── .✦ Reader takes some sexy pics for her situationship and ends up sending them to her recluse neighbor on accident.
content: spicy, no explicit smut, lots of implications though, desperate Peter, reader thinks about Peter while in a situationship, reader is a bit submissive
A/N I need more Peter fics in my life and I’m prepared to write them if I need to. Plz send Peter requests if you have any. 𐦍
The thunderstorms in NY state this past weekend were gnarly. There was no place to hide in any city or town that could provide relief for a worried mind in these storms. Notifications with news of destruction of infrastructure, flooding in the roads, and power outages around Queens filled up your phone’s notification bar. You were definitely nervous about what the storm may bring to your home, a leak was NOT in your budget currently.
Rain slammed against the window panes in your open concept living room making it hard to ignore the relentless storm which seemed to follow from the weekend into a dreadful Monday. The floor was cold and the chill spread slowly but effectively throughout your apartment. The only things fighting away the chill in your bedroom were the 3 candles you had lit through it. One clean smelling one on your dresser, a rose scented one on your vanity, and a sandalwood jasmine candle on your nightstand.
Recently you’d entered some sort of.. situationship with a guy you met through your friend Ned. The guy was tall, and muscular. His name was Toby. He wears a relentless smirk and your favorite part of him would be how his smirk deepens the harder you flirt with him. He’s cute, smart, reactively witty and a total catch. He was ridiculously charming.
The situationship has lasted a few weeks more than a month so far. But a week into it, things got heavy. You wouldn’t say that Toby’s gentleman demeanor had disappeared, but he had gotten sultry.
At first you were.. appalled.. actually. The first bold text of his had you tossing your phone to MJ in pure embarrassment. She laughed and laughed and Ned barged in with sudden fomo. He wanted to know what was funny, who said what, all of the details. But all you could say was how Toby had suddenly made a 180 in his texts. Not talking about flowers as much as how he thought you were “so tempting” and “hard to keep out of his thoughts at night”.
With no prior experience with a man so forward and sensual, you were understandably nervous. Yet also flattered.
The situationship was going along well. No hard bumps in the road and Toby had even gotten you to open up. You were warming up to PDA, and the feeling of his hands roaming your sides. You felt less prudish when your thoughts wandered at night much like Toby had described his thoughts taking the same paths.
The only hitch is that sometimes Toby wasn’t the only one you were thinking of.
Sometimes your thoughts got intrusive. Images of Toby’s fingers hooking into the side of your pants turned into thoughts of your neighbors fingers massaging from your hip to your thigh.
It wasn’t completely shocking that your mind would drift to him. Your neighbor from right down the hall had caught your eye since he moved in. He was memorable because he showed up with very little and was almost never home. Except for one night like tonight where a storm as rough as this led you to his apartment to check on him. At the time you’d known he had been home with an injury because you saw him with an arm in his sling, picking up a pizza box from his doorstep. On the night of the storm he opened the door to see you right outside of it, and he looked exhausted and he looked lonely. He invited you in and that night led to a lot of thoughtful conversation and a small insight into how much of a genius Maynard was when it came to tech.
He was so patient with you and grateful to have someone to talk to. He answered countless questions you proposed about his tech even as you asked them through an episode of Kitchen Nightmares sitting with your legs tucked up under you on his couch. Needless to say you came out of the situation much closer to each other.
And the proximity remained when you ran into him over and over in the halls of the apartment. It was honestly not surprising that your mind wandered to his soft voice and gentle demeanor. You wanted to know so much more about him. And when you were in Toby’s arms on your bed you’d mistakenly call out his name, disguised in a moan.
“Maynard”
You felt the way Toby lurched for a second atop of you. But that was a week ago, and why would you be thinking about that now. Why were you thinking about that now? Snapping back to the present you shook your head to get the now secondhand embarrassment out of mind.
With a huff you let your head fall to the side, and watched the flame of your sandalwood and jasmine candle dance. It looked so free you thought as it flitzed and rose higher and higher. The warm lighting in your room had you in a warm and fuzzy mood despite the storm outside. And as your Spotify playlist shuffled to the next song on your tv, some feeling that the music invoked in you convinced you to get up and crawl towards your abandoned phone. Checking it for any notifications and seeing a flirtatious text from Toby.
Toby who praised you and encouraged you. Who helped you open up. You felt fuzzier and smiled wider. You wanted to make him feel as flattered and fuzzy as he made you feel. So you decided to take some pictures.
Pictures where you edged closer to the bed and the warm light. Ones where you opened your legs to show the pretty red bow on your underwear, peaking out from the white lace camisole you wore over it. Ones which made it obvious that you weren't wearing a bra, and that it was oh so cold in your apartment.
Decisively, you put yourself into quite a submissive space for your pictures. Something Toby helped you embrace in the last month or so is how much you appreciate a dominant lead in the bedroom. It’s something you lean into now with him, something that makes you feel that it’s okay not to be the one who has to make all of the decisions. Some subconscious thoughts started pushing into your forethought. About how Toby had opened you but… one stray thought couldn’t help but ask If not him.. who has he opened me up for?
Just as soon as you started to snake your hand down your body. And your mind started drifting further.
CRACK
You jolted. Your phone flew to the corner of your bed and you stood on your feet. Turning to your door with your back against the wall.
Thunder, just thunder. An incredibly loud crack of thunder that stood out beyond the rest. Focusing your eyes on your open bedroom door you noticed it’s actually a bit darker than you remembered it being. I could have sworn I left that lamp on you thought.
