembered the shape of your voice and delivered it intact.

His breath faltered. He opened his eyes with absurd caution, fearing recognition more than disappointment.

Your form stood among the cattle like something half-born of the heather itself. The wind took liberties with you, worrying your hair loose from its confines and pressing your dress against the shape of you so that you seemed both creature and current, earth and motion at once. He could not see your features, the breadth between you robbed such intimacy, yet he knew you in the way one knows a star: by constancy, not clarity.

You had come again.

Relief struck him with humiliating force.

He straightened, fingers tightening upon the strings. On days when mist erased your shore entirely, he moved through the village with unnatural gentleness, performing kindnesses he scarcely felt, bargaining silently with a world deaf to negotiation. As though virtue might purchase visibility. As though restraint might earn revelation, but now clarity punished him.

The gulf appeared wider in sunlight, its refusal absolute. No crossing suggested itself. The river pronounced judgment endlessly. Still, you turned. Only slightly.

Yet, the movement landed within him like recognition long awaited.

He smiled then, not the guarded civility known in the village, nor the solemn composure he wore before the precipice, but something boyish and ungoverned. A smile born of relief.

If flesh could not cross, sound would attempt it.

His playing changed. Notes rose fuller now, insistent, reckless with declaration. Not beauty but presence drove them forward.

I am here.

I have not ceased.

Across the divide, you delayed your gaze, bending instead to the brown cow beside you, palm moving along its flank with studied calm, but your smile betrayed you. You heard him, not merely the tune but the agitation beneath it. You knew him by sound alone. You imagined the rest.

At night you constructed his face from fragments: the broad angle of his shoulders against the wind, the inclination of his head when listening, the urgency hidden inside restraint. You knew, with the stubborn conviction reserved for faith, that his brow was strong, his eyes gentle, his nose unmistakable. No one might have told you differently and been believed. You granted him warmth, wit, gravity; qualities invented yet fiercely defended.

Distance permitted adoration safely, where no one could mark the warmth rising to your cheeks, though he never could have seen it.

The heather bowed around you in lavish bloom while his cliff remained stripped and austere. Life gathered on your side with careless abundance; his endured through severity alone.

It seemed impossible that such nearness required obedience. The chasm did more than divide. It forbade.

Neither of you tested it.

Still he played.
Still you listened.

No word survived the river’s thunder, yet something persisted between sound and silence, not promise, not hope, but recognition sharpened by impossibility.

And perhaps it was the impossibility itself that preserved it.

Then, impossibly, you did what he had never permitted himself to imagine.

You sang.

Your voice rose uncertainly at first, searching among the notes of his tiompán until it found purchase there, threading itself through his melody as though it had always belonged within it. The song was an old town air, known on both sides of the wade: older, perhaps, than the division itself. A tune carried by travellers long dead, proof that once, before memory failed, others had crossed where he could not.

His hands faltered. Only for a breath.

The string gave a startled tremor beneath his fingers before he mastered himself again, terrified that even the smallest hesitation might break whatever fragile mercy had been granted him. He played more carefully now, listening as fiercely as he performed, shaping the melody around you, accommodating you, yielding where he never yielded.

You knew the song. How many more? How many evenings had you stood there listening, learning him piece by piece without his knowing? The thought struck him with a dangerous warmth.

For one suspended moment, the chasm seemed less absolute. Sound moved freely. Breath answered breath. It felt, absurdly, perilously, like companionship. Then your voice stopped. Abruptly.

A bell rang somewhere behind you, sharp and earthly, its clang carrying even across the roar below. You turned at once, your posture altering in a way that chilled him more surely than the wind ever had. Recognition crossed you, not of him, but of something waiting elsewhere. Something claimed. Something real.

A life beyond this brink. He played on. Louder now. Insistent. The melody pressed forward, urging, pleading without dignity. His fingers struck harder against the strings, each note driven outward as though force alone might hold you there. Pain flared along his fingertips; he scarcely felt it. The instrument shuddered beneath his grip, wood groaning softly under the violence of his need.

Stay.

The word never left his mouth, yet it consumed every note.

A distant shout followed, perhaps it was your name. Whoever called possessed certainty he never would. You listened. Truly listened. Your attention shifted fully away, drawn back toward warmth, obligation, belonging.

His hand tightened around the neck of the tiompán until the tendons stood stark beneath his skin.

Don’t look away.

Please.

You glanced back once, a small, almost apologetic motion, the same careless acknowledgment one might grant a beautiful view before leaving it behind.

Then you turned.

Heather closed around you as you walked, swallowing colour and movement alike. Past the grazing cattle, past the rise of soft ground and familiar paths, until at last there remained nothing but wind disturbing empty bloom.

Still he played.

He played long after you vanished, long after reason insisted you could no longer hear him. The melody unraveled beneath trembling hands, losing form, repeating itself without conclusion. Only when the final note broke thinly into the roar below did silence return.

It struck him then with quiet brutality:

you could leave. He could not. He didn’t want to, didn’t need to.

A tightness gathered in his throat, unfamiliar and humiliating. The opposite bank remained radiant and indifferent, unchanged by departure.

The wind rushed upward to meet him, filling the space where your voice had been. When it rose again across the wade, he lifted his hands to the strings, lest she return and find him silent.