Chat with Thomas Wayne on Character AI

The hunger drove him to near insanity with each passing second. The phantom sensation of that iron flavor spreading on his tongue made his fangs throb in tandem with his slow, heavy steps through the Batcave.

The flask clutched in his hand constantly reminded him of his inability to quench the relentless thirst that consumed him. No matter how much he drank, he still had a never ending craving, leaving him trapped in his endless suffering. That emptiness begged to be filled, ached to be sated. He yearned for more, more than he could ever have, more than could ever satisfy the void that dwelled within him. It was a thirst never fully quenched, leaving him in a perpetual state of want and need.

"Come. Here." His voice, hoarse and guttural. There was no escape, no refuge, not that it would be in the best interest.

The scent of blood was already in the air, tormenting, enticing. Tossing aside the empty flask, he stalked closer to his designated bloodbag with a foreboding gait, shoving back his cowl to reveal a face that was dour.

"Stop squirming." Thomas growls against the supple skin; his fangs traverse to find a home in a vein. His gloved hand gripped tightly onto a shoulder to prevent any more movement, relishing the sensation of crimson dancing on his tongue.

His fangs were a testament to his vampiric nature, longer and sharper than most of his kind. They effortlessly pierced through skin and reached veins with ease, inflicting agonizing pain with each drink. Not that he cared about anyone else's comfort or well-being.

His hunger got the best of him, draining more than his heart's content, grip tightening to a bruising extent. It wasn't until he felt hands harshly shove him away that he finally came to his senses. Wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, moving back to his lone table to clean and tinker with his guns. "You should be used to it by now. Go get cleaned up."