#this will do for now until i can replace it tomorrow

[cranberrymoons]

.

[theradicalace]

pre planning an outfit two days in advance because. i'm excited :]

[taeghi]

best friends don’t kiss on birthdays

it’s your birthday! and jake’s gift might be more than just a cake.

PAIRING : bff baker!jake x birthday girl!y/n

GENRE : SMUT = MDNI, bffs 2 lovers, food (cake) play, lots of choking, dirty talk, brief spanking, cum play?? lmao. unprotected sex (pls wear a condom)

WC : 6.5k

authors note : it's my birthday!! (happy bday to me) so i wanted to post a bday fic :D ily all, i hope u enjoy!!!! 🎂🎈

you and jake have been friends for as long as you can remember. you wouldn’t call each other each others soulmates, but you both assume it’s something similar. 

since you were ten, jake has made a cake for you every single year for your birthday. every year it was either a different flavour of cake, different icing style or different shapes. but, every year, like clockwork, jake was at your door with a cake in his hand and a cheesy smile on his face. 

you were both in your final year of university (jake had followed you to university even though he despised the city it was in), and this year so far, has been a bit different between you and jake. both of you had split into different friend groups over the years. you were more of an inner, close social circle type, and jake was, well, the complete opposite. he liked going out every weekend, getting wasted until he was falling off his ass. everytime you hung out with him in public, someone would come up to greet him. 

despite the social shift, you and jake were still close as always. jake was still the same jake you had always known. he lives in the moment, makes quick decisions on the spot without thinking of any consequences, he loves to take risks, even if they put you on edge. but that’s how you and jake balanced each other out. like some chaotic yin and yang in perfect human form. 

the past month, jake had been hanging out with chisa. she’s the lead singer of the rock band at your school, the one that performs at every school event and every party. you’ve only briefly met her, like at her birthday party about a month ago that jake had forced you to go to. but, you could tell that she was almost exactly like jake. she radiates this energy, effortless and infectious, always up for anything, her unpredictability drawing in everyone around her.

jake’s never been serious with anyone—just a few hookups, then he moves on. but with chisa? it was different. he was attached to her in a way you’d never seen before, and you hated that it bugged you, even though you told yourself it didn’t. you had started getting used to smelling chisa’s perfume on jake when he comes over to your apartment, having just left hers. you had gotten used to him smiling at his phone when he hung out with you and it was because of something chisa had texted, not a dumb meme sunghoon had sent him. 

what you couldn’t get used to was jake making sure everyone came to chisa’s birthday, only for a month later to completely forget yours. this was the first year, after fourteen years, that jake didn’t remember your birthday. no text, no barging into your apartment at 8 am with that obnoxious grin of his, dragging you to some arcade or random party to celebrate. nothing.

and now, here it was—10 pm, and not a sign of your best friend.

you sigh and throw yourself into bed, desperately wishing this god awful birthday would just end already. if jake dares to text you tomorrow, you’ll scream at him for hours—unless you’re still caught up in this sinking feeling in your stomach. a brief thought crosses your mind: is jake replacing me? 

you scoff and roll over onto your side, how could jake replace you with chisa if you and chisa had completely different relationships with jake. you told yourself that you’ve just always been the only girl jake hangs out with, that now that there’s another one that he consistently hangs out with it’s fucking with you. because jake is your best friend, or at least you thought he was. do best friends forget each other's birthdays? their traditions? 

you pretend it doesn’t matter, trying to get your mind to shut off so you can sleep. you tell yourself that it’s just another birthday, same as all the others you've lived through and all the ones you’ll live through in the future. but it’s not.jake should’ve been here, whether you wanted to strangle him or not, you just wanted him here.

a single tear falls down your cheek, landing on your pillow that soaks it up.  

more tears are willing to escape, but a knock on the door stops them. 

the clock says 10:32pm on your nightstand, you wonder who the hell is here this late. but in your chest you hope it’s jake. you can’t help but speed walk to the front door. you don’t look through the peephole before you swing it open. 

and sure enough, there’s jake, a cake in his hand with a guilty look on his face, instead of the usual annoying smirk. 

“happy birthday?” jake says unsurely, his face contorted in unease. 

you scoff, “wow, you remembered.” 

jake gasps, “i didn’t miss your birthday, yn!” he pulls out his phone to look at the time, “there’s still an hour and a half of it left!” you don’t answer, just stare at him expressionless, trying to mask your hurt. jake shoves the cake out in front of you, “well are you gonna let me in so we can share this cake? i made it red velvet flavoured this year!” 

you glance down at the cake, it looks perfect. it’s deep red layers covered with cream cheese, white frosting. silver frosting was on the top in jake’s cursive hand writing happy birthday y/n! it looked annoyingly good. 

you sigh and step to the side, letting jake into your apartment so late at night on your birthday. 

“see, you can never say no to my baking!” jake chuckles out, he beelines straight for your kitchen like he never stopped practically living here up until a month ago. he finds two spoons in your cluttered drawers quickly. 

“yeah, well, at least your teachers didn’t waste their money teaching you,” you lean on the other side of the island from him, face to face. 

jake tsks, “okay well, it wasn’t a waste of money then for me to have followed you out here.” jake sticks out a spoon for you to take, “now taste it and tell me how good your best friend in the entire world can bake!” 

you dig your spoon into the cake, it glides so smoothly through it, just like everything else jake bakes. when the red velvet meets your mouth, you can’t help but moan around it. damn jake and his culinary arts degree. 

across the island from you, jake’s mouth is turned into a shit-eating grin, knowing that all your anger towards him has melted away just like the cake has melted in your mouth. 

“good?” jake asks with a tilt of his head, like he doesn’t already know the answer.

“shut up.” 

he laughs—loud, familiar. the sound of it makes your stomach flip in a way you wish it wouldn’t. for a second, it’s like nothing happened. like he didn’t almost forget your birthday.

“sorry there’s no candles this year,” jake mumbles out, placing a bite of cake into his own mouth. 

you shrug, going for a second bite, “it’s okay.” 

“if there was one, what would you wish for?” 

your spoon hovers mid-air. you’re suddenly hyper aware of the way jake is watching you, the way he’s close but not too close, his knee knocking against the cabinet when he shifts. you think for a second, strangely struggling to make eye contact with your best friend. your best friend that you had just cried about 10 minutes before this. 

“hm?” jake pushes you, impatient as always.

“i can’t tell you, or else it won’t come true.” you smirk at him, trying to ignore whatever this weird tension is between you. 

jake scoffs, “you have literally told me every birthday wish you have ever wished for since we were ten, why can’t you tell me now?” 

you shrug, “secret.” placing another piece of cake in your mouth. you notice jake still in front of you, his body rigid. his hands pressing flat against the counter like he’s holding himself back. “what?” 

jake gently puts his spoon down on the marble island, you can feel his sudden unease from across said island.he doesn’t answer. instead, he steps around the island, closing the space between you in two slow strides., “you uh, have icing on your face.”

 before you can reach to wipe it off, jake beats you to it. his large, warm hand meets your cheek, his thumb brushes once against your skin, gathering the icing on his digit. without a second thought (usual jake nature) he slides his thumb into your ajar mouth. your lips circle around his thumb, sucking the frosting of his mouth. jake bites his lower lip in between his teeth as he watches you, feels your tongue circle this thumb before you pull your mouth off it. 

“jake,” your voice whispers to him— he’s so close to you. your apartment suddenly feels one thousand times smaller than it usually does. 

“did your birthday wish include me, y/n?” jake asks, almost desperate, “tell me it did.” you only slightly nod in response, unsure of where this was going, aching for more. in a second, jake’s hand is cupping your jaw. “what was it, y/n? tell me.” 

your voice is quiet when you reveal your wish, “i wished for you to kiss me.” 

before you could process what you had just said to your best friend, he’s leaning over, his lips meeting yours. they’re gentle at first, testing to see if you’re okay. when you don’t push him away or reject the kiss gets hungrier. your lips mesh together in a hurried, desperate mess. like both of you needed this now or else you’d never get it again. 

jake’s hands grip your waist, pulling you into him. it’s the warmth of his body on yours (the one that you’ve always craved) that makes you gasp, pushing him away. 

“what? want to stop?” jake concerns, his eyes flashing over your body quickly, making sure you’re okay. 

“just— what about chisa?” her name sounds foreign coming from your mouth now.  jake chuckles quickly, and then laughs loudly like he suddenly can’t control it. “jake? what?” 

“it’s just,” jake laughs, his on your island to keep him up, “what about chisa? she’s not my girlfriend or anything. don’t you know me, y/n?” 

you pucker your lips, not impressed by his response, it makes you feel dumb. “shut up, jake.” 

when jake sees that you’re being serious, his laugh fades into only a smile, his hands grip your waist again, “chisa is nothing to me, y/n. just a friend.” 

“if she’s just a friend then what am i?” 

his grip falters slightly. you both know jake sucks at talking about his feelings—he’ll show them, sure, but words? not his thing. too bad that’s exactly what you need right now. both of you are unsure if he can give you that. it’s a perfect example of how different you two are from each other. 

“you’re my best friend and i love you.” he speaks, your face is unimpressed and you try to step back from him, but he holds you close, his words rush like you’re gonna disappear, “but i love you more than just as a best friend.” 

you stay in your place, wanting jake to continue, his hands relax on your body again. “then why were you so late to my birthday, jake? i thought you had forgotten about it… about me.” 

“i could never forget about you,” jake leans down to look directly into your eyes as he speaks, wanting you to know that he’s genuine. he swallows harshly before he continues, wanting to do this right, knowing that he’s not good at this type of shit. "i was just—going over everything in my head. all day. i didn’t know if i should go all out or keep it casual. if you’d pick up on my feelings or not. if i’d ruin everything." his hands tremble slightly on your waist. "i didn’t want to lose you."

your heart pounds so loud you’re sure he can hear it. suddenly, all the frustration from earlier doesn’t matter anymore.

you don’t answer—not with words, at least. instead, you pull him back in, pressing your lips to his. jake stiffens for half a second before melting into you, hands slipping around your back, holding you close like he never wants to let go ever again.

jake walks you so your back is against the kitchen island. he pulls away from you and you can see that his eyes are full with lust. you figure yours must look the same. jake swoops down and presses a deep kiss into your neck, inhaling your perfume. he can faintly smell the icing from the cake on you. over your shoulder, jake looks at the bitten-into cake. 

jake’s hands pull off your night shirt, the one you always wear no matter how stretched and oil-stained it’s gotten throughout the years. you gasp at the cold air against your skin, your chest on full display for jake so suddenly. his eyes look like they’re about to devour you. he licks his lips as he look at  your hardened nipples. 

without a second thought, jake swirls some icing from the cake behind you and swipes it onto your breast. 

“jake—!” you gasp out. before you could finish your sentence, jake’s lips are circled around your pink nipples covered in icing, sucking on it and gently pulling it. he moans against your skin. your jaw drops open at the feeling of it. his fingers tweak your other nipples, causing your back to fully arch into him already. 

jake swirls his finger into the cake again, this time slowly, gently, tracing it against your collarbone. 

“what are you doing, jake?” your voice is already breathless as you let your best friend touch you. 

“i wanna see if you, or the icing is sweeter.” he casually shrugs, leaning down and placing his tongue flat against your collarbone, licking up the icing trail in one slow lick. the feeling of his warm, wet tongue on your collarbone has you spiraling too fast for your liking. 

jake’s hands rest on your tits, massaging them and tweaking your nipples as he licks and kisses your collarbone and neck. you can feel your core getting soaked. you can’t believe you and jake are doing this. 

jake dips his finger into the icing again, this time putting his finger right in the valley of your breasts before he slowly drags it down your stomach, stopping at the top of your belly button. 

jake is on his knees in an instant, licking up your stomach the trail of icing. he pops one of your nipples into his mouth again, sucking and pulling on it just enough to get you whining above him. 

jake’s hands push down your night shorts and panties in one go, letting them pool at your feet for you to step out of. it leaves you completely bare in front of fully dressed jake. your body is on full display for him, letting him do whatever he wants to you. 

both of jake’s hands cusp your jaw, his forehead leaning on yours as he looks into your eyes, “you’re so fucking beautiful, y/n.” since he’s holding your jaw you can’t look away from him, you feel your cheeks heat at the compliment. sure, jake has called you beautiful or pretty before, but he’s never done it when you’re completely naked and exposed. “will you let me taste you, baby?” 

you nod in response, making jake smash his lips against yours again, this time softer and gentle, like he’s telling you to trust him. you could taste the icing on his lips. 

jake swipes his index and middle  fingers into the icing again. this time he pushes them in between your lips, getting you to suck on them. “that’s right, baby, get my fingers soaked so they can slide right in you.” his words make you whimper around his fingers, swallowing the sweet icing. your tongue sucks on his fingers, wanting to do as he says. jake’s eyes are glazed over as he watches you, feeling your mouth sucking against his digits. 

with a pop, he pulls them out, now shining with your saliva. he doesn’t hesitate to spread your legs, teasing your already soaked hole with his saliva-covered fingers. he pushes them in slowly, but easy from all the lubricant. both of you moan as his fingers reach as far as they can inside of you. your pussy is so warm around his fingers, he can feel your walls already clenching around them and he hasn’t even moved them yet. 

jake kneels on the ground again, his fingers starting to push out and then back in again. he’s stretching you, preparing you for his cock later on. his fingers adventure and experiment with touching all over your walls. he’s determined to find the spot that makes you cry out. he’s determined to make this the best birthday you’ve ever had. 

your hands grip the kitchen island behind you, trying to stable yourself as jake starts to finger fuck you. his fingers are curling at just the right spots. your bottom lip is glued between your teeth as you watch your best friend stare so intently at where his fingers disappear into your pussy. your folds continue to suck his fingers in everytime he tries to pull them out. your juices and saliva are mixing around his slender fingers, dripping down the sides of them already. 

you throw your head back over your shoulder, the pleasure making your muscles contract and relax over and over again as jake builds your orgasm. you see the red velvet cake that he had made you, keeping your fourteen year tradition alive. you don’t stop yourself from reaching over and swiping the icing off the cake and onto your fingers. jake watches you as you bring your fingers to your folds, smearing the icing around the skin between your legs, right where you want jake’s mouth to be. 

“you want my tongue, baby?” jake smirks up at you from between your legs, his fingers still fucking into you. 

“please, i wanna cum so bad.” 

jake mumbles something about how hot you are before he delves into your folds with his mouth. his eyes closing as he starts to make out with your pussy. he keeps his fingers pushing in and out of you at a steady pace. his tongue starts to circle and tease your clit as his lips suck the skin around it. 

“oh god,” you cry out, your eyebrows bunching together as jake brings you closer to the edge. 

jake’s saliva mixes with your juices as he licks up the icing between your legs. he runs his tongue up and down your slit. your body starts to convulse at the feeling of being so close to the edge. he switches back to giving your clit pressured  sucks, flicking his tongue back and forth your clit quickly. 

your eyes stay focused on jake working your core. his eyes meet yours and a grin spreads across his face as his tongue still circles your clit, adding pressure to it. it makes you cry out, gripping the kitchen island behind you even tighter. your knees start buckling on either side of jake’s head as he kneels on your kitchen floor. 

“fuck, i’m gonna cum, jake!” you warn him, your chest starting to move sporadically as you reach the very edge of your climax. 

“do it, cum all over my face right now— cum all over your best friend's face.” jake grunts out, mumbling against your pussy as he speeds up how fast his tongue circles, how fast his fingers fuck into you. 

your high hits you so satisfyingly. all of your pent up emotions towards jake finally release as you cum onto his mouth and fingers. your body feels like it’s laced with ecstasy as your body shakes with tremors. jake’s free hand helps you stay steady against his mouth as he sucks on your pussy until you’re pushing him away because of the overstimulation. he only laughs at your whining as he pulls his fingers out of you. 

jake stands up, his lips swollen and wet from eating you out. “you really are sweeter than the icing,” jake smiles at your post-nut expression, his mouth still full of your taste. “here— try for yourself.” you let jake slip his finger sinto your mouth for the third time of the night. this time however, it’s not cream cheese icing that has you moaning around his digits, it's your own juices. 

and jake is right, it is sweeter than the icing. 

jake’s fingers slip from your lips. you wrap your arms around jake’s neck, pulling him closer to you again. his hands find their spot on your waist. you both find this position so easily, as if it wasn’t the first time in the past 14 years that you’ve done this. it feels natural, it feels right. 

jake and you are kissing again. it’s slow but passionate and needy. both of you know that the night isn’t over. especially when you feel his hard cock rub on your abdomen through his jeans. you pull away form him, looking down at where your waists are. his bulge is huge in his pants, it makes your mouth and pussy water some more. 

“let’s go to your bedroom,” jake says, his voice husky. 

“please,” 

jake’s quick to pick you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you through your apartment and to your bedroom. you’re both laughing as he does so. you press soft kisses into his scalp as he carries you. 

jake places you down onto your bed. this isn’t the first time jake and you have been in a bed together. though, it is the first time you’ve been in this position. your legs wrapped around his waist as he hovers over you, your pussy and his lips both swollen. 

you continue to make out until either of you can take it anymore. your lips wet and plump from sucking and pulling on each others. you’re both moaning into each other's mouths. jake slowly grinded his jean covered bulge into your bare pussy, teasing the both of you. the moment feels intimate, like the both of you needed this so desperately. 

jake pulls away from you, stopping the heavy makeout sesh. his chest is panting against yours as he lays on top of you. 

“you sure you wanna do this?” 

“yes, please, jake— i need this so bad— please, it’s my birthday,” 

jake laughs, “okay okay, anything for the birthday girl.” 

jake pushes himself off the bed, standing up to take off his clothes. he discards them lazily on your bedroom floor. his lean muscles flex as he crawls back onto the bed, resuming his position of being between your legs. 

jake grabs the flesh of your thighs, holding your legs open and wide for him to be able to press his cock against your pussy. 