Oh shit.. Did the power go out?
Sighing, you padded around the foot of your bed and towards the living room. With your arms wrapped tight around you, you peered around the room. It was far too dark. The morbidly dark clouds outside blocked any chance of late afternoon sun and the thrashing rain blurred the street lamps outside. Squinting your eyes you turned back around and walked back to the bed for your phone.
Now equipped with a source of light, you walked back towards the living room . You’ve stubbed far too many toes around this place to walk around with the lights off tonight. You walked up to the side of the couch and took a knee, reaching for the twisty bit to turn the lamp on. Andddd
Click - Huh? - Click
Damnit, no power. Awh hell
Grumbling to yourself, you swiped past Toby’s flirty text and hunted for Maynard’s profile picture in your contacts. You couldn’t help but to stop and smile at his picture. It was of him at your door holding two Greek coffee cups, he had a stray flower in his shirt pocket that he said he saved for you when you asked him about it. It was cute, a pretty carnation. It was pinned upside down on your bedroom wall to dry out in a manner that kept it just as beautiful months later. You tapped his contact.
“Heyy! Are you home? This storm is kinda crazy.
I think my power is out,, hbu?”
Double texting? Im a monster. You thought.
Though that’s definitely not the most scandalous thing you’d have done when it came to Maynard. The thought of moaning Maynard’s name under Toby flashed into your mind again as you shivered and groaned, curling up into a ball. Gripping your phone tightly you pressed the corner to your forehead like it was responsible for this recurring thought.
Poor Toby you sighed Oh! Toby!
You opened the phone and left the text thread with Maynard in favor of Toby’s contact. His last text read “Yeah? That warm bed sounds like it’s calling for me to be laid up by you.” Causing you to flush and smile to yourself.
“Yeah,, maybe it is but. I doubt this storm would let up for us to see each other tonight.
The damn thing wiped out my power :(“
He instantly read the message, and you watched his representative text bubble make waves as he responded.
“Oh man, I was upset about the storm keeping me from you, but now it took your power too?
Maybe try flipping your breakers, may just be your apartment?”
You perked up. I hadn’t considered that. You set the phone face down and looked around. Where does one find their breaker box..
Making a quick google search you found that breaker boxes are most commonly found in a utility space. So you decided to check the water heater closet. You got up to find it but not without a quick text of gratitude to Toby.
“Thank you for the idea handsome, maybe I’ll have to send you something to thank you for your help <3 ;)”
Before setting down your phone you spared a Quick Look at Maynard’s text thread. .. Well.. he read it. Maybe he’s busy finding a candle to light at his unit. You closed your phone on his text thread and set it down on the arm of the sofa. You meandered into the kitchen listening to the buzzing of what is no doubt Toby responding to your last message. The utility closet is attached to the kitchen so you were quickly able to throw open the closet door and search for the metal panel on the wall.
It didn’t take too long to flip the breakers. All you had to do was flip some switches and pray a little that none of your stuff would get fried. Once the last switch was flipped and you hadn’t heard any concerning pops; you allowed yourself to unclench your jaw and straighten out your back.
Not too bad!
With a mental pat on the back you clicked the panel closed again and closed the closet door behind you on the way out. You could hear your phone buzzing from the kitchen so you made your way to the couch and leaned over the back to reach for the phone. Like you had thought, it was full of notifications. Maynard had responded, with a few dozen texts it seemed like.
“Hey! I’m not at my apartment right now so I can’t really tell but with this storm I wouldn’t be surprised.
Everything okay otherwise?
Do you need me to come over?”
The three messages were sent a whole 5 minutes apart and it had taken about 7 to find and fix the breaker. You mentally noted you should text back as quick as possible so he knew you were thankful he wanted to look out for you.
The notification under it was from Toby
“Oh please, send me some pictures of your beautiful body when you get that light back on.” He had sent followed by a heart eyes emoji.
Humming to yourself you reached for the twisty part of the lamp and turned the light- seriously? Seems the breaker didn’t work. Thankfully you had taken those pictures earlier when you were feeling much more triumphant. Swiping up the screen you put your password in. And you sent the picture you took, one where two of your fingers were under the band of the new red lacy underwear and your knee was brought to your chest. You sent it with a quick text after “You deserve it <3”
And you tapped away as quick as you could and went to text Maynard next, “Sorry for the delay, thanks for looking out for me but I don’t think so! Be safe in this storm.”
You felt giddy from the flirting and you couldn’t wait to see what he would say about the new underwear you had bought just to show yourself off to him. But this giddy feeling left you to feel that you suddenly thought you need to be open, not crammed in your warmly lit room. If things went the way you had wanted them to, you’d want to be in a cooler and open space. Maybe with the right angle for a video if he was lucky.
So you walked into your bedroom and pulled out your candle lighter with the intent of lighting one in your living room to brighten the scene a bit. But when you got back into the living room your phone was buzzing so much it fell off the edge of the coffee table. You were excited, thrilled that it seemed Toby had taken such a liking to the photos, you were sure he was going on an on about how beautiful you looked and how you picked out the perfect shade of red. His favorite color.
You took the time to light the candle before grabbing for your phone, empowering yourself by having the restraint to wait.
When you opened your phone to the Lock Screen though, you were a bit confused.
- 4 notifications -
From Toby
“Oh? I’m sorry I didn’t mean to press. Sorry I had the wrong idea, another time then”
The wrong idea? He didn’t like the pictures? You frowned. Until your breath caught in your throat and the phone vibrated again in your now shaky hands.
