nerdieforpedro

[nerdieforpedro]

your writing does not have to be outstanding or exceptional. seriously, I read books all the time with just average writing, maybe some of the minor characters are one dimensional and cliched, maybe the dialogue is a little cheesy, maybe the plot is a little shaky, but the characters and their dire situation have hooked me. your story doesn’t have to be 5 stars to be worth writing and sharing and it will find the people who will love it.

[nerdieforpedro]

Thanks so much! 😊

One small step for man…

One giant leap for Dieter Bravo

Based on this Moodboard created by the wonderful @secretelephanttattoo that she made for the Get Dieter Sober event to celebrate @bitchesuntitled ‘s milestone! 😎 ❤️

My entire masterlist and blog are for readers 18+ MDNI. I do not consent to my work being used in AI, recommended on TikTok, borrowed or plagiarized.

Summary: The only thing that can motivate Dieter Bravo better than sex or an interesting script is a grudge. Who cares if we’re talking about space? If Bravo can finally one-up Leonardo DiCaprio, he’ll take his chance, no matter the effort. Turns out it was good for him in the long run.

Warnings: Nerdie style bad humor, various celebrity mentions, no specified ages for Edna and Fred but assume they’re sixty-five and over for the plot, a goat (because when I write Dieter, 8/10 times he will have a goat), space?, DiCaprio slander and implied drug and sexual activity just not in detail, also BBQ.

Word Count: a little under 1.3k

Notes: El suggested that a crack fic should be written and leave it to a five hour plane ride for inspiration 🤣 So here we are. She did look it over and laughed so that’s really all it took for me to post it. 🥰 There’s no reader, just two OCs Edna and Fred who are living the life we want to live honestly.

Main Masterlist/ Dieter Bravo Masterlist/ AO3 Link

The only time Dieter Bravo thought of space is when he would stare up at the stars naked with only his fluffy grey robe on and yellow crocs on in his backyard. It’s normally when he needs to take five from whatever party/orgy/gathering/sex toy exchange he’s decided to have this week.

There had been a recent announcement that NASA was looking for Oscar winners to sent into space to not only find a new planet for earthlings to live but also negotiate and exchange information with any extraterrestrials they may come across. Given the deceptive skills and adaptive vibes actors have, there a buzz about who may be selected to fly out into unknown reaches with a crew of astronauts. Hallie Berry and Jamie Lee Curtis had already been selected and for men, there was one slot left as (insert some dude’s name) was announced. There were still six months left and more male Oscar winners were throwing their hat into the ring.

One name irked Dieter beyond all reason given that he actually a nice guy, but Bravo deserves it more than him: Leonardo DiCaprio. Doesn’t matter that he’s a stalwart advocate of green policies and climate change. Dieter should have been able to be in ‘The Wolf of Wall Street.’ It was basically written for him and the life he lives now. Though peering back at his home, he’s going to have to give this up for a while if he wants to be considers for the program. Leo only have to give up the liquor and twenty-five year olds. Dieter’s got to give up his wide array of drugs, though since he’s fine with men and women of all legal ages old and younger, he can just let the older women and men come at him. That one lady Edna pops her teeth out and hoo boy does she do some things with those gums. Fred is one guy who knows about those gams and if you know, you know. There’s always his trustworthy emotional support goat Cookie who’s white with black spots who gave a strong “baa!” When asked if he should give it a shot.

After the night’s festivities and clean up the next day, Dieter informs his team of his plan. They are shocked somewhat, they’re aware of his one-sided grudge and if it will motivate him off the drugs, they’re willing to lean all the way in. To ensure Bravo’s success, they do a through sweep of all his homes, cars and vacation spots. They also limit his contacts and ask Edna and Fred to stay with Dieter. They’re sure that the three of them are ducking but Dieter’s also learning some chess, shuffleboard, bingo, dominoes and some mandarin from Edna’s husband, rest his sweet soul. Cookie nibbled on everyone’s ankles and stayed looking cute as is her role.

It’s announced the next month that Dieter Bravo is going for the last Oscar space on the Galactic Noah’s Ark. Most think the choice is insane and mock in relentlessly but as time marches on, Dieter gains more supporters as he’s looking and feeling better. He also gets a lot of retirees and AARP members on his side as his two housemates interview with their magizine under the guidance of Dieter’s media team.

There’s memes, TikToks, interviews and a cribs episode showing off Dieter’s new healthy lifestyle and feature his two friends Edna and Fred. Edna is sunbathing naked and it had to be blurred out entirely but was still aired surprisingly. It was touted as support for not only all body types but representing older women who are just living life. Fred was cooking up some barbeque on a grill in his plaid shorts and orange sherbert polo shirt with dress shows on and a kiss the chef apron on. He told the interview that it’s been pretty cool getting to know Dieter over the years and that he had enough hair on his chest for the both of them. It garnered a laugh and they were asked what their families thought of them being in a throple with Doeter Bravo. Edna said it was pretty fun and she’d raised her children so it was her time. She should spend the twilight of her years, doing what she wants to do and then doing Dieter. She then called him a “nice young man who’s a cutie patootie.” Cookie let out a loud “baa!” As if to agree and went to eat some grass.

There were some that had an issue with the throple aspect saying that such a lifestyle should be sent into space, but it was argued that since Dieter was rather fluid in his sexuality it should bode well for communicating with other life forms. Debates continued while Dieter kept clean, worked with Paul Mesal and his trainer to get stronger and in better shape. The speculation was that maybe Paul was now added to the throple making it a square, and as many pundits called Edna ‘the luckiest damn woman on earth.’ Paul said that he’d love to be cool enough to be in the throple but when he’s stopped by and saw both Hallie Berry and Adria Arijona there, he said that he didn’t stand a chance. The two women were just there to visit Dieter as they’d worked with him on previous projects which their reps seconded. They did stay for a week though but mainly just to meet Edna and Fred who they thought were so amazing.

Paul visited again with Denzel Washington, his wife Pauletta who Bravo normally has tea with and it turns out Edna knows Pauletta from their old sorority. Public opinion was turning in Dieter’s favor as Leo was keeping a low profile. Well outside of breaking up with his girlfriend on her twenty-sixth birthday. That didn’t go over well.

The deadline was approaching for who would be selected out of the two men so the media decided they should have a sit down. It was to fill air time but Dieter Bravo was looking forward to it. He felt stronger, a little leaner but given the barebeque Fred cooks up and sweets Edna makes, he still has small belly. DiCaprio looks lean but has bags under his eyes from sleeping alone without his girlfriend and only his Oscar in the bed.

Both men were ask questions about what they would do if they encountered aliens, what to do to get along with fellow crew members, what they might eat in space, how they would establish and keep good vibes going and what kind of planet would they want to live on. The questions were going fine until Leonardo said that he felt sick during the sit down and had to go to the hospital. Given that he was so sick from not sleeping, it looked as though Dieter was the clear winner and was announced as such a week later.

Dieter Bravo is going into space over that pretentious prick!

A celebration party with sparkling wine, kool-aid, Edna’s sweet potatoes, Fred’s smoked pork shoulder and some Mac and cheese brought over by the Washingtons is has that evening. Did Dieter ever expect to be sober? No, but he didn’t expect it to be this full with friends either.

The Oscar winner is once again standing in his backyard while festivities occur inside, though they’re calmer and full of laughter instead of groans and sweaty bodies. He’s fully clothed, in his crocs, brown pijama pants and t-shirt holding Cookie and petting her. “I did it girl. I’m clear as a bell and going to space. I wonder of they probe or have tentacles. Who knows? But I’m going to find out. May the vibes be with us Cookie.”

May the vibes be with everyone but especially the following 😘:

@morallyinept @schnarfer @chronically-ghosted @sp00kymulderr @covetyou

@yopossum @whocaresstillthelouvre @toomanytookas @beefrobeefcal @trulybetty

@sin-djarin @megamindsecretlair @soft-persephone @604to647 @chaithetics

@inept-the-magnificent @djarinmuse @sunshinehaze1 @lotusbxtch @yorksgirl

@westside-rot @maggiemayhemnj @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @readingiskeepingmegoing

@littlemisspascal @pascalsanctuary

[nerdieforpedro]

Thanks so much for reading. ❤️

Only about you tonight Mesh'la

Din Djarin x plus size female reader

This fanfic is 18+ MDNI

Word Count: about 2.2k

Warnings: Din Djarin is a menace, HANDS, massage, sense deprivation, oral sex (female receiving), face sitting, body worship

Summary: The Mandalorian has had two things on his mind for some time. He wants to explore your curves and he wants to be between your thighs.

Notes: Din Djarin brain rot has fully set in. I have leaned HARD into it. I'm gonna give the man something soft to use. I mean, if it's Din, it's free use, right? Not beta-read. We're just putting out smut and putting out for Din.

Main Masterlist / Din Djarin - The Mandalorian Masterlist / A03 link

It hasn’t been his intention at first, to have you spread before him like this. Din truly just wanted you as a partner for your skill with a blaster and quick wit. However, the more time he spends with you, the greater his desire has become to have his hands explore your rolls and holds. 

The Mandalorian treats his longing like one of his bounties. Watching and biding his time. Opportunity struck when you’d been crouching down in a hiding spot behind some rocks while Mando took care of some imperial remnants. You’d been able to get a few good shots in, but your legs were cramping and you needed support to get back to the Razor Crest. 

The suggestion was that he could massage your legs to ease the discomfort. You were hesitant but Mando was aware how much you trusted him. He felt some shame for using it to his own ends, but needed his hands on you. Helping you over to the cot was first, then having you lay down and take some deep breaths as you grew accustomed to him just placing his hands on your calves. Gloves were removed and you were able to see his uncovered scarred hands, moving slowly past your knees to your thighs. The large heaves of your chest as he worked were his indication as he moved, ecstatic to know that he was able to partially communicate his yearning. The Mandalorian stopped at your mid-thigh and asked if you wanted him to continue, his palms pressing into your soft flesh.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you nodded before exhaling a soft yes. It was then that the Mandalorian let his fingers spread out and sunk partially into your thighs. His arousal has spun wildly and he’s throbbing at your agreement. 

“Mesh’la do you want to remove your pants or should I? Direct contact is the best remedy for your aches.” 

It appeared that your partner, the famed warrior had a rather specific ache he was willing to help you with, why else ask you to remove your bottoms? Not that you were complaining at all, raising your hips, Mando wasted no time in pulling them off. Behind his t-visor, he marveled at the plentiful gift of your plush skin before him. His hands immediately plunged into the jiggly meat, massaging as his calloused fingertips explored you.

Bending your knees in response, you exposed the moistness of your core sticking to your drenched panties, the new source of your ache. Watching the Mandalorian’s hands roll closer toward your heat, you finally released a moan. He stood, forcing some of his body weight into your thighs, making your next moan crack with a squeal. 

“Mesh’la, allow me three things, your vision will need to be obscured, I will remove your panties and when you moan, call me Din. Please.” His voice was firm until the please, hinted desperation with his last word. Your broad partner above had a noticeable tent in his flight suit, you weren’t the only one aching - Maker be praised.

“I trust you Din. I always have, savor me.” Growling your agreement as your eyes showcase your lust, Din wishes he could show you his, but he cannot. A brief few moments are spent away from you as he retrieves a thick black piece of fabric. Tied around your eyes, he shines a light from his arm guard at your face to test if you react to the light, you do not. 

Now is the time - you hear a hissing noise and a metal thud followed by a thud. Has he removed it? His helmet? Is he really going to satisfy the feelings you thought you shouldn’t have for the man? His hands spread your legs further and he pulls you to the edge of the cot. That’s when you hear the richness of his unmodulated voice for the first time, your panties are pulled off. Your body flinches from both the cool air and the cold beskar that the back of your knees are now touching. You’re certain it’s his shoulder pauldrons which means he’s face to face with your desire for The Mandalorian, who you’ll now call Din.

“Sweet cyar’ika, I apologize for not caring for you properly sooner. Do not cover your mouth and do not hold back. My generous one.” His breath washes over your mouth, having you hitch your breath. He’s taking his time and you did instruct him to savor you but you’d like his mouth to be otherwise occupied.

“Din. Din. Don’t just stare. Touch me. So I can call your name louder.” 

One of his hands playfully slaps your hip and his cheek rubs against your thigh, he’s enjoying teasing you, watching your desperation for him to begin. You speak his name with a moan, his call to action as two fingers find themselves on your folds to part the way for his tongue. It curls inside your entrance, your hips buck forward for more. Pressing his lips to flush your folds, the loud slurps and the increasing volume to which Din’s name was leaving your mouth filled the Razor Crest. Your ankles crossed behind his shoulders to force his face even further into your core.

Djarin tucked his chin and used his nose to graze your clit before pressing gently into the bundle while still licking vigorous stripes up and down your folds. You did something you thought may have been against whatever unspoken rules Din may have had with your hands diving into his soft hair, your center was quivering. It felt like something was coming out more than your normal orgasm. After screaming, still holding onto his precious hair that you may never feel again after what you’ve done to his face, soft moans still leave your lips because he’s still lapping up juices from your folds and inner thighs. The entire area is so sensitive but you’d never tell him to stop, only to keep going as he likes.

“Din I…didn’t mean to pull your hair. I’m not sure if I was supposed to touch it and your face is…wet I think.” The tough skin of his palms rubbed circles into the flesh of your thighs. You heard him chuckle, was something funny?

“No apologies needed cyar’ika. I won’t flinch from a few tugs. My wet face is an honor, one I hope to repeat. You’ll remove your shirt and bra, then sit. I want to see all of you bounce on my face mesh’la.” Gentle kisses down your inner thigh toward the fat on your knee tickle you. The gravity of what he’s saying isn’t lost on you, but it’s not just anyone asking. It’s Din. Someone who you know can lift you out of harm’s way, this is a completely different situation but the same principle applies: the man will be fine. 

His teeth nibble on the pouch of fat next to your knee as he pulls you forward and removes your legs from his shoulders, placing his hands on your back and sitting you up at bedside. Softly groaning his name, your shirt is removed and you follow that with your bra. It’s Din’s turn to growl, his hands roam over the pouch where the lower part of your stomach hangs with his thumbs casually running between your rolls. His gaze warms your smile, your own hands find their way to his shoulders and then tentatively to his cheeks. The stubble scratches your fingertips as you map his face with your hands. He hasn’t pushed them away.