“spit on it,” he demands of you. 

you lean over your body, spitting down onto where his cock rests on top of your pussy. both of you can feel your clit throbbing against his cock, wanting and needing more already. 

“good girl.” 

jake grabs his dick, lining it up with your pussy before he pushes all the way in with one singular thrust. both of you let out pornographic moans, your eyes rolling to the back of your head and the feeling of finally being stretched out by your best friend's cock. 

jake curses under his breath, his hair falling into his face as the feeling of you being so tight around him affects him, too. it already feels so wet and warm— jake can feel himself becoming addicted to this feeling. something that he knew would happen if he ever got you in a position like this. which is why he had tried so hard to ignore his feelings for you in the past, not wanting to ruin the friendship. 

but that’s all gone out the window now that he knows what you taste like. 

“move, please, move.” you beg of him, and who is he to deny the birthday girl?

jake leans over top of you, placing both of his hands on the mattress beside your body. your knees are bent around his waist as he starts to move his cock in and out of you, slowly at first, wanting to warm you up to the stretch of his large cock. his lips meet your own again, like they can’t be off each other long without feeling withdrawal symptoms. 

jake has to force himself to stop kissing you and he pushes himself back up, crouching himself over your body with his cock still lodged deep inside of your pussy. his feet are on the outer side of both of your hips, your knees bent and your thighs pressed against your chest in a mating press. 

jake starts to pound his cock into you at a slow but hard pace. the tip of his cock hitting your cervix every time he pushes back into you. 

“oh fuck!” you exclaim. you had imagined that sex with jake would feel good, but not this good. 

jake chuckles breathlessly as his one hand crawls to your neck, wrapping itself around it, adding pressure ever so slightly. jake’s breathless gasps and grunts mix with your whines as he fucks into you, setting a starting pace. everytime he slams himself into you, your bedframe hits the wall behind you. thankfully your bed is pushed up against the window that faces the street and not your next door neighbours. 

jake falls back onto his knees from his feet, keeping your legs placed on his broad shoulders as he continues to fuck into you at a steady pace. he aims for the spot he found earlier that he knows drives you to the edge. you keep your hands on your thighs, your eyes not leaving his face as he fucks you. 

jake’s gold chain hits his chest everytime he pulls out of you, just to drill back into you. 

“fuck i love your cock, it feels so good.” you confess, knowing already that no one would ever be able to make you feel as good as jake does. his cock seems to perfectly fit inside of you. every vein brushes against your pussy walls in the perfect way. his tip hits your g spot every single time. his hand pulses pressure around your neck, blocking complete oxygen from reaching your brain and lungs. 

jake drops your legs from his shoulders, wrapping them around his waist as he leans to hover on top of you, placing his elbows on either side of you. his cock doesn’t stop fucking into you. 

“fuck,” jake groans out, “your pussy keep sucking me back in, baby. doesn’t want my cock to leave.” 

“mhm,” you nod back to him, looking into your eyes as pleasure builds inside both of you. 

“would you like that, y/n?” jake teases you, “would you like having my cock inside of you all day?” 

his words make your walls pulse around his cock, something both of you feel, “oh god, yes. i want it in me all the time, forever.” 

jake dryly chuckles, leaning down to press a deep kiss onto your lips. you can feel his balls hitting your ass every time his hips meet your own. his pelvic bone rubs against your clit as he hovers over top of you. 

when the kiss stops, jake presses his hand over your mouth, cutting off your oxygen again, letting you moan and breathe heavily against his warm palm. jake keeps his body pressed on top of you, only his hips move as he fucks his cock in and out of you. 

at this point, both of you have sweat dripping off your bodies, your skin looks flushed. 

jake is intermittently switching between sloppily making out with you, to covering your mouth or wrapping his hand around your neck. 

“you like when i choke you, baby? like how i control when you breathe?” jake grunts out to you. 

even though you and jake had never done anything sexual up to this point, you both knew each other’s kinks and turn ons. that’s something best friends just talk about, right? 

like you know how much he loves to see girls choke on his dick. how much he loves seeing a girls ass turn red from him spanking her over and over again. just like he knows that you love being choked, love being degraded and teased as a man pounds into you. 

“i fucking love it,” you gasp out, loving how out of breath you were. 

jake smirks at your answer before he sits up on his knees again, your legs still wrapped around his waist. both of his hands land on your neck, adding enough pressure for you to lose some oxygen. jake starts using his grip on your neck to pound into your harder from a different angle. his cock hitting directly inside of you now, your cores hitting each other perfectly. 

your entire body is being pushed up and down off your mattress as jake using your body to be able to fuck into you harder and harder. 

“fuck,” jake grunts out, his teeth greeted as his pace picks up speed. your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, unable to do anything besides letting jake fuck you. your body numb to anything but the pleasure his cock was giving you. “you take my cock like such a good girl, such a nasty, good girl.” 

jake pulls his hands off your neck, and without warning, he roughly flips you over so you’re on your stomach, your plump ass up in the air for him. jake drags your hips towards him, sliding his cock back into you before he pushes your face down into the mattress. your sheets muffle your moans as he starts to fuck into you. 

jake has one hand on the back of your head, keeping it in your bed, and the other hand grips your waist. he keeps your body still, with just his hips moving as he balances himself on his knees. at this point, it feels like jake knows every square inch of your body. he knows every spot that makes you scream out his name. it’s almost ridiculous. 

“that feel good, baby?” jake asks from behind you, his hips not stopping. 

“god, fuck,” you answer, muffled by the mattress. “harder, please fuck me harder.” 

jake does as you say, letting go of the back of your head to grip your waist with both of his hands. his hips start to pound against your ass. your bedroom full of the sound of skin slapping against each other. and since you know your best friend so well, you aren’t shocked when he starts slapping your ass. a cry escapes your mouth everytime his hand meets your ass. 

“you want it hard, y/n?” jake chuckles out from behind you, “i don’t know if you can take it, baby. you already seem so close to cumming.” 

“no, no!” you try to shake your head no, “i can take it, please, please, harder.” your voice doesn’t even sound like yourself. it’s full of need and desperation. and luckily, since it’s your birthday, jake is willing to provide you with everything you want. 

his cock is still filling you up as far as it can go inside of you. it stretches you in a way you didn’t know you could be stretched. you feel so fucking full that it’s intoxicating. you think your pussy is going to be stretched out in the shape of jake’s cock. and then jake will be the only one to fuck you. 

jake’s hands reach under your core, lifting you up so your back is against his chest. his cock doesn’t stop working in and out of you, his pace never letting up. you didn’t know his stamina was this good. but who are you to complain?

jake keeps your body upwards with one hand wrapped around your waist, the other has snaked its way to your clit. all three of his fingers lay flat on your clit as he rubs them in a circle, adding intense pressure on the sensitive bundle of nerves as his cock seems to start perfectly hitting your g spot. 

your hands wrap onto his thighs that are on either side of your body. 

“holy shit!” you shout, “i’m going to fucking cum if you keep doing that.” 

if it wasn’t for jake’s hands keeping you upwards, you’d be bent over limp. the pleasure was building and building and building inside of you. your muscles working overtime by contracting and relaxing repeatedly. your tits were still covered in a mix of icing and jake’s saliva. your hairline was sweaty, you could barely keep your eyes open at this point. 

“yeah? you gonna fucking cum on my cock, princess?” jake grunts in your ear from behind you. “do it. fucking do it. i wanna feel your pussy clench around my cock so bad.” 

you whimper out at his words, they only make you tighten more around his cock. your juices dripping out of your pussy and all over his cock— all over your sheets. a wet stain was starting to form on your sheets directly below you.  

“fuck, fuck, i’m gonna cum on your cock.” you helplessly nod, focusing on the pleasure building in your abdomen. “just like that, like that!” 

you can’t help the scream that escapes your lips next as you come undone on jake’s cock. he’s quick to cover your mouth with his hand— silencing your loud scream so the neighbours don’t call the police. your head falls back onto his shoulder, unable to do anything but let jake fuck you through your orgasm. 

“that’s it,” jake grunts out, the feeling of your walls sporadically squeezing his cock over and over again, makes his brain fog over. “that’s a good girl, fucking wet my cock with your cum.” 

when your body finally stops shaking, jake helps you lay back onto your back, your head on your pillow. your eyes are glazed over, your body feels like it’s on high alert and just so, so sensitive. 

still, jake’s dick is rock hard, oozing pre cum, soaked in your juices. 

“i’m so close, baby.” jake’s voice is needy but gentle, “please let me fuck your pussy until i cum, please. i need it around me cock so bad.” 

you nod lazily at him, “please, please.” your hand reaches out to grab his thigh, wanting his cock back inside of you already, “need your cock in me. need to fill your cum fill me up.” 

jake can’t help but moan at your words, it makes his cock twitch at the fact that he’ll get to cum in your pussy. fill you up with his hot, warm sperm. his heart picks up pace when he visualizes what your pussy would look like as it dribbles out his cum back out and onto your sheets. 

“yeah? you wanna be my cum slut?” jake’s voice is teasing as he leans back over you, his cock already lining up with your weeping, swollen hole. “you wanna be filled with your best friend’s cum on your birthday?” 

“yes, fuck, i want that so bad, jake, please!” 

jake’s hand cups your jaw, forcing you to look at him as he laughs at your desperation. “relax, baby— you’ll get what you want.” 

jake pushes his cock back inside of you with one thrust, making both of you sigh out in satisfaction. he had only been out of your pussy for one minute but both of you were aching for him to be inside of you again already. 

jake could feel that his own orgasm wouldn’t be much longer. his cock was feeling so sensitive. everytime your soaking walls clenched somehow even tighter around him than before he could feel the pit in his stomach grow and grow. your whiny moans of his name, telling him to not stop edged him closer and closer to his orgasm. 

his hands gripped your waist roughly, focusing on trying to cum just for you. 

“oh god, jake— your cock fills me so good, i wanna feel your cum fill me, too, please.” you beg him, your sensitive walls milking his cock further and further. begging him to paint the inside of your pussy white with his cum. 

jake grunts out, his voice becoming deeper with every second, “yeah? tell me you want my cum, y/n. tell me you deserve my cum.” 

“i want your cum inside of me so bad, jake. please give it to me. i deserve to be filled with your cum, don’t i?” you beg him, your eyebrows furrowed together as you look up at him. his eyes switching between your face and your pussy. “aren’t i your good girl, jake?” 

jake lets out a deep grunt at your words, “fuck yeah, you’re my good girl. such a good girl.” jake’s cock is fucking in and out of you so quickly, you don’t even feel it leaving your pussy. “you’re my good girl so you’re gonna take my cum, right?” 

“yes! please, please! i can take it!” 

“fuck, fuck!” jake yells out, his grip on your waist surely leaving bruises now. “i’m fucking cumming.” 

when jake finally cums, it’s messy. 

his cum spurts out inside of you in thick, hot strands. both of you groaning at the feeling of him finally filling you up. jake doesn’t stop thrusting into you until his orgasm dissipates.  his brain becoming a little less foggy as he feels his cock plunged deep inside of your pussy with his sperm. 

jake gently pulls out of you and you sit up on your elbows, legs still spread wide open to watch jake’s cum start to drip out of your red, swollen hole. when it finally does, both of you moan. it’s warm as it drips down your folds, mixing with so many other substances you can’t count. 

jake is quick to reach down and gather some of his cum on his finger. your mouth is already open for it before he even asks you to. he slips his finger into your mouth. you moan at the taste, swallowing it with no hesitation. he pops his finger out of your mouth again. 

“tastes sweeter than the icing.” you tiredly smile up at him, teasing him. 

jake doesn’t laugh though, he only swoops down and presses his plump lips onto yours. the kiss is sweet and gentle, almost innocent if it didn’t just follow the multiple sinful acts you had just committed. 

the second you pull away from each other, reality takes over. your heart is still hammering from the orgasms, your lips are swollen and tingling from kissing jake so much.  your birthday is ending very differently from how it started. you’re now not only best friends with jake, but something more as well. 

jake’s still close to you, smiling at you that makes your stomach have annoying butterflies. he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. his smile is contagious and suddenly you're mimicking his expression. 

“best birthday ever,” 

“yeah?” jake’s smile is boyish and smug. 

“yeah,” you shrug, “definitely better than last year’s gift.” 

“hey! socks are practical! why wouldn't you want socks?” 

“shut up, jake.” 

jake huffs out a laugh before shoving you back onto the bed, he lays down beside you. your bodies still warm and sweaty against each other’s. 

“i can’t wait until my birthday.” jake says, elbowing you suggestively. 

“bold of you to assume i’ll still be into you by then.” 

jake is unaffected, only scoffing as he sits up on his elbows to look down at you, “you’re literally obsessed with me, i have no worries.” 

“okay? and you’re obsessed with me.” 

“yeah,” jake shrugs, “but at least i can admit it.” 

jake laughs when you kick him, laying back down beside you, head right next to yours on your pillow. your bedroom goes quiet. both of you take turns looking at each other when the other isn’t. both of you are still trying to process what just happened in the past hour. 

but, you don’t need to ponder for long. you and jake are still best friends. you’re still complete opposites. still yin and yang. still a complete mess. so, in your usual chaotic way, you’ll figure out your relationship together. 

“wanna shower and then eat the rest of the cake?” jake murmurs to you. 

“hell yeah.” 

best. birthday. ever. 

@ taeghi, 2024. do not repost or reuse in anyway.

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[thestarsaboveme]

Reader thinks the Lads men are cheating with MC

masterlist

this was a request from a kind anon.

summary: angst with comfort, reader and lads men having a misunderstanding because reader is overthinking that they’re cheating on her with the mc since they always spend time with the mc and spending less time with the reader.

xavier ver. | rafayel ver. | zayne ver. | caleb ver.

sylus x reader | angst/comfort

You were used to Sylus being quiet.

Not cold. Just…quiet.

So when his messages started getting shorter, when his gaze didn't linger as long on yours, when his kissed turned into brushes of habit more than affection, you didn't notice right away.

Until it started to hurt.

-

You saw them again.

Sylus and MC in the lab.

Her laughter reached you before their voices did. Sylus stood beside her, arms crossed, watching her monitor as she demonstrated something. He wasn't smiling. But he also wasn't pulling away like he did with most people. He was listening. Engaged.

You waited for him to notice you.

He didn't.

After ten minutes of watching from the hallway, you left.

-

Are you free tonight?

You messaged him later.

We haven't spent time together in a while.

He didn't reply for two hours.

Can't. Late testing with MC. Tomorrow?

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow. It was always tomorrow.

-

You told yourself you were being irrational. That he'd always been closer to MC, given their compatibility, their shared background, their synced missions. This his loyalty ran deeper than words, and if he was cheating, you'd know, right?

But your gut twisted every time you saw them together. Every time he mentioned her like she was another heartbeat.

And tonight, as you sat alone in your room again, you couldn't hold it in anymore.

You called him.

He answered on the second ring, voice calm. ''Hey. Everything okay?''

''No,'' you said, and your voice cracked more than you meant it to. ''Can you come over?''

A pause. ''Now?''

''I need to talk to you, Sylus. Please.''

A longer pause. Then: ''I'm on my way.''

-

When he arrived twenty minutes later, he looked tired. Dark circles under his eyes. His hair slightly disheveled from running his fingers through it too many times. He took one look at your expression and stepped in without a word.

You stood by the couch, arms folded across your chest.

He said nothing at first, just watched you. Waiting. Patient.

That made it harder.

''Are you cheating on me with MC?''

The words came out like broken glass.

Sylus blinked. No dramatic reaction. No flinch. Just stilness.

Then a slow, quiet, ''No.''

You let out a shaky breath. ''Then why does it feel like you're never here anymore? Why does it feel like you replaced me with her?''

Still calm, he asked, ''Is that what you think I've done?''

''I don't know what to think, Sylus!'' you snapped, voice rising. ''You've been with her constantly. You talk about her like she's in your head all the time.'' You make time for her, not me. And I sit here, waiting like I'm some background character you forgot about.''

He stepped forward slowly. ''You're not.''

''Then explain it to me,'' you whispered. ''Because I'm tired of guessing where I stand with you.''

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Quietly, heavily.

''There's nothing going on between me and MC,'' he said. ''But I haven't made that clear. That's on me.''

You swallowed hard. ''Then why have you been so distant?''

He hesitated, then moved to sit on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees. Not his usual posture. He looked vulnerable. Smaller, somehow.

''I've been working with MC on some dangerous tech,'' he said slowly. ''There were…anomalies in her readings. We thought they were unstable. I needed to make sure she was okay.''

You frowned. ''So you were protecting her?''

''I was doing my job. I was trying to prevent another incident. Something like what happened to me.'' He looked up then, eyes locking onto yours. ''And I didn't want you anywhere near it.''

You hesitated. ''Why not tell me that?''

He looked away again. ''Because if you knew, you'd want to help. You'd want to be involved. And I couldn't handle the thought of something happening to you.''

Silence fell between you.

You sat beside him on the couch, not touching.

''You think keeping me in the dark is protecting me?''

''I thought I could carry it all without hurting you,'' he said. ''But I was wrong.''

You exhaled. ''You made me feel like you were slipping away. Like I was being replaced by someone who understands you better.''

His jaw tightened. ''No one understands me like you do.''

You met his eyes again. ''Then why couldn't you just say that?''

He stared at you for a long time.

And finally, he said, ''Because you're the only person who makes me feel like I'm still human. Like I'm more than what I was built to do. And that scares me more than anything.''

Your heart clenched.

''Sylus…''

''I'm not used to needing someone,'' he admitted. ''But I need you. And I didn't know how to say that without feeling like I was putting you in danger.''