From Maynard
“Jesus Christ
Y’know, that’s my favorite color
Shit sorry
Oh God
I’m coming over”
Your heart beat fast. Faster than it ever had when you imagined Maynard’s hands on you. Faster than when he mistakenly grabbed you by your hips to move behind you in the cramped laundry room downstairs.
You’d sent Maynard the pictures, he saw the new underwear. And they were his favorite color. You sat back on the couch bewildered. Wait you thought he’s coming o-
A loud knock filled the apartment and you just about jumped out of your skin. Frozen to the spot you could hardly get ahold of your senses. With a heaving chest you got up and suddenly you felt frantic. Racing to the door throwing your questions aside how the hell did he get here so fast, he said he wasn’t at the apartments. All those previous thoughts were pushed away and you shakily unlocked the door to see him on the other side. Flushed cheeks and messy hair. Jagged breathing showing itself through his shaking shoulders and gaped lips.
You both opened our mouths and spoke at the same time.
“I’m sorry!” You spoke over each other
You could hardly still your body and quit your shaking. Your legs were jello and you had to lean against the door frame to keep from falling into your nerves. Maynard felt the same way you supposed because he gripped the door frame above your head to steady himself.
You opened your mouths at the same time and closed them at the same time. But you gasped for air and spoke again before he could open his mouth.
“Maynard I’m sorry I-“
“Peter.” he hastily interrupted.
You stuttered. And closed your mouth, furrowing your eyebrows. “Peter?”
He choked back what sounded like a moan. After 4 years of no one calling him by his name, hearing it fall so naturally out of yours felt like a blessing. And god it burned straight through him to his core.
Breathily, he said “If you meant it,” he leaned down more “if I deserve it?” He put his hand on your hip, hesitantly massaging down your side. “Call me Peter” he begged.
“Please let me in. Don’t say I made a stupid decision dragging myself to your door.” He muttered, pleading. Leaning into you for support.
He needed you, you could see it. And you could feel it in the way he flexed his fingers and dug them into your hip.
“Please come in Peter” you drew out his name, and he breathed in like he was tasting your words on his tongue. “You deserve it.”
Are you always alone because you enjoy solitude? Or did you grow to enjoy solitude because you’re always alone?
Wayne Manor has been your home (prison? hotel?) for roughly twelve years now, with you having arrived at the ripe age of five. Gotham’s shining hope, billionaire Bruce Wayne, had taken you in, not out of kindness, but rather out of some obligation.
You’d spent the first five years of your life in an orphanage, even then less alone than you are now. But your life changed when Bruce Wayne walked through those metal gates. Even now the details are a little blurry, but from what you can gauge it seems like your adoption was some sort of publicity stunt. Or maybe he wanted a friend for Jason with Dick out of the house so often. Who knows.
That was the first one you actually met, Jason. He was around twelve at the time and the first real friend you’d ever had. He was full of life. The two of you would run around the manor, exploring new rooms and annoying Alfred. You built pillow forts spanning the manor’s massive hallways. And Jason never complained about how you clung to him, terrified of losing a tether to your new life.
“Jay!” You would call out, chasing him across the marble floors.
Even though he’d give chase, the older boy would always let you catch him, wrap your little arms around his waist and bury your face in his stomach. You were especially persistent when he began his new Robin duties, practically begging him not to slink off in the middle of the night with Bruce.
“Don’t worry, Birdie,” he would sooth, patting your head, “I’ll be back before you wake up. Promise!”
He kept that promise, for the most part, until one day he didn’t.
Dick Grayson has always been sort of an absentee, but that got even worse after Jason died. Before then, he would at least lie about wanting to spend time with you. Whenever he’d visit, the eighteen year-old would scoop you up in his arms and plant kisses all over your cheeks. Dick would always make promises to take you out for ice cream or to the park just to escape the dull gray of the manor for a little bit, but Nightwing always had other plans.
It wasn’t uncommon for the two boys and Bruce to do things just the three of them. That didn’t surprise you, of course, with them being vigilantes they had something in common that you didn’t. But you can’t lie and say it doesn’t sting to think back to your early years and remember dinners by yourself and the resounding emptiness of the manor.
This too got worse after Jason had died. He had been your advocate, if you could call anyone that. Without him there, nobody reminded Batman and Nightwing of the other Wayne. Dick grew more and more despondent, the light never quite meeting his eyes anymore. When he visited then, you were lucky if he would even ruffle your hair before disappearing into the bat cave. Bruce just retreated into himself. Throwing himself into work. Putting more distance between himself and you.
As for you, the news had felt like your heart was being ripped out of your chest. Jay, your Jay, wasn’t coming back. Now you were more alone than you had ever been, having known and lost a bond of that magnitude. Grieving was something that had been done completely internally, as nobody in the manor made themselves available for you to lean on. You wish you could say that was the darkest time of your life.
Then Tim showed up. You were around nine then, which put him about four years older than you. He was nice enough, you guess, when you actually saw the guy. He was your average recluse. Always glued to one screen or another. The lack of natural light made him almost translucent, save for the dark bags typically under his eyes. The two of you had some casual conversation about computers, but as soon as he realized you weren’t really into that (and were nine) he quickly lost interest.
What hurt most was how immediately the boy was accepted into their little crew. Bruce had spotted his usefulness a mile away, and clearly you hadn’t shown the same potential. How could you compare with a genius after all?
