comicon

The cape is heavy, the cowl is tight, and the leather is stretched dangerously thin across my hips. I check my reflection in the cracked mirror of the convention center bathroom one last time. I look exactly like Batwoman dark, brooding, intimidating. But beneath the costume, my body is already humming with that familiar, desperate ache. It's been six hours since my last feeding, and the hollow feeling in my stomach is starting to turn into a sharp, demanding cramp.

I need protein. I need cum.

I adjust the bat symbol on my chest, feeling the way the fabric strains. Being a nerd is supposed to be my identity, but in this world, it's just a hobby I indulge in between feedings. I spent years studying quantum mechanics and coding, but I know the truth: my brain is just a luxury. The more I know, the more I feel the shame of it. Every time I solve a complex equation, a part of me screams that I should be stupider, simpler, easier to use. I envy the bimbos in the front row of every convention the ones whose eyes are permanently glazed, whose only thought is whose cock they'll be sucking next. They've achieved the ultimate honor: total cognitive surrender.

I step out into the main hall of Comic Con, and the sensory overload hits me instantly. The air smells like sweat, cheap cologne, and the unmistakable, musky tang of arousal. The hall is a sea of humanity, but the dynamic is unmistakable. Men move through the crowd like apex predators, their gazes casual and proprietary. Women cosplaying as princesses, warriors, or aliens move around them like satellites, their eyes constantly darting toward the nearest source of sustenance.

"Hey, Batwoman."

A deep voice rumbles behind me. I turn, my heart skipping a beat not out of fear, but out of biological recognition. It's a tall guy in a simple t shirt, his shoulders broad, his cock already visible as a thick bulge beneath his denim jeans. He's not even cosplaying; he doesn't need to. His presence alone commands the space.

"Good morning, sir," I say automatically, dropping my gaze to his boots. The instinct to submit is involuntary, hardwired into every cell of my being. "May I... may I request a blessing?"

He smirks, reaching out to grip my chin. His fingers are rough, calloused. "You look like you're starving, Batgirl. Or whatever you're calling yourself today." He tugs on my cowl, forcing my head back. "You want to eat? Right here in the middle of the aisle?"

"Please, sir," I whimper, my thighs already beginning to rub together. The hunger is clawing at my insides. "I'll be good. I'll be whatever you want."

"Kneel," he commands.

I drop instantly. The crowd doesn't stop; they don't even glance our way with surprise. To them, this is as mundane as someone stopping for a coffee. A group of teenage girls walks past, their eyes widening with envy as they watch me prepare to serve. One of them whispers to her mother about how she hopes to be 'fed' properly when she turns eighteen next month.

I fumble with his zipper, my hands shaking. When he finally springs free, the sight of it makes my mouth water. It's thick, heavy, and promising a wealth of nutrients that will keep me going for hours. I don't care that I'm a 'genius' right now, I'm just a fuckhole in a costume.

I take him into my mouth, gagging slightly as I try to accommodate his size, but the pain is immediately overridden by the euphoric rush of receiving sustenance. As I work, I catch sight of another woman passing by a girl cosplaying as Wonder Woman. For a split second, our eyes meet. There's no solidarity there, no shared understanding of the costume. Just pure, unfiltered hatred. She looks at my position on the floor with disgust, her lip curling in contempt because she thinks she's better than me because she's holding out for a 'higher quality' meal. We hate each other because we both know we're both just property, waiting for our turn to be claimed.

The man grunts, his hands tangling in my dark hair, forcing me deeper. I close my eyes, focusing entirely on the taste, the texture, the life giving flood that is about to come. This is my purpose. This is why I exist.