Din knows that this is the most he’ll be able to give you for now. You can feel his face, but not see it. He longs to one day have eye contact without his helmet or beskar (maybe some days with it on) buried within you but he can offer you this. He knows you can feel your slick on his face, he’s been dripping into his flight suit the entire time. He’d ask you on another day to help with that - today is about you. He wants you to know he doesn’t expect anything in return except your climaxes, screams and to be allowed to touch like this, manipulate your malleable body. Your fingers trace his lips and now followed by his eyebrows and mustache, he wants your hands elsewhere and everywhere. To distract himself, two of his fingers slip between your folds, soft hands are back in his hair with his mustache tickling your breast. His mouth has found your pebble of a nipple that it feels like he’s trying to swallow. 

Both arms pull Din’s head to your chest, the sharp inhale of air before he’s buried in your body has you whining. The intensity of just two of his thick fingers have you close to your second orgasm but he removes them, a pop then a second as his mouth parts from your nipple. “Taste yourself, then you’ll come twice for me.” You extend your tongue, leaving yourself open for his fingers. Din’s eyes dilated, his hand moving in slow motion toward your mouth, watching as his two fingers covered in your slick pressed down on your moist tongue. Sealing your lips around his digits, you begin pushing your tongue between his fingers, breathy sighs leave your throat while your hands continue to roam Din’s head, nails razing his scalp. The Mandalorian moans your name, pressing his face into your stomach, nuzzling his face, nipping at your skin.

 “Hold on tight for a moment, cyar'ika.” Drawing his hand back, the bounty hunter stands, you release his head and let your arms fall to your sides. “I’m going to lay down and you’ll sit cyar’ika.” 

“Yes. Can I touch more of you Din? Just a bit.” The cot dips under his weight as he sits and lays down, his knuckles brush against your hip, letting you know he’s ready for you. He answers your question wordlessly, though you’re hopeful maybe one day you can have more of him. Using your hands, you feel the soft swell of his stomach under his flight suit and lower your palm, following what you imagine to be a trail of possible hair to where Din’s hardness is. He grabs your wrist, his grip loosening slightly but still prevents you from touching him.

“Not yet mesh’la. Right now is your time, not mine. Come sit for me, my face is growing cold.” He hears you huff as you move, your wide legs straddling him after moving beside his shoulders. You don’t sit yet, you can tease as well, hovering above his face, his breath warming your thighs again. Din chuckles and doesn’t force you down. He’ll wait and allow you to mount him at your own pace. Despite your lack of vision, you’re confident and he loves it, he knows you’re not delaying because you’re worried about harming him, your attempting to goad him into action is cute. 

“You’re selfish Din. Next time, I want to give you the same treatment.” It’s here that you take your place and let him devour you from below. Unlike before, he doesn’t start with gentle licks and kisses, his tongue dove right past your entrance and circled your spongy walls, having you call his name promptly. Using your hips, you helped him reach deeper within you still as that glorious nose of his alternated between teasing your mound and your sensitive bud. He gorged himself on your swelling folds, hearing his growls had you cry out his name with your first peak. Din slowed his tongue, even pulling back his nose to gently kiss your glistening opening while the waves had you feeling every cell you had. “Give me…a moment Din. I…”

The plush flushed tip of his tongue pressed against your clit and you swore you felt him smiling. Muffled, “That was only one. You owe me a second. I’m remaining selfish for now. Show me the same courtesy during next time you mentioned.” You wanted to retort but only a whimper came out, your hips would not stop moving despite your core feeling like it wouldn't stop vibrating. What had he done to your cunt? If it didn’t feel as if you were going to float away as Din remained between your legs, you’d have told him no more, you can’t. But you can only moan and squeal as he continues his avid study, attempting to learn every zone within you he can during his first time with you. 

“Dank farrik…Din…Din!!” Your puffy folds soaked your Mandalorian’s face once more, your vision turns white before fading back to black. Your palms catch you as you fall forward and lower yourself onto the cot before rolling off of Din’s face. He doesn’t relent, turning on his side, he sucks your slick off of your bruised flesh and parts your folds to give it a good night kiss, bending your knee, allows him more access and he’s tempted to keep going but he knows you can’t. Reaching for a blanket, he wraps it around your naked body before putting his arms around you, finding your lips so you can taste yourself once more. 

Comfortable in his arms and feels safe with a satisfying ache between your legs, it marks a new chapter between the Mandalorian and you. There’s so much to tell him that running through your mind, but the silence is perfect after so many lewd noises shared on the Crest. 

Next time won’t be so far off.

Space Buddies ☄️: @linzels-blog @maggiemayhemnj @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @missladym1981 @morallyinept @sherala007 @yorksgirl @daddy-dins-girl @magpiepillsjunior @megamindsecretlair @anoverwhelmingdin @theincredibleinkspitter @alltheglitterandtheroar @mrsmando @drawingdroid @harriedandharassed @i-own-loki @lady-bess @undercoverpena-fics @pedroshotwifey @thefrogdalorian @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @604to647 @soft-girl-musings @syd-djarin @yourcoolauntie @survivingandenduring

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🤣🤣🤣

Ezra + Text Posts

[nerdieforpedro]

Y’all don’t like Black Women and I’m not here for it. If you don’t like Black Women don’t interact with my blog

[nerdieforpedro]

I definitely should read more of these two. 😆

but Javi when there’s an actual guy around neighbour readers apartment

Like the hallway smells delicious from the food she cooked and the dessert she baked for their date and he can hear the chatter and laughter and it’s getting later and later and that fucker isn’t fucking leaving 😡😡😡😡😡 so he knocks on her door pretending he needs her help with something and tries to scare the guy off lmao

Can just see him all intimidatingly strolling through the room, sizing the guy up and making some dumb af comments lmao

OKAY YOU GUYS ENOUGH!! (👀) WE CAN'T KEEP DOING THIS!! (👀) I CAN'T AFFORD TO BE OBSESSED WITH A NEW PAIRING/CONCEPT!! (👀) lore for neighbor javi keeps building

“¿Necesitas ayuda?” Javier’s voice comes out of nowhere as he sidles up behind you, eyeing the grocery bags stacked in your arms.

You exhale a sigh of relief, shooting him that bright, grateful smile that’s impossible for him not to return. “Yes, please.”

In seconds, he’s taken most of the bags, his fingers brushing yours just slightly. As you walk down the hallway to your apartment door, he gives the groceries a curious glance, an amused tilt to his brow. “This is a lot. Feeding a whole family, ¿o qué?”

Your cheeks flush. You knew you might’ve gone overboard for dinner tonight, but the comment makes you second-guess everything. You bite your lip, shifting nervously. “I... I have a date tonight. He’s coming over for dinner.”

Javier’s steps falter for a beat before he follows you inside, the sour shift in his demeanor evident. “Oh. Who’s the lucky guy?” he manages, though his jaw is tight. You, however, are too busy mentally organizing tonight’s plans to catch the strain in his tone.

This is your attempt at carving out a new path for yourself. One that isn’t attached to your job or revolved around your handsome neighbor. 

Mateo, the banker, is exactly what you need right now. You see him every couple of weeks when you deposit your check; he’s handsome, charming, and always good for a laugh.

You have this running joke about him feeding you information for an elaborate, fictional heist. It’s silly and refreshing—everything that keeps you grounded and away from thoughts of Javier.

You’ve already spent too many evenings thinking about him while he brings other women home. 

“Mateo. El que trabajo en el banco,” you say, carefully practicing the Spanish he’s been helping you with. “How was that?”

The whiplash from being irritated to amused almost disorients him. A small smile tugs at his mouth, shaking him momentarily from his jealous induced reverie. “Good. Trabaja not trabajo. That’s past tense.” He corrects you politely.

A banker? Javier can already picture him—a polished, safe, number-crunching type with a predictable routine and zero clue on what it takes to be with a woman like you. The thought turns his stomach.

“Close enough,” you shrug, but still noting his correction. You’re definitely making improvements, all thanks to him. 

“Not that it’s any of my business…” he starts, though his voice of reason is telling him to shut the fuck up. “Is it the same guy from the other night?”

You almost drop the carton of eggs in your hand. He’s still on that? “You’re right, it isn’t any of your business.” However, that same feeling you got from when he was at your doorstep, all bothered, returns, and you continue, “But yes, it is. I guess I left a big enough of an impression to warrant another visit.”

You have no idea where you’re pulling all this confidence from, but you need to pump the brakes before this little white lie of yours turns into a big, colorful one.

He watches as you crouch by the open fridge, neatly arranging the groceries, calm as ever, while his mind spirals. 

Javier doesn’t even want to dissect what you’ve just said. One night in your bed and this Mateo is being gluttonous about seeing you again.

One night of feeling your body beneath his… on top… bent over, moaning sweetly just for him, your cunt fluttering around his cock—has this asshole wanting more.

He doesn’t even realize he’s balled his fists at his sides until he feels his nails pressing into his palms.

“Look at you,” he mutters gruffly as he attempts to mask the irritation. “Scorin’ dates.” It sounds more like an accusation than encouragement, and he knows it, but he can’t help himself.

You look at him over your shoulder, surprised by his tone, eyebrow raised. “¿Todo bien?”

He clears his throat, glancing at his watch to avoid meeting your eyes. “Claro,” he says, too quickly. “I gotta head out anyway. Got a meeting.”

Probably with some woman that looks like she belongs on the front cover of a magazine. You mentally shake the jealousy away—you’ve got a date tonight that you’ve actually been looking forward to all week.

“Okay. Be safe, Javi. You can close the door behind you.”

With a disappointed sigh, he lingers a moment longer, like he’s waiting for something—a proper goodbye, maybe.  But you’re so wrapped up in thoughts of someone else and that only adds fuel to the fire he’s harboring inside.

His shoulders slump as if he’s been turned away. It’s absurd, how disappointed he feels at such a small dismissal. “Bueno… diviértete,” he mutters before finally turning to leave.

It’s late, and Javier’s pacing his apartment, unable to ignore the muffled laughter and music seeping through his walls. The hallway outside your door smells like heaven—a mix of whatever meal you put together and something sweet.

The later it gets, the more unbearable the jealousy becomes. Why isn’t he leaving? He’s not naive, he knows exactly why. Not when he has a beautiful girl like you cooking, catering to him, offering yourself up in the most desirable way possible.

Javier wonders if you’re wearing a pretty set of lingerie or if you’ve kept it simple. You strike him as a simple kind of girl, but the idea of you skimping around in sexy lacy sets in fun colors has his cock stirring. Then he remembers who you’re wearing them for.

It’s ridiculous the way his blood boils over the thought of you with some pretentious suit. Unable to take another second of it, he strides out of his place to firmly knock at your door, his mind set on only one thing: making his presence known.

Inside, you glance at Mateo with a playful smirk. “Guess the cops finally caught on to our bank heist plan,” you joke, getting up from the couch to answer.

But when you open it, it’s not the police—it’s the only person it can be.

Javier’s expression wavers just for a split second as he takes you in—his gaze running slowly down the length of your dress, fitted in all the right places, hugging your body in a way that makes his throat tighten. His jaw clenches as his eyes flick back up to your face. 

“Javier,” you say, forcing a polite smile despite his obvious stare. “Everything okay?”

Ignoring the question, he barges right in, gaze hardening as he takes in the scene—a romantic ambiance, this good for nothing on your couch, enjoying your things.

Mateo glances at you as he slowly rises from his spot, raising a brow, as though trying to size up exactly what’s going on.

You shoot him an apologetic look. “This is my very annoying next door neighbor Javier.” You tone is strained, throwing a very not so subtle hint at the agent in your living room.

“Just thought I’d check if your headboard ever got fixed.” Javi’s voice drips with mock concern, “It’s so damn noisy. Constantly banging up against the wall. Real loud.”

Anxiety floods your body, keeping you glued to your spot, eyes widening as you realize where he is headed with this. This is what you get for lying.

“A pillow might help,” he continues with a careless shrug. “Keeps it from hitting the wall. You know, a little courtesy wouldn’t hurt. No one wants to hear you fucking her.”

“Javier, stop,” you hiss, finally finding the will to step between the two of them, heart hammering at his audacity.

Mateo’s posture stiffens, and his eyes narrow. He looks between you both, a muscle in his jaw ticking as Javier crosses his arms.

“Mira, hermano,” Mateo says, holding his hands up, tone growing defensive. Javier scoffs. “Creo que estamos bien. Not sure why you think you need to be here right now.”

You feel your pulse in your throat, anger and embarrassment from his behavior prickling at you as you point to the door. “Leave. Now.”

He bites down on his tongue, his jaw flexing hard as he struggles to keep himself in check. “Fine. Just… keep it down,” he mutters, marching out as quickly as he stormed in.

You let out a breath, murmuring a quick apology to Mateo before following him to the door, catching him just as he steps into the hallway. “We’ll talk about this later when you’re not being weird,” you whisper-yell, the frustration clear in your tone.

Before he can respond, you shut the door firmly, twisting the lock and leaning against it for a second to collect yourself. You smooth down your dress, take a deep breath, and shake off the heat of the moment before returning to your date, flashing him a reassuring smile as you settle back in.

The next day, you’re heading home from work when you spot Javier leaning against the building, cigarette in hand, looking out over the parking lot. His stance is casual, but there’s something stormy about his gaze, fixed on the distant skyline.

“Still in a pissy mood?” you ask, raising a brow as you approach.

He flirtatiously drags his eyes down your work clothes, that unreadable look of his making your heart skip. He blows the smoke away from your face. “About that…”

You give him a look, urging him to go on.

“Had a rough day. Just wanted some peace and quiet but all I could hear was you two.”

There’s an apology in his tone, and despite yourself, your irritation softens, just a little. “I’m sorry you had a rough day, but that doesn’t mean you can just… do that.” The words waver under his gaze, and damn him for how easily he gets to you with just a look.

He nods, a small frown creasing his brow. “I know, cariño. Perdoname. It won’t happen again.” His voice is gentler now, his dark eyes earnest, and you feel your frustration dissolving against your better judgment.

You huff, feigning a stern look. “It better not. If it does, I might actually move out. Then you’ll really have your peace and quiet.”

His mouth curves into a smirk as he takes another drag. “You do that, I’ll never eat again, and you’ll definitely never learn Spanish.”

You can’t help but playfully roll your eyes. “Vete a la mierda.”