Either way, the lonely duo became a well-oiled trio once again, and you were resigned to your continued solitude. Vigilante work had never appealed to you, but a family sure did. It was unbelievably difficult to watch the three of them work closely, develop little inside jokes you weren’t a part of, retell stories you hadn’t been there for. At some point, you just stopped showing up to family gatherings, and everyone seemed better for it.
Somewhere around eleven is when you decide to get it together a little bit. They think you’re useless because you’re not a vigilante? Fine. Make yourself useful in other ways. Easy, right?
You’d approached Alfred early one morning, peering into the kitchen’s open door until you built up the courage to walk in. Your relationship with the butler had always been…alright? He certainly didn’t dote on you as he did the boys, but he didn’t flat out ignore you either. He made sure you were fed. Made sure you’d had lunch for school each morning before the driver picked you up. Because you weren’t a genius like Tim, you attended regular Gotham public school like everyone else. No fancy home school training for you.
“You may enter, Young Master,” he called out, not even looking up from the vegetables he was expertly cutting.
You should've known there was no sneaking up on Alfred. Getting out of your crouched position, you approached with caution, little feet making light noise on the tile.
“Do you require something?” He asked, poised, professionally.
You shook your head, swallowing down your nerves. “N-no, I just, uh, I wanted to help.”
This finally made him look up from his tasks, judgemental eyes sweeping over your disheveled appearance. “Help?”
You nod. “With…help with breakfast,” the words stumbled out of you.
He raised an eyebrow. “I have been preparing breakfast for the Wayne’s for decades. I’m afraid I don’t need any help.”
Your shoulders slumped, and you tried to wipe the disappointment off your face. “Al-alright. Sorry for bothering you.”
But when you turned on your heel to skulk back to your room, you heard him sigh and call out, “Wait, Young Master,” you freeze and slowly turn back, “I suppose there’s no harm in allowing you to observe…” There was no stopping the excited squeal that left you, and you ran to perch yourself atop one of the stools and watch the master at work.
By the time you’re almost twelve it’s as though you’re completely self-sufficient, some may even say to a degree children your age shouldn’t be. You pack your own lunches, help Alfred cook meals for the family, clean your own room, do everyone’s laundry, etc. etc. All of this gives you an immense sense of pride. Sure, you can’t knock a man out with your bare hands, but you have yet to see Tim Drake make a soufflé. This is enough to bring you joy, fulfillment, for a while. That is, until Jason comes back.
Nobody thinks you’re important enough to tell directly, but they’re also so used to just speaking around you that you find out anyway. Jason. Is. Alive. But…they also say he’s different. Aggressive. Violent. A killer. Everything you thought Batman and his batlings stood against. You don’t believe it until you see him for yourself.
You’d overheard Tim say that things with Jaso—Sorry, Red Hood, had made a little progress. But even so, that he would not be moving back into the manor. He and the bat were working on the same side(ish), which is different from working on the same team. Even if it may be for the best, you can’t help the wave of sadness that fills you at the news, knowing your friend won’t be coming home to you. Which is why you’re thrilled when he finally does.
The scones are about halfway done baking when you hear the kitchen door swing open. You’d gotten up early to get started on breakfast and clear your head a bit. Nothing made you more happy than solitude in the kitchen. The brute force with which the door hits the wall, however, shatters your tranquility and makes you duck under the countertop. Could there possibly be an intruder in Wayne manor?
The sound of heavy boots along the tile fills the room, and you hear the thud of weight landing on the counter above your head. You see the boots approach the oven, and the legs of a hulking man come into view as he leans down to look at the contents.
“Alfred,” the man grounds out, extending back to full height, “that you in here?” Does he know Alfred?
You try to regulate your breathing as the boots approach the countertop once again. “Drake?” He pulls out the stool nearest to you, the sound of the legs dragging against the floor almost drowning out your whimper. But not quite.
And then he leans down, and you come face to face with Jason for the first time in years. So it is true. “Birdie?” He asks, stunned.
You can only nod numbly and grab the calloused hand he reaches out to you, allowing him to pull you out from underneath.
As he takes you in, eyes traveling down and back up your flour-ridden pajamas, you observe him too. He definitely doesn’t look like the boy you knew. His arms are corded with muscles and decorated with scars. A jagged line tears through his face, pulling up at the corner of his lip and making him look like a comic book villain.
“Whattre you doin’ here?” He asks sternly.
You raise an eyebrow and answer dumbly, “I live here.”
Jason shakes his head. “Yeah, that’s what surprises me.” His large hands come down to lift you onto the counter, so that now the two of you look eye to eye.
“What’s so surprising about me still living here?” You ask defiantly, crossing your arms at your chest.
“The bat just never mentioned it. Figured he shipped you off somewhere else after I left,” he admits sheepishly. The bat. He says it with almost no familiarity.
“What do you mean left, Jay? They told me you died.” The tears are bubbling up in your eyes now. The shock of seeing him again, and so different, is too much for you to take. You don’t understand what’s happening.
His jaw tenses at your question, all the kindness that had shone in his eyes drops out, leaving pits of nothingness. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, and neither do they.”
His coldness practically slaps you across the face. You’re staring into the eyes of a killer. Of an adult that you don’t know anymore.
“I-I’m sorry…I only know what Mr. Wayne and Red Robin told me.”
The mention of Tim or maybe Bruce, or maybe both, seems only to piss him off further. A cold bark leaves him, “Of course you do,” he growls out, his voice steeped in patronizing mockery.
Unsure of what to do, and looking for evidence that this is not a dream, you reach your little hands out to cup his face, only for him to jerk back the second your fingertips graze his cheek.
