Remmick Headcanons part 11
Remmick Headcanons Part I
Remmick!Human cuddling in bed
Remmick!HumanRelationship HC
A/N: Here’s part 2 of Remmicks headcanons, Like i said before of you don’t like these just scroll ! These are my THOUGHTS and how I imagine him and I love it ! I hope you do too, I have thoughts on doing a song fic about Remmick!Human to the song Rule #34 by fish in a birdcage, I really love that song right now and i feel it fits him very well. Let me know if you’d like part 3!!
Remmick turns every night into a private concert. He pulls you close for slow dances, humming Irish reels or blues against your ear while his hips keep the rhythm.
Your off-key singing along makes him laugh low and pull you onto his lap mid-song, turning the music into lazy, grinding foreplay.
He whispers lyrics against your throat or breasts while moving inside you, the vibration of his voice syncing with your pulse.
Late nights end with him tracing invisible notes along your spine, humming blues that feel like love letters written in sound.
He teaches you the old step-dance rhythms so you can move together—bodies pressed close, music becoming the only language you both need.
Centuries of grief never fully leave him; he watches you sleep with faint red eyes glowing softly.
He’ll traces the line of your jaw like you’re the last living warmth on earth.
Your everyday stories and steady breathing become his new chosen family - no turning needed
Charm & Playful Manipulation
He will corners you with a honeyed Southern drawl laced with Irish lilt: “Now darlin’, ya wouldn’t deny a thirsty old vampire a taste, would ya?” knowing you’ll laugh and pull him down anyway.
Red eyes flash playfully as he “tricks” you into staying in bed—“Just one more song, love, or I might waste away right here.”
He turns everyday moments into flirty games: a bet on who can hold a note longer, with the loser owing a slow kiss or a bare-throat offering.
Sudden vampire speed lets him appear behind you, arms sliding around your waist while he murmurs, “Gotcha, little human… now what’re ya gonna do about it?”
He teases your human habits in that low, charming voice—“All that sunlight makin’ ya glow like this? Cruel, darlin’. How’s a dead man supposed to resist?”—always ending with a soft, reverent kiss.
Pretending to be “helpless” to your charms is his favorite ploy: “Ya got me wrapped around yer finger tighter than any blood bond, and ya know it.”
Every playful manipulation circles back to consent—he’ll pause, eyes soft, and whisper, “Say the word and I stop… but I hope ya don’t.”
Every evening he waits patiently on the porch or right by the door like an eager, devoted puppy—cool silhouette in the dark, red eyes soft and hopeful until you invite him in.
On especially hard days he drops to one knee dramatically at the threshold, red eyes shining: “Please, darlin’? This dead heart’s been achin’ for ya all day.”
He would never steps over the threshold on his own; centuries of vampire rules make the invitation feel sacred, so he stands there with that charming half-smile, Southern drawl laced with Irish warmth: “Evenin’, darlin’… ya gonna let this old vampire come home?”
If you’re running late he paces the porch quietly, humming soft Irish tunes to himself, red eyes scanning the horizon like a lovesick hound waiting for its person.
Rain, wind, or cold never fazes him—he’ll stand soaked through with that same patient grin, coat dripping, just happy to be close to where you’ll appear.
Sometimes he brings you a small offering: a wildflower he picked on the way, a shiny trinket, or a warm blanket he “borrowed” for you, holding it out the second you say the words.
The second you open the door and invite him in, cool arms wrap around you instantly, pulling you close before you can even set your things down—lifting you off your feet in a gentle spin.
You teach him modern wonders that leave him wide-eyed and chuckling: smartphones, streaming playlists, TikTok dances, and slang that he mangles adorably at first (“This ‘vibe’ thing—ya mean the feel of the night, darlin’?”).
He teaches you the deep past like no history book ever could—vivid tales of 18th-century Ireland, forgotten folk songs, step-dance rhythms passed down through blood, and the raw colonial grief that still echoes in his bones.
He’s endlessly fascinated by your world, sitting cross-legged on the floor while you explain cars, airplanes, or the internet—red eyes glowing with genuine awe at how far humanity has come without him
In return he shares “everything about the past” with quiet pride: how to tune an old fiddle, the true stories behind the blues he loves, or the taste of pre-industrial night air under starlight.
Lessons always turn playful—he tries your slang and fails spectacularly, then teases you gently when you trip over an Irish reel: “Easy now, love. Even the old ways take practice.”
You “corrupt” him with pop music and memes; he watches your face light up and laughs that low, warm drawl, pulling you into his lap so the lesson becomes slow kisses and humming along.
Late nights end with the two of you tangled together, trading knowledge like secrets: his cool fingers tracing old map lines on your skin while you show him a flashlight app, laughter turning into soft, pressed-close intimacy.
There are things he teaches you that don’t come from books or songs—quieter lessons, spoken low, meant only for you. The kind of knowledge shaped by centuries of living, of loving, of knowing bodies and the ways they speak without words.
He’s patient with it, almost reverent. Not rushed, not careless—like it matters that you understand, not just follow. “Slow, love,” he murmurs, guiding you with a steady hand. “Feel it. That’s how ya learn.”
He manages his thirst through iron discipline and your willing offerings.
When hunger spikes he slips out to hunt animals or even other humans far from you, always returning calmer and more devoted.
He will try to hide dead body’s of animals never human around the place until you start to smell death around, yelling at him telling him to clean up his mess!
He goes very quiet and very formal when it's bad. The warmth disappears first. Then the small expressions. What's left is courteous and hollow and frightening.
He would never feed from you without permission but the wanting is always there and you both know it. There is something electric in that knowledge — the restraint he exercises every time he is near you.
After feeding he is almost serene. Settled in a way he rarely is otherwise. He'll find you and simply be near you, one hand resting somewhere on your body, breathing slower, more present.
The hunger is the truest part of him and the part he most wants you not to fear. The fact that you don't fear it is simultaneously the thing he loves most about you and the thing that worries him most on your behalf.
On his knees (literally) for you. He’ll feast between your thighs like it’s communion, especially during vulnerable times (period blood? He’s feral in the best way — “You bleed for me, and I’ll worship every drop”). Mirror sex so he can watch your human flush and warmth while he stays pale and cool behind you.
Heavy breeding kink. He talks about filling you, turning you eventually so you can be his forever, or imagining a family that won’t die on him. “I’d give you the world, mo chroí… or take you from it so nothing else can.”
He carries you to bed like you weigh nothing. Cold arms wrapped around you, humming old blues while you fall asleep on his chest (even though he doesn’t breathe much). Before you drift off he always murmurs, “I loved ye before I met ye… and I’ll love ye after the world forgets us both.”
Calls you “missus” or “my wife” in that accent constantly
Hive-mind thralls now refer to you as “the Missus” too. You’ll wake up to a chorus of vampires awkwardly singing “Happy Anniversary” three months early because Remmick got excited.
The first time you call him your husband (even playfully), he freezes mid-step, fangs peeking out in the biggest, dumbest grin. “Husband…?” Then he’s on his knees, face buried in your stomach, mumbling in thick Irish, “Say it again, mo chroí. Say it till the stars burn out.” He might even shed a single bloody tear. Dramatic king.