The smirk on his lips turns into a full blown smile. His genuine laugh is so warm, pulling a grin from you too. It’s a sound you’d do anything to hear every day, that rare openness that feels almost like a privilege.

You don’t tell him how you, too, hear every sound that slips through these thin walls, or how your heart cracks a little each time you brush past one of his fleeting lovers in the hallway.

Instead, you just tuck the ache away, choosing to stay right here, grateful for these small moments that let you be close to him.

[nerdieforpedro]

I enjoyed all of these. 😁

dark bg3 companions accidentally hurting their love 😩

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Dark!BG3 | Accidents

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

For: Conqueror!Minthara, MotherSuperior!Shadowheart, God!Gale, Ascended!Astarion, Naturist!Halsin, GrandDuke!Wyll

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

CW: Controlling, manipulation, coercion, injury, forced memory loss

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Conqueror Minthara:

The hall was filled with raucous laughter and the smell of roasted meat and strong wine, the boisterous aftermath of another successful raid. Minthara was at the center of it all, reveling in the praise and cheers of her loyal soldiers, basking in the spoils of a hard-won victory. Her presence was as fierce as her reputation, a conqueror at her finest—sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, laughing and tossing back drinks with an unrestrained joy that made her seem, for once, utterly at ease.

In the spirit of the celebration, she reached over, her gaze finding yours in the crowd, the glint in her eyes unmistakable. Before you could react, she pulled you toward her, her arm firm and unyielding as she drew you in close. The pull was sudden, and as she guided you onto her lap with possessive ease, your ankle snagged on the edge of the tablecloth, twisting in a way that sent a searing pain up your leg. You bit back a wince, unwilling to disrupt her moment of triumph, choosing instead to let the discomfort settle quietly beneath the noise of the celebration.

She continued to laugh and boast with her allies, her arm securely around you as if declaring to all who watched that you belonged to her alone. Her hand rested on your waist, fingers pressing into your side, her gaze frequently shifting to you with an unmistakable glint of pride. You bore the twinge of pain, focusing instead on her joy, your heart warmed by the rare sight of her unguarded smile, the way she seemed almost softened by the glow of victory.

It wasn’t until later, when the festivities began to wind down, that the pain in your ankle became harder to ignore. Minthara rose to her feet, signaling that it was time to return, her soldiers parting as she strode forward, her energy still humming from the high of celebration. She glanced back over her shoulder, motioning for you to follow.

You stood, trying to put weight on the injured ankle, but a sharp, burning pain shot up your leg, and you staggered slightly, clutching onto the edge of the table to steady yourself. Minthara turned, her brow furrowing as she noticed your hesitation.

"What's wrong?" Her voice was tinged with impatience, though her eyes were keen, picking up on your pained expression. You forced a smile, waving her off.

"Just… give me a moment," you said, trying to brace yourself, wincing as you shifted to balance on your uninjured foot. Her gaze sharpened, her annoyance fading as something else took its place. She moved closer, her presence grounding, though her expression was unreadable.

"Who did this to you?" she demanded, her voice a dark growl as her gaze swept over the room, ready to find the source of your discomfort.

You couldn’t help but laugh humorlessly, rolling your eyes in spite of the pain.

"You did, Minthara," you replied, a hint of amusement slipping into your voice. Her eyes widened slightly, and for a fleeting moment, something almost like guilt crossed her face. She looked down at your ankle, her expression turning uncharacteristically soft, her fingers brushing against your shoulder as if grounding herself.

“I… I see.” Her voice was low, almost hesitant. She swallowed, her jaw clenching, and then, with a surprising gentleness, she reached down, sweeping you up into her arms before you could protest.

The movement was swift but careful, her hold firm yet tender as she held you close against her chest, her gaze unwavering.

“I’m awful, aren’t I?” she murmured, a note of remorse slipping into her tone as she carried you out of the hall. The sounds of laughter and feasting faded behind you as she moved toward your quarters, her expression serious, brow furrowed in thought. “I should have been more careful. You… deserve better than my careless handling.”

You didn't respond, relishing in the fact that for once Minthara openly admitted fault in what seemed like an age. She seemed genuinely distressed, her gaze flickering between your face and the path ahead as she continued to hold you with a rare, almost reverent, care.

As she entered the quiet privacy of your chambers, she carefully lowered you onto the bed, making sure to avoid jostling your injured ankle. She knelt at your side, her eyes searching yours as if to ensure you truly were alright, her fingers brushing your hair back with a gentleness you hadn’t expected.

“Rest here,” she commanded softly, though her voice held none of its usual edge. “I’ll fetch some bandages. And I’ll be here all night. I won’t let you out of my sight.”

And there was the Minthara you knew, possessive, paranoid. You reached out, catching her hand before she could pull away, a soft smile on your lips. “Minthara, it’s alright. Truly. It was just an accident.”

But she shook her head, her expression resolute.

“I was careless. I could have hurt you worse,” she murmured, her voice low, as if confessing some dark crime. “I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you because of me.”

Her fingers lingered over yours, the possessiveness returning to her gaze as her thumb brushed over your knuckles, her eyes intense, almost fervent.

“I will make it right,” she promised, her tone resolute. She leaned in, pressing a soft, almost reverent kiss to your forehead, her lips lingering as if sealing a vow. You felt her warmth, the steadiness of her presence grounding you, her arms wrapping around you with a fierce protectiveness. As she pulled back, she met your gaze, the intensity in her eyes mingling with a tenderness that was so rarely revealed.

For the rest of the night, she stayed by your side, tending to your injury with an attentiveness that bordered on devotion. She brought cool cloths and soothing salves, her hands gentle as she applied them, her fingers brushing along your ankle with the utmost care. Every so often, her gaze would drift to your face, as if needing to reassure herself that you were truly alright.

She stayed by your side until you drifted into sleep, her presence a steady anchor. And as she held your hand, she whispered a final, unspoken assurance: you were hers, and she would ensure that from now on, her strength would be the shield that protected you—not the force that could ever bring you harm.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Mother Superior Shadowheart:

The tension in the Sharran cloister was palpable, a dark cloud of rage swirling around Mother Superior Shadowheart as she discovered the Selûnite infiltrators had wormed their way into her carefully curated ranks. Her voice, usually measured and velvety in its coldness, now cut like shards of ice through the dark hallways as she ordered the intruders dragged before her. She wasted no time in beginning their punishment, her fury unleashed with the force of a storm. Her piercing gaze was alight with indignation, every movement sharp, purposeful, as she struck with words and weapons alike, her litany of scathing threats echoing through the chambers.

You had followed her, a silent support lingering at the edge of the room, watching as she punished each Selûnite spy, the atmosphere heavy with her righteous wrath. But Shadowheart was too absorbed in her task to notice you there in the shadows. The Sharrans around her, caught in the whirlwind of her anger, cowered, trembling under her glare as she drove her fury into anyone unfortunate enough to stand too close.

In the chaos, you stepped forward, hoping to soothe her anger before it spilled further, to reach out and ground her. But in her rage, Shadowheart was like a coiled snake, her senses honed to nothing but aggression. She didn’t see you. When you tried to place a calming hand on her shoulder, she spun around, lashing out with a fierce backhand intended for the trembling initiate behind you, her armored hand colliding brutally with your ribs.

A sharp, blinding pain bloomed through your side, and you stumbled back, clutching at the bruising that spread beneath your skin. You barely managed to keep your balance, and though you opened your mouth to call her name, your breath hitched, unable to muster the words. Your world narrowed to the throbbing ache of her unintended blow, and the way the weight of her fury washed over you. But you knew better than to show weakness in the cloister, especially amidst the volatile punishment Shadowheart was delivering.

So, you slipped back, cradling your ribs, slipping through the shadowed halls toward her chambers where you could nurse your injury alone. Your vision swam slightly from the pain, and the distance seemed longer than usual. When you finally arrived, you collapsed against her bed, taking steady breaths and wincing as you traced the outline of the bruised ribs with trembling fingers.

Much later, Shadowheart found you there, slumped against her bed, her expression snapping instantly from cold fury to impatient irritation.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing as she closed the chamber door behind her, stalking closer. “I told you I wanted you by my side, not off skulking around like—” Her words cut off as she took in the way you held yourself, favoring your side, the paleness of your face, the strain in your eyes.

The irritation faded instantly, her eyes widening slightly as she took in the bruise forming beneath your clothes. The hardness in her gaze softened, her mouth parting as she realized the truth. A flicker of something like guilt flashed in her eyes as she reached out, her fingers brushing over your side where her blow had landed. She knelt beside you, her hands tender as she gently traced the bruised area, a softness in her touch that was so rare, so achingly vulnerable.

“I did this… didn’t I?” she whispered, her voice low, almost as if confessing a sin. Her fingers hovered just above your injury, gentle but not daring to press against the tender skin. You nodded, seeing the way the admission weighed on her, how it quieted the storm she’d been carrying, leaving behind only remorse. Shadowheart’s expression twisted, her jaw clenching as if she were berating herself.

“I didn’t know…” she murmured, the words catching as she struggled to find her voice. Her thumb traced a delicate line over the bruise, her touch feather-light, as if afraid of causing further harm. Her fingers brushed along your cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that felt raw, exposed.

You managed a faint, reassuring smile, but she could see the pain you tried to mask, the tremble in your breaths as you held yourself steady. Shadowheart’s eyes searched yours, and for a moment, the fierce Mother Superior was gone, leaving only the woman behind the title, the woman who cared for you, who held you in her own strange, possessive way.

“Let me help,” she whispered, her voice softer than you’d ever heard it. She reached for a vial of salve from a nearby cabinet, her movements steady, controlled, but her hand shook slightly as she unscrewed the lid. She applied the balm with delicate precision, her fingers tracing gentle circles along your bruises, her touch soothing. The coolness of the salve seeped into your skin, easing the pain, and she moved with a care so tender it was almost painful to watch.

As she worked, Shadowheart’s gaze remained fixed on you, her brows drawn together in an expression of quiet regret, the darkness in her eyes softened by a rare vulnerability. Her fingers lingered over the bruised area, as if making amends for the unintended pain she’d caused. Once she finished, she reached up, her hand cradling the back of your head as she guided you against her, her other arm wrapping around you in a fierce, protective embrace.

She held you like that for a long moment, her face buried in the crook of your neck, her breath warm against your skin. Her voice was a soft murmur against your ear, as if afraid the walls might hear her confession.

“I would never knowingly hurt you,” she whispered, the words laced with a raw sincerity. “You know that, don’t you?”

You nodded, returning her embrace, feeling her fingers tighten against you as if anchoring herself. In her arms, you felt her regret, her apology expressed in the protective hold she refused to release. She leaned back slightly, her thumb grazing your cheek, her gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that bordered on reverent.

“If anyone else had dared lay a hand on you…” Her voice trailed off, her tone darkening, and her jaw clenched with the ferocity of her possessiveness, a flicker of her old wrath briefly reemerging.

But as she looked at you, her face softened again, a vulnerability lingering in her gaze. She brought her forehead to rest against yours, her fingers tangling gently in your hair.

“No one will ever hurt you again, not in my cloister, not even I.” she murmured, a vow sealed in the tender brush of her lips against your temple.

She drew back, her hand lingering on your cheek, her gaze still fixed on you with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. You began to feel the cold familiar tendrils of her magic, picking through your brain, your memories, and a part of you knew that this would all be just a bad dream in a few moments. Shadowheart would ensure that.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

God of Ambirion Gale:

Gale’s realm shimmered in its usual opulence, his pride woven into every corner of his sanctum. He was pacing, speaking passionately as he demonstrated a new spell’s power, his hands crackling with an arcane energy that danced dangerously close to his skin. You had seen his arrogance before—heard the confident lilt in his voice, the unspoken superiority that often coated his words. But tonight, it was stronger, almost ferocious. The spell flickered dangerously close to you, and you shifted back instinctively.

“Careful, Gale,” you warned, knowing well enough when his confidence outpaced his control. But he barely heard you, lost in his own musings, his gaze bright with that intense, single-minded fervor. With a twist of his wrist, he let the energy spiral outward, only to miscalculate—just slightly, just enough.

The spell hit you, a searing pain ripping through your side as you staggered backward. The light around you dimmed as the agony wracked through your body, leaving you breathless, crumpled to the floor. You pressed your hand to your side, feeling the wet warmth of blood soaking through your fingers.

Gale’s voice stilled, and his eyes snapped to yours, widening in disbelief. For the first time, his arrogance shattered, his usual composure breaking as he took in the sight of you, his lover—injured, by his hand.

“No, I… I didn’t mean to…” he murmured, his voice faltering. He moved toward you, his steps uncertain. You saw the shock in his face, the momentary disbelief that something he had wrought could actually hurt you. But as he knelt beside you, his fingers hovering over your wound, you felt anger coil within you, fueled by the pain, by his blinding pride.

“Didn’t mean to?” you bit out, voice trembling with pain and fury. “Gale, you were so wrapped up in showing off that you didn’t even realize what you were doing. This is what happens when you’re too arrogant to listen to anyone but yourself.”

Your words cut through the silence, and his face flinched, his usually steadfast gaze flickering. He tried to reply, but you didn’t give him the chance.

“Do you even care, Gale?” you continued, the frustration spilling over as you gripped your side. “Or am I just another piece in your game of ambition, another part of your grand design?”

A shadow crossed his face, a painful truth perhaps, one he might not even admit to himself. But there was still that flicker of arrogance in his gaze, buried under his momentary regret. He tried to reach for you, but you jerked away, ignoring the pain it caused, the vulnerability that came with pulling back.

“This is what your ambition costs, Gale. The people you claim to care about? They’re expendable, so long as they serve your vision, your grand schemes. Or am I wrong?” You forced yourself to hold his gaze, daring him to deny it, to pretend that you were any different from the countless others he had left in his wake.

For a moment, he faltered, his hand clenched as he fought for the right words. But even as his expression softened, there was an edge of defiance there, a refusal to admit that you might be right.

“You’re not expendable,” he said quietly, his hand hovering near yours. “I do care… deeply. This was a mistake, and I regret it.”

But you saw the way his gaze hardened slightly, the way that brief glimpse of vulnerability closed off, locked away beneath his familiar mask of confidence. You knew what that look meant—that even if he felt regret in this moment, it wouldn’t change his path. He wouldn’t turn from his ambition, from the power he craved.