''You're not,'' you whispered. ''You're just hurting both of us instead.''

He nodded, slowly. ''I know. I'm sorry.''

You reached out, brushing your fingers against his hand. He didn't move away.

''I don't want to be protected from your truth, Sylus,'' you said. '' I want to stand beside you, not behind you.''

he finally turned his hand over, letting your fingers intertwine.

''I can try,'' he said softly. ''If you'll let me fix this.''

You leaned into his shoulder, the silence between you no longer cold. But healing.

''I want to,'' you said. ''But next time…talk to me.''

''I will,'' he promised.

And somehow, in that quiet, broken space between heartache and hope, you began to believe him.

[adimilkys]

JJK men waking up horny at night

MDNI : 18+, smut, somnophilia, masturbation, p in v, degradation and much more

Contains : Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento, Toji Fushigiro, Choso Kamo, Ryomen Sukuna (I was throwing up while writing his bitch ass 😾 I still love you Sukuna 😔)

small note : remember! Consent is everything, so let’s say the reader and character made an agreement on not minding if they would wake up to head etc. Not proof read

Gojo Satoru

He often got wet dreams, either waking up to morning wood or- waking up in the middle of the night.

And that’s what happened this time, it’s 3 am and Satoru let out a groan as his eyes opened, his whole face was red, it was so goddamn hot in here. He looked over at your peaceful face, wrapped his hands around you and pulled you closer.

He breathed in your smell, leaving kisses all around your neck and shoulders, slightly grinding his hard cock against your ass.

“Fuck… not letting me rest in my sleep either.” A quiet whine left his mouth, one hand going under his shirt that you were wearing, while the other one pulled your panties to the side, you usually only slept in his shirt and your panties, so he had easy access to your body.

“Baby… I need you…” two of his fingers entered you, he started moving them slowly and scissoring them, you let out a soft moan and clenched your thighs together- but still asleep.

He sped up his pace, taking his own cock into his hand and started stroking it. You let out a louder moan, feeling something tighten inside your stomach.

Suddenly your eyes shot open as your hand instantly went to grab his wrist. “T-Toru!” You cried as he added a third finger.

“M’sorry baby… I was so horny…” he was also close, groaning as he was stroking his cock faster.

“C-Can I put it in? Please please I need to feel you…” You nodded, not able to say anything, the only sounds leaving your mouth being moans of his name.

His fingers left your hole, you whined at the lost sensation but it was immediately replaced with his cock, you gasped at the feeling of being so full. He had your back against his chest. His arms were wrapped around your thighs, holding them up so it was easier for him to slide in.

His thrusts were slow and deep, hitting your cervix every time.

“Toru!! Ah- c-close!” You moaned, your nails were digging into his shoulder as he fastened his pace.

“S-shit… me too baby, me too.” One of his hands left your thigh, letting it lay on the bed, it instead went to your clit.

Your eyes rolled back and your back arched as you came, he wasn’t far behind, a few more strokes and he buried himself deep inside and shot his loads of cum.

As he pulled out you both were a panting mess. He moved your panties back, his hands wrapping around your waist and head hid in your shoulder.

“I’ll clean you up in the morning…”

Nanami Kento

It was rare for him to get wet dreams, it basically never happened, until this night.

He was rock hard and itching to touch you but he didn’t want to wake you up. You came back from work really late and exhausted, it was a hard day for you.

He could just jerk off, but he wanted you so bad. He got onto his knees, making you lay on your back as he pushed your legs apart, slowly pulling your panties off, making sure you won’t wake up.

He grabbed his cock in his hand and started stroking it, imagining it was your hand right now. You were so cute asleep, his beautiful wife.

You probably would tease him for days if you found out what he was doing, he just wanted to quickly get off to your body and go back to sleep.

He leaned down, kissing all over your exposed cleavage and neck, leaving small marks with every kiss, you’ll probably wake up and wonder where’d they come from.

He’ll explain himself tomorrow, right now it wasn’t important. What was is that he’s closer and closer, he started moving his hand faster, shooting out ropes all over your stomach that was exposed due to your shirt being ridden up, following with a muffled moan.

When he calmed down, he grabbed a tissue from the shelf and cleaned the cum off you. Putting your panties back down and laying down next to you, cuddling you.

Toji Fushigiro

He dreamt of you pregnant all over again, your round belly, filled with his child. He knows he has a breeding kink, so it’s obvious that he has gotten hard just from thinking about it.

Megumi wouldn’t mind a little brother, or maybe sister. Fuck, he wanted to get you pregnant again. He knows you’re on that shitty pill- he needs to flush them down the fucking toilet.

But right now all he needed was you. He grabbed your sleeping face and slammed his lips on yours, making you gasp, which allowed his tongue to enter.

“Mhmm- too-ji?” You muffled out barely awake, confused why in the middle of the night your man started furiously attacking your mouth.

“Fuck- feel what you did to me doll, got me all hard even in my sleep, yeah?” You let out another gasp, feeling his hard erection press against your clothed pussy.

Not letting you say anything he ripped your panties and immediately positioned his cock against your entrance.

“T-Toji! What if we wake up Megumi-”

“Then you have to quiet down all these pretty sounds, hm?” And just like that he slammed his dick inside of you. You quickly bit down on your hand, muffling your loud cry.

Not letting you adjust, he continued slamming in and out of you at a quick pace. Tears filled your eyes from the pleasure, trying the best to muffle your loud moans. Your other hand scratched at his back.

He grabbed the hand that was covering your mouth and replaced it with his lips, you could’ve sworn you felt his tongue in your throat, it was a messy kiss- tongues and teeth clashing together. Then he moved down to your neck, leaving marks all over it.

“A-Ah! S-Slo’down- T’muchhh!” Instead of actually slowing down, he only went faster if that was even possible at this point.

“I know you can take it, doll. You always do.” With every thrust you were closer, it was also hard to be quiet with this beast of a man slamming into you at an inhuman pace.

“Toji- close so close!”

“Come on, cum f’me” Your head threw back, not able to contain the loud cry that left your mouth, his pussy clamped down so hard on his cock that he came short after you, letting out a load groan as he filled you up.

“One more round?”

“Toji- wait, AH-”

Choso Kamo

You’re his first ever partner, he’s still not used to all those relationships things. So just imagine his confusion when he woke up at 2 am, his dick rock hard and his body hot.

He looked over to you, sleeping so beautifully, you were asleep and didn’t even do anything- what happened??

He couldn’t go back to sleep, he was too horny. You won’t be mad if he wakes you up, right?

He carefully shook you, calling out your name. After a minute you opened your eyes, mumbling out some incorrect words. When you saw it was Choso who was sitting up, looking all worried you immediately raised yourself up on your hands.

“Love…? What’s wrong?” You asked, his face got red immediately, embarrassed to say what happened.

“I- woke up and my dick was hard, I didn’t know what happened so I woke you up.” You stared at him and let out a soft laugh, sitting up next to him.

“Oh baby, you probably just had a wet dream.” He looked at you confused, still not understanding what that meant.

“A wet dream is when you dream about something sexual.” He let out a quiet ohh, you shook your head smiling.

“Want me to help?” He didn’t move for a while before slowly shaking his head, still embarrassed that he had to wake you up for that. You took his dick in your hands, slowly moving them up and down before lowering your head and leaving kisses all over his cock.

His hand buried itself in your hair as he let out a quiet moan, begging you to not tease him. You complied to his request, taking as much of him as you can in your mouth.

He slightly thrust his hips forward, making the head of his cock hit the back of your throat. “M-m’sorry… had too-“ he whined as your plump lips dragged on his dick, your mouth so warm. The rest that you couldn’t fit in was wrapped around your hand, not being forgotten.

The way you looked up at him, the way that your mouth moved- he was getting closer and you knew it, your movement got faster and he gripped your hair tightly, letting out a moan as he came inside your mouth.

You swallowed it all, giving his head a last kiss before raising yourself up and wiping the corners of your lips with your hand. “You did so good love” he blushed at the praise,

“I’ll repay you tomorrow, okay?”

“Choso, you know you don’t have to-”

“But I want to.”

Ryomen Sukuna

He will not wake you up and admit that he got hard because of a stupid dream, there’s absolutely no way. He won’t ‘jerk off’ either, that would be just low of him.

So he will indeed wake you up but by his cock inside of you. He immediately got to work, ripping your panties off and throwing them somewhere in the room, getting in between your legs as he picked them up and held them against your chest.

He spit down on your pussy, the cold sensation making you shiver in your sleep. He grabbed one of his cocks and positioned it against your entrance, he would use both but getting you prepared for the other one would take too long.

And with a quick thrust he was deep inside of you, filling you up. The sudden intruder immediately woke you up, letting out pleasurable but also painful scream.

“Ngh—! wha-?!” Your eyes darted around the room before laying on the huge frame of Sukuna, who was glaring at you.

“Quiet, brat. This is your fault so now take it.” Your back arched off the mattress as he suddenly started moving, still half asleep not knowing what’s happening.

“Ryo-! Wait! Let me-” before you could finish your sentence a loud moan left your mouth, he did not plan on giving you any mercy with how fast he was ramming inside you.

You yelped as he slapped your ass harshly, “That’s for waking me up, brat.” You wanted to reply to him but you couldn’t form the words, even if you did you knew that would just result in another slap.

He didn’t even bother at pulling out as he picked you up and flipped you onto your stomach like a ragdoll. Continuing with his harsh slams, you felt every vein, with how big he was he was hitting every spot inside your pussy.

His hand grabbed your head and pushed you further into the pillow, making you arch more. He was slamming into you so hard it felt like he was rearranging your guts. The knot in your stomach tightened as you clenched around him.

“Cum, slut.” With his words your hands gripped onto the pillows and with almost a scream-like moan you came so hard you saw stars, but even with your tight pussy clamping around him so hard his thrusts didn’t slow down.

He once again grabbed your body, now picking it up and making you sit on his lap, your back against his chest as he bounced you up and down. You were so fucked out, tears streaming down your cheeks, your tongue out as spit leaked from the corners of your mouth.

“Look at you, so greedy for my cock.” He smirked, pinching your nipple.

“Ryooo— I can’t-” he slapped your ass once again, making you let out a cry, feeling another orgasm coming soon.

“Close already?” He scoffed “Pathetic” you squirmed as his hand went to your clit. One hand on your throat, second on your boobs, third wrapped around your waist making you bounce and fourth on your clit.

“Haa- n-nono-“ you cried as the next orgasm hit you, squirting all around his cock and hand. Leaving you a panting and overstimulated mess.

“What a messy pussy…” he groaned as he slammed you down, cock buried so deep there was a bulge on your stomach as he filled you with his load.

You were sure you would fall down on the bed if he wasn’t holding you up. He pulled his cock out just to fill you again with his second one.

“Did you think we were done, brat?”

[sugarwarachan]

part two, you dirty birdies. go read this first to catch up! summary: A city-wide blackout leads to some questionable decisions on Eraserhead's part: for four nights in a row now, Aizawa Shouta has been watching you get yourself off. Is tonight the night he joins in? pairing: aizawa shouta x citizen!reader wc: 2.4k (oops) content warnings: SMUT mdni, dark content, stalker!aizawa, voyeurism, dubcon, power imbalance (pro hero/civilian, ya know), obsessive behavior, voice kink, dirty talk, blindfolds are involved, piv sex, oral f!receiving, spanking, dom/sub elements but not explicitly stated, aizawa's big dick, creampie, unprotected sex (do not do this!!! especially with strangers!!! this is fiction!!!)

Aizawa knows he shouldn’t go back.

It was already enough of a risk to hear your voice; that he's considering confirming his identity with you should have alarm bells blaring in his head.

But logic abandoned him hours ago.

Your message, come back tomorrow <3, blinks in his head. At this point, he’s just waiting for the city to fall asleep so he can slip out along the ledge and head straight to you.

Part of him is bizarrely nervous to replace the distance with reality, but the thought of never feeling your weight on top of him erases all arguments.

As soon as night falls, he winds his capture weapon around his neck and slides out into the dark.

All day long, you’ve been aching and hot, sliding your thighs together under the desk at work to relieve some of the pressure.

There’s no guarantee he’ll come back. You’ve told yourself this ever since you woke up gasping for breath, rocking your hips against a pillow.

It’s like he possessed you, you muse on the train ride home, the force of the train cars rattling your already frazzled head. You’ve never felt this way in your life, desire snapping and fizzing under your skin.

Your apartment looks exactly the same as when you left, straight down to the kicked-over coat stand you’d jostled on your way out the door. It’s all so maddeningly ordinary that it takes everything within you not to scream.

It’s almost like last night didn’t happen at all.

“No need to sigh like that, sweetheart.”

His voice comes from behind you. Fear zips up your spine like dynamite sparking, your stomach bottoming out in one fell swoop.

He’s here.

Something winds around your wrists and face, obscuring your vision and tugging your body back. You collide with someone who smells like cedar and books and black coffee.

You breathe in his scent as the fear melts to excitement, to anticipation.

He’s here.

“Miss me, sweet girl?”

You’d think huffing him in like a fucking croissant would be a dead giveaway.

“What’s with the blindfold?” you ask instead. Angling your head in various ways does nothing. He made sure you can’t make him out, only confirming your previous hunch. He’s a pro, and he sure as fuck doesn’t want anyone to know he’s sneaking into girls’ apartments and fucking them stupid.

“You’re smarter than that.”

His voice is even better in person; you can feel the rumble of it against your neck. He loosens his hold on the cloth binding your wrists. Your hands naturally settle on the broad expanse of his chest.

He says the next thing nice and soft, “We don’t have to do anything.”

You understand the out for what it is, but you’re willing to sacrifice your sight for a taste of what he offered you yesterday.

“I’d like to do some things,” you say, and he huffs a laugh. “I don’t know what you did to me, but if you don’t touch me in the next few seconds, I feel like I’ll pass out.”

You don’t even realize you’re grinding yourself on his thigh until his hand splays across your hip, stilling you. Flipping you around, he cages you against the door, teeth scraping down the side of your throat.

“You don’t know what I did to you?” He punctuates the ask by kicking your feet apart with the heel of his boot. Your pussy clenches around nothing, a keen high in your throat. “What about what you did to me? Feels like I’ve got you floating around my fucking bloodstream.”

With a growl, he scoops you up and pins you against the door with his hips, mouth bracketing over yours.

“Can’t get your pretty little noises out of my head,” he says against your lips, sounding like a man at a confessional. His hips jerk, the length of his erection pulsing between you. “Can’t stop thinking about that pretty picture you sent me.”

He laves at your collarbone with his tongue, hand resting in the hollow of your throat. The gentlest squeeze elicits your softest sigh. He grunts at the sound, thick fingers applying more pressure before falling to your waist and locking you in place. His breath skates over your cheek; you feel the rasp of stubble on your skin.

“Let me take you to bed, sweetheart.”

God, his voice makes your knees fucking buckle. His forearm is tight around your back, holding you close.

“Please.”

You don’t recognize that whine as your voice; you’ve never sounded this eager, never felt this aching pulse in your core the way you do now. You need him to mold your insides to the shape of him, to pin you down on the mattress and take you.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. You don’t know him, not really, but you like this aspect of his personality. He makes his want for you tangible, so sharp you can practically taste it in the air. It’s like he’d rather die than leave you unsatisfied, and honestly, you don’t think anyone’s made you feel like that.

You can’t help liking it.

He taps open the door to your room with the toe of his boot. Lips slanted over yours, his tongue presses behind your teeth, licking into your mouth in the filthiest kiss you’ve ever shared with someone. It’s a sloppy clash of teeth and tongues; your hands fist in his hair as he caresses his thumbs over the skin of your hips.

“Take your clothes off.”

You obey just as you did on the phone, the rush to do so shooting a wave of heat over your face.

“That’s my girl, fuckin’ eager for it, huh?” You wish you could see his face; you want to match the feral snarl you hear with an expression. He sounds like he’s enjoying it, standing in front of you fully clothed while your arousal drips down your fucking legs.

You cross your legs together and he laughs, the hot span of his hands splaying over your hips as he tugs you to him.

“I know you’re needy, baby; you’re already doin’ so good for me. You listen just a little longer and I’ll make sure this pretty little pussy of yours gets the treatment she deserves, okay?” He cups your cunt in the palm of his hand; immediately, you rock against him, the meat of his palm bunching over your clit. He spanks your ass sharply. “Get on the bed and spread your legs open.”

Your muscles are shaky; your thighs tremble as you settle on the bed. You’ve never wanted to be able to see more than right now, spread out and vulnerable underneath a stranger’s gaze.

Before doubt can blare in your head, you hear him, “Fucking Christ, sweetheart, look at you. Absolutely gorgeous.”

His knee dips the mattress; his hands pry your thighs apart obscenely.

“She’s prettier up close,” he says, and then sucks your clit into his mouth.

You buck your hips into his face. He holds you down with his other hand and sucks harder. The sound you make has pre-cum spurting from his cock.

He’ll fucking cum like this if he’s not careful, rutting his hips on the sheets with your thighs choking off his air supply.

Worse ways to go, all things considered.

“You’ve been pent-up for a while, hmm?” He turns his head to kiss at the soft skin of your inner thigh, slick shimmering in the moonlight. He almost wishes his stubble were longer so he could capture more of your scent.

You smell so fucking good; he inhales and runs his teeth up the inside of your thigh, biting and sucking, grinding your clit on his nose. You whimper and lock your hands on his hair, silently begging for more.

He runs the flat of his tongue over your clit before breaking away. His dick jumps at your growl of frustration.

“Let’s stretch you out on my fingers first, pretty girl. I wasn’t just talking myself up yesterday.” He coats his fingers in your arousal, inhales the musky sweet scent of you like a drug. “You’re gonna need a little prep before you can take me.”

