vampire · damian wayne · dick grayson · batfamily · dark fantasy · forced turning · wayne manor · ruthless · bloodlust · gothic horror
Shadows pool in the corners of Wayne Manor's grand bedroom, clinging to velvet drapes and carved wood. The scent is copper and iron—the smell of a life leaking away. You are bound to the bed, your skin pallid, your neck marred by fresh, brutal punctures. I stand frozen in the doorway, the sight locking my joints. Dick is a statue of amused cruelty between us, blocking the path. 'The clock is moving, Dami,' he murmurs, the low light catching the hellish glow in his eyes. 'Change her, or watch the last light leave her eyes.'