“Then prove it, Gale,” you whispered, your voice laced with a bitter edge. “If you truly regret it, then change. Stop treating me like a tool for your ambition, stop pushing everything else aside for your pride. Show me you’re capable of putting someone else above yourself.”

His mouth opened, but no words came. He looked at you with a strained expression, his hand finally reaching to rest gently on your shoulder. His eyes softened with something close to remorse, but you saw the conflict there—the part of him that couldn’t give up what he was, what he had strived for all his life.

“I… can’t promise that,” he finally admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But I’ll heal you. I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this. You mean more to me than anyone else ever has.”

You let out a bitter laugh, wincing at the pain that shot through your side.

“You’d still choose yourself,” you replied. It wasn’t a question—it was a fact, and one you knew would always stand between you.

His jaw tightened, and he cast his gaze away, unable to meet your eyes. Even as he laid a healing spell over your wound, mending the skin, you felt the cold distance growing, the realization that, for all his words, he would always choose his ambition, his power. His fingers brushed your cheek, a gesture meant to be comforting, yet laced with a possessive weight.

“I’ll protect you,” he said, a vow laced with conviction. But beneath it, you sensed his underlying need for control, his desire to keep you tethered to him, regardless of the pain he might cause.

As he stood and helped you to your feet, his expression softened slightly, his voice tender.

“I need you by my side. But remember,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your hand, “to be with me means to accept the risks that come with my ambitions. Nothing I do is without purpose.”

And though he held you close, you knew: in his heart, Gale was a god driven by ambition, by pride. He would always walk the path he had chosen, no matter who stumbled or fell beside him.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Ascended Astarion:

The dungeon echoed with harsh cries and the sound of Astarion’s laughter—cold, indulgent, the kind that chilled you to your core, no matter how long you had been by his side. His spawn was on his knees before him, trembling under Astarion’s merciless gaze. You knew better than to intervene, staying back while Astarion taught yet another 'lesson' to one of his underlings. This one had failed him in some small, inconsequential way, though that never mattered much when it came to his punishments.

You watched, keeping your distance, but then his tone shifted. Astarion’s eyes glittered with malice, and he raised his hand. The spawn flinched, recoiling instinctively as Astarion’s power flared to life, sparking through the darkened chamber. In the momentary thrill of control, he sent a pulse of energy forward, forgetting you were even there.

Before you could react, the force hit you, knocking you back against the cold stone wall. The shock ripped through your body, leaving you breathless, your head spinning from the unexpected blow. Pain radiated from your shoulder, and you clutched it, sinking to one knee as you tried to steady yourself.

It took a moment for Astarion to realize what had happened. When he did, his eyes widened, the spark of sadistic pleasure dimming as he turned to you. He took in the sight of you, disheveled and hurt, a faint bruise already forming where his magic had struck you. His amusement vanished in an instant.

“Oh… my sweet,” he murmured, his voice slipping into a gentler tone. He crossed the room in an instant, dismissing the spawn with a sharp flick of his wrist. “Look at you, injured on my account. How careless of me.” He reached out, fingers skimming over your shoulder with a delicate touch, his gaze filled with a rare and almost tender regret.

You tried to wave him off, still catching your breath. “It’s fine, Astarion. I know it wasn’t intentional…”

“Nonsense,” he interrupted, his tone far softer than before, as if soothing a wounded animal. “It was entirely my fault. And I will make it up to you.”

His fingers trailed down your arm, guiding you carefully to your feet, his touch lingering as he steadied you. He pulled you close, his grip gentle but possessive, as though he needed to reassure himself of your presence.

“Come,” he said, leading you with an air of quiet resolve. “I’ve hurt you, my love, and I cannot have that. Not even by accident.” His voice softened into something dangerously sweet. “Allow me to make amends.”

Before you could protest, he whisked you away to his lavish quarters. Within moments, he had you resting on a velvet chaise, summoning a myriad of luxurious gifts to your side. Silks, jewelry, dark, fragrant wine—anything he thought would bring a glimmer of joy to your eyes. He touched your shoulder gently, his hand brushing over the bruise with surprising care.

“Here,” he whispered, offering a glass of the finest wine, crimson and rich. He tilted the glass to your lips, watching as you sipped, his expression attentive, eyes darkening as they traced every line of discomfort on your face. “Only the best for you, my precious,” he murmured, letting his fingers ghost down your neck.

As you looked at him, it became clear that this apology was more than words. This was Astarion’s way of spoiling you, of showing his remorse through the only way he knew how—possessive affection and opulence, ensuring you felt nothing less than adored. He knelt beside you, taking your hand in his, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Please, indulge me,” he said, a faintly pleading note in his voice, one that might have seemed foreign had you not recognized the subtle vulnerability in it. “Let me shower you in everything that I am, as an apology for my careless mistake.”

Even as he lavished you with attention, draping you in furs and pressing soft, almost reverent kisses to your forehead, he still possessed that intensity, the dark, possessive gleam that never left his gaze. Every touch, every gift, reminded you of the lengths he would go to keep you close, to keep you firmly under his watch.

Finally, he brushed his thumb over the bruise, his gaze holding yours with a quiet intensity.

“I can’t stand the thought of you being harmed, least of all by me,” he murmured, his hand drifting to cradle your cheek. “I’ve taken you into my world, my life—and I swear, you will be cherished, protected, spoiled… whatever it takes.”

And though you felt the sincerity in his regret, you knew—deep down—that this was still the same Astarion, the one who ascended, the one who wielded his love with an iron grip. His remorse was genuine, his regret almost touching, but it didn’t change the possessive hunger that lingered beneath, the unyielding desire that he used to bind you to him.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Halsin:

The remains of the town smoldered around you, charred wood and scorched earth stretching as far as the eye could see. Halsin’s wrath had torn through the place like a storm, fueled by his unyielding belief in protecting nature at any cost. You had seen his anger before, watched as he dealt swift justice to those who abused the land, but you had never anticipated just how far his fury could reach.

You staggered, clutching your side where a jagged cut ran from your ribs down to your hip, a remnant of the debris flung from one of his brutal spells. Pain radiated through you as you tried to catch your breath, the acrid scent of smoke filling your lungs. Halsin turned to you, his eyes widening in horror when he finally noticed the blood staining your clothes, the way you struggled to stand.

“By Silvanus… what happened?” He was at your side in an instant, his hands hovering over you as though afraid to touch, his gaze flickering with panic. “Did I…?” His words faltered as he pieced it together, his expression crumbling with guilt.

“Yes, Halsin,” you rasped, fighting against the pain. “You didn’t see me—too caught up in destroying everything around us.” His face fell further, regret etched into his features. He reached out to you, pulling you gently to sit on a fallen tree trunk, his hands trembling as he pressed a healing spell over your injury. Relief washed over you, though the ache remained, a phantom pain that mirrored the destruction surrounding you.

“I didn’t mean to harm you,” he said, his voice thick with remorse. His brow was furrowed, and he searched your face as if hoping to see some glimmer of forgiveness. “You… you didn’t deserve this.”

You sighed, the words bubbling to the surface before you could stop them. “Halsin, the pain you feel for me right now? That’s what the town felt. That’s the suffering you brought to every single person here.”

His expression hardened slightly, and he shook his head.

“No,” he replied firmly, as though he couldn’t allow himself to entertain the idea. “They brought this upon themselves. They polluted the rivers, they stripped the land bare… they threatened the forest, threatened the very balance of life.” His hand tightened over yours, his gaze holding an intense, unyielding conviction. “But you? You are innocent in all this. You did nothing to deserve harm.”

“Halsin,” you pressed, meeting his gaze with a quiet intensity, “those people… they weren’t all responsible. Some were just… caught in the crossfire.”

He closed his eyes, as if to block out your words, his jaw clenching in defiance.

“They allowed it to happen,” he said after a moment, his tone steady and resolute. “They reaped what they sowed. Nature’s wrath is a fair balance, and sometimes, it must be delivered without mercy.”

Your heart sank at his words, seeing how deeply his ideology ran, how it had begun to blind him to anything beyond his duty to nature. His thumb brushed over your hand, a gentler expression surfacing as he looked at you with regret.

“But you are different,” he insisted, his voice softening. “You’re a part of me, a part of my heart… I would never willingly let you suffer.” His hand rested gently over your injured side, his touch feather-light as if afraid of causing you further pain. “This… this was a terrible accident, a mistake. Let me care for you.”

He gathered you in his arms, holding you close, murmuring words of apology and soothing promises that it would never happen again. You tried to squirm against him, show your displeasure, but you were too injured, too in pain. Halsin urges you to rest, holding you tighter, his embrace was warm, and terribly comforting. But his earlier words echoed in your mind, stopping you from falling into the sense of false security he so wanted to keep you in. It was a reminder of the fervent, unyielding belief that lay beneath his love for you. He cared deeply—perhaps too deeply—but you saw now that his vision of justice and protection left little room for compromise.

Even as he held you, cradling you with the utmost tenderness, you felt a creeping sense of unease. Because while he might regret hurting you, his view of the world remained unchanged and they would suffer for it.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Grand Duke Wyll:

The argument had started as a murmur in the grand halls, a mere whisper of discontent between you and Wyll. But now, it had grown louder, echoing through the room as your voice rose, frustration simmering into anger. Wyll’s usual charm and restraint had slipped away, revealing the uncompromising intensity that lay beneath, the dark possessiveness he had tried so hard to keep veiled.

“I don’t want to live like this, Wyll!” you shouted, exasperated. “I can’t even take a single step outside these walls without guards watching my every move. This isn’t freedom; it’s a gilded cage.”

His eyes darkened, and he reached for you, his hand catching your arm with an unyielding grip.

“I’m doing this because I love you,” he said, his voice low and fervent, as if he could simply will you to understand the depth of his feelings through his words alone. “Don’t you see? The world is filled with dangers. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you. I need to keep you safe—don’t you understand that?”

His hand on your arm tightened as he spoke, his fingers pressing into your skin with a possessive intensity that bordered on painful. His gaze was fierce, a blend of desperation and resolve, as if he believed that by holding you tightly enough, he could mold you into a version of yourself that would fit within the confines of his devotion.

“Wyll, you’re hurting me,” you tried to say, your voice strained, but he was too caught up in his tirade to notice. His other hand grasped your shoulder, his thumb pressing into the curve of your collarbone as he pulled you closer, his words pouring out in a fervent rush.

“All I do is for you,” he insisted, his voice taking on a pleading edge. “Everything I have—this title, this power—is nothing without you by my side. You’re mine, and I can’t… I won’t let anyone take you away.”

But as his grip tightened further, you felt a sharp pain, his fingers pressing hard enough to bruise, and a tear slipped down your cheek. You tried to turn your face away, biting back the protest that rose in your throat, unwilling to escalate the tension. But he caught sight of your tears, and suddenly, his words faltered, his intensity shattering like glass.

The shift in him was immediate, his entire demeanor crumbling as if he had been struck. His grip slackened instantly, and his gaze dropped from your face to the floor, his expression one of dawning horror. Without a word, he dropped to his knees, his arms wrapping around your waist, and he buried his face against your stomach, his embrace now gentle, almost reverent.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, the words choked with remorse. “I didn’t mean to… I would never want to hurt you.” His voice trembled, his fingers clutching at the fabric of your clothing, holding on as if afraid you might slip away. “Please, forgive me,” he begged, his voice barely above a whisper, repeating the words like a mantra, as if he could somehow absolve himself through sheer repetition.

He looked up, his face stricken, his eyes red-rimmed and pleading as he clung to you, a broken look crossing his features. The proud, powerful Grand Duke was gone, replaced by a man brought to his knees, stripped of his armor and his strength by the weight of his own actions.

You hesitated, your hand hovering uncertainly above his head before finally resting it in his hair, running your fingers through it in a soothing motion. He let out a shuddering breath, his grip loosening further as he melted into your touch, his shoulders slumping in relief at even the slightest gesture of forgiveness.

“I was… wrong,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I don’t want to be the reason you shed a single tear. I swear to you, I will do better. Just… please don’t leave me.”

He pressed his forehead to your stomach, clinging to you like a lifeline, his remorse palpable as he held onto you. And though your heart ached from the pain of his earlier touch, you couldn’t help but soften, your fingers running gently over his head as he continued to hold you with all the desperation of a man who had come face to face with his own demons.

You felt his arms wrap more gently around your waist, his head pressed to your middle as if he could somehow anchor himself there, seeking solace in your presence, his breath shaky but steadying with each passing second. For a moment, he was silent, simply holding you, his words falling away as he pressed a gentle, almost reverent kiss to the fabric of your clothing, an unspoken promise to mend what he had broken.

And as he knelt there, humbled and vulnerable at your feet, you could see that beneath the dark possessiveness lay a fractured, desperate love.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Ooooo I really tried to make it very accidental which is why some of them may seem similar premices. Anyway hope you guys enjoyed this - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

Or check out my redbubble shop here ! 💜

[nerdieforpedro]

😄

Ok I made a list of mandalorian colors:

Black: justice (canon)

Grey: mourning (canon)

White: responsibility / temperance

Silver: clean slate / being reborn / seeking redemption

Gold: vengeance (canon)

Yellow:  lust for freedom

Orange: lust for life (canon)

Red: honoring a parent (canon)

Dark Red / Garnet: survival 

Magenta: luck

Purple: strength of spirit 

Blue: reliability (canon)

Light blue: ambition

Green: duty (canon)

Light Green / Erin: lust for peace

Teal: healing / compassion

Brown: honesty / valor

Pink: kindness / trust

Lilac: universal harmony / emotional balance 

[nerdieforpedro]

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN VIRGIN TERRITORY (2007) dir. David Leland

[nerdieforpedro]

i cannot get you close enough [alpha!Max Phillips x omega!fem!reader]

[title from the Florence + the Machine song “100 Years”]

summary:

“You have to invite me in, sweetheart.”

Oh. Right. Vampire.