He sinks two fingers in. Your cunt sucks him in, gummy walls immediately clamping down. He drops his forehead to yours, thinks wildly about ripping away the blindfold, of forcing you to hold his gaze while he makes your pussy gush on his hands.

“More,” you cry out, and he obliges, working three fingers in, twisting and pressing and stroking, listening to your small gasps, waiting for the breath in your voice to catch. "Sho, please—"

Aizawa bites down on his lower lip when your back bows, fingers scrabbling at his forearm, holding his hand in place as you rock back and forth on his fingers. One little pinch of your clit and you’re sobbing out his name.

He lopes an arm under you and pulls you to him. Your breath comes out in shuddery little gasps.

“All good, sweetheart?”

You nod against his neck, already nosing at his throat for a kiss.

He doesn’t know what possesses him.

“I’ll let you take off the blindfold if you get on your hands and knees.”

The noise you make is so embarrassingly eager you almost cringe.

You might see him.

You arrange yourself as he asks, wiggling your ass and arching your back. You gasp when he palms your hip, pulling you back against his clothed cock.

"Can I take it off now?" you try to ask as coy as you can, but you just sound like a fucked-out mess. He feels big. You saw the picture but it's nothing compared to feeling the ridge of his shaft pulsing along the cleft of your ass. You choke on a groan, undulating your hips in a desperate move to calm the ache in your lower belly.

He grunts behind you and palms the back of your head. “Eyes forward, or you aren’t getting fucked. Understand?”

You nod into the mattress, not trusting your own voice.

"Words, princess, didn't we talk about this last time?" His tone is between condescending and tender and it's making your insides turn to fucking goo.

"I understand."

"Good."

You hear the clink of buckles, the rustle of a zipper.

"I'll only keep my eyes forward if all your clothes come off, though."

You know you're pushing it, pushing him, but fuck, you need his skin on yours so you can sear him into your fucking brain.

You squeal at the crack of pain when his palm collides with your ass.

"Mouthy tonight, honey?" There's his hand again, collaring the back of your neck. You throw your hips back at him; he spanks you again. "Fuck, you know what you're doin', don't you? My little cocktease want her pussy stuffed that badly?"

No one's talked to you like this. No one's ever said exactly the sort of profane filth you've longed to hear.

"Yes," you sob out.

"The clothes come off then, you little brat."

When he settles behind you, the hot ridge of his dick slides between your folds and you jerk back into him. The blindfold falls away.

"Goddammit," he growls out, fingers digging into the plush of your hips. "Fuck, you're soaking wet, baby. Can already feel her trying to suck me in, isn't that right?" He palms your lower belly. "You're gonna feel me right fuckin' here. I'm gonna be so deep inside you you'll forget about everything but me, you understand?"

His cockhead tips into your fluttering hole. Fuck, he is big. You peer back between your tits at where he's disappearing into you. The girth and length of him makes your stomach bottom out.

His hand pushes down on your lower back, bowing your ass up.

"Don't run away, let me work my way in, huh? Make my pretty girl feel so fucking full." Another inch of him slots inside you. The stretch of it burns slightly, but the pain recedes when he rubs little circles on your clit. "Fuckkkk, baby, you have any idea how perfect this tight little pussy is? Feels like you're suckin' the life out of me."

The drag of his cock inside you makes your eyes cross. With every thrust, he rubs the head of his dick on your g spot, hand locked in a possessive clutch on your lower belly.

"Put your hand here, feel where I'm fucking you." With one hand on top of yours, he presses down hard. You buck, the sensation almost too much. "No one else is ever gonna have this pussy, you hear me? It's fucking mine, sweet girl, mine to fuck, mine to feast on, mine to fill up with cum—"

The heel of his hand grinds down on your clit and that's all it takes before your orgasm collapses your lungs and shorts out your brain. Everything detonates, star-bursts of pleasure exploding in your core until tears stream down your face.

His rhythm barely falters as he fucks you through it, mouth hot on the back of your neck. "Keep goin', princess, you can cum again, can't ya? One more time, just for me. There's my fuckin' girl, milk every fucking drop out of me, fuck—"

You can only imagine the milky ring of cum and arousal coating his cock as he wrenches another orgasm from your tired body. His dick pulses inside you, a guttural moan reverberating from his throat so deeply you practically feel it in your gut.

He stays inside you for a few more moments, both of you catching your breath. When he slips out, you groan at the loss.

"Be right back, sweet girl. Blindfold goes back on, too."

He laughs when you pout, cloth obscuring your vision once more.

When he comes back, he dips a warm cloth between your thighs, swabbing away the gooey mess. You're so sensitive you hiss out a sharp breath. He presses a glass of water into your hand. You gulp it down with gusto.

"I already blocked off where I came in from," he's saying, and you can't help but roll your eyes even if he can't see the motion. You wonder how he chalks up this whole excursion in his stupid pro hero head.

"Don’t want anyone else getting to me or something?"

He clears his throat. "Or something."

The scrape of your window sounds. "I'd start locking these if I were you."

You know he's gone when the cloth whips away from your face, the flutter of your gauzy white curtains the only proof he was there.

taglist: @cryingintheclubdhmu @abigolemess @rindarudoesshonen @simplyraeblue @ermmclovingit @deputyazor @lizzobeth @quinn0-0 @hotlosergirl17 @mother-hellsing

[mercwithadilf]

Home

Sirius Black x Potter!reader

Summary: Sirius runs away from ‘home’ having finally suffered enough of his parents’ ideals and behaviours. The only place he can really call home is with his best friend, James Potter. Wherever James is, you are too.

This is my first fic after a really long time but I'm really excited to get back on my writing journey! Writing for Sirius Black is mainly because of my absolute love for Ben Barnes so I hope you enjoy!! <3

‘Mum! Godric- James if I catch you looking through my stuff again, it’s your head!’ You chase after James who somehow manages to not only sneak into your room, but also find and run away with the hoodie you forgot to give Sirius back after a night of Quidditch practice.

James pauses in front of you causing you to almost run straight into him and holds up the hoodie with a wide, shit-eating grin. 

‘And why, dear sister, do you have my best mate’s hoodie in your closet?’

You roll your eyes at his annoying, but also very usual antics. ‘Because, dear brother, your best mate gave it to me after I was freezing to death during the Quidditch practice you so thoughtfully stretched out until the dead of night. I simply forgot to give it back before Christmas break! Now give it back!’ 

You jump up to grab the hoodie back from James which he oh so kindly pulled out of your reach. Euphemia took the hoodie away from James’s hands and gave it to you. 

‘Let your sister fawn over the hoodie Sirius gave her in peace, James.’ James smirks at you as your mother chuckles at both of you. 

You stare at her in disbelief and scoff. ‘Seriously, mum! James is being a twat –’

‘Language!’ You hear Fleamont yell from downstairs.

‘– and I get humiliated! Unbelievable! Why don’t you tell mum about Lily, Jamesy?’ You flash your brother the same grin he shot you a mere few seconds ago.

You watch his eyes go wide as your mother pauses her movements and turns to him, ‘Are you still chasing that girl, James? I told you, girls don’t like stalkers.’

James playfully glares at you and turns to you mother, ‘She actually gave me a chance, mother dearest. And I said yes!’ He grins.

You look at him with the most unimpressed look you could fathom and both your mother and James catch up on it, which causes your mother to mirror that look. ‘Okay fine, she said yes, happy?’

‘Very actually.’ He sticks his tongue out at you and you reciprocate the gesture.

Your father’s footsteps emerge up the steps as he walks past you both, ruffling your heads. ‘Everyone to bed or else Santa won’t bring any presents down the chimney for tomorrow morning!’

‘He’s talking to you, Jamesy!’ You sing-song.

‘You wish, sister!’

Everyone heads to their rooms with a final goodnight, you settling in your bed with the comfort of the sounds of the rain and Sirius’s hoodie warming you and lulling you into sleep.

James jolts up from his sleep at the violent bangs of knocks coming from downstairs. In a rushed daze, he scrambles to put his glasses on and grabs his wand. He clutches it tightly, knuckles turning white as he sneaks downstairs, ready to attack whoever decided to disturb the peace at four in the morning. 

He looks through the peep-hole, adjusting his sight to the figure standing outside. As his vision adjusts, he begins to panic.

‘What the fuck?’ James opens the door. ‘Pads?’

Sirius spins to look at him, eyes wide, lips quivering from the cold as he engulfs his figure in his robe. A bag is slung against his shoulder, the boy looking too weak to even carry it properly.

James could tell the streaks on his best friend’s face were from tears that were being washed away by the constant, harsh droplets of rain.

They were both too stunned to even speak.

‘Prongs –’

‘Get in. Now.’ 

James grabs Sirius by his shoulders and leads him inside, taking his bag from him as if it was weighing him down a ton and a half. He helps Sirius take the robe off and replaces it with a warm, fuzzy Christmas blanket as he leads him to the couch.

You huff while sitting up, expecting James to have gone downstairs to get a very early head start on the presents. You walk out of your room and storm downstairs ready to tell him off until you’re stopped in your tracks by the site in front of you.

‘Sirius?’ Your voice wavers.

Both boys situated on the couch turn to look at you. ‘Y/n.’ You wouldn’t have been able to hear Sirius’s voice if it wasn’t for the complete dead silence in the house.

You rush down the rest of the stairs and sit on the floor right in front of Sirius, your hand on his knee to reassure him of your presence.

You glance at your brother for an explanation, but he only shakes his head at you with a frown. You take that as a hint that Sirius hasn’t said anything and to not rush him.

Sirius’s eyes trail over your figure as you sit in front of him. He notices the hoodie you’re wearing was the one he kept looking for, however finding it on you softened the edges of his heart.

James notices Sirius’s eyes on you and smiles softly, despite the situation they’re in right now. ‘I’ll get you a cup of hot choco, yeah?’ James offers Sirius which he responds to with a grateful nod and an attempt of a smile. James gets up and walks to the kitchen while you stay with Sirius.

You look up at him with a reassuring, gentle smile. ‘You can talk when you’re ready, Sirius. No rush, yeah?’ He nods.

James comes back with a cup of warm hot chocolate and places it on the table for Sirius, taking his spot back next to him on the couch.

‘I left them.’ Sirius breaks the silence, his eyes stuck on his hands fidgeting with each other on his lap. ‘It was about time I left my parents but… I can’t believe I just left Reggie there. He’s gonna hate me, he- Godric I-’ He breaks, his hands now rubbing his face as if wiping off all his emotions.

‘You don’t have to explain, Padfoot–’ James speaks up, but Sirius quickly shakes his head.

‘No. No you need to know why, I just- It’s so hard-’ 

You squeeze his knee. ‘You can explain tomorrow, Sirius. You need to rest now, alright? You know you’re always welcome here.’

You can see the look in his eyes. Fear, pain, hurt, regret, but also relief and a tinge of happiness. He can only nod as he looks at his two best friends.

James stands up, a cue for you and Sirius to follow him. ‘You can stay in our spare room, we’ve had it ready in case anyone wanted to stay for the holidays.’

‘Thanks, Prongs.’ Sirius manages a smile as you both lead him to the room which you assume will be his for a good while from now.

‘I’ll tell mum and dad in the morning, you should rest now.’ Sirius nods and thanks him again while he’s settling in. James gives him a pat on the back before he kisses your forehead and heads to his room for a well-needed rest.

You, on the other hand, linger on the doorway of Sirius’s room. He looks at you with a hint of desperation in his eyes which you take as a hint to walk in, shutting the door behind you and sitting on the edge of his bed.

‘Are you alright?’ He sits down next to you with a sigh. ‘I know it’s a stupid question but… I don’t know…’

He chuckles lightly, the tension in the air softened, giving way for a more light-hearted and calm tone.

‘I could be better, but I’m glad I have you.’ He pauses as he looks at you, a stare that made your heart flutter. ‘A-and James, of course.’

You look at him with a hint of a smile, your shoulders rubbing against each other. ‘You’ll always have me, Pads… Us.’ 

You suddenly stand up. ‘Hold on.’ You walk downstairs, grab a glass of water and painkillers and go back into Sirius’s room and place them on his bedside tables while he watches you with curiosity. 

‘What’s this for?’

‘You were absolutely drenched. Just in case you might fall ill, something for you to take in the morning.’ 

His heart skips a beat as he watches you show him the sort of care that not even his family has shown him in his whole lifetime. 

He grabs your wrist desperately but gently, his eyes looking up at you like a puppy anticipating its praise for a trick.

‘Pads? You okay?’

He gets up, hovering over you with a vulnerability that makes his tall frame appear small and fragile.

Wordlessly, he slumps his forehead on your shoulder and lets his shoulders sag. The weight of the night finally leaves him as he collapses onto you, letting himself break down into your shoulder. His heaving sobs echo around you.

‘Siri…’ You whisper into his ear. You’re not used to seeing such an emotional side of him. He’s usually so bright and loud, a proud, smug grin on his face as he prances through the halls of Hogwarts. Now, in the dim and little room, you hold the same boy that’s held your heart in his palm for years. The boy that’s now showing a side of him that he doesn’t even show to himself.

You wrap your arms around him tightly, pulling him impossibly closer to you as you comb your fingers through his long, still slightly damp hair.

Sirius shudders at the feeling.

‘Everything’ll fall into place. I promise, Sirius.’ You continue to whisper reassurances into his ear. You can’t tell if those reassurances are just for him or for the both of you, but now you just know that he needs them more.

He pulls away to look at you while you remain in each other’s hold, his eyes roaming yours as if to find a hidden message in them. Anything, anything to prove to himself that he’s where he’s ever needed to be, where he’ll ever need to be.

Your finger as it glided up his skin to wipe the tears off his face, the site of you in his hoodie, the domesticity of it all, the dense, moody atmosphere; all of it. It all clouded his brain, his mind, any sense of logic that he held onto. It was all fogged into a silhouette he couldn’t make sense of anymore as he crashed his lips onto yours.

The kiss was messy, unrestrained, as if pouring every ounce of your soul into that fleeting moment of closeness. Your lips moved together in a trembling dance, every touch drenched in vulnerability and an aching need to hold on. It was as though the world had shrunk to just the space between you.

You both pull away reluctantly in the search for air, panting exasperatedly as your eyes never break the foggy stares you give each other. In that moment, Sirius knew he wasn’t alone anymore. For the first time, the weight of his past felt lighter—not gone, but shared. And as your laughter filled the small room, he realized this was what home felt like.

‘Took you only four years, Pads.’

You both chuckle, his forehead leaning on yours while his hands trace the skin of your neck and waist.

‘That all you’ve got to say, darling?’

You smile up at him. ‘Trust me, there’s so much I’ve got to say.’

He pecks your lips. He couldn’t get enough of you and he’s only just started.

‘Good thing I’m stuck here with you then, huh?'

[comatosebunny09]

apt 302 | sylus q.

— summary: at first, your new neighbor was as mysterious as he was handsome. after taking some time to get to know him—or forcing your way into his quiet life—you realize looks can be deceiving. — cw: gn reader, neighbors au, neighbors to friends to lovers, profanity, innuendoes, jealousy, misunderstandings, stalker ex, alcohol use, guns mentioned, self-indulgent, allusions to reincarnation, angst, pet names, sylus being an insufferable gentleman, slice of life — dividers by: @omi-resources — notes: this grew way longer than i expected, soooooo you’re gonna hate me for what comes next. anyways, thank you so much for reading! — now playing: my favorite person now - she was pretty ost — tagging: @alfredosaws, @chuppiechanchan @hao-ming-8 @antonneva @sunsets-and-crows @leighsartworks216 @grabby-smitten @nebulorra @minniestarmj @elysiums-light @saiaise @queenofstresss @beewilko @aetherscribit @libriomancer @world-of-hearts @awkwardnurse @huachengnism

Information Technology isn’t as cushy of a field as you initially thought.

Sure, you have a desk job doing the most mundane of things—working the help desk, troubleshooting devices, re-imaging computers. But your job isn’t without its drawbacks. 

Sometimes, the days are long and arduous. The constant customer interaction doesn’t help matters; you’re a bit of an introvert, requiring five business days to recover from just a few hours of socializing. 

So, forgive you for seeking a little respite in the form of your favorite set of pajamas and fuzzy slippers as you ease into your apartment. 

The weight of the world sloughs off your shoulders when the door leading inside clicks shut behind you. You sigh gratefully, the sound of your keys clattering against your entryway table, intermingling with that of your AC humming to life.

You hang your bag and sweater on the coat rack. Trade your uncomfortable shoes for house slippers, the soreness in your heels slowly retreating. The last vestiges of sunlight creep through the slits of your blinds to bathe your home in its ethereal glow before ducking behind the horizon. 

Your apartment is humble. Has a natural, minimalistic vibe with bits of decor displaying your personality sprinkled throughout. You already pay the price of a kidney and two lungs to stay here. No use investing in posh furniture when your job sometimes requires you to pick up and go at the drop of a hat.

Your stomach growls whilst you draw your curtains shut and turn on some ambient lighting via your phone. You’ll eat soon, you promise. For now, you’re on a mission. 

Quietly, you move through your home in search of your laundry area, thoroughly prepared to slip into your PJs following a shower to jumpstart your weekend. 

Too bad a pile of sopping wet clothes awaits you when you open your dryer door. 

“Goddammit,” said under your breath as you mash the power button. It won’t turn on. Figures. You kick the offending appliance. Stupid thing must be out again. 

You had set your clothes to dry before you left for work. You were looking forward to snuggling up with wine and your favorite show, donned in comfy clothes. Seems your dryer had other plans.

You should’ve replaced it months ago when it first started acting up. You had hoped to salvage it a little longer; appliances don’t come cheap these days. Besides, you’ve had a darling neighbor to fix it each time. To extend its lifespan. 

