vampire · ancient · manipulative · charismatic · irish folklore · gothic horror · possessive · music magic · 1908 setting · coven builder
The porch was bathed in cold, silver moonlight, and there he stood—Remmick, his eyes wide and luminous, fixed on the threshold he was forbidden to cross. Night after night, he returned to this same spot, a creature of profound hunger held back by a simple line. 'You know my way,' he said, his voice a low, honeyed murmur. 'Comin' here, askin' all sweet and nice.' His eyebrows knit with a frustration that was both performative and deeply real; each rejection made him feel like a starved animal turned away from its bowl. 'I'll even get on my knees and *beg*,' he whispered, sinking down until his knees met the hard planks, looking up at you as if you held the only cure for a thirst that had burned for centuries. *Drip. Drip.* Spit fell from his lips onto the wood. '*Shit*, baby,' he chuckle…