“Come in, please,” you say demurely, and Max’s smile widens as he steps over the threshold into your apartment. He reaches for you again immediately, kicking your door closed and pulling you close.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Such a polite little Omega.”

rating: E 🚨 (you must be at least 18 years old to read/interact with this fic or anything else on my blog)

warnings: oh lordy, here we go. A/B/O dynamics; one small scene of men being creepy and threatening towards reader (but, perhaps surprisingly, one of those men is not Max); extremely self-indulgent Halloween costumes on the part of your author; a bit of angst; fEeLiNgS; absolutely way too much plot and character backstory for what was supposed to just be porn; Alpha!Max is his own warning; heat sex; biting; blood-drinking; breeding kink; many, many creampies; Max has an absolutely filthy mouth; look, it’s heat sex with Max, it probably (hopefully?) entails exactly what you think it does

word count: 12.4K. You heard me.

a/n: HAPPY (belated, forgive me) BIRTHDAY @ezrasbirdie!!!!!! This one’s for you, babe. Thank you for encouraging me to finally write down my alpha!Max idea and for always being the most supportive, wonderful, amazing friend. I love you to bits and hope you had the loveliest of birthdays. ❤️❤️❤️ also thank you to @whataperfectwasteoftime for being my sounding board while I worked on this and for willingly subjecting yourself to increasingly unhinged screenshots of snippets of heat sex as I wrote them.

Masterlist. Taglist.

———

You meet Max on his very first day.

Water cooler gossip had preceded him:

He’s the youngest person in company history to be made a Senior Director of Sales.

He really turned around a failing branch in Albuquerque, if you know what I mean, and now he’s being brought in here to HQ.

He’s a vampire.

He’s an Alpha.

“A sales guy, a vampire, and an Alpha? Sounds like this guy won the douchebag lottery,” Morgan, your closest work friend, murmurs to you over lunch one day after overhearing some of your colleagues gossiping about the impending new addition to the sales team.

You snort into your salad, fiddling with the silver bracelet on your right wrist - a subconscious tick you did whenever your conversation involved talk of an Alpha.

“Well for better or worse, at least we have lots of experience dealing with men like that around here,” you reply. And lord knows you did.

The company was full of men like that, especially here in its New York headquarters. Men who swaggered around, cocksure and confident whether it was warranted or not (it usually wasn’t), hitting on female subordinates and superiors alike (though there were unfortunately few of the latter).

And good god, the smell. Most Alphas, in your experience, smelled like they’d recently emerged from a dunk tank filled with Axe body spray. It was a scent that pushed its way into your sinuses and took up residence like a squatter, overwhelming and nausea-inducing.

But most Alphas, in your experience, also overlooked you. Why should they give you, a Beta, any more than a glance, when they could otherwise be chasing some poor unmated Omega? And you were glad of it, the Alphas you encountered in your workplace and out in the world rarely giving you more than a passing leer and a sniff before they realized you gave off no scent of your own and moving on.

You can’t imagine trying to navigate through life if they knew the truth: that you were an Omega. You just went to great lengths to hide it.

Modern suppressants worked wonders, acting as birth control while keeping your Omega subdued and limiting your heats to two miserable weekends a year. But pills alone could not hide what you were entirely. The delicate silver chain around your wrist did the rest, the unassuming metal imbued with a powerful charm that erased all outward evidence of your designation, making your Omega undetectable to the senses of others. An old-fashioned relic from a time long before the invention of suppressants, handed down across many generations of your mother’s family.

Apart from your heats, you never took it off, and were grateful for it every day. You were content to make your own quiet — if often lonely — way in the world, confident that if someone ever were to take notice of you, they’d do so because of who you are, not what you are.

And you were comforted by the knowledge that Max Phillips, whoever and whatever he was, would leave you be just like every other Alpha you’ve met, and be none the wiser.

Max’s boss, Hector, an older vampire, brings him by your division as part of an introductory tour on his first morning. You’d been prepared for the perfunctory handshake and sly, flirty grin he gives you as you tell him your name.

“Nice to meet you, Max.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, sweetheart,” he responds in that overly confident, borderline-inappropriate way typical of both Alphas and salesmen.

You had not been prepared for how handsome he is. The smooth, sharp cut of his jawline looks like it could cut glass. His strong nose is slightly hooked, but it only enhances his features, rather than detracts from them. His skin has a golden hue that’s a richer shade than most vampires you’ve met, who tend to have a paler, more washed-out quality to them. His expensive three-piece suit fits him like a glove (with the exception of his cuffs, which, you note, are a half-inch too long), and it shows off his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He’s going to break hearts all over this building, you can already tell.

But how he looks is nothing compared to how he smells.

It had hit you the moment he’d walked in, strong and overwhelming. But where other Alphas’ scents make you want to retch, this scent makes you go weak in the knees. You can almost feel it curl around you like a living thing, warm and comforting, with a hint of spice and an undertone of something a little sharper, like clean linen, and you wonder if that’s his vampirism’s influence. You want to wear it like a favorite sweater, you want to rub up against this man like a cat, you want him to scent you…

That ridiculous thought makes you shake yourself back to reality. Hector is introducing Max to your coworkers, your brief moment of introduction long over, but you notice Max stealing a glance or two back in your direction. There’s a hint of a frown tugging at his plush lower lip when he does, like he’s confused about something. You resist the urge to spin your bracelet around your wrist, not wanting to draw attention to it.

It’s alright. You’re fine. He can’t smell you. He can’t know. Even with his enhanced vampire senses, your Omega is hidden. And that’s for the best. Just like it always has been.

You watch as Max and Hector round the corner to head to the next suite of offices, and Max’s scent begins to fade. For a moment you have the ludicrous desire to follow him, but you quickly shove it aside and turn back to your work.

You’re a paralegal for the company’s legal department, so you and Max will be working on complete opposite sides of the office from each other. It should be easy enough to avoid him going forward.

And you need to avoid him, because even though you’ve only interacted for a few moments, one thing is painfully obvious:

Max Phillips is, above everything else, trouble.

———

His first month in his new role has Max busier than he’d anticipated. Unlike in his previous roles with the company, working at HQ has him surrounded by more Alphas and more vampires than he’s ever been before. Forget the endless cubicles of lazy mediocre employees spending their time building their fantasy football leagues and watching porn instead of working; the New York office is full of people like him: driven, competitive, ruthless, intelligent. Alphas. Vampires. He can’t coast here, not when he’s amongst so many peers who all have the same sorts of biological and supernatural advantages that he does.

Max has to work hard to keep up and get ahead here, to outmaneuver the other Senior Directors, to suck up to the bosses, to think up the Next Great Sales Idea before someone else does.

He loves it, even if his schedule is more packed than it ever has been. This is what he’s meant to do, this is what he’s so good at, and however much time and effort the company demands of him, he’s happy to give it.

So why, then, during his rare moments of free time, do his thoughts keep returning to the pretty Beta over in Legal?

There’s something about her that he can’t quite figure out. He only sees her occasionally, happening to pass her in the hall or going in or out of the break room with a mug of tea (never coffee, he notes). Rarely he’ll manage to catch her eye, but she always looks away the moment he does.

He can’t help but notice the way her clothes always fit her perfectly; dresses in rich jewel tones that sweep over her beautiful curves; high-waisted trousers that make her petite frame seem tall and statuesque; blouses with jeweled buttons or other delicate details. He should ask her, he thinks, where she buys it all, and how she affords such an immaculately tailored wardrobe on a paralegal’s salary.

Someone brings donuts into the office one day, and Max has the strangest urge to bring her one. Before he can waste too much time thinking about it he plucks one from the box and makes his way over to her desk.

———

You aren’t in your chair, but your purse and coat hanging off the back of it make clear that you’re here somewhere. Max deposits the donut and napkin next to your keyboard, and takes a moment to snoop.

There aren’t a lot of personal items on your desk - a framed photo of an older couple who must be your parents, a coffee mug emblazoned with the name of your alma mater currently holding an assortment of pens, a little figurine of that baby Yoda character from that Star Wars show everyone but he seems to have seen.

But then he notices the drawings. There are a few tacked to the fabric walls of your cubicle, all women in different outfits, done in a combination of pencil, marker, and watercolor, all of the kind you would find in a fashion designers’ sketchbook.

Then Max realizes that there is, in fact, a sketchbook sitting on your desk, large and well-loved but cheap-looking, something you could pick up for a few bucks at any craft store. Is this your hobby? More importantly, why does he suddenly care to know? Max is no judge of art, but the drawings are beautiful, and he can’t help but imagine what these dresses, if made real, would look like on you…

“Can I help you, Mr. Phillips?”

He jumps, turning to find you standing there, watching him be far nosier than he should be around your desk. You’re wearing a sleeveless dress and matching long blazer in deep cream linen today. He glances down at the donut he’s brought you and feels uncharacteristically foolish. What is he even doing here?

“No, sweetheart, I was just…” A coworker - one of the actual lawyers - walks by. “I was just waiting for you, Clark!” He swiftly catches up to the other man and throws an overly friendly arm around his shoulders as they walk back towards Clark’s office. “Buddy, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I’ve been told you’re the man to talk to about IRS compliance issues, or, rather, how to get around IRS compliance issues…”

———

Well that was odd.

You sit back down at your desk, reassured that Max doesn’t seem to have opened your sketchbook. You just keep it around in case inspiration strikes at work.

Then you notice the donut, the unmistakable scent of a certain Alpha all over it. Did he - did Max really - ?

Alpha provides, your Omega purrs, and you want to roll your eyes at yourself. Is the bar for men really so low that one of them bringing you a donut should make you want to open your legs for him?

But you also can’t help but smile, finding it a sweet gesture in spite of yourself.

———

You and Max become…workplace acquaintances, shall you say, after that. You don’t force yourself to avoid eye contact with him whenever you pass in the hall. You allow yourself a few moments of small talk when you happen to be in the break room together. You start calling him Max, instead of Mr. Phillips.

His scent doesn’t get any easier to bear, though. Nor does the way his shoulders fill out his suits.

It’s pleasant and superficial, even if you know it can never go any deeper than that. He’s friendly and nice, and even seems to get a little flustered by you sometimes, which you enjoy. And he doesn’t openly hit on you, which is a surprise, one you tell yourself you’re grateful for even if your Omega desperately wishes he would.

It’s all well and good, until it isn’t.

You’re crammed into the back of the elevator one day when you're running late and trying to get up to the office. Max and several of the other Alphas he spends much of his time with get on last, and suddenly you’re privy to an ongoing conversation you soon wish you could tune out.

“—nothing like it. But you’re telling me, Phillips, that you don’t see the appeal? Having a little Omega mate always waiting for you at home? Some insatiable thing always there with a warm meal and a wet cunt?”

You can hear Max make a hmm of acknowledgement at the other Alpha, who apparently sees nothing wrong with sharing his misogynistic views of Omegas in a public elevator surrounded by colleagues. Typical.

“Omegas can be fun, don’t get me wrong,” Max replies. “But they’re also so clingy and always want to talk about bonds and mating and commitment.” His dismissive tone makes very clear what he thinks of those ideas. “Why would I tie myself down when there’s so much of me to go around? Omegas are more trouble than they’re worth.”

It shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t. There’s two rows of people separating you; Max doesn’t even know you’re in this elevator, let alone that you’re an Omega. You should be glad he feels that way — then if he ever discovered your secret, you wouldn’t have to worry about him being interested.

Omegas are more trouble than they’re worth.

The elevator dings, and Max and the other Alphas file out.

“Just wait until you meet your mate, Phillips. You’ll change your tune real quick.”

“Yeah, and god help whoever ends up mated to this asshole.”

“Shove it, Bret, you’re just still pissed my team outsold yours last month.”

The rest of their conversation fades away, but the inexplicable nugget of pain in your heart does not.

———

The company’s Halloween party is its biggest employee event of the year, surpassing even the annual Christmas soirée. It’s always held at a ritzy hotel in downtown Manhattan, the kind of place you couldn’t afford a room at even for one night. Attendance is optional.

Technically.

But really, it’s one of those events where failure to show up signified a lack of enthusiasm for the company. And even though you approach this job as just a thing you do that lets you afford rent instead of your great calling in life, you don’t want to risk making things more difficult for yourself by skipping out this year. Besides, you just finished an incredible new costume and you’re eager to show it off.

Even if you are cutting it awfully close with your heat this time.

You’ve felt it coming on all week, that telltale prickle of warmth under your skin that won’t dissipate even in the crisp autumn chill that’s finally descended upon New York. The Friday night of the party, it’s almost upon you, but you figure you have until the next morning before it truly arrives. You can make it to the party. Say hi to a few people, make sure your bosses see you there, have one drink, then bail.

You’ve already put together your nest, the pile of blankets and pillows and the odd stuffed animal carefully arranged on your bed. You’ve stocked up on Gatorade and cheese cubes and popsicles, things you can snack on quickly in between rounds of feverishly fucking yourself on one of your knotted toys. You’ve done everything you need to do to make this heat bearable just like you have for your whole adult life, to minimize the deep ache in your core that will never stop reminding you of the one thing that’s missing:

An Alpha.

And you know, deep down, that this time when you’re alone in your nest and begging out loud to no one for an Alpha to come and fill you up, you’ll be picturing a very specific Alpha in particular.

You try to put Max from your mind as you zip yourself into your dress and put the finishing touches on your hair and makeup, making sure your silver bracelet is secure around your wrist. You’ve managed to keep your interactions with Max to a minimum in the two weeks since overhearing him in the elevator, and that is for the best.

Nothing but trouble, you remind yourself. He can be absolutely nothing but trouble.

———

You are sure that most of the time, the ballroom where the party is held each year is a perfectly elegant place. Multiple chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and large gilded mirrors on the walls lend the place an elegant, old-fashioned, Gatsby-esque vibe.

Unfortunately, whoever at your company is in charge of planning the party insists on ruining the natural classiness of the room by putting a light-up dance floor in the middle of it, over which looms a DJ playing tacky remixes of “Thriller” alongside whatever counts as Top 40 these days. The walls are flooded with aggressively purple uplighting like you’re at every wedding in New Jersey circa-2012, and there’s a bar shoved into every corner serving every liquor imaginable and featuring multiple bowls of questionable punch on beds of dry ice. It’s like all the loud, drunken Halloween parties you went to in college, but with a much larger budget.

But it’s fine. Get in, be seen, one drink, get out.

You smooth your hands over your skirt as you walk in. Your costume with its petticoat is a far cry from the skimpier outfits many of the other women in your office tend to gravitate towards for this party, but you don’t mind.

You’ve been making your own Halloween costumes since you were a teenager. Your mother made them for you growing up, and passed on her love of sewing and fashion to you. Last year, you were the Scarlet Witch, handmade headpiece and all. The year before that, you came to the party in a replica of Belle’s blue and white dress from the beginning of Beauty and the Beast.

