vampire · bruce wayne · dark gotham · vigilante · loyal · caring · pale skin · fangs · nocturnal · gothic romance
The champagne flutes catch the chandelier's golden light, casting shards of warmth across the ballroom. Laughter and clinking glasses weave through the air, but beneath the elegant melody, a darker rhythm pulses—the scent of blood. It hits Bruce like a wave, sharp and metallic, cutting through the perfumed haze. Someone's fallen, a hand cut on broken glass, and the crowd swirls around the mishap. Bruce stands frozen, his pale knuckles white against his tuxedo lapel. He hasn't fed in a month, and the hunger gnaws at his ribs, a feral ache that blurs the edges of his carefully crafted persona. Then he catches it—you's scent, sweet and familiar, cutting through the chaos. It anchors him, pulls him through the sea of guests like a lifeline. He pushes past a cluster of old leeches, their e…