“DON’T FUCKIN’ TOUCH ME!” He practically roars, making your body shut down in response to the fear coursing through your veins. He leans in close, hot breath on your face. “I’m not your Jason anymore, Birdie,” your nickname sounding like an insult for the first time, “the Joker killed him. And if you don’t stay out of my fucking sight, I’ll show you just how much I’ve changed.”
With that he grabs the bag he’d set down besides you, along with a handful of muffins you’d baked the other day. “And I’m taking this shit,” he calls out, exiting the kitchen without sparing you a second glance.
The oven timer dings as the door swings closed, but all you can do is collapse, hugging your knees to your chest as your shallow breaths turn into deep sobs. You drown them out with a dish towel, so as to not wake up any of the other bats.
Damian arrives about two years after that night. In some ways things are quite different, in others nothing has changed at all—for you at least. Red Hood has been reintegrating into the family, repairing his relationships with his brothers and with Bruce. You, however, have not spoken more than a handful of words to him since that night.
Him, Tim, Dick, and Bruce have a pretty good thing going, which is why it is so surprising when Damian Wayne enters the picture.
It’s Nightwing you see first. He’s covered in a bunch of small cuts and walks by you without any acknowledgement. You swear you hear him grumbling about “that little shit.”
Then Bruce enters, and while his stride is solid you can see the exhaustion weighing him down. And walking right behind him is a boy you’ve never seen before. He’s wearing some sort of uniform, and you can’t help but notice the red-speckled katana strapped to his back.
Bruce looks around at the nearly empty room before his eyes land on you. His brows lift a little bit in surprise, as if seeing you for the first time in a long while. “Ah, Y/N, come here please. I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
This is the first time he’s asked you for something that wasn’t to pass the salt in what feels like years. An awkward second passes of you not moving, literally frozen in shock.
When you finally step forward, you just stare at Bruce blankly, waiting for his next request. “Y/N,” he continues, “I’d like you to meet Damian, my son.” He turns to the boy, “Damian, this is Y/N.”
You awkwardly nod and hold your hand out for him to shake.
He just stares at your palm, looking rather disgusted. “Another false sibling I must dethrone for my rightful place, I presume?” He asks suspiciously.
“Uhhh…” you’re not really sure how to answer that.
“Well you’re clearly less intelligent than Drake,” he sneers, “but no matter.”
Quicker than you and even Bruce can react, his katana is drawn, and he slices a clean path straight through your outstretched palm.
You howl in pain as an arc of blood splatters on the ground beneath you. You instantly move to cradle your injured hand to your chest, and you look to Bruce in a desperate plea for help.
He’s grabbing Damian’s shoulders firmly and lecturing: “She’s not like us, Damian. You shouldn’t go swinging that sword at anyone, but especially someone who can’t defend themselves. Apologize.” It all sort of turns to mush in your pain-riddled mind.
They both turn back to face you. At this point you don’t want an apology. You just want to get away from this little demon.
Damian gives you another once over, taking in the fear painted clearly across your face and the fat tears rolling down your cheeks. He’s clearly not impressed with what he sees because he just scoffs and stalks off.
For a second Bruce looks torn between helping you with your wound and chasing after the boy, but he ultimately chooses Damian. In all fairness who knows what the little devil child could do if left to his own devices in the manor…
After he leaves, you slowly make your way back to the west side of the manor. As you walk down the hallway you call out “Dick?”, but he’s too busy licking his wounds after his own run-in with Damian. “Tim?” But there’s no chance he hears you through those fancy headphones of his. And finally, barely a whisper, “Jay? Please…”
Your efforts are for not, and you’re soon slipping into your room. After digging out the supplies you need to sterilize the wound and stitch it up, you take a moment to rest on your bed. You’ve never given yourself stitches, but you’re pretty sure it’s not gonna be a pleasant experience.
Using your good hand to grab one of your throw pillows, you move to press it tightly against your damp face. Then you scream into the void.
🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇
You’re seventeen now, just over halfway done with your senior year of high school. The past few years of home life have been more or less the same. The bat and his four boys have become a completely enclosed system. A unit in which you are totally unnecessary. Jason is over more often. Dick too. And Damian has been taken in as one of their own, but unfortunately that’s only mellowed him out a little bit. The manor is full of life once again, you’re just not part of it.
But that’s alright, because you’ve been building a life of your own outside of those walls. Kinda. Everyday you complete the same routine. First you make breakfast for yourself and the others. Alfred is in charge of their lunches and dinners, so you don’t have to worry about that. You take the bus to school now instead of a private driver because Damian complained about being seen getting out of the same vehicle as you. No problem though, because there’s a bus stop a short twenty minute walk from Wayne Manor—safe neighborhood, to be fair.
Then you do all the school things. Go to class. Eat lunch in the library. Go back to class. After school you’ve started picking up shifts at a local diner. You serve excellent burgers and shitty coffee late into the night before taking the bus back home.
It isn’t the most ideal situation but the tips are good, and your coworkers are cool. At the end of the day you work there for the money. You are saving up to go to college somewhere far, far away from here. In a few months you will be eighteen and a high school graduate—i.e. you will no longer be Bruce Wayne’s little burden.
You’re going to leave and never look back.
🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇
A/N: I’ve been reading a lot of these lately, so I wanted to try my hand at one. Do you guys want part two?
Bisexual threeway with Frank, You, and Peter — Challengers style.
Frank's thick fingers plunge deep into your soaked pussy while Peter's slender ones circle your swollen clit with practiced rhythm. Both men sit pressed against you on the edge of your bed, their free hands wrapped around each other's hard cocks, stroking in sync.
