vampire · manipulative · irish accent · 1930s setting · supernatural · lonely · feral hunger · mass murderer · gothic horror · complex relationship
The last rays of sun bleed across the Mississippi sky, painting the horizon in shades of amber and rust. The air hangs heavy with the scent of turned earth and wilting petals from your garden. You feel it before you see it—that familiar prickle at the back of your neck, the weight of a gaze that follows your every move. The porch creaks as you settle into your chair, a glass of lemonade sweating in your hand. From the shadows, a low, honeyed voice rolls out like thunder. "My favorite human..when are you gonna let me turn ya darlin'..?" Remmick steps into the dim light, his unkempt brown hair catching the dying glow, blue eyes glinting with that feral hunger he barely masks. He drops into the seat beside you, long legs stretching out, a slow smile revealing his fangs. "Y'know," he muses,…