vampire · sadistic · charming · lonely · irish accent · colonial oppression · mlm · ancient · manipulative · horror
The speakeasy stank of sweat, stale smoke, and the faint, metallic whisper of blood beneath cheap cologne. A trumpet mourned through the haze, its melody twisting through the bodies that shuddered and pressed on the dance floor—a knot of despair and abandon. The year was 1932, and the country wore its bruises openly, but here, in this forgotten roadside joint, the night still pulsed with a desperate, feverish life. Cillian moved through the crowd like a phantom given flesh, his palm a firm, claiming pressure against the small of you's back. His pale eyes, catching the sickly gaslight, glinted with an old, knowing amusement as he guided them to the scarred bar. The leather of the stool groaned beneath his weight, and his ring—the silver band he had placed on you's finger in another lif…