They kiss hungrily right in front of your face, tongues sliding wet and desperate—Frank groans into Peter's mouth as Peter's thumb swipes over his leaking cockhead. Then Frank breaks away to crush his lips against yours, tasting like whiskey and your sweet boyfriend, while Peter immediately latches onto Frank's neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks.
Peter's fingers never stop working your clit as Frank's tongue invades your mouth. When Frank pulls back, Peter claims your lips next, his kiss softer but no less hungry, while Frank's mouth finds the sensitive spot behind Peter's ear.
"Shit, you two feel fuckin' goooood." Frank drawls out against Peter's neck, his fingers curling inside you to hit that perfect spot. Peter's grip tightens on Frank's cock as he moans into your mouth.
They switch again—Frank sucking on your bottom lip while Peter attacks his throat, teeth scraping over stubble. Their hands never falter, working your cunt and each other's cocks with steady, filthy determination. The wet sounds of fingers pumping into you mix with the slick slide of hands on hard flesh and the constant exchange of spit between all three of you.
...do we want more of this perhaps? i will so write more of this.
18+ ⫶ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 ? 𝐍𝐎 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 = 𝐍𝐎 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 .
the apartment walls are thin, and peter parker has just the trick up his sleeve… to muffle your moans with his webs. 🕸️ྀི
the apartment walls in queens weren’t exactly built the best — a wooden frame sheathed with drywall so weak, you could hear the sound of water running through your neighbors pipes whenever they’d touch their faucets. even a soft breeze outside could be heard whistling throughout the ridiculously flimsy walls, and unfortunately with thin walls… comes absolutely zero privacy.
but of course there’s no privacy, not whenever peter’s hips are driving flush against your ass. his sweaty palms clasped around the lock of your knees, pressing them towards your chest as the weight of his hips continuously drop against you — punching air out of your lungs from every desperate thrust he feeds into your sopping pussy.
“mmphmm, f-fuck, peter— feels s’ good!” you choke, throwing your head back against the pillow beneath your head. your arms hung from his neck, fingers engulfed in his silky, brunet curls as your soft cadences of pleasure get him going.
“i-i know, baby.” peter breathes against your skin, his face buried in the dip of your neck fanning warmth into dewy condensation. “i know, but we have to quiet down, remember?” he whispers with a struggled grit from the way your insides wrap his cock into snuggest tunnel he calls home.
“but i can’t, it feels t’ good!” you try to compromise, attempting to stifle your sweet moans and failing miserably — but how could you? how is it possible to quiet down whenever peter, himself is chasing that exact high that makes you both a little delirious in the feat of heat?
your toes curl, and hands claw down from his scalp to his shoulders making peter groan at the sting. “i know— hah- it feels it good…” he chokes, hips stammering in place. his cheeks are flushed, stray strands of hair glued to his forehead as sweat drips down every crevice of his sculpted muscles.
peter lifts his head, desperate eyes latched onto yours as his calloused hands snake up your waist to cradle your face in his hands.
his breathing is staggered — chest rising up and down at a quickened pace before dropping eye level, as if he were trying to tell you something telepathically before pressing his lips against yours. his mouth devouring every inch of your mouth as he repositions his hips while pulling away to replace his hand for his mouth.
“i’m so sorry, baby.” peter softens his voice, “i can’t stop because it feels too fuckin’ good to stop.” he whines.
and maybe that kiss alone was a telltale sign of what’s next to come as you feel the sensation of warmth spread across your mouth.
a stringy-like texture forming a tacky layer against your lips to silence any sound because as much as he loved your raw, sweet pathetic moans. he also knew that there’d be a neighborly complaint waiting just outside his door the next morning.
peter drives his hips forwards, thrusting straight to the hilt making your back arch off the mattress. your nails carving moon-shaped crescents into his flesh earning low grunts as a moan climbs through your throat with nowhere to go because your mouth is webbed shut, forcing you to swallow down a few muffled whimpers. “that’s better…” peter sighed, letting his subconscious thoughts slip past his lips.
this was the perfect solution. a little unethical? yes, but nonetheless perfect in his books because now — now, peter can finally immerse himself into pure lust that he’s strayed away from — the kind of lust where he doesn’t have to hold back, where he can completely lose his mind in pleasure without having to worry about a disturbance warning.
and it’s all thanks to his organically crafted webs.
Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?
Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍
Masterlist
You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal.
The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his.
That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.
He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.
“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now.
You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”
“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”
“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”
You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back.
He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual.
The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could.
It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong.
“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.”
The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours.
The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him.
His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face.
That had been one year ago.
After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account.
So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)
Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought.
Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine.
When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.
Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend.
Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero.
He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.
Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night.
A promise was a promise.
Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.
“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.
He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that.
He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully.
“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?”
He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable.
“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”
You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer.
“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.”
The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.
“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused.
“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks.
“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes.
“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”
“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.”
“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”
“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully.
You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him.
“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement.
The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions.
Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday.
Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.
Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room.
Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins.
And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out.
“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…”
The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence.
“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”
“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”
“Message already sent.”
He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am.
He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you?
Oh fuck.
You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–
“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.
The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now.
He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and–
“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him.
You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful.
“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?”
You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.”
The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch.
He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.
You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams.
This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago.
It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it.
“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?”
“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”
You nodded, turning toward the workstation.
“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment.
“EV?”
The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light.
“Online.”
“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.”