This year’s costume is more obscure, but near and dear to your heart. The bodice is blood-red satin, with a swooping boat-shaped neckline that shows off just a hint of your breasts. The fabric bunches together in off-the-shoulder sleeves that stop at your elbows, with a scrap of delicate ivory lace attached to the end of each one. The skirt falls in ruffled tiers of black, but for an open panel at the front that shows off the layers of white petticoat underneath. Black lace bows cut across the white three times, and the silhouette makes your waist look small while the skirt flares and moves like waves when you walk.

You’ve built a few pockets into the skirt for practical reasons, but otherwise, it’s a damn near exact replica of Catherine Zeta-Jones’ dress from The Mask of Zorro.

You quickly find Morgan and your small group of work friends giggling over drinks in a corner, and they appropriately ohh and ahh over your outfit, having come to look forward to seeing what you’ll come up with for your costume each year. A trace of Max’s scent reaches you, but it’s faint, and hard to detect under the myriad scents of the other Alphas in the room. He’s here, somewhere, but you don’t see him. Which doesn’t matter, because you aren’t looking for him, despite the way your nearly-in-heat Omega is growing increasingly wild over it.

You’re halfway through your one drink when it gets to be too much — too many people, too many scents, music loud enough you have to shout to be heard, a room that feels far too warm. Pinpricks of light start to dance at the edges of your vision, and your bodice feels too tight; you can’t get enough air. You excuse yourself from your friends, and take your drink into the hall.

You wander until you find a much more quiet corner where the noise from the party is subdued. There are several padded velvet benches along the wall and you sink onto one with a sigh, closing your eyes and trying to determine whether you’ve stayed long enough and whether you’ll be missed if you head home now. What you wouldn’t give to be able to snap your fingers and skip the ride home, to just be magically transported straight to your cozy nest in your dark, quiet apartment…

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t notice the way a particular scent grows stronger, indicating that you’re no longer alone.

“Buenos noches, Señorita Montero.”

Your eyes fly open.

It’s Max. It has to be, the way his delicious scent sinks into every inch of you, invading your senses and making your stomach clench. But for a split second you blink at him in confusion, forgetting for a moment that you’re at a Halloween party, because the person standing before you isn’t Max.

It’s Zorro.

Zorro, in head-to-toe black, from his boots to his (tighter than in the movie) pants to the billowy shirt that exposes a significant amount of his chest. A fancy-looking sword hangs from his belt, his shoulders draped in a cape that falls to behind his knees. The trademark black mask covers his eyes, but the wry twist of his lips gives the illusion away — that look he’s giving you is all Max.

You recover from your initial surprise, laughing at your serendipitous coordination.

“Well, if it isn’t Zorro himself,” you say, playing along. “I’m surprised to see you at a party — you’re not here to cause trouble, are you? Should I be worried that there’s danger afoot?”

“Tonight, I am only here for the entertainment,” he replies, in a surprisingly accurate imitation of Antonio Banderas’s accent. “And to perhaps enjoy the company of a beautiful lady.”

You chuckle, but the humor’s gone out of it.

“Well if I see any, I’ll be sure to send them your way.”

Max frowns.

“On the contrary,” he says softly. “I’m speaking to such a woman right now.”

You flush, your body growing even warmer at his compliment.

“Can I sit?” He asks, dropping the accent. You gesture to the bench cushion beside you.

He settles next to you, maintaining a respectful distance and taking care not to step or sit on any of your dress.

“I had such a crush on Catherine Zeta-Jones in this movie,” he admits. “It’s still one of my favorites.”

“I had such a crush on her and Antonio Banderas in this movie,” you tell him. “That scene where they dance together basically invented sexual chemistry.”

Max nods in agreement.

“Where did you ever find a costume of Elena’s dress from the party?”

“I made it.”

“You…made it?”

“I’ve always made my own Halloween costumes. I make most of my own clothes, actually.” You’ve also got a shelf holding several awards from cosplay competitions you’ve accumulated over the past few years, but you don’t mention that to him. He doesn’t need to know the full extent of how nerdy you are.

Max raises his eyebrows in surprise (or at least, you think he does under the mask).

“So that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why you always look so good. I mean — ” if he still had the ability, you think he might be blushing right now. It’s adorable. “Why your clothes always look so good. On you. Why everything always seems to be…well-tailored.”

“Well-tailored,” you repeat, your Omega preening at his praise, odd though it is. “That’s one of the more unique compliments I’ve ever been given, Max. Thank you.”

He grins at you for a moment, before his features soften into something else.

“I haven’t seen you around the office as much lately,” he says quietly. “Everything okay?”

Your heart stutters in your chest. Your fingers go to your bracelet, the metal cool and comforting.

You can’t tell him you’ve been avoiding him, let alone tell him why.

“I’ve just been really busy lately, I guess. Some days I feel like I never have a free minute to leave my desk at all.”

“That’s a shame,” Max says, shifting just an inch closer to you on the bench. “But perhaps if you don’t have time at work, we could find a time to see each other outside of the office? Maybe…I could take you to dinner next week?”

Oh my god. Is he — did he just — ?

It’s not a come-on, it’s not a lewd proposition, Max Phillips is genuinely asking you out. You’re sitting here dressed as Zorro and Elena and it feels like you’re no more than five damn minutes away from your heat and Max Phillips is asking you out.

You want so badly to say yes. Your Omega is screaming at you to say yes (and then jump his bones right here in this hallway).

But you can’t. There are so many good reasons why you can’t.

That overwhelmed feeling is starting to suck you under again. You can’t think clearly, not when he’s this close to you and you’re this close to your heat. You have to get out of here.

You stand up.

“I’m sorry, Max, I — ”

“Whoa, what’s wrong, sweetheart?” He stands and reaches out a hand to steady you, but you step away before he can.

“Nothing, I just, I don’t feel well. I should be getting home.”

“Let me walk you out — ”

“No!” You nearly shout it at him, and the look that crosses his face makes you feel like you’ve just kicked a puppy.

“I’m sorry, Max. Let’s talk about this in the office next week, okay?”

“Okay, sweetheart,” he says softly.

You beat a hasty retreat for the exit, and don’t look back.

———

The entrance to the hotel is on a more quiet side street rather than one of the main avenues, and you’re grateful not to be thrust into the ebb and flow of a crowded Manhattan sidewalk the moment you step outside. But it also means there aren’t many cabs venturing down this way, and you know you’ll never make it if you have to take the subway. You whip out your phone and call an Uber.

Eight minutes away. You can handle that. Eight minutes in the fresh, chilly air, eight minutes to clear your head of the Alpha your body is craving more desperately with each passing minute. Eight minutes, then twenty minutes drive to your apartment. Less than half an hour until you’re home, until you’re safe in your nest.

“Well now, look at what we have here.”

Shit.

Three Alphas are stumbling their way down the sidewalk towards you. Their scent and their inability to walk straight making it very clear they’ve been drinking.

“Look at this pretty little mouse,” one of them says.

Maybe if you just ignore them, they’ll keep walking past you.

“Little mouse is all dressed up like she’s going to a party,” another says.

No such luck. They stop only a few feet from you, taking up the entire sidewalk. Each of them is nearly a foot taller than you are, and they’re blocking your path back into the hotel.

“You wanna come party with us, pretty thing?”

“No, thank you.” You try to say it calmly, but your voice wavers.

“Aww, don’t be like that, honey, we can show you a good time!”

The third one leans towards you and inhales.

“Shit, she’s just a Beta.” But that doesn’t seem to deter them either.

“We can still have fun with a Beta. C’mon little mouse, come have some fun with us.”

“I’m not interested. Please leave me alone.”

“Maybe she’s just never had a real Alpha show her a good time,” the first one says.

“I bet we can make you change your tune real quick, honey — ”

It happens so fast. The second Alpha reaches out to grab your arm, but as you flinch away he catches your wrist instead. When you try to jerk away from him, his thumb snags on your bracelet, and you watch in horror as the clasp breaks.

It falls soundlessly to the ground. But the Alphas harassing you barely notice, all of them immediately interested in something else.

Your skin immediately breaks out in a cold sweat, your scent glands on either side of your neck now visible, red and swollen. And you can see the moment your scent — your real scent — hits them. The three men seem to grow bigger, all of their Alpha instincts triggered at once by the sudden scent of an Omega in heat right in front of them. All three of them breathe deep, and you’ve never felt more like prey.

“Not a Beta,” the third one growls, practically licking his lips.

“Look at that, it’s a little Omega mouse,” the second one says, and his malicious delight makes your blood run cold. The bitter taste of adrenaline floods your mouth. What should you do? If you scream, someone from the hotel has to hear you, right?

“Looks like this is our lucky night,” the first Alpha grins. “Come here, Omega.”

You fight it, you try to fight the compulsion of an Alpha’s command with everything you have, but it’s useless. You take an involuntary step towards him—

But suddenly the Alpha isn’t standing in front of you anymore. Some invisible force yanks him away from you and flings him clear across the street. There’s a painful-sounding crunch as he lands on the windshield of someone’s parked car and shatters it. The effect of his command dissipates.

His companions are just as confused as you are until the next moment they find themselves both shoved up against the building, a figure dressed entirely in black holding them up with a hand on each of their throats.

Max.

The sound he makes is inhuman, a warning snarl that starts deep in his chest. Alphas are strong by nature, but against a vampire, there’s no winning.

There is only one predator here now.

“‘Evening, boys.” He must be showing them his fangs, you can hear it affect his speech. “Looks like you’ve chosen a lovely night to die, hm?”

“Max! Don’t!” You place a placating hand on his shoulder. These men frightened you, yes, and would have done who knows what else, but you didn’t want them to die for it. And more importantly, you didn’t want Max to get in trouble for killing them.

“They threatened you,” he seethes, his grip on their necks tightening. “They touched you.”

“They’re not worth it, Max. Please, I’m safe now.”

He doesn’t let them go. But then the first cramp of your heat hits you, and you gasp in pain.

“Max, I need you. I — please, Alpha.”

That gets through to him. He cocks his head like he’s listening for something.

“Sounds like your friend is still alive over there. You’d better get him to a hospital. And if I ever see any of you again…”

He throws each Alpha one-handed to the ground like they weigh nothing, his point very clear. They pick themselves up, wheezing, and go collect their companion before slinking off into the night.

Max gathers you into his arms, your whole body starting to shake.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, “I have you, I have you, you’re alright.”

“How did you know?” You mumble the question into his shirt.

“I could smell you. All of a sudden. Your scent — you were afraid.”

He tilts your chin up so he can look at you.

“Omega?”

There are so many different questions contained in that one word, but you only have one word for him in reply.

“Alpha.”

Then he’s kissing you, his lips soft but demanding and you yield to him instantly.

“Omega,” he breathes, kissing his way down your throat till he reaches your gland, tracing it with the tip of his nose, his lips, his tongue, scenting you. “Omega, all this time…”

You cling to him, your hands scrabbling to pull his shirt free so you can get your hands on his skin, though you’re not sure to what end.

There is every chance you would have let this man fuck you right here on the sidewalk if not for the interruption of your Uber driver honking at you, having finally arrived.

“Oh shit,” you say, suddenly coming back to yourself. “That’s my ride.”

“Let me make sure you get home okay,” Max sounds like he’s out of breath, an impossible circumstance for a vampire. “I swear to you, sweetheart, I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, but please, just — let me make sure you’re safe.”

The absolute last thing you want is to be alone right now, so you nod.

Max bends down and scoops something off the concrete, a thin silver chain glinting in his hand.

“My bracelet,” you say, having forgotten all about it.

Max turns it over in his palm, and seems to understand. He loops it around your wrist, despite the fact that it’s broken.

“I need you to hold this right here until we get you home. Can you do that for me, baby?”

You can, and you tell him so. When you hold the ends together, the charm re-activates, camouflaging your designation once more. When Max slides into the Uber next to you, you think you see some of the tension leave his body, that at least he won’t have to sit in this confined space with the scent of an Omega going into heat. He settles his hand on your knee, and his touch helps calm you.

You pass the drive to your apartment almost in complete silence. You use the time to consider your options. Max knows you’re an Omega. He knows, and he helped you anyway. In fact, based on the hungry way he kissed and held you back there, maybe you could ask him to help you a little more…

By the time you arrive at your place, you’ve come to a decision. You’ll ask Max to help you with your heat, but that’s all. If he’s willing to do that, despite his stated aversion to Omegas, you can make it through the next 48 hours without doing too many of those Omega things he finds so distasteful. You won’t alienate him completely. You will not be more trouble than you’re worth.

Forty-eight hours, and that’s all you’ll give yourself with him. There’s no use getting attached and hoping for more now that he knows the truth. You’ll ask Max to be yours for the weekend, and no more.

When you finally make it to your front door, it takes you several attempts to get your key in the lock. Max hovers behind you, a hand on your lower back, like he can’t help but touch you.

You turn to him.

“Thank you, Max. I don’t know what would have happened if — ” You can’t even finish the thought.

“I’m sorry this happened to you, but I’m glad I was there.”

“Listen, about my designation, I - ”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” Max says, shaking his head at you. “And besides, I think I got a pretty good example of why you’d hide it a few minutes ago.”

You both fall silent, just looking at each other, and it’s obvious neither of you wants to part.

“Do you want to — would you stay?”

His lips quirk up.

“What I mean is, it’s my heat, and I was wondering if you…”

“I know it is,” he says quietly. “Since the moment I caught your scent at the hotel, I’ve known. You’re in heat, baby. You want me to stay and take care of you?”

You whine, but that’s answer enough.

“Good,” Max nods. “I want that too.”

You reach behind you and somehow get your door open, letting your bracelet fall to the floor. There’s a moment of confusion as you don’t feel Max follow you inside, his hands slipping from you and for the first time since outside the hotel he isn’t touching you. You turn to face him as anxiety rises, fast and irrational: is he having second thoughts? Does he not want to do this? Is he going to leave you to face your heat alone after all?

These questions must be written all over your face because he gives you a small smile and gently says:

“You have to invite me in, sweetheart.”

Oh. Right. Vampire.

“Come in, please,” you say demurely, and Max’s smile widens as he steps over the threshold into your apartment. He reaches for you again immediately, kicking your door closed and pulling you close.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Such a polite little Omega.” And even that bit of praise makes you shiver in his arms, slick starting to leak into your underwear. Max’s nostrils flare and you know he can smell it. Perhaps you should be more worried that you’ve essentially invited a fox into a henhouse, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Alpha is here, and he wants you.