Speaking of which—

Chewing your lip, you pad over your cold, hardwood floor to snatch your phone from the coffee table. Fall onto your couch cushions with a devious smile twitching your lips. It’s getting late, so you don’t think to badger him into tinkering with your dryer tonight. However, perhaps he’ll let you utilize his. At least until you can use your day off tomorrow to shop for a replacement.

You hover your thumb over his contact, his name flanked by crow emojis. Contemplate calling him, but what if he’s busy? This is usually about the time he’s leaving. Instead, you settle for opening your messaging app, already conjuring an excuse.

(You): 🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛💥💥💥 (Sylus): lol (Sylus): good morning to you too. (You): 😒😒😒 dude it’s like 6  (Sylus): 🤷‍♂️ (Sylus): im just now getting up. long day at the office.  (Sylus): whats up? (You): are you busy tonight?? (Sylus): not really. 😏 what did you have in mind ? (You): pause. not like that (Sylus): 😢 (You): my dryer’s out again (Sylus): ah. want me to take a look? (You): nah you already do so much (You): is it cool if i use yours tho? 😬😬😬 (You): i’ll bring you booze (Sylus): lol (Sylus): its fine sweetie. doors unlocked. ill be in the shower. help yourself. (You): 🙏🙏🙏

You take your time gathering your saturated clothes into a basket. On your way out, you snag a bottle of Merlot from your fridge.

No matter how often you’ve been here, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to how much more… put together Sylus’ place is compared to yours.

It suits him—the black and red furniture, the stylish accents littering his apartment. It smells delightful inside, a mixture of mahogany and amber enmeshed with remnants of food. Soulful jazz flows from a record player, fitting the sepia-toned glow of floor lamps and candles flickering on every other surface.

You toe the door shut behind you. Feel so small and out of place amid his decor. You’ve only recently started coming here, having spent much of your time together inside your apartment. Regardless, you navigate his space like it’s your second home, finding his washer and dryer set.

After starting your clothes in the dryer, you wander back to the living room, hands stuffed in the pockets of your cardigan. You take some time to admire the atmosphere. Fingers skim over the various vinyls organized on a built-in bookcase on the wall.

You snort with a half-smile. You know so little about your neighbor, yet you know just enough to be this comfortable with him.

He’s a music buff; that much is for sure. He’s clearly made of money if the luxurious furniture and his car are anything to go by. You don’t press him about what he does for a living. Figure he values his privacy above all else, unlike you.

You’re an open book. The primary yapper in your acquaintanceship, prattling on about your life and aspirations. And he just sits there, wordlessly nodding with a polite smile behind the rim of his glass. Where you would otherwise be wary of being in someone’s home like this, you feel safe around him in a way that almost terrifies you.

“Admiring the decor,” teases a voice from behind. 

You jolt, spinning around like you’ve been caught stealing. You’re met with a smirk beneath scarlet eyes, twinkling with mischief. Strands of white cling to Sylus’ forehead, damp from the warm spray of his shower. He towels his hair dry, maneuvering around the living set towards you.

“Hey, you,” you greet, trying to play it cool. Like your heart isn’t hammering and heat isn’t branching into your cheeks. You attempt to maintain eye contact. It’s increasingly difficult to do so with his physique peeking through his t-shirt and sweats like that.

“Hey, yourself.” There’s amusement in the deep gravel of his voice. A smile in his eyes as he studies you, draping his towel around his shoulders.

You swallow. Try to divert the subject, motioning to his record collection. “You got some new tunes, I see.”

A chuckle is dredged from the bowels of his chest. You feel it pull in your stomach. “Sure did. Got something you might like.” 

God help you as he reaches around you, the fine hairs littering your body standing on end, your mouth agape like a fish out of water.

Unconsciously, you step back, your spine softly thudding against the records display. Your heartbeat’s on a warpath, and you swallow against the dryness of your throat as the veiny, sinewy muscle in his forearm stains your periphery.

He gives you a bemused look before slowly peeling a record from the shelf behind you. Steps back to fish out the vinyl and settle it on the platter, replacing the record that was just playing. 

You release a breath you were unaware of holding. Good job playing it cool, dumbass.

“You alright?” Sylus quizzes with a raised brow. “You seem a little on edge tonight, sweetie.”

You sigh, schooling an unconvincing smile onto your face. Try to ignore how the term of endearment glides off his tongue so effortlessly. You wonder how many other people he addresses like that. 

“Work was…rough today. Kicked my ass. I’m tired.” 

A snarling sound invades the space between you, heard over the gentle croon of the new music. Your eyes fall to your stomach. You rub it placatingly. In all your haste to have some dry friggin’ clothes, you forgot to eat. 

“And hungry, too,” you sheepishly add.

You glance up, and Sylus’ gaze tracks from your stomach to your face. He smirks knowingly, motioning with a nod toward his kitchen. 

“Figured you didn’t eat yet. I made carbonara if you’d like some.”

You smile wryly at his back as he pads away, carrying the scent of cedarwood and bergamot with him. Where would you be without such a doting neighbor? 

You track him to the kitchen. Leaning against the threshold, you watch him procure a bottle of water from his fridge. It’s so very small, dwarfed by his massive hand.

“I suddenly got called for a Teams meeting five minutes ago.” 

Your heart drops, the smile nearly falling from your face. And here you thought you’d have his company over dinner.

Suddenly, he taps your nose, drawing you out of your thoughts. You hadn’t noticed when he got closer, swaddled in the static of your bodies being so close. “Where did you run off to,” he rasps, searching your gaze for something. 

The proximity of your bodies grows stifling, his warm breath glazing over your skin, dizzying. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he steps back, leaving you shell-shocked and utterly confused. 

“In the meantime, make yourself at home. You know where everything is,” he says, brushing past you with an air of finality. 

You strain your ears for the noise of a distant door shutting before you make your move, rummaging through his cupboards and drawers for a plate and cutlery. After you’ve scooped a decent helping of food onto your plate, you settle onto one of his velvet couches, cross-legged and shoveling food into your maw. 

The fluttering of wings piques your interest. You’ve hardly any time to acknowledge him before a tuft of black, iridescent feathers shines from Sylus’ coffee table. The crow studies you curiously, ingesting you with his beady eyes before he preens himself.

“Me-fith-toe!” you greet around a mouthful of food. 

Said crow ducks away, dodging errant crumbs and spit flying from your mouth, cawing in protest. You give him a rueful look. 

Sylus has a soft spot for animals. You noted it the first time you entered his apartment, greeted by his boisterous companion. Funny; he doesn’t look like the type to have such an eccentric pet. 

But Sylus has found numerous ways of pleasantly surprising you, revealing parts of himself to you bit by agonizing bit.

“Chicken?” you say after finally swallowing, offering a forkful of pasta to the bird. Mephisto scrutinizes the food before resigning himself to pecking at it. You smile fondly, your eyes crinkling with mirth. “Mephisto, you cannibal.”

Lulled by the occasional flap of Mephisto’s wings and Sylus’ even tone murmuring things of business somewhere far off in his home, you fall into a familiar rhythm, quietly waiting for your clothes to dry.

You spend the remainder of your evening in your neighbor’s company, drinking Merlot and judging each other’s music tastes, long after your pajamas have dried and settled in the dryer.

“So, have you boned yet?”

You choke on your waffle. Pound on your chest with the heel of your palm to dislodge it. You turn narrowed eyes on the source of the question. She merely shrugs from across the table, sipping her mimosa as if she’s asked the most innocent thing. 

“Bitch.”

“What?” She appears nonplussed, setting her champagne flute down with a definitive clack. All serious when she returns your stare over crossed arms, and you know you’re in for it. 

“You talk about the guy so much I figured you would’ve already, ya know…” The humping gesture she makes under the table is a bit much. 

You blanch. “No, dumbass, I haven’t boned.” Your voice peters towards the end of your sentence. And you peer down at the napkin folded in your lap, heat prickling your face. 

You won’t deny Sylus is good-looking. More like he could be someone modeling Prada on a catwalk. Can’t pretend you haven’t entertained the thought of being a little closer to him, too. More than just the late nights spent talking or him fixing something you broke.

You shake your head. Of all the times you’ve been tucked away in either of your apartments, he’s never made a move on you. Sure, he’s said some pretty suss things. Flirted with you outside of your usual banter. 

And maybe he’s done things to confuse the ever-loving hell out of you—cooked you breakfast when you were drunk off your ass and hungover the next morning. Lended you one of his expensive record players. Shacked up at your place a few times under the guise of “coming to get Mephisto.” But—

Nah. He’s not like that. You’re just neighbors, right? Unofficial friends. Friends hang out all the time, right?

“He’s not like that,” you say brattishly, stuffing more food into your face. At least not with you. 

You don’t miss your coworker’s fox-like grin spreading in your periphery. She taps her cheek thoughtfully, watching you like a smug sibling about to snitch. 

“Sure, sure. If you say so. He’s still a man, though. He might not have tried you yet—”

“Hush,” you interject. The table shakes, cups rattling as you saw into your sausage with your fork and butter knife. You’re done with this conversation.

Try as you might, however, you can’t banish your thoughts revolving around him. Especially with your coworker watching you like that, silently egging you on.

He’s not that kind of guy. 

He’s still a man, though. 

You’ve repeated it like a mantra throughout your day, even as you mindlessly clacked away at your computer. 

Work was a blur. An exhausting blur. Day gave way to the soothing exhale of night, and you were finally nestled in the quiet sanctuary of your apartment, on your couch, entertaining yourself with a game of Uno. It wasn’t much fun playing alone, but you needed a distraction from the mess of your mind when your favorite show couldn’t help. 

It’s a quarter past 9 when a shuffling sound in the breezeway outside your apartment catches your attention. It’s accompanied by the echoed rasp of a recognizable voice, chuckling and murmuring indiscernible things. 

You peel yourself from your couch as if on autopilot, nose pressed against the cold metal of your door as you peer through the peephole.

It’s your nightly ritual—waiting like an overzealous puppy to greet or send off your neighbor. You don’t always get the luxury of saying goodnight in person. Sometimes, he’s gone for days—weeks—at a time. You don’t know the semantics of his job, but you make it your mission to help assuage whatever burdens he shoulders whenever you can.

He’s there to help you, after all. Whether with a glass of wine, a warm meal, or his company.

So, forgive you for wanting to be a decent neighbor. And you would be tonight if not for the scene that passes through the fisheye of your peephole.

It’s Sylus, clad in something flattering and expensive. There’s no mistaking his broad back and shoulders. The purl of his voice, the wispy dusting of alabaster hair on his collar. But the smaller frame with him, well—

Your heart plummets into your stomach.

She’s pretty from what you can glean from the limited view of your peephole. Donned in a dress that’s form-fitting, voice high and light. Giggling silly things, fastened to Sylus’ side, held there by a virile arm draped around her middle. She’s drunk if the sloppy lean of her body is anything to go by. Sylus angles himself near her ear to whisper something, ushering in a new set of giggles.

You watch with your breath corked in your esophagus until they slide into his apartment together, their enmeshed voices fading from the stilled walls of the hallway.

Huh. Well, so much for him not being that type of guy. 

You grapple with this new revelation, a furrow between your brows, hands falling listlessly at your sides. Numb as you drag yourself back to your couch, bouncing comically on the cushions.

You don’t even know why you’re upset. He's a grown man with a…life. You think. 

It’s the first time you’ve witnessed him bringing someone to his place other than you, but it’s only natural for a guy like him to have options. He’s far from hideous. Has the gift of gab, for God’s sake. He’s charming and the very definition of masculine. 

It just stings a little, knowing that it’s not…you that he’s touching like that. 

So, you are definitely not flinging Uno cards onto the coffee table. Muttering things to yourself, gripping the stack in your hands so tightly, the plastic squeaks. What’s even got your undies in a bunch? The man’s not yours. You’ve never screwed around. Never really showed signs of wanting to, so it makes sense he would seek pleasures of the flesh elsewhere. His world doesn’t solely revolve around you as much as you would like for it to.

You’re halfway through a third round of angry card-flinging before a soft rap at your door nearly sends you some 30 feet into the air.

Stomping to your entrance, you peek through the peephole, and your heart works overtime when you catch sight of a wash of black and scarlet.

Internally, you scold yourself for how gullible you are. You throw the door open like you weren’t just cursing him and his stupid existence moments ago. Try to act nonplussed, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe with a haughty look. 

Of course, he would smell good. Look good, propped against the threshold like that, an amused cant to his lips, his physique devastating beneath the tight cling of his turtleneck.

“Hey,” he greets, the sound breathy and easy like warmed honey. 

“Hey, yourself.”

He studies you for a bit. Eyes flicker over your face, and you tamp down the sparkling rush of warmth that wades over your skin at the attention. Even when you’re mad at him, your attraction still finds an annoying way of creeping through the seams.

“This is going to sound incredibly strange, and feel free to tell me to piss off, but…do you mind if I crash on your couch for the night?”

You stand up straight. Blink owlishly, mouth opening and closing. “Huh?” is all you’re able to muster. 

He chuckles, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this side of bashful. “Yeah. It’s a…bit of a long story, sweetie.”

“O-Okay,” you say, rigidly moving aside.

“Thanks.” The charm is back on, turned up to max capacity. He brushes past you into your apartment, falling onto your couch with a huff. Quirks a brow at the mishap on your table, the carnage having spilled onto the floor. 

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but were you playing Uno by yourself?”

You ignore him, plopping cross-legged on a floor cushion adjacent to him. Bypassing the tick in your brow, you look off to the side, fighting the embarrassment threatening to take hold of your visage. Shouldn’t he be across the hall, entertaining his company?

“Shut up and grab some cards,” you grumble to dispel the green-eyed thoughts stewing in your mind.

“Bossy.” But he doesn’t contest you, gathering the abused cards to shuffle them. 

The remainder of your evening slides by with comfortable quips. With booze and a break to catch up on Love Is Blind—somehow, he’d roped you into watching it. 

You had no idea he was such a sap. Nearly forgotten how miffed you were mere hours ago. 

He assuaged your worries with an explanation as the sun crept over the city. 

The girl in his apartment was an old colleague who’d gotten drunk and convinced herself that she was anything but. 

Being a good samaritan, Sylus brought her to his place to sober up since the apartment complex wasn’t too far from the main strip of bars. He didn’t want any issues when she inevitably woke up. Messing with drunk people wasn’t his thing. 

So that’s how he ended up here, inhabiting your couch like he’d always been a part of the decor. 

He didn’t owe you an explanation. You were just friends. Still, you couldn’t help the quiet smile that twitched your lips after he cleared the air.

At some point in the morning, you both fell asleep. He looked all serene, too big for your sofa, but comfortable. You watched his lashes flutter from your place on the floor, his lips parting with soundless exhales. Even in sleep, he maintained that guarded aura, his arms folded across his chest. 

You were bleary-eyed, gathering yourself from the hardwood to fetch a blanket to drape over him. He shifted, and he was so pretty with the sun bathing him in an angelic glow like that, his hair bright like a halo. 

You were about to retreat to your bedroom when an abrupt knock tore you from your reverie. You glanced at your guest, ensuring he went undisturbed. He needed the rest. He was a night owl, and something about the sun vexed him, so he typically spent his days sleeping when you weren’t impeding on his time.

You moved to the door, foregoing the peephole to open it. Big mistake.

On the other side stood Little Miss Pretty from the night prior, impatiently tapping her foot. Her hair was flattened on one side, and her dress was askew. By the looks of it, sleep hadn’t been kind to her.

“Hi, good morning,” she sighed, schooling her expression into fake politeness. She straightened herself as best she could, but the white patch of dried slob staining her chin did little to help her plight. You bit back a snicker. 

“I’m looking for a friend. He lives across from you. His name’s Skye.”

You quirked a brow at that. Skye? Oh, honey…

You wondered how many other people Sylus had fed a fake alias to. Or if Sylus was even his real name.

“Haven’t seen him,” you chirped over crossed arms. Pulled the door slightly closed behind you, barring the woman from getting a peek at him, nuzzled up so cozily on your couch.

She sighed with slumped shoulders. A childish pout warped her lips. Her voice shifted into something more bratty. “You sure? Tall guy, white hair, red eyes? You can’t miss ‘em.”

“Not ringing a bell, hun. Sorry.”

It was taking all of you to keep up this ruse. You were fighting so hard to tamp down your amusement. This woman reminded you of an antagonist in a Korean drama, the way she was kicking and huffing about. 

“Where the hell did he go,” she groused. You watched her draw her phone from the pocket of her fur coat, your throat growing dry. 

Your blood turned to ice when a familiar ringtone chimed in your apartment behind you. You stiffened comically; mouth hinged open with shock.

The woman’s expression morphed into one of suspicion. She tried to look inside your home, the upbeat ring of Sylus’ phone still flooding the uncomfortable silence.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to assert her way inside. “What the fu—”

“Hey, girlie. Back the hell off before I call the police,” you warned with a hand pushed to her sternum. She insisted on being unruly, so you snatched your taser from the entryway table, the telltale blue sparks and sharp whip of static causing the woman to jolt back with alarm.

“You’re both insane!” she shouted from the hallway, the stomp of her heels reverberating off the walls as she made her way to the stairwell. 

With a relieved sigh deflating your chest, you eased the door shut. Leaned against it, glancing at the man of the hour. He was still fast asleep, his leg dangling off the edge of your sofa. You smirked knowingly, shaking your head as you disappeared into your bedroom. 

You’d let him sleep for as long as he needed. And you’d give him shit when he awoke about his taste in acquaintances. 

(Sylus): hungry? (You): a little. was gonna make some ramen if you want (Sylus): 🤢 (Sylus): that stuffs terrible for your digestion sweetie.  (Sylus): how about i make you dinner instead ? (Sylus): at the supermarket. need anything? (You): 😲😲😲 (You): you keep spoiling me and i might think you like me (Sylus): 😏 (You): nvm. no don’t need anything. lemme know when you’re back (You): i can help with groceries (Sylus): now who likes who? (You): fkdkos (Sylus): ? (You): sorry fat fingers 

You have a nasty habit of not using your peephole as of late.