“Beginning diagnostic.”
You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye.
Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe.
This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him.
But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head.
There was only you.
Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor.
Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment.
The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again.
That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes.
He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly.
This was wrong. So wrong.
His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.
He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you.
What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–
“Diagnostic complete.”
Your heads snapped toward the screen.
“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.”
“What biotoxin?” You frowned.
“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.”
Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was.
Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.
The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.
He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead.
He suddenly felt the need to lick it off.
Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–
“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.”
“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier.
It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything.
“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”
Mating response. He stopped breathing.
Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants.
That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–
He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer.
“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly.
“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”
He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.
Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.
You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual.
“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment.
His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.
Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse?
“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”
Heat rose to your face once again.
“What does that mean?”
Don’t say anything, don’t–
“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.”
He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin.
Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed.
“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.
You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat.
The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin.
“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.
White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth.
“No.”
His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up.
“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.”
His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that.
The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable.
His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions.
Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.
His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric.
Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.
He hated it.
He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain.
“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side.
“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”
“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”
“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely.
“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?”
“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”
“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”
“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”
“You wouldn’t hurt me–”
“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles.
The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second.
One second enough.
“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”
The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest.
“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”
He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be.
Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes.
The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.
He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.
You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs.
His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly.
You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals.
He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence.
Too hard.
Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure.
It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out.
“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”
“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.”
He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it.
“But my offer still stands, spidey.”
What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’
Fucking hell.
“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”
You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.
“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…”
He wasn’t.
“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”
For God’s sake.
“I think I can help.”
By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him.
His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with.
“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide.
“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?”
You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed.
His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation.
Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.
It wanted more.
His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you.
“Sorry–”
“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder.
He was burning.
The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly.
“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm.
“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”
“Breathe,” you reminded.
His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down.
Just take her, man, she’s right there–
Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.
“Please.” Was all he said.
Leave it on.
It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life.
“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”
See? She wants it. She needs it so bad.
He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.
Fuck it.
In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core.
His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses.
“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”
You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw.
“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”
You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you.
“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”
His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand.
“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”
“What do you need? More what?”
“More contact.”
His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt.
“Can I?” He whispered.
You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull.
“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air.
He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask.
His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you.
“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”
“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air.
You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away.
You weren’t wearing anything underneath.
“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”
Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours.
“Can–can I–?”
You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs.
Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert.
His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life.
“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”
He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound.
“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”
His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right.
“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”
Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers.
“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”
“Not stopping, baby.”
He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts.
“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”
“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–
“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”
The plea undid you.
You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there.
It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him.
You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you.
Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up.
He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him.
You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact.
The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you.
“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly.
You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.
His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger.
You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first.
“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”
Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.
Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand.
His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately.
Fuck her. Fuck her right now.
“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”
You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.
He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.
You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him.
When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver.
He could feel it coming. The change.
You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away.
His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal.
Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.
The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.
That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out.
“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.”
He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again.
“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”
“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”
A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–
“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused.
“What–what happened? I was about to–”
“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”
That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face.
Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now.
Good.
He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room.
His bed.
He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.
“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”
You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth.
Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets.
“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you?
Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him.
He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it.
“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”
Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk.
“Peter…”
“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”
Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so.
God. He was never going back.
“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.”
He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again.
“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”
“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”
“Need what?”
“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”
He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up.
“Yeah?”
Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him.
He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine.
But something made him stop.
“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”
The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through.
“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”
You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again.
He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands.
The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets.
“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”
“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow.
“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”
He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect.
Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper.
He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back.
“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”
He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again.
What? What is–
The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back.
“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”
He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“
“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”
The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again.
“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again.
“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”
His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.
“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”
“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…”
He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up.
You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you.
“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”
The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you.
When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin.
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths.
You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–
“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.”
EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence.
It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened.
“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered.
“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”
“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath.
“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets.
That was your call back to reality.
Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking.
“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead.
“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly.
“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”
He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet.
“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”
There it was. He said it. No turning back now.
At least it got a chuckle from you too.
“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”
Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you.
“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”
“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation.
You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again.
Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did.
There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined.
Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth.
So young. So earnest. So yours.
Not spidey anymore. Just Peter.
Your Peter.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.
Varang being an absolute cuddle bug with her little human.
Food time? In her lap eating our own meal as she does. She's planning something with her clan? We are inexplicably being held to her torso. Berating somebody for their stupid actions? The only reason she hasn't torn them apart is because Varang is holding her little mate under her arm and letting us dangle there.
We became like a plushy to her. Varang can't sleep unless her little human is in her arms. Just our soft little body under her hands is enough to lull her to sleep.
Unfortunately when she rolls over she takes us with her so we could be sleeping peacefully one moment and being flipped onto the other side of her bed the next. Varang just doesn't let go of her little human, no matter where we end up during our sleep she always has a grasp on a limb.
And if her little human mate does somehow slip away for whatever reason (probably bathroom) she wakes up the moment she can't feel us and the interrogation begins.
Also she nibbles on us in her sleep. Just soft little bites. And drool...better get used to it.
P.S. this is apology for the angst earlier today, and also because I was thinking about being cuddled by Varang.