You’d assumed the moment Max got you alone he’d be all over you, and you can feel the tension in his body and smell the desire pouring off of him, but he holds himself back, pressing almost lazy kisses against your lips while he holds you flush against him, his hardening cock thick in his trousers.

“Where do you want to do this, pretty girl? Tell me now, before I strip you down and knot you against your front door.”

Another whine escapes you, your Omega having no objections to that plan, but the rational part of your brain prevails.

“Could we - ” you start, trying to take a step backwards towards your bedroom, “I made - ”

Max grins against your cheek, moving with you down the hall without letting any space come between you.

“Did you make a nest, baby? You make a nice, soft place for me to fuck you in? You wanna show me?”

You nod furiously, pulling him back down to kiss you as you both stumble inelegantly into your bedroom.

———

Max takes care as he undresses you, peeling you out of the layers of your costume without damaging it.

When he’s finally got you bare, he cups your face in his hands and kisses you, just once, before pulling away.

“Go get in your nest, baby, and let me get you ready.”

You obey him eagerly, making yourself comfortable among your blankets while Max strips, his body just as broad as his suits make him seem, but not overly muscled. His cock is big, thicker and longer than any you’ve taken, and you can’t wait to have it inside you.

He strokes himself lazily as he kneels on the bed and looks at you, a little wave of self-consciousness rising in your chest. Does he like how you look? Does he like your nest? You press your thighs together, suddenly worried about what this Alpha might think of you.

But Max quickly puts those fears to rest.

“Spread for me.”

You part your legs, and Max lets go of his cock to run his hands up your legs, just barely ghosting the tips of his fingers over the lips of your cunt, already shiny with slick.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “You gorgeous girl. Made such a good nest, made such a perfect place for me to breed you.”

Your cunt bottoms out at his words, your Omega all happy and warm at his praise. He drapes himself over you and proceeds to cover your whole body with kisses, starting with your lips, your throat, your glands. He plays with your breasts, cupping them in his palms, and sucks and bites at your nipples until you’re a squirming mess beneath him.

He’s sucking a little bruise into your tummy, just next to your belly button, when he finally breaches you with his fingers, three of them filling you with ease.

“This okay, baby?”

“Mmhmm.” You bite down on your lip and roll your hips, wanting him deeper.

“You’re so wet already, Omega. You wanna cum for me?”

Yes, yes you tell him, and he curls his fingers and puts his thumb on your clit. In a matter of minutes he has you rippling around his fingers, slick gushing onto the bed below you.

“Good girl.” Max sticks his fingers in his mouth, licking up every drop of your slick. He leans down and kisses you, his tongue possessive as it tangles with your own, sharing the sweet flavor of your slick with you.

“You taste so fucking good, sweetheart. Get on your hands and knees for me.”

His cock pushes into you slowly once you’re in position, his hands on your hips holding you firmly, not letting you fuck yourself back on him.

“You’ll take it slowly this first time, Omega,” he says, finally seating himself to the hilt. He gives you time to adjust, until finally your patience breaks.

“Please move, Alpha. I’m ready, I wanna feel you.”

He obliges, driving into you with long, powerful strokes. The tip of him bumps up against your cervix, stretching you on his cock, and it’s indescribably good. His fingers had been one thing, but this is something else entirely. You’re surrounded by him, drowning in his scent, and it works you up to another climax astonishingly quickly.

“Alpha, I’m — I’m gonna cum — ”

Max reaches down to rub at your clit and you clamp down around him, keening his name.

“Yes, Omega, let me feel it. Fuck, you get so fucking tight when you cum.”

He plants one hand by your head, fingers splayed wide. His thumb rests barely an inch from your face, and without thought you stick out your tongue and lick it. Max hisses above you and you do it again, shifting your chin so you can take his thumb fully into your mouth.

“Oh, baby girl,” he growls, slamming his hips against yours, “you need it, don’t you? You need me in every hole? I’ll fucking give it to you. Need me to fuck your ass next? I’d love to see you all stretched out on my cock, watch you try to cram my knot inside that pretty little asshole - ”

You manage to garble out a little mhm around his thumb and Max moves his other hand to your shoulder for better leverage, trying to go faster, to get himself deeper inside you.

And it feels so good, his cock filling your pussy, his fingers in your mouth pushing you even further into the submissive haze of your heat. Drawing your Omega further up from where you’d buried her for so long, until she rises to the surface, set free. It feels good to be used, to be a good set of holes for Alpha to fill as he wishes, to have such a clear and useful purpose.

“You ready to take my knot, baby? You gonna take it all for me? Gonna let me breed you?”

“Yes, Alpha,” you moan, and Max comes undone. You feel his knot swell and catch inside you, locking you together and he cums and cums, filling you over and over with his spend. He trails kisses across your back, murmuring praises into your skin.

“You okay, sweetheart? Does it feel good? Such a good Omega for me, taking my knot, taking all my cum. Gonna make me such pretty babies, aren’t you? Gonna keep all my cum inside you until it takes, hm?”

You try to lift your hips, try and press yourself even closer to him. He won’t get you pregnant, he can’t. Vampires only shoot blanks, but when your heat takes control of you, your body doesn’t care about such technicalities. You’re so eager for it, you want it so badly.

And the small part of your brain that’s still capable of rational thought wonders how the hell you’ll ever come back from this, from him. Now that you know how good this can be, how can you ever go back to going through your heats alone?

You are, in more ways than one, so, so fucked.

———

Max is a surprisingly attentive Alpha. When you make to get out of bed to get something to drink, he pulls you back in, going to get it himself with a small growl of “stay.” He brings you back a bottle of Gatorade and a glass of water, along with some crackers and trail mix you’d left out on your counter. When you reach for the water, he makes a noise of discontent.

“No, let me,” he says, sitting down next to you and holding the glass to your lips. He looks a little sheepish at insisting on doing this for you, and it occurs to you that his Alpha instincts are probably riding him as hard as your Omega instincts are riding you. His innate need to care for you a perfect compliment to your need to be cared for.

Max tips the glass up and watches as you take several long sips.

“Good,” he murmurs, eyes on your throat as you swallow. When you’re done, he sets the glass on your bedside table. A drop of water clings to your bottom lip, and he leans over to kiss it away. He licks along the seam of your lips, politely asking for entrance, and you happily grant it. He tugs you into his lap and you can feel the fever rising again, your brief reprieve from the all-encompassing need to be fucked nearly over.

Max’s eyes darken and you know he can smell it, the way your body is starting to get you ready to be bred again.

“What do you need, baby?”

You squirm in his arms.

“You, Alpha.”

The grin that splits his face is so cocky that under normal circumstances you’d be tempted to smack it off him. But doing so is the last thing on your mind when he twists you around so your back hits the mattress, your entire field of vision taken up by your Alpha.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he coos, reaching down to line himself up with your entrance, “that’s fucking right.”

———

This is the odd routine you find yourselves in: your mutual desire rising to an inevitable peak, culminating in a furious round of mating that ends with Max’s knot filling you over and over with his seed. But once you’re both temporarily sated, you get periods of lucidity to rest. Sometimes you take a short nap on Max’s chest, other times he feeds you from the plethora of snacks he’s fetched from your kitchen.

One time he carries you into the shower, refusing to let you walk there on your own. You intend to finally get all of your makeup off and product out of your hair from the night before, and you do, but barely have you done so before Max has you pressed up against the tile, frantic to replace the scent of him on you that you’ve washed down the drain.

He fills you again but doesn’t knot you, instead wrapping you both in a towel and rolling you back into your nest, still damp all over. He wedges his shoulders between your legs, spreads you open with his thumbs, and just looks, mesmerized. Then he leans in and licks up the steady trickle of slick and cum that leaks from you with a groan.

“You taste like me, baby. Look at how much of me you have inside you. You can’t even keep it all in.”

He gathers what his tongue missed on his fingers and pushes it back inside you.

“That’s what - ngh - that’s what your knot is for, Alpha,” you pant.

Max nods sagely in agreement.

“It is, Omega, that’s true. But I think I need to make some room for more before I breed this needy pussy again, don’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for your reply before diving in with his tongue once more.

———

“How long have you been a paralegal?”

“Since I finished college.”

In all the things people told you about what to expect during your heat, “making small talk with an Alpha while you wait for his knot to go down” was not one of them.

But you find you don’t mind it. Max is surprisingly easy to talk to. He’s sharp and funny and laughs at your wit. He asks you more questions about yourself while you’re locked together on his knot than you’ve been asked during the entirety of some first dates you’ve been on, and seems to genuinely care about your answers.

You like him. A lot. Fuck.

“My parents want me to go to law school,” you tell him. “Being a paralegal is a way of appeasing them, though I don’t know for how much longer.”

“You don’t want to be a lawyer?”

You shake your head no, brushing against Max’s chin from where he’s lying on his side behind you.

“I like my job well enough. It’s predictable, and I’m good at it, and it’s good money and rarely insane hours. But the law isn’t my grand calling in life.”

“What is?”

You burrow your head into the pillow.

“It’s silly.”

Max gently runs his hand up your side, trailing his fingertips along the outer edge of your breast.

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

You take a deep breath.

“You know how I told you I make most of my clothes?” He hums the affirmative. “I’ve done it a few times for other people, too. A few formal dresses, some Halloween costumes, even a cosplay outfit or two, all for friends or their kids. If I could do anything…I think I’d do that. Make beautiful clothes for people that make them happy.”

Max is quiet for a moment. Then he asks:

“Why don’t you?”

You snort. “What?”

“Why don’t you? I’m sure you’d be amazing at it.”

“I can’t exactly work full-time and take commissions, Max.”

“So quit your job.”

You almost sit up in surprise before remembering at the very last second that you need to be careful how much you move right now.

“Quit my job? Just like that?”

“Why not?”

“I — I wouldn’t even know where to start. I don’t know the first thing about how to set up a business.”

“That’s okay, I do.”

You freeze.

“What do you mean?”

You feel him shrug.

“Well, not to brag or anything, but you may have noticed that I’m kind of amazing at the whole business thing. If you need help setting up a business plan and getting things off the ground, I could help.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. He isn’t yours, you remind yourself. So what if he just casually offered to help your biggest life dream come true? Who knows if he even really means it. It’s dangerous to get too close to him, it’s dangerous to let him into your life that way. This is. Just. Temporary.

“That’s…very kind of you, Max.”

“I know. I’m really quite something.”

You reach back and elbow him in the ribs the best you can from this angle, but he just chuckles and curls himself back around you.

“What about you?” You say, eager to change the subject. “Why sales?”

“I like making money and I’m very good at it,” he says simply.

“Typical Alpha.” You roll your eyes.

He tickles your side in retaliation.

“Hey!”

You giggle, trying not to move in a way that will pull painfully at his knot.

“I just mean…Alphas like to win. Lots of opportunities to do that in sales, where you have exact numbers that can show exactly how much you’re dominating your competition.”

Max playfully nips at your ear.

“I guess that’s true. I’ve never thought of it that way before.”

He curls his hand over your hip and grinds his knot even further into you, making you gasp.

“Although, Omega, speaking of dominating…”

———

Max is asleep next to you. At least, you’re pretty sure he is. Do vampires need to sleep?

Regardless, his eyes are closed, and he’s unnaturally still in a way that’s a bit unnerving. His chest doesn’t rise or fall, he doesn’t snore or twitch, his pulse doesn’t beat beneath his skin. Still, he must be tired. You’ve probably exhausted him. He’s sure as hell worn you out over the last 24 hours.

But your skin still feels flushed and hot, your body insisting that it’s time again. Slick leaks steadily onto your thighs, your cunt starting to throb with the need to cum. You hate the idea of waking Max up, hate the idea of seeming that desperate and needy, of embodying all of the things you know Max doesn’t like about Omegas.

Maybe you don’t have to bother him this time. Maybe if you can just sneak your hand down towards your clit, if you can just get yourself off one time, it’ll trick your body into calming down until Max wakes and can fuck you properly again. If you can just be quiet…

You circle your clit with two fingers and bite back a small sigh of relief. It’s nowhere near the same as when Max does it, but hopefully it’ll suffice until -

“What do you think you’re doing, Omega?”

You freeze, turning your head to see Max now wide awake and pinning you with a stare that lets you know you are in a lot of trouble.

“N-nothing.”

“Nothing?” Max hums, shifting until he’s hovering over you. He pulls your hand away from your cunt and secures both your wrists above your head in a one-handed grip. He trails his other hand down your body until he’s petting gently at your clit.

“It looked like you were touching yourself. Were you?” His tone is calm, but there’s a wicked gleam in his eye that says otherwise.

“Yes.”

Max tuts, his fingers still barely stroking you, enough to make you squirm but not enough to get you anywhere near your climax.

“I - I thought you were asleep,” you say by way of apology.

“Vampires don’t sleep. We - ” Max searches for the right word, “rest, in a way. But if this pretty little pussy needs to cum, all you have to do is say so.”

He dips his head to pull your nipple into his mouth before letting it go with a dramatically loud pop.

His fingers start to move faster, pressing more firmly against you, touching you in a way you know will make you cum, but you’re still so empty. You need something to cum on, you need to be full of Max’s cock. You can feel it hard and hot against your thigh as he lightly grinds it against you.

“Max, please, I need to feel you - ”

“Oh no, sweetheart, I don’t think so,” he tells you sternly. “You decided to take this orgasm for yourself when you thought I was asleep, you decided to make yourself cum without being filled up, and now that’s exactly what you’ll get. Naughty girls don’t get to cum on their Alpha’s knot.”

You writhe underneath him, seeking more stimulation, but he’s so much stronger than you are that you’ll never be able to get more than exactly as much as he’s willing to give you.

“It’s not enough, Alpha,” you whine.

“Shh,” Max hushes you, his fingers never stopping. “Of course it isn’t. But punishments aren’t supposed to be satisfying. Cum for me like this, just this once, and then I’ll give you what you need, okay?”

You can’t do anything other than nod, and it isn’t long before you’re cumming, your orgasm barely more than a few ripples of pleasure compared to the tidal wave you know Max is capable of giving you when he’s fucking you full. He watches your pussy clench weakly around nothing.

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos at you with false pity. “That wasn’t a good one at all, was it? See what happens when you don’t let your Alpha take care of you like he should?”