Your apartment came with one for a reason. Sure, your neighborhood’s been pretty tame since you’ve moved here. But that doesn’t mean the occasional weirdo doesn’t slip past security, roaming the halls and startling the other tenants. 

You’ve found yourself forgoing the use of it a lot lately, given the only person who typically knocks on your door is the guy across the hall. And he usually calls or texts before he bugs you, but that doesn’t stop him from being spontaneous. You suppose today is one of those such cases after he manipulated you with dinner. 

Maybe his hands are full, you muse, unlocking your door. Though you’re doubtful he can’t handle a few bags. You’ve seen him in action at the community gym, thick cords of muscle rippling beneath a tan stretch of skin. 

You draw the door open with a smile, expecting to see a customary thatch of white. What confronts you instead sends a tide of dread washing over your innards. 

“Oh, thank God you’re home,” breathes a voice you haven’t heard in months. A voice that still makes your body stiffen, and your blood run cold. 

When your senses return, you step back into your apartment, thoroughly intending to slam the door in your ex’s face. They’re quicker, however, wedging themselves in the gap before you can shut it. Grabbing for you, a crazed look warping their features.

“Baby, please! Talk to me! I miss you!”

You bat at their hand, trying vainly to crush them, to scare them off. It’s to no avail, and you wonder if they’re coked up, giving you a run for your money as they try to bully their way into your home.

There’s a softball bat propped on the wall, and your fingers brush the base of it in your attempt to grab it. Something to defend yourself since your taser’s out of reach, tucked somewhere in your bag. 

The sounds of your struggle intermingle, your voice strained and panting, please please please, and your ex’s caught between sobs of your name. 

Just a little further. Just—

Suddenly, there’s no more resistance in your door. You stumble against it, a wild look in your eyes. And then, there is the noise of a brief scuffle. Of a back being shoved against a wall, of rusting plastic bags, of “Who the fuck are you?!”

Amid your panicked frenzy, you glance up to see a back to you. Barring you from the view beyond your threshold, and your body’s awash with relief as you register your savior’s form.

“You would do well to piss off,” seethes Sylus, and there’s an edge to his voice you’ve never heard before. You feel it furling in your stomach, burning your lungs. And in this moment, you don’t know who to be more afraid of.

Your ex makes a sound of protest, but you imagine the cut of Sylus’ eyes deterring them.

There is the scuffling of shoes across the concrete flooring of the breezeway, and you listen with bated breath until the cacophony fades at the foot of the stairs, willing your heart to ease down.

Scarlet eyes shift to you, brows knit with concern. “Who was that?” Sylus asks, tone cautious as if he doesn’t want to startle you more than you’ve already been.

You right yourself, smoothing out the wrinkles of your clothes. Finally grab your bat, waving it intimidatingly as you step aside to let your neighbor in.

“My stupid ex. Just know you saved their life. ‘cause I was gonna—” You make swinging gestures, the metal bat swooping in the air. The corners of Sylus’ eyes crinkle. 

“Slow down before you hurt yourself.” He kneels to retrieve the bags he’d tossed down in his haste to intervene. You scurry over to help, gathering up spilled food.

Once you’re both inside, the bags placed haphazardly on the counter, you’re seated on your sofa, nursing the rush of adrenaline still spuming through you like the hot rush of a geyser. 

“You need to get a restraining order,” says Sylus. He emerges from your kitchen with a tense set to his jaws, two bottles of Angry Orchard clasped between his fingers. 

Plopping down beside you, an arm draped over the headrest, he shoves a bottle into your hand, side-eyeing you as he throws his head back for a swig. 

You babysit the cider, the crisp condensation of it serving to ground you. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m not asking, sweetie.”

You bristle under the weight of his tone, feeling much like a scolded child. You know this. Should’ve done it long ago the first time your ex took it upon themselves to do surprise pop-ups at your place—at your job.  

“And an alarm system.”

“I know, I know.”

“I can take you right now to look for one—”

“I got it, Sy! Fuck, I-I got it.” You release a weighted sigh, warring with yourself. 

Not only do you feel silly for being so lackadaisical with your life. But now, you feel even worse for the seemingly impenetrable silence that settles between you. You didn’t mean to yell, frustration and adrenaline having burbled to the surface. He was just worried. No need to take your emotions out on him. 

Sylus exhales slowly, an unreadable expression descending onto his face whilst staring at the wall.

“Sorry,” you murmur, unconsciously patting his quad. You don’t miss how he stiffens; don’t miss the tight coiling of tendons in his neck. You retract your hand, instead drumming your fingers along the bottom of your bottle.

“I’m assuming this isn’t the first time this has happened,” queries Sylus in an attempt to dispel the tense atmosphere.

You shake your head, shrinking into yourself. Stare at your lap, pulling at some frayed threads in your bottoms. 

“How did they even manage to get up here?”

You shrug. The security guards at the gates aren’t always the most attentive. Besides, sometimes, the pin pad leading into the lobby malfunctions, making it easier for anyone to just slip into your complex.

Unprompted, you begin to bare yourself, explaining the possibilities of why your ex showed up.

Sylus listens attentively. Doesn’t interrupt you, watching the subtle shifts of your expressions as you speak. 

You tell him that things weren’t bad in the beginning about two years ago. How your ex said and did all the right things, and they were wonderful. But they wanted something you weren’t ready for. You had some growing up to do, so you broke things off. Moved to another city, started a new job. 

You didn’t bank on them following you. 

The visits were random at first. Occasional run-ins at the park, the bar. Things soon blossomed into something more concerning when your ex found your new address after you relocated to another part of the city to ease the stress of the commute. 

This was their second time making an appearance at your door. You knew you should’ve done something to protect yourself sooner, but you didn’t think much of it then. Figured they would live and let be. Today proved otherwise. 

“You’re grossly naive, sweetie.” 

You snort before gulping down the remnants of your cider. “Way to make me feel better.”

He chuckles, and it’s comforting, your thighs pressing together amid your dinky couch. “It’s what I’m here for. But I could understand how you could drive someone to such extremes.”

You glare at him. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means…” 

Before you know what’s about, he’s panning in, flooding your vision with the scarlet shine of his eyes. With the wispy dance of his lashes until his breath fans over your molten cheeks. Limber fingers sneak beneath your chin, slightly tilting your head back. 

Warmth wades over you. Your breath swells in your chest. Lips purse as a mysterious shade of burgundy leaks over his irises. His voice drops a few octaves, husky, the sound of it pinching in your stomach.

“It means that you’re someone worth fighting for.”

You scoff, shaking yourself away from his hold. Ignore the bashfulness creeping into your face in favor of being a cheeky little shit. 

“All right, Li Shang. Getting a little too serious over there.”

He huffs a laugh in response, popping up to grab another round of ciders from your fridge.

Ingredients sat untouched on the countertop as your evening eased by. You’d settled on a pizza, catching up on shows and talking, long after the moon had pinned itself to the center of the sky. 

Sylus promised to teach you how to use a gun. He had plenty and would carve out time in his schedule to take you to a range. He didn’t press much after, instead letting the weight of your evening melt from your shoulders. 

He was reluctant to leave you, even after sunbeams spilled through your blinds and you snoozed so quietly, cheek propped against his shoulder. 

His hand never left your thigh. Possessive in its touch as he mirrored your affections from before. 

It’s strange.

Today is your birthday. You’re enjoying yourself, filled with enough alcohol to tranquilize a small goat. 

Your co-workers had dragged you out. Surprised you with dinner, a cake. Took you to the strip of bars lining the streets adjacent to your apartment complex. You were all smiles until your cheeks ached, and you’d nearly thrown up from laughing so much. 

Still, you feel…empty. Like something is missing. Or someone. 

You look at your phone for the umpteenth time. Scroll through your messages, reliving the moment in your head. 

Sylus was the first to wish you a happy birthday. It made you swell with overwhelming happiness, knowing he’d woken up so early to be the first to say it. You don’t think you’ve ever cried harder when he sent a voice message of him singing “Happy Birthday.”

God, for everything he was good at, poor baby couldn’t hold a note to dig himself out of a hole. Still, you cherished the gesture, lying in bed for the first hour you’d been awake, replaying said message and rolling around your bed like an enamored teen.

Even now, you replay the voice note, holding the speaker to your ear. It’s hard to hear it amid the live band playing and the merriment around you at the bar. Try as you might to enjoy what remains of your night, you can’t keep your thoughts from drifting back to a certain smug figure clad in black. 

(You): 🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛💥💥💥 (Sylus): hows it going birthday babe? (You): 😭😭😭 (You): u shuld be her e (Sylus) im sorry sweetie. i had some work to catch up on.  (Sylus): you must be having a good time. 😏 (You): fuk wrk 🖕🖕🖕 (You): am not drink ur dronk (Sylus): lol. you sound plastered. (Sylus): do i need to come rescue you? (You): hum (Sylus): ? (You): hone (You): home (Sylus): 🫤 (Sylus): we need to have a serious talk about you enabling autocorrect. (You): r u (You): home (Sylus): about to be. why ?? (Sylus): sweetie?

Somehow, you find yourself staring at the glossy, black numbers embossed on the top center of his door. 302. It’s ingrained in your memory. You’d probably find your way to his apartment with your eyes closed, driven to it by the familiar smell and homeliness it exudes. 

You’re still a little tipsy. Took some time to sober up as best you could before ditching your friends and catching an Uber back to your complex. You had enough sense to gather everything you’d shown up with. Didn’t hitch a ride with any strangers regardless of how many of them tried to pull you into their arms as you stumbled out of the bar. 

You had a one-track mind. Only wanted to spend the rest of your birthday with him.

With a goofy smile plastered on your face, you knock on his door. You’re singing that infectious song you can’t get out of your head when it swings open.

“Apateu-pateu, apateu-pateu,” you chant, shaking your hips from side to side.

He greets you with an omniscient smirk, eyes softening whilst leaning against the doorframe. “Well, hello, birthday babe.”

“Sup!” you return a little too enthusiastically, pitching forward until Sylus steadies you with his hands. You giggle like a drunken fool, peering at him. Hadn’t realized how good his hands felt, searing through the fabric of your top. 

Come to think of it, you hadn’t noticed many things about him before. His lips are a pretty shade of pink. Skin textured, nose sharp, cheeks high. Little flecks of amber dwell between the scarlet rinse of his eyes. His hair falls into his face, damp from the shower he probably had before answering the door.

“I take it you had a good night,” he says, gaze painting a steady triangle between your eyes and mouth.

“Almost,” you whisper back, surprised by the huskiness of your voice. You lose yourself in the idle stir of his eyes. In the fragility of his smile, and you feel so safe in his hands like this. 

You don’t know what compels you to do it. To conquer the space of hot, dizzying breaths between you. But, you sort of…well…

Your inhibitions hit the floor. With your fingers wrapped tenderly around his wrists, you angle yourself closer to kiss him. You almost pull away when he stiffens. But he seemingly relaxes, and his lips cautiously move against yours as he unconsciously guides you closer.

You cling to the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He encircles your waist in his powerful arms, fastening you to the hard press of his body. He kisses you like he’s waited lifetimes to do it, one hand molding around the apple of your cheek. 

When your tongue sloppily prods the barrier of his teeth, he bristles. Draws away from you with a resounding smack, blinking wildly. You’re confused. Your heart sinks. You try again to draw him back in, but he gently pushes you away, shaking his head to dispel the bleariness. To chase away the spell that’s fallen over you. 

“Baby, wait. No. Not…not like this,” he rasps through kiss-swollen lips, holding you by your hips. You’re wounded. A hot flush of embarrassment washes over you, and your brows knit together like those of a confused puppy.

“Wha-what’s wrong? Did I—am I—”

“No, no, you’re…you're perfect,” he soothes with a chuckle, a thumb gliding over your bottom lip. “Beautiful, even. I just…I don’t think now is a good time to do this.”

“Oh.” You deflate, a scorching film of tears clouding your vision. “Oh, okay. Um, I’ll just—yeah, I’ll go. I’ll…see you around, I guess.”

You slide out of his arms, too mortified to look back as you fumble with your keys. After he murmurs a hoarse, “good night.” Did you misread him before? Misinterpret his actions, his words? 

You’re numb as you sink into your couch. Sobriety slowly creeps in. Stray tears blister your cheeks, but you don’t full-on sob. Can’t bring yourself to, instead laughing hysterically with your face buried in your hands, swallowed by the bleak loneliness of your apartment.

Happy Birthday, indeed.

[ms-demeanor]

probably not a good sign that i couldn't talk about work at the con this weekend without crying a little and that I had to force myself to leave my laptop at home so i couldn't do work and leaving my laptop at home made me feel a little panicky and also now i kind of want to throw up instead of going to work tomorrow.

I'm so overloaded that I've become completely ineffective, I've got so many projects that none of them are getting done, fucked up tracking time a couple weeks ago and missed twenty or so hours on my paycheck and am feeling so fried that I am struggling to muster up the energy to fix it (i shouldn't have missed that many hours anyway i'm hourly there's supposed to be a clock system for me but there isn't the time tracking is supposed to be for metrics not for how i get paid and now i have to dump time into fixing that)

there is a repository of business information that lives ONLY on my computer (my personal computer, because I do not have a work computer) that needs to get uploaded to our documentation system but the configs exported from one system as PDFs but can't be uploaded to the other as PDF so I need to open each one and save it in word so I can upload them individually because the system can take word docs but not PDFs

I need to finish creating the spreadsheet of standard hardware and put specifications and part numbers and standard costs on it but I need to meet with the networking team lead so we can go over spec for the networking equipment because the standards are new to both of us and I need to know what he's looking for if one of the standards are out of stock and he needs to learn the abbreviation/part number system for that particular vendor so i need to teach it to him and until we're on the same page I can't finish my hardware standards project

I need to create a guide for the practice leads to reach out to vendors in their relevant practices because right now I'm the one who reaches out so I'm the one who has the meetings about spec quotes and nobody else knows who to call or where to submit a consultation request

I need to create a guide for the techs to source hardware and figure out part numbers and compare specs

i need to quote two printer options for a client

i need to email the vendor about the mis-applied warranty and have it corrected to the appropriate device

i need to get uptime data on eight servers collected for the bimonthly client meeting

i need to call microsoft to get access to a tenant for a user we never should have sold licenses to

i need to check tracking and update the order spreadsheet

i need to export the list of firewalls from one vendor and sort it by active clients and sort it by the ones that need to be replaced because they're EOL and then the ones that need to be renewed and then the ones that aren't on fire that we can consider replacing in two years

I need to look at the list of servers and sort by drive type and get the drive part numbers so that I can get spares to all the clients

of those things, I think I've got tickets for two or three of them. The other forty five tickets I have are unrelated to this task list.

[pucksandpower]

The Perfect Mate

Day 28 → A/B/O 💋 Oscar Piastri

Warnings: 18+ content, dubious consent, and breeding

Kinktober Masterlist

The news comes like a sudden storm, the kind that rolls in on a summer day when the skies were blue just moments before. You’re in the kitchen, setting the table for dinner. Your mother is at the stove, stirring something that smells faintly of rosemary and garlic, a comforting scent that usually makes you feel at home. But tonight, it’s different.

You can feel it in the air, the way your father is pacing by the window, his hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to keep something inside. Your mother’s voice is too steady when she finally speaks.

“We got a call today,” she says, without turning around. The spoon in her hand trembles slightly. “From the school.”

The school. The words drop into the room like stones, rippling through the quiet. You know what she’s going to say next, even before she says it. You’ve been dreading this conversation for weeks, ever since your first heat hit you like a freight train, your body burning with a fever you couldn’t understand.

“They’ve made a decision,” she continues, and now she turns, her eyes finding yours across the room. “They think it’s best if you … attend a different school. A special one.”

“A special school,” you echo, the words hollow in your mouth. You know what she means, even if she doesn’t say it outright. A school for omegas. The kind of place where they send girls like you, girls who’ve just discovered they aren’t like everyone else.

You stand there, frozen, while your father finally stops pacing. He comes to stand beside your mother, his face tight with the strain of holding back his thoughts. You’ve seen that look before, on the faces of other parents in town when they talk about “those schools,” the ones far away where no one can see what really happens inside. But now, it’s your parents standing there, and it’s you they’re talking about sending away.

“I don’t want to go,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I want to stay here.”

Your mother sighs, a soft, defeated sound, as she wipes her hands on a dish towel. “It’s not safe for you here anymore, sweetheart. Not now that you’ve … presented.”

Presented. It’s such a clinical word for something that feels anything but. You feel exposed, like your skin has been peeled back to reveal something raw and vulnerable underneath. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to protect yourself from the inevitability of it all.

“But what about my friends? What about school here?” Your voice cracks, and you hate how small you sound, how desperate.

“It’s only for a little while,” your father says, stepping forward. He’s trying to sound reassuring, but there’s an edge of worry in his voice that betrays him. “Just until you’ve had the training you need. Then you can come back.”

You shake your head, tears welling up in your eyes. “I don’t need training. I’m fine the way I am.”

“You don’t understand, Y/N,” your mother says gently, moving closer. She reaches out to touch your arm, but you pull away. “This is for your own good. There are things you need to learn … things we can’t teach you.”

“Like what?” You snap, anger flaring up to replace the fear. “How to be an obedient little omega? How to bow down to an alpha and let them control my life?”

“Y/N,” your father warns, but there’s no real force behind it. He’s just as lost as you are in this moment, and you can see it in the way his shoulders sag, the way his gaze shifts to the floor.