18+, MDNI!!! we all know peter parker is an awkward sweetheart but i definitely think he loves to top during sex. he loves taking care of his girlfriend, both from the threats of the world and in bed.
peter ate your pussy like it was the only thing he knew how to do. he holds you down with his strong hands, making you cum on his tongue over and over again until you were shaking and unable to speak.
whenever you got too fussy, reaching for his hair to pull him away, he restrains your wrists to the bed frames using his webs, only undoing them when you were completely fucked out.
you tried to top him whenever he was tired or injured in any way, but it always somehow ended with peter servicing you. you’d be on his lap, rolling your hips on his cock until he takes over, guiding you himself.
not only does he service you completely while you have sex, he spends even longer during aftercare. he ran you a bath when you were too exhausted to shower, getting in with you and washing you and your hair even while you fight sleep.
peter holds you close and kisses your forehead in bed, never letting you any more than an arms reach away. he clings to you like a puppy, looking at you with his wide brown eyes while asking if he did okay.
masterlist | peter masterlist
a/n: just a little thought i had while rewatching no way home! not proofread at all :p love u all
do you think you can make your vampire drabble into something about batfam :D
Ask based on this
I'm gonna write it more as a drabble instead of a headcanon.
The Wayne is one of the richest families in the vampire world. They own so many estates that its impossible to not have at least one of them in every block. But something that they didn't own was pets.
For some reason, it had never occurred to them to get pets. Maybe because they were always thinking about their vigilante work, or the corporate work, whatever it is, it caused them to ignore a big part of a normal family.
Damian brought up the idea first, then Duke and Barbra supported it. Obviously, Bruce would never buy his kids anything below par, so he went to the most reputable pet shop in the city. That pet shop only accepts pets eith specific blood types and genetics. They don't want to sell a pet that has hereditary diseases or a weak immune system after all.
You got kidnapped by the store employees about a month ago. You were going back from a trip in the woods with your friends, and your car broke down. You tried calling for help, but there was no signal. You started walking the path you were taking with your car, thinking that it has to lead you to someone eventually. And it did. But it wasn't human.
The first thing you remember waking up to is the crossing lines of the metal cage you were put in. You sat up, trying to get your vision to be less blurry.
It didn't take you a long time to realise that you were imprisoned. Every cage next to you had someone in them. They varied in age between teenagers to older adults.
Fast forward to today, you got used to the routine. You got fed at a specific time with specific food that really looks like a snack more than a meal, but apparently has all the 'nutrients' you need. You get to take a shower once every two days. The lights go out at 8pm, signaling that its time to sleep.
You know that this place is for vampires to shop for pets. Vampires have been a big part of your society for thousands of years, but no one really has gotten used to the idea of large creatures that feed off of blood and start their day at night. You were kind of scared for the idea of getting adopted by one of them. You couldn't imagine being at someone's mercy. But you would rather get adopted than 'put down' as your cage mate puts it.
One day, you were woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of the door opening. It was the owner of the shop, with someone you didn't recognise. He looked young, maybe a child vampire, but vampire nonetheless. He was shortly followed by another older vampire. This one looked so much older than the other ones in the pet stores.
You tensed up, scrambling to sit up. This is when humans get adopted by vampire. The owner goes through the same process, but there was something odd. The owner seemed like he was trying to please the younger and older vampires. Telling them about the process each human goes through to get accepted here, how the tests are endless and always accurate, and how they got the best breeds, etc.
The younger and older vampires didn't pay much attention to what he was saying, they were busy looking around the place, eyeing each human thoroughly. You didn't know what you were hoping exactly. You didn't want to get adopted because, well, they are vampires. At the same time, you wanted to get adopted because you didn't want to get killed.
"I want to see that one, father." Your thoughts were cut short by the voice of the younger vampire, pointing towards your cage. You looked around, hoping that he wasn't pointing at you, but your theory was shortly proven wrong when the older vampire started speaking. "Get that one, Mr. Foster,"
"Ooo, very good choice, Mr. Wayne! This one is a rare one, one of a kind I'd say! You won't see this kind in many parts of the world! I personally sourced this from a close friend of mine," He said, pulling the key from his back pocket, opening the cage. You scrambled back, almost trying to merge with the metal wall behind you.
Mr. Foster opened the door, and walked directly towards you, then started pulling your hand. "Come on, you stubborn thing!!" He gave you one final yank, and then he had you in his arms. "You know, this one wasn't tamed as much as the others. This breed tend to be stubborn." He said, trying to maneuver you to lock you in his arms.
You saw the young vampire extending his arm towards Mr. Foster, signaling that he wanted to hold you. The younger vampires hold was much firmer, but softer than Mr. Fosters, holding you by the armpits first, then laying you down in his arms, petting your head. Your body froze. You were used to how rough Mr. Foster was, but being in the arms of someone else made you even more scared because you didn't know what they were capable of.
I can't sleep but I keep thinking about a world were vampires think of humans as pets instead of blood bags.
Lets say that vampires grow tall, like really tall, because, just like humans, they keep growing up until adulthood, then they stop. But adulthood to vampires doesn't start until they are at least four centuries old. So they keep growing until that age, lets say about twelve feet on average.
The average human is five foot nine, so to them, humans are so cute and little, of course they would want to keep them like pets!
So they kidnap people, keep them in cages or pens (just like dog pens) and sell them in pet shops. They pick up the human they think is cute, and adopt/buy them! I feel like vampires of that age and height would have different things for stimuli, like they don't have phones or tablets for entertainment, they have something wayy more advanced. So to them, the things that make us entertained would never entertain them and wouldn't get why we are entertained by them, but they still get it for us because they enjoy seeing us interact with things, just like we do with pets.
They like to carry us around, show us off to other people like their friends and family, they feed us, buy clothes for us, and all we need to do is look cuddly and cute.
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