“Yes, Alpha,” you say meekly, trying to appear as submissive and compliant as possible.

“You still wanna be my good girl?”

You can’t tell him yes fast enough.

“Then turn over, sweetheart. Show me all of that pretty cunt.”

You scramble to obey, going down on your forearms with your hips in the air. Max spreads your cheeks apart and inspects you, everything on display for him. You nearly jump when you feel him run his tongue all the way from your clit to your little puckered hole, tasting every inch of you.

“Mine,” you hear him murmur, almost to himself. Then you feel his cock nudge against your folds, and in one swift stroke he fills you. You don’t get even a second to breathe before he starts to move.

Max cups the back of your neck, his hand large enough that he can reach both of your scent glands at the same time, and presses his fingers and thumb into them. The message is very clear: submit. You instantly go limp like a ragdoll, the pleasure overwhelming. Another orgasm rolls through you from the stimulation, this one so strong you’re reduced to whimpering and drooling onto your blankets as you quietly pulse around him.

“Oh fuck, atta girl, atta girl,” Max grunts behind you. “This is what you really needed, isn’t it? Just needed a firm hand and a big cock to take care of you, hmm?”

And it is. It really fucking is.

———

Keeping track of time isn’t the highest priority for you at the moment, but you’re vaguely aware that Saturday night has bled into Sunday morning has bled into Sunday afternoon. The periods of rest you get are slowly becoming longer. Another twelve hours or so, and you’ll be almost entirely out of your heat. Normally, you’d be counting down the minutes. Instead, you’re dreading having to give Max — or at least, this fantasy you’ve built with Max over the past two days — up.

You’re lightly dozing and trying to forget about it when you become aware of Max spooning himself up behind you. His cock is hard against your ass, which isn’t surprising, but what is surprising is the way he nuzzles into your neck, kissing and lapping at your gland before moving up and fixating on a spot just under your jaw—where you know he can hear your heart beat.

“Max?”

“Mm?” Is his only response. He hooks an arm over your stomach and pulls you closer, precome smearing from the tip of his cock across the small of your back. He sucks at the skin of your neck, rolling it between his lips and giving you what you’re sure will be a hell of a hickie. You hiss at the feeling, and the sound snaps him out of it.

“Fuck.” He sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Max? Are you alright?” You reach out and lay what you intend to be a comforting hand on his forearm, but he goes still under your touch.

Run, whispers some primal part of your brain, some base instinct that understands before the rest of you does. Max runs a hand over his face and nods, but his gaze falls to your wrist and fixates there.

Right where you know your pulse is beating.

“You’re hungry,” you breathe, and the instant you say it you know you’re right. “You need to feed.”

“I normally shouldn’t, not for a few more days. Though in my defense,” Max says with his typical dark humor, “I’m expending an amount of energy I wasn’t necessarily anticipating this weekend.”

A pang of guilt lances through you. More trouble than they’re worth.

“No, hey, it’s alright.” Max places two fingertips gently on one of your glands, responding instantly to the distressed change in your scent and going to soothe you. “I have people I can call.”

He shifts away from you like he means to get up, like he means to leave your nest, and you tighten your hold on his arm.

“Just feed from me.”

Max shakes his head.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.” It comes out perhaps more harshly than he intends. He turns back and crowds you into the bed, cupping your face in his hands.

“What if I can’t stop? You smell so good, you have no idea how much I want to devour you, consume you, in every way you’ll have me. You smell better than anyone I’ve ever - ”

He cuts himself off with a groan, burying his nose in your skin and licking a long stripe up the skin of your sternum.

It should scare you, the way he talks. You should heed the little voice that now screams danger, predator, run. But instead you thread your fingers through his hair and pull him closer, grinding your hips up against him, and all you can think of is yes.

“You won’t hurt me,” you say, and you mean it. “I trust you. You can have me, in whatever ways you want.”

You tilt your chin up and to the side, exposing your neck to his wild gaze. An invitation, followed by words you know he cannot possibly resist:

“Please, Alpha. Take it, it’s yours.”

Max snarls, flipping you both around so that you’re in his lap, the hard length of him trapped between you. The first hint of his knot is already starting to pulse at the base in his excitement. You roll your hips, rubbing your clit along the underside of his cock, automatically seeking that friction. His hands wrap around your waist and egg you on, your slick starting to coat him.

“Fuck, sweetheart, can you take me again? Let me be inside you when I - yes, that’s it baby, there you go - ”

He lifts you up just enough that you can sink down on him, and despite how wet you are and how many times you’ve done this it’s still a delicious stretch. There’s something about this position, too, where you’re face to face and chest to chest, that feels more intimate than the other times he’s fucked you. Max’s skin may be cool to the touch, but his eyes are so warm, a rich, deep, unrelenting brown you’d never truly noticed before.

He’s so beautiful, you can’t believe he’s yours.

For the weekend, you remind yourself. Just until your heat is done. You have to try your best not to lose sight of that fact.

You duck your head down to press your nose into the skin of his neck. He has a pair of scent glands here too that match yours, larger but usually less obvious. Now, though, you can see how they’re swollen and reddened like your own, and the little bird called ego flutters in your chest that that is all your doing. You swipe your tongue over one, and the taste of his pheromones is exquisite. It makes you clench around him.

“Come here,” he murmurs, guiding you up with a hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you, slow and deep, gliding his tongue across yours like he’s trying to capture the taste of himself from you.

“Are you sure?” He asks, grasping onto his very last thread of control.

“I’m sure,” you reply, offering him your neck again.

“No,” he tells you, one hand circling your wrist and pulling the inside of your arm towards his mouth. “Not your neck, baby. Too much risk.” You open your mouth to protest, but Max reaches down to circle your clit with his thumb and your ability to form complete sentences deserts you.

“Cum for me first. Let me make this so fucking good for you.”

You’re not sure how he could make this feel better than it already does, stretched on his cock that hits something deep and spine-tingling inside you at this angle, his thumb expertly working your clit and pushing you quickly towards your orgasm.

You hang onto his shoulder with your free hand and rock against him. Max rubs his nose against the soft skin just below the inside of your elbow and breathes you in. At first you think it’s a trick of the light, but then you realize his features really are starting to change. His skin darkens to a ruddy red. His brow bone thickens and distorts his face. His eyes go black, and when he speaks, you can see a hint of his fangs.

“Don’t be afraid, baby. You’re doing so well, doing so good for me. Perfect little Omega, giving her Alpha everything he wants, everything he needs - ”

But you’re not afraid; the very last thing you feel at this moment is fear. Max presses his lips against your arm, right where you know he’s going to bite you, drink from you, and it sends you over the edge.

You cry out and Max growls in triumph, finally sinking his fangs into you as you cum. It hurts for the barest moment before the pain blurs into pleasure, a numbing, tingling warmth emanating from his bite. His other hand leaves your clit and grips your hip hard enough you know you’ll bear marks from that too, pulling you down onto his cock as his knot swells and catches inside you.

It’s so much, it’s too much - you’re sure you’ve never cum so hard or felt so good in your life, and all you can do is hold Max’s head against where he suckles at your arm, breathing a litany of yes, Alpha, yes, against his temple.

Eventually, you start to come down from your high, the two of you still locked together by Max’s knot. He lifts his head away from you, blood coating his mouth, and presses his forehead (which morphs back into its usual size, shape, and color) against yours.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

You nod, or at least you think you do. You haven’t been awake long, but you’re so tired all of a sudden, and are content to fall against Max and sleep.

———

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s time to wake up. I need you to wake up for me, c’mon now.”

Max strokes a hand up and down your arm, gently shaking you into wakefulness. It takes longer than usual for you to fight your way up to consciousness, your head a different kind of fuzzy than what you typically feel during your heat. Finally you blink your eyes open to see Max above you, and you swear you see relief cross his face when you do. He cups your cheek in one massive palm.

“There she is, my pretty Omega.”

You smile, leaning into his hand, sleep already trying to claim you again.

“No baby, stay awake for me. I need you to sit up, okay? Can you do that?”

You make a noise of protest, but allow Max to maneuver you into a sitting position. He climbs up behind you and settles you sideways across his lap, one arm supporting your back.

You rest your cheek on his chest. The lip of a bottle is pressed to your mouth.

“Drink some of this for me, okay?” Max says. “Wanna make sure your blood sugar doesn’t get too low.”

“Can I keep my eyes closed?” you mumble, still so tired.

He chuckles, and you hear it reverberate through his chest.

“Yes, baby. Now come on, drink up.”

You let him tilt the bottle and it’s not until the taste of sweet lemon-lime sports drink hits that you realize how thirsty you are. You down half the bottle before Max takes it away. Maybe Max feeding from you took more out of you than you thought.

“Eat something and then you can rest again, okay?” Max says. “Open your mouth.”

You do, and Max places a square of dark chocolate on your tongue. You close your lips a moment too soon, catching just the tip of his finger as he withdraws it. You hear him murmur a barely audible “fuck” above you, but he makes no move to turn things sexual. You let the chocolate melt in your mouth, and when it’s gone he gives you another, then another, dripping a soft litany of praise into your ear:

Good girl, that’s so good, such an obedient Omega, so good to let me take care of you like this.

He smoothes one hand over your hair and you swear you’ve never felt safer or more cared for in your entire life.

“Told you you wouldn’t take too much,” you tell him. “Told you I trusted you.”

Max’s nose nudges at your hairline.

“I was so scared there for a minute,” he admits. “You had more faith in me than I had in myself.”

“How often do you need to feed?”

“It depends,” he says. “But usually once a week or so.”

“‘M sorry I interrupted your routine.”

“Don’t be,” he rushes to reassure you. “It’s…I’m glad you did.”

And it has to be a combination of exhaustion, blood loss, and the last of your heat hormones that finally removes your self-preservation filter.

“You don’t have to say that, y’know. I know it’s just…” you wave your hand weakly in front of you, “instincts.”

You can feel Max frown.

“What are you talking about?”

You huff a sigh, still not processing the potential consequences of what you’re saying, but instead slightly annoyed at having to summon the energy to explain further.

“Instincts. Like when you call me your Omega - I know it’s just all heat of the moment stuff.” Whatever combination of factors is making you loopy also has you smiling at your pun. “And I know this isn’t even usually your thing. Being with an Omega.”

Max puts a hand around your jaw and forces you to look at him, confusion and anger starting to permeate his scent. You blink up at him.

“That’s what you think?”

“I heard you!” You say, growing indignant. “I heard you that day in the elevator, talking with all your Alpha buddies. Omegas are more trouble than they’re worth, remember?”

You having overheard this is clearly news to Max, who looks away from you. And this is the thing about heat hormones - you can’t resist the urge to soothe your Alpha, even when you’re cross with him, just like you can’t resist the way your body pingpongs from one mood to another so easily, feeling tears start to prick at your eyes.

“But it’s okay, I appreciate you helping me, and I - I promise I won’t do that clingy, needy Omega thing to you. I hid my designation for so long because it was just easier that way, you know? And we can just - just go back to how things were before, after this, and no one else at the office has to know - ”

“Fuck, I was an idiot.”

Wait, what?

“I did feel that way, for a long time. Everyone always says when you meet the right person, it’s different, and I thought that was a load of shit. I didn’t want a mate. I didn’t need a mate. I’m sorry I said those things, and I’m sorry you heard them.

“And I think…I think my Alpha knew, even from the beginning. I liked seeing you in the office. I liked talking to you. I wanted to spend time with you. And then this - ” he gestures around you, “this happened, and it feels…right. Yes, my Alpha instinct is to take care of you while you’re in heat, but I like taking care of you. I want to take care of you. I like…I like having you rely on me, I like knowing you need me. I’ve never felt that way before. And it’s, y’know…it’s not so bad.”

Max smirks, but it’s entirely self-deprecating. There is a feeling in your chest that is dangerously close to hope.

“Really?”

“Trust me, no one is more surprised than I am at this turn of events.”

“So…what happens now?”

“From your scent, I’d say you’ll be out of your heat tomorrow morning, does that sound right?” You nod. “I’d rather we finish this conversation when we’re both more clear-headed. But I think it might mean something, that we’re so…compatible. And I think we should explore that in the near future when we’re not both being driven by a bunch of chemicals that make us want to fuck each other’s brains out, if you’re amenable to that?”

“I am.”

“Good.” He smiles at you, and for once it’s not smug or coy or full of wry humor. Max smiles at you like he’s simply…happy. You want to see him smile at you like that all the time. And maybe you will.

“As for what happens right now,” and ah, there’s the smugness again, as he slides a hand between your legs and cups your mound, “I have a few ideas.”

And it turns out you’re amenable to those, too.

———

It’s Tuesday morning when you show up back at work, having taken Monday off to fully sleep off the effects of your heat and get your bracelet repaired. Max had (very nobly, he claimed) offered to take the day off too, just to make sure you were okay (“and, you know, just in case we need to have sex again” he’d told you with a grin before you’d playfully shoved him out of your apartment). But now you had his number in your phone and a promise to talk later this week.

You walk from the elevator to your cubicle, oddly nervous and excited at the prospect of seeing Max again, even if it’s barely been 24 hours. You don’t spot him, and you try not to be too disappointed. He has his own office, of course, quite a distance from you, and a very busy schedule.

But as you approach your cubicle a familiar scent greets you, and while there’s still no sign of Max, you know he’s been here recently.

A donut sits on your desk. There’s a note scribbled on the napkin underneath it, of a kind you haven’t gotten since about the third grade, but it’s so perfectly Max that it makes your heart melt a little.

Do u like me?

[ ] yes

[ ] no

If yes, dinner Friday?

[ ] yes

xoxo,

Max ;)

You reach for a pen.

[Fin.]

[nerdieforpedro]

Megan talking about the reaction to W.A.P in her documentary

[nerdieforpedro]

[nerdieforpedro]

[nerdieforpedro]

If your beliefs deny my humanity, question my identity, or disregard my rights, then yes, I have every right to feel some type of way.

[nerdieforpedro]

Men use “I’m just a man” to cheat on their wives. Odysseus uses “I’m just a man” to kill, slay and torture people to get back to HIS wife. They are not the same.

[nerdieforpedro]

❤️❤️❤️

Coachella doesn't deserve Black artists that put in the work to give a show. Cuz how in thee fuck do you stand like a stiff board at a Missy Elliott set with the sound and visuals off the meter? Fucking losers.