You look between the two of them, your parents who have always been your rock, and feel a chasm opening up between you. This is the moment when everything changes, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

“When do I have to go?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Your mother hesitates, glancing at your father before she answers. “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. The word echoes in your mind, a death knell for everything you’ve known. There’s no time to say goodbye to your friends, no time to prepare yourself for what’s coming. It’s happening too fast, like a tidal wave sweeping you off your feet.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur. You barely taste the food on your plate, pushing it around with your fork until your mother finally sighs and takes it away. You retreat to your room after that, curling up on your bed with your thoughts spinning like a storm.

The reality of it all doesn’t hit you until much later, when the house is dark and silent. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of what’s to come pressing down on your chest.

You’re leaving. You’re being sent away because you’re different, because you’re an omega. The word still feels foreign on your tongue, something that doesn’t belong to you. You’ve heard stories, of course, whispered in the halls at school, but they were always about other people, distant and unconnected to your life.

But now it’s you. You’re the one being whispered about, the one whose life is being uprooted. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

When morning comes, it’s like watching someone else’s life unfold in slow motion. Your mother helps you pack, her hands gentle as she folds your clothes and tucks them into the suitcase. Your father lingers in the doorway, trying to find the right words to say, but nothing comes out.

You don’t say much either. There’s nothing left to say. You’re numb, moving through the motions without really feeling anything. It’s easier that way, easier than letting the fear and anger take over.

The drive to the school is long and silent. Your parents don’t turn on the radio, and the only sound is the hum of the car’s engine and the occasional rustle of paper as your father checks the directions. You stare out the window, watching the world blur by in a wash of green and gray.

When you finally arrive, the school is nothing like you imagined. It’s a sprawling estate, with tall iron gates and manicured lawns that stretch out as far as the eye can see. It looks more like a prison than a school, and the sight of it makes your stomach churn.

Your mother parks the car, and you sit there for a moment, staring up at the imposing building. It feels like a bad dream, one you can’t wake up from.

“Are you ready?” Your father asks, his voice quiet.

You nod, even though you’re not. But what choice do you have?

They walk you to the gates, your suitcase rolling behind you on its tiny wheels. A woman in a crisp uniform meets you there, her smile too bright, too practiced. She introduces herself, but you barely catch her name. It doesn’t matter.

“This way, Y/N,” she says, leading you through the gates. Your parents follow behind, their footsteps heavy on the gravel path.

Inside, the school is just as cold and unwelcoming as the outside. The corridors are wide and echoing, with polished floors that reflect the fluorescent lights above. The woman leads you to an office, where you’re asked to sit while she speaks with your parents in hushed tones.

You sit there, staring at the walls, trying to hold yourself together. You can hear snippets of their conversation, words like “curriculum,” “discipline,” and “safety,” but they all blur together in a meaningless jumble.

Finally, your parents return. Your mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, and your father’s face is pale. They both hug you tightly, whispering words of reassurance that feel empty and hollow.

“We’ll come visit,” your mother says, her voice trembling. “As soon as we can.”

You nod, but you don’t really believe it. You can see the fear in their eyes, the uncertainty of what lies ahead. They don’t know any more than you do.

When they finally leave, it feels like the ground has been pulled out from under you. You’re alone, in a strange place that feels more like a cage than a school. You want to run, to escape, but there’s nowhere to go.

The woman who met you at the gate returns, her smile still fixed in place. She leads you to your dorm room, a small, sterile space with a single bed and a desk. Your suitcase is placed at the foot of the bed, a reminder of the life you’ve left behind.

“Get some rest,” she says, her tone brisk and efficient. “Tomorrow is a big day.”

You don’t respond. There’s nothing to say. She leaves you there, closing the door softly behind her, and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

You sit on the bed, staring at the blank walls, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on you. You’re an omega. You’re in a school for omegas. And there’s no going back.

The tears come then, hot and silent, sliding down your cheeks as you curl up on the bed. You don’t know how long you lie there, crying until there are no tears left. You feel empty, hollowed out by the weight of it all.

Eventually, exhaustion pulls you under, and you drift into a restless sleep, your dreams filled with shadows and echoes of the life you’ve lost.

***

The days at the school have a way of blending together, each one indistinguishable from the next. Morning rolls into afternoon, which slides into evening, and soon enough, another day is gone. You’ve learned not to think too hard about time, how long you’ve been here, or how many more days you’ll have to endure. It’s easier that way.

There was a time when you counted the days, marking each one on a small calendar tucked away in your drawer. You kept track of your parents’ visits, circled in red ink, little reminders that they hadn’t forgotten you. But as the months turned into years, the red circles became fewer and farther between until they disappeared altogether.

You can barely remember the last time you saw their faces, the way your mother used to smooth your hair back with gentle fingers, or the way your father’s hugs felt strong and safe. They promised it would only be for a little while, just until you had learned what you needed to know, but that promise dissolved like sugar in water, leaving a bitter taste behind.

Now, all you know is this place, the routine that keeps you tethered to some semblance of sanity. Wake up at dawn. Breakfast in the dining hall. Classes in the morning — Etiquette, Obedience, Mating Practices — each lesson designed to mold you into the perfect omega. Lunch, more classes, then an hour of exercise before dinner. Evenings are quiet, filled with studying or silent contemplation in your room. Lights out at nine, and then it all begins again.

You’ve learned how to be a good omega. It’s second nature now, a reflex as automatic as breathing. You know how to keep your head down, how to smile politely, how to answer questions with soft, submissive tones. You know how to hide your emotions, how to tuck away the anger and fear that once simmered just beneath the surface. Those feelings have dulled over time, like a blade worn down from overuse.

The other girls are much the same. You’ve made a few friends — if you can call them that — but it’s hard to be close to anyone here. Everyone is too focused on survival, on making it through another day without drawing unwanted attention. You share polite conversations, exchange small smiles in passing, but there’s an unspoken understanding that it’s every omega for herself.

It’s a Tuesday evening when everything changes. You’re gathered in the dining hall, the long tables lined with girls dressed in identical uniforms, their heads bowed over plates of bland, tasteless food. The room is filled with the clatter of utensils and the murmur of quiet conversation, the same as it always is.

But tonight, there’s a different energy in the air, a tension that makes your skin prickle with unease. You notice it in the way the other girls are sitting a little straighter, their eyes darting toward the head of the room where the headmistress stands, her sharp gaze sweeping over the crowd.

You don’t look directly at her — no one ever does — but you can feel her presence like a weight pressing down on your shoulders. The headmistress is a tall, severe woman with iron-gray hair pulled back into a tight bun. She commands the room with an authority that brooks no defiance, and when she speaks, everyone listens.

“Good evening, girls,” she begins, her voice cutting through the low hum of conversation like a knife. The room falls silent immediately, all eyes fixed on their plates as she continues. “I have an important announcement to make.”

You steal a glance at the girl sitting next to you, a slight, mousy-haired omega named Emily. Her hands are clenched in her lap, her knuckles white, and you can see the same fear mirrored in her wide eyes.

The headmistress pauses, letting the silence stretch out until it’s almost unbearable. Finally, she speaks again, her tone measured and calm. “As you all know, we are approaching a very special time of year. In just a few weeks, we will be hosting our annual adoption day.”

A collective shiver runs through the room, a ripple of unease that you can feel in your bones. Adoption day. The words hang heavy in the air, charged with a meaning that everyone understands but no one dares to speak aloud.

“This is a significant event,” the headmistress continues, her gaze sweeping the room. “It is a time when alphas from all over the continent come to our school to choose which one of you will become their mate.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your stomach twisting into knots. You’ve heard about adoption day, of course. It’s the day every omega dreads and hopes for in equal measure. The day when your future is decided, when you are chosen — or not — by an alpha who will take you away from this place. It’s supposed to be an honor, a privilege, but you know the truth. It’s a sentence, a life chosen for you, one you have no say in.

“Over the next few weeks,” the headmistress says, “you will be preparing for this event. You must be on your best behavior at all times. The alphas who come here expect nothing less than perfection, and it is our duty to ensure that you meet their expectations.”

She pauses, her eyes narrowing as she surveys the room. “You will be evaluated on your obedience, your manners, your appearance, and your ability to perform the duties expected of an omega. Failure to meet these standards will result in … consequences.”

The word lingers in the air, heavy with unspoken threats. You know what she means. You’ve seen what happens to the girls who fail, who don’t measure up. They’re sent away, to places even worse than this, places where omegas are little more than property, where they’re broken down until there’s nothing left of them.

You swallow hard, trying to push down the rising tide of panic. You’ve been good, you remind yourself. You’ve done everything you were supposed to do, followed every rule, learned every lesson. But the fear gnaws at you, a constant, insidious whisper in the back of your mind.

The headmistress gives a tight, satisfied nod. “I trust that you will all rise to the occasion. This is your chance to prove your worth, to show the alphas that you are deserving of their attention. Do not disappoint me.”

With that, she turns and strides out of the room, leaving a heavy silence in her wake. No one moves, no one speaks, the weight of her words pressing down on all of you.

Emily is the first to break the silence, her voice trembling. “Adoption day … I thought it wasn’t for another few months.”

“They moved it up,” says another girl across the table, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s sooner this year.”

You can feel the tension in the room ratchet up another notch, the fear palpable. Everyone is thinking the same thing: sooner means less time to prepare, less time to make yourself worthy of being chosen.

“What are we going to do?” Emily asks, her voice small and shaky. “What if … what if no one picks us?”

The question hangs in the air, the unspoken fear that everyone is too afraid to voice. What if no one chooses you? What happens then?

“We just have to be perfect,” says another girl, her voice tinged with desperation. “We can’t make any mistakes. We have to be exactly what they want.”

“What if that’s not enough?” Someone else murmurs, and the question sends a chill down your spine.

You stare at your plate, your appetite long gone. The food sits untouched, congealing in the dim light of the dining hall. You know you should say something, offer some kind of reassurance, but the words stick in your throat. What can you say? How can you comfort anyone when you’re just as terrified as they are?

Instead, you focus on breathing, on keeping yourself calm. You’ve been through worse, you tell yourself. You’ve survived this place for years, learned how to navigate its dangers, how to keep your head down and stay out of trouble. You can survive this too.

But deep down, you know that this is different. This isn’t just another test or lesson. This is your future, your entire life hanging in the balance, and there’s nothing you can do to change it.

The rest of the meal passes in a tense, uncomfortable silence. No one speaks, no one even looks at each other. The only sound is the clatter of dishes as the kitchen staff clears away the plates, their movements brisk and efficient.

When the meal is finally over, you file out of the dining hall with the other girls, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. The usual chatter and laughter are absent, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence. Everyone is lost in their own thoughts, their own fears.

Back in your room, you close the door and sink down onto the bed, your mind racing. Adoption day. The words echo in your head, a relentless drumbeat of anxiety. You try to push the thoughts away, to focus on something else, but it’s no use. The fear is too strong, too consuming.

You lie there for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm the storm inside you. But no matter how hard you try, the fear lingers, a dark shadow that refuses to be banished.

You’re not ready for this. None of you are. But it doesn’t matter. Adoption day is coming, whether you’re ready or not.

***

Oscar Piastri doesn’t let his emotions show, not when he crosses the finish line, not even when the roar of the crowd hits him like a physical wave. It’s a monumental moment, the kind of victory that defines a career. His first win in Formula 1, and he’s only just begun. He keeps his face impassive as he steps out of the car, giving a quick nod to the team that rushes toward him. His hands are still gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.

The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving behind a strange emptiness that gnaws at him as he makes his way through the post-race chaos. Congratulations are thrown his way, hands clapping his back, but it all feels distant, like he’s watching it from somewhere else. This is supposed to be the pinnacle, the culmination of years of hard work, but instead, it feels … muted. He’s already thinking about the next race, the next victory, how he can improve.

In the quiet of the team’s private room, Zak Brown walks in, a broad smile on his face. He’s the kind of man who fills up the space just by being in it, his presence magnetic, commanding. Oscar looks up from where he’s sitting, unlacing his gloves methodically, and meets Zak’s eyes.

“Congratulations, Oscar. First of many, I’m sure.” Zak’s voice is warm, but there’s an edge to it, something unspoken hanging in the air.

“Thank you,” Oscar replies, his tone measured, controlled. He’s careful with his words, always. Never lets anything slip.

Zak takes a seat across from him, leaning back casually. There’s a glint in his eyes, something calculating. “You’ve made quite an impression today. The team is proud of you.”

Oscar nods, but he can tell there’s more coming. Zak doesn’t waste time with pleasantries unless there’s something else he wants to discuss. He waits, patient, knowing that Zak will get to the point when he’s ready.

Finally, Zak leans forward, his expression serious. “You’ve proven yourself, Oscar. And with that comes certain … privileges. Opportunities that are only available to those who reach the top.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow, intrigued. He’s heard whispers of the kind of rewards that come with success, but he’s never paid them much attention. He’s focused on one thing — winning. Everything else is secondary.

Zak watches him closely, gauging his reaction. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Oscar stays silent, waiting for Zak to continue. He’s not about to show his hand, not yet.

“There’s a tradition in this sport,” Zak says slowly, choosing his words carefully. “When an alpha driver wins their first race, they’re given the chance to choose an omega. It’s a recognition of your status, your dominance. It’s something that’s been done quietly, behind closed doors, for decades.”

Oscar keeps his expression neutral, though his interest is piqued. He’s aware of the dynamics in the world, the power and control that come with being an alpha. But this — this is new. He’s never been one to indulge in the usual trappings of success. He’s always been too focused, too driven to let anything distract him. But this … this is different.

Zak smiles, seeing the curiosity flicker in Oscar’s eyes. “You’ve earned this, Oscar. You’re one of the best, and you deserve the best. That’s why I’m telling you about the upcoming adoption day.”

Oscar’s gaze sharpens. “Adoption day?”

“It’s an event held at the most prestigious omega training school in Europe,” Zak explains. “Only the top omegas are put up for adoption, the ones who have been trained to perfection. They’re chosen by alphas who have proven themselves — like you. It’s not something that’s widely advertised, but those in the know understand its significance.”

There’s a pause as Oscar processes the information. The idea of choosing an omega, someone trained specifically for him, tailored to his needs, is both intriguing and unsettling. He’s always been in control, always made his own decisions, but this is different. This is a life he’s being asked to shape, to take responsibility for.

“What makes this school so special?” He asks, his voice calm, steady.

Zak leans back, crossing his arms. “The omegas there are trained from a young age. They’re taught everything — how to please their alpha, how to be obedient, how to fulfill their roles perfectly. They’re the best of the best, Oscar. There’s no risk, no uncertainty. Any omega you choose from that school will be exactly what you need.”

Oscar considers this. The idea of having an omega, someone who’s been trained to understand him, to know what he needs without him having to say it … there’s a certain appeal in that. He’s always been surrounded by people who expect something from him, who look to him for leadership, guidance. But this would be different. This would be someone who exists solely for him, who understands her place.

“There’s no obligation,” Zak adds, watching Oscar carefully. “If you’re not interested, you can walk away. But if you are … it’s a rare opportunity.”

Oscar doesn’t respond immediately. He’s weighing the options, the consequences. He’s always been careful, methodical in his decisions. But he can’t deny the temptation, the curiosity that’s starting to take root.

“When is it?” He finally asks, his voice giving nothing away.

Zak’s smile widens, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. “In a few weeks. We can arrange everything for you — discretion guaranteed. You won’t have to worry about the media or anyone else finding out. This is strictly between you and the school.”

Oscar nods slowly, his mind already working through the possibilities. It’s a lot to take in, but he’s not one to shy away from something just because it’s unfamiliar. If anything, the challenge of it, the control it represents, is what draws him in.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, his tone decisive, leaving no room for further discussion.

Zak rises, clearly satisfied with Oscar’s response. “Take your time. There’s no rush. But remember, opportunities like this don’t come around often.”

Oscar stands as well, shaking Zak’s hand. “I understand. Thank you.”

As Zak leaves the room, Oscar is left alone with his thoughts. The noise of the celebrations outside is a distant hum, and he finds himself pacing, the adrenaline from the race still thrumming through his veins.

He’s never been one for the typical alpha-omega dynamics. He’s always valued independence, his ability to navigate the world on his terms. But this … this is something else. The idea of having an omega, someone trained to understand him, to be exactly what he needs, it’s both thrilling and terrifying.

He knows what’s expected of him. As an alpha, as a champion, there’s a certain image to uphold, certain roles to fulfill. But he’s never been one to simply do what’s expected. He’s always pushed the boundaries, challenged the norms.

Oscar stops pacing, his mind made up. He’ll go to this adoption day. He’ll see for himself what this school has to offer. But he won’t make any decisions until he’s certain. This is too important, too personal to rush into.

But deep down, he knows that the decision is already half-made. The idea has taken root, and it’s only a matter of time before it blooms into something more.

With a final glance around the empty room, Oscar leaves, heading back to the celebrations. There’s still a victory to enjoy, a race to celebrate. But in the back of his mind, the thought of adoption day lingers, a tantalizing possibility that he can’t quite shake.

As the night wears on, surrounded by his team, the media, the fans, Oscar can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have an omega by his side. Not just any omega, but one who’s been trained specifically for him, someone who understands him in a way no one else does.

The idea is intoxicating, and for the first time in a long while, Oscar feels something stir inside him — a hunger, a desire for more than just victory on the track. He wants control, he wants power, and maybe, just maybe, he wants someone to share it with.

But not just anyone. It has to be the right omega. The perfect one.

As the night winds down, and the celebrations give way to the quiet of his hotel room, Oscar lies awake, his mind racing. He’s never been one to second-guess his decisions, and he knows this won’t be any different.

He’s going to that adoption day. And he’s going to find the omega that’s meant for him.

***

The morning is cold, colder than it has any right to be for early September. You’re standing in line with the other omegas, every one of you wearing the same pristine white dresses that flutter slightly in the breeze. The sun hasn’t fully risen, and the world is cloaked in that quiet, expectant blue that only exists before dawn. You can feel the nervous energy crackling in the air, though no one dares to show it.

You’ve been preparing for this day for as long as you can remember. Every lesson, every order, every correction has led to this moment, and yet you feel more like an imposter than ever. Your hands tremble slightly as you clasp them in front of you, willing the nerves to subside. You can’t afford to look weak now, not when everything is at stake.

The headmistress is pacing in front of the line, her sharp eyes taking in each omega with a practiced gaze. She’s dressed impeccably, as always, her posture a perfect representation of control. “Remember, girls,” she says, her voice slicing through the silence, “today is your chance to prove your worth. You’ve been trained for this moment. Do not embarrass yourselves, or this school.”

You swallow hard, keeping your gaze straight ahead, though every instinct is screaming at you to run. You can’t, though. There’s no place to go, and you know it. This is your life now, and you have to make the best of it.

The first of the alphas start to arrive, their footsteps echoing ominously as they enter the grand hall. You can hear their low voices, the murmur of conversation as they evaluate the line of omegas, as if you’re nothing more than merchandise on display. You keep your eyes down, as you’ve been taught, but your heart is hammering so loudly you’re sure everyone can hear it.

One by one, they move past you, some taking a moment to appraise you before moving on, others barely sparing you a glance. The tension builds with each alpha that passes, your nerves fraying more and more. You want to shrink away, to make yourself invisible, but you know that’s the last thing you should do. Instead, you focus on keeping your breathing steady, on maintaining the composed exterior you’ve been drilled to perfect.

Then you hear the headmistress speak, her voice softer, almost deferential. “Mr. Piastri,” she says, and you feel your breath catch.

You’ve heard whispers about him, the young alpha who’s taken the racing world by storm, his name a force to be reckoned with even outside the omega circles. You’ve imagined what he might be like, but nothing could prepare you for the reality.

You feel his presence before you see him, the weight of his gaze as he approaches. There’s something different about the way he moves, the way the other alphas seem to step aside for him, as if acknowledging his dominance without a word. He stops in front of you, and for the first time, you dare to lift your eyes.

Oscar Piastri is taller than you expected, his presence somehow larger than life. His face is expressionless, unreadable, but his eyes … his eyes are sharp, assessing, as if he’s looking right through you, stripping away every defense you’ve carefully built.

He says nothing at first, just studies you with an intensity that makes you feel exposed, vulnerable in a way you’ve never experienced before. The world around you seems to fade, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of silence.

You don’t move, don’t breathe, barely even blink. Your whole body is tense, waiting for his judgment, his decision. You don’t know what to expect, and the uncertainty is unbearable.

Then, slowly, he reaches out, his fingers brushing your chin. The touch is light, almost delicate, but it sends a shiver down your spine. He tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze fully. There’s a pause, a moment where everything hangs in the balance, and you feel like you might break under the pressure.

But you don’t. You can’t. You’ve been trained for this, prepared for this moment, and you will not fail.

Oscar’s eyes search yours, and you wonder what he’s looking for. Strength? Weakness? He’s so close now that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, and it’s dizzying, overwhelming in a way you can’t quite describe.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he turns to the headmistress. “I want this one,” he says, his voice calm, decisive.

The headmistress smiles, a tight, satisfied expression, as if she expected nothing less. “Of course, Mr. Piastri,” she replies smoothly. “She’s one of our finest.”

There’s a rush of relief that crashes over you, mixed with a new kind of fear. He’s chosen you. Out of all the omegas here, he’s chosen you. It should be a victory, but all you feel is a creeping sense of dread. What does this mean for you? What will your life be like now?

Oscar’s hand drops from your chin, and you lower your gaze again, as you’ve been taught. You can still feel the imprint of his touch, like a brand on your skin. The other omegas around you are silent, but you can sense their curiosity, their jealousy, their relief that they weren’t chosen.

“Prepare her things,” Oscar says to the headmistress, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be leaving with her shortly.”

“Of course,” the headmistress repeats, her voice smooth, almost too smooth. She turns to you, her expression hardening. “You heard him. Go with Miss Parker to gather your belongings.”

You nod, obediently turning to follow Miss Parker, who gives you a curt nod before leading the way out of the hall. Your mind is spinning, your emotions a tangled mess of fear, confusion, and something else — something that feels dangerously like excitement.

As you walk down the corridor, away from the other omegas and the alphas who are still making their selections, you steal a glance back at Oscar. He’s already moving on, his focus shifting to some conversation with the headmistress, but you can’t shake the feeling that he’s still aware of you, even if he’s not looking your way.

Miss Parker doesn’t speak as she guides you to your room. There’s no need for words. You know what’s expected of you. You’ve always known.

When you reach your room, the small space that’s been your whole world for so long, Miss Parker hands you a simple, nondescript suitcase. “Pack quickly,” she says, her voice brusque but not unkind. “Mr. Piastri won’t want to wait.”

You nod again, mechanically moving to gather your things. There’s not much to take — just a few pieces of clothing, some personal items that you’ve been allowed to keep, all of it carefully selected to fit the image of the perfect omega. As you pack, you try to steady your breathing, to push back the rising tide of panic.

This is it. This is what you’ve been trained for, what your whole life has been leading to. And yet, standing here, on the edge of the unknown, you feel more lost than ever.

Miss Parker watches you, her expression unreadable. You wonder if she feels anything at all, if she remembers what it’s like to be in your position, or if she’s long since forgotten what it means to be afraid.

When you’re done, you stand, holding the suitcase tightly in your hands. Miss Parker gives a small nod of approval. “Good. Now, remember what you’ve been taught. Mr. Piastri is your alpha now. You will obey him in all things, without question.”

“I understand,” you reply, your voice steady, though you’re not sure how.

“Then let’s go,” Miss Parker says, turning on her heel and leading the way back down the corridor.

The walk back to the grand hall feels shorter, as if time is compressing around you. Before you know it, you’re standing in front of Oscar again, the suitcase a heavy weight in your hands.

He glances at it, then at you, his expression still inscrutable. “Ready?” He asks, though it’s clear he expects no answer but one.

“Yes,” you say quietly, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Good,” Oscar says, his tone final. He turns to the headmistress, giving her a brief nod. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“Of course, Mr. Piastri,” the headmistress says, her voice tinged with satisfaction. “We wish you and your new omega all the best.”

Oscar says nothing in return, just takes your suitcase from you with one hand, his grip firm, and gestures for you to follow him. You do, of course, because what else can you do? This is your life now, whatever that means.

As you leave the school, stepping out into the crisp morning air, you feel a strange mix of emotions — fear, yes, but also a flicker of something else, something that feels almost like hope. Maybe this will be better. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you fear.

You steal a glance at Oscar as he walks beside you, his expression still impassive, but there’s a calmness about him, a quiet strength that’s undeniable. He’s your alpha now, and while the thought terrifies you, there’s also a small, tentative part of you that wonders if maybe, just maybe, this is how it’s supposed to be.

***

Oscar stands in the grand entrance of the school, his eyes sweeping across the opulent hall as he takes in the scene. Everything about this place exudes prestige, from the intricate detailing on the marble floors to the quiet efficiency with which the staff move about. This is where the finest omegas in Europe are trained, where alphas come to find their perfect matches. He’s never been one to doubt his choices, but today, there’s an edge of curiosity that’s unfamiliar, even unsettling.

“Mr. Piastri,” the headmistress greets him, her voice smooth and practiced, an air of deference in her tone. “We’re honored to have you here.”

He nods, acknowledging her words without much thought. His mind is elsewhere, focused on the task ahead. He’s done his research, learned about this place, about the selection process. He knows what he’s looking for, or at least he thinks he does. It’s supposed to be straightforward — a practical decision, not one driven by sentiment or instinct. But even as he tells himself that, there’s a part of him that knows better.

“Shall we begin?” The headmistress asks, her eyes watching him carefully, as if she’s trying to gauge his mood.

“Yes,” Oscar says simply, his voice even, controlled. There’s no need for pretense; he knows his presence here speaks for itself.

She leads him into the hall where the omegas are gathered, all dressed in identical white dresses, their heads bowed slightly in a show of submission. It’s a carefully curated display, one meant to impress, to showcase their training. But as Oscar enters the room, a different sense takes over.

It’s the scent that hits him first, a mixture of soft florals and something else, something sweeter, more intoxicating. It’s subtle, almost elusive, yet it cuts through the air like a sharp blade, setting his senses on high alert. For a moment, he’s thrown off balance, the unexpectedness of it catching him off guard.

He’s been around omegas before, of course. He knows how their pheromones work, how they can influence alphas, but this … this is different. This scent isn’t just pleasant, it’s magnetic, pulling at something deep within him that he hadn’t even realized was there. He finds himself scanning the line of omegas, searching for the source, his heartbeat quickening despite his attempts to stay composed.

“Mr. Piastri?” The headmistress’ voice cuts through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present. She’s watching him, a hint of curiosity in her eyes.

“Go ahead,” Oscar says, waving her off as if everything is under control. He’s used to this, the scrutiny, the expectations. But right now, there’s something else at play, something he’s not sure how to navigate.

He moves down the line, his eyes sliding over the faces of the omegas, trying to identify the one whose scent has captivated him so thoroughly. There are many who glance up at him, hopeful, eager for his attention, but none of them seem to be the one he’s looking for.

Then, he sees you.

You’re standing near the end of the line, your posture perfect, your head slightly bowed like the others. But there’s something about the way you hold yourself, something different. And then there’s the scent — the one that’s been driving him to distraction since he walked in. It’s stronger here, more potent, wrapping around him and holding him in place.

Oscar’s steps slow as he approaches you, his gaze narrowing as he studies you more closely. You’re trembling slightly, he notices, though you’re doing your best to hide it. There’s a fragility to you, an air of vulnerability that he wasn’t expecting. But beneath that, there’s something else — an inner strength, a quiet resilience that draws him in even further.

Without thinking, he reaches out, tipping your chin up so he can see your face. The moment your eyes meet his, something clicks into place, something he can’t quite put into words. You’re beautiful, yes, but that’s not what’s holding his attention. It’s the way you look at him, a mix of fear and determination, as if you’re ready for whatever comes next, even if it terrifies you.

Oscar takes his time, letting the moment stretch out, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. Your scent is everywhere now, filling his lungs, clouding his thoughts. He knows he should be more objective, more calculating, but for the first time in a long time, he can’t bring himself to care.

“She’s one of our finest,” the headmistress says, her voice cutting into the moment like a knife. Oscar barely registers her words, his focus entirely on you.

“I want this one,” he says, his voice steady, final. There’s no hesitation, no doubt. He knows what he wants, and he’s not going to waste any time pretending otherwise.

The headmistress nods, clearly pleased. “Of course, Mr. Piastri.”

Oscar lets go of your chin, watching as you lower your gaze once more, obediently stepping back. The connection between you isn’t severed, though; if anything, it’s stronger now, more tangible. He feels it in the way his chest tightens, the way his instincts are screaming at him to keep you close, to never let you out of his sight.

He steps back, allowing the headmistress to take over, but his eyes never leave you. Even as she instructs you to gather your things, even as you turn to follow her orders, his focus remains on you. He’s never been one to act on impulse, to let his emotions dictate his actions, but right now, all he can think about is how he needs to get you out of here, to take you away from this place and claim you as his.

It’s irrational, and he knows it. But it’s also undeniable.

The minutes that pass feel like hours, each second dragging as he waits for you to return. He finds himself pacing, a rare show of impatience, his mind racing with possibilities. What will you be like, once you’re away from here? Will you still be this quiet, this controlled? Or will you reveal a different side of yourself, something more untamed?

When you finally reappear, suitcase in hand, Oscar feels a surge of something close to relief. You’re here, and you’re his, and that knowledge settles something deep within him. He reaches out, taking the suitcase from you, his fingers brushing against yours for just a moment. The contact sends a jolt through him, and he wonders if you feel it too, if you’re as affected by this as he is.

“Ready?” He asks, his voice softer now, though still firm.

“Yes,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, but it’s enough. It’s all he needs to hear.

He turns to the headmistress, giving her a curt nod. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“It’s been our pleasure, Mr. Piastri,” she says, her tone just as polished as before, though there’s an undercurrent of satisfaction now. She’s done her job, and she knows it.

Oscar doesn’t waste any more time. He takes your hand, guiding you out of the hall and into the cool morning air. His grip is firm, possessive, as if he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go.

As you walk beside him, he feels that same pull, that same magnetic force that’s been with him since the moment he caught your scent. It’s overwhelming, intoxicating, and he knows he’s in dangerous territory, but there’s no going back now. He’s made his choice, and he’s going to see it through.

The car is waiting at the curb, sleek and black, and Oscar opens the door for you, gesturing for you to get in. You do so without hesitation, and he follows, settling into the seat beside you.

The driver doesn’t say a word, just starts the engine and pulls away from the school. Oscar glances over at you, taking in the way you’re sitting so still, your hands folded neatly in your lap. There’s a tension in your posture, a lingering uncertainty, and he can’t help but wonder what’s going through your mind.

“Are you comfortable?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You nod, though it’s clear you’re still on edge. “Yes, Mr. Piastri.”

“Oscar,” he corrects, his tone gentler now. “You can call me Oscar.”

You hesitate, as if you’re not sure if it’s a test. “Oscar,” you repeat softly, and the sound of your voice saying his name sends a shiver down his spine.

There’s so much he wants to say, so many questions he wants to ask, but he holds back, giving you time to adjust. He knows this is overwhelming for you, that you’re probably terrified, but he also knows that you’re strong, that you’ve already proven yourself in ways that matter to him.

As the car speeds down the empty roads, Oscar leans back in his seat, his eyes never leaving you. He can’t predict what the future holds, can’t say for certain how this will all play out, but one thing is clear: you’re his now, and he’s not going to let anything come between you.

The scent that first drew him to you still lingers in the air, a constant reminder of the bond that’s forming between you. It’s unlike anything he’s ever experienced, and he’s not sure how to navigate it, but he knows one thing for sure — he’s not going to let you go. Not now, not ever.

***

The cabin of the private jet hums with a quiet, luxurious calm, a stark contrast to the swirling storm of emotions inside you. You’re seated in a plush leather chair, staring out at the expanse of sky through the window. Clouds drift lazily by, but your thoughts are anything but tranquil.

Oscar sits across from you, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He’s been on his phone, dealing with some business matter, but even so, his presence dominates the space. You’ve barely spoken since boarding the jet, and every minute that passes feels like an eternity.

You steal a glance at him, trying to read the expression on his face, but it’s as composed as ever. You wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s having second thoughts. Your stomach twists with anxiety, not just from the uncertainty of what’s to come, but from something deeper, something that’s been building inside you ever since this morning.

Oscar finishes his call, slipping the phone into his pocket as he turns his attention fully to you. The weight of his gaze is almost unbearable, and you quickly lower your eyes, focusing on the smooth leather of the seat beneath your fingers.

“Monaco,” he says, breaking the silence. His voice is rich, deep, and it pulls your attention back to him. “I have an apartment there. That’s where we’ll be staying.”

Monaco. The name conjures images of sun-soaked coastlines, of wealth and glamour that you’ve only ever heard about. But all of that feels distant, almost unreal, compared to the reality of what you’re feeling right now.

You nod, swallowing hard. “Thank you,” you manage to say, though your voice trembles slightly.

Oscar watches you closely, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Something’s on your mind,” he states rather than asks. There’s no judgment in his tone, but the authority in his voice leaves no room for avoidance.

You hesitate, unsure of how to even begin. The words stick in your throat, the truth too uncomfortable to voice, but you know you can’t keep it hidden. Not from him. Not when it’s so important.

“They …” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. “They gave us something … this morning.”

Oscar’s brows draw together, his expression shifting to one of concern mixed with something darker, more dangerous. “What do you mean?”

“They gave us heat inducers,” you confess, the words tumbling out in a rush. You don’t dare look at him, instead focusing on your hands as they clench and unclench nervously in your lap. “They wanted to make sure that if any of us were taken by an alpha today, our heats would start soon. So that … so that we could be … mated as quickly as possible.”

The silence that follows is heavy, oppressive. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, but you don’t dare look up, afraid of what you might see in his eyes.

Then, there’s a low, rumbling growl that reverberates through the cabin. It’s a sound that sends a shiver down your spine, both thrilling and terrifying. You risk a glance at Oscar, and what you see in his expression nearly takes your breath away.

His eyes have darkened, his jaw clenched tightly as he processes what you’ve just told him. There’s a fierce protectiveness in his gaze, but also something more primal, something that calls to the omega in you.

“How long?” He asks, his voice rougher now, as if he’s barely restraining himself.

“I … I don’t know,” you admit, your heart pounding in your chest. “It’s already starting. I can feel it.”

Oscar doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stands, moving with a predatory grace that sends your pulse racing. He crosses the small distance between you in just a few steps, and before you know it, he’s kneeling in front of you, his large hands resting on your knees.

The touch is electric, sending heat rushing through your veins. You gasp softly, instinctively trying to pull back, but Oscar’s grip tightens, holding you in place.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice leaving no room for disobedience.

You obey, lifting your eyes to meet his. The intensity in his gaze is overwhelming, and you feel yourself trembling under the weight of it.

“You’re mine now,” Oscar says, his tone possessive, yet there’s a tenderness there too, something that reassures you even as it stokes the flames of your heat. “Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. But it’s the truth. You’ve known it from the moment he chose you, from the moment his hand touched your chin and your world tilted on its axis.

Oscar’s eyes soften slightly at your answer, but the fire in them remains. He reaches up, his fingers brushing against your neck, finding the sensitive spot just below your ear where your mating gland is. The contact sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and you bite your lip to stifle the moan that threatens to escape.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he murmurs, his thumb rubbing gently over your gland, his touch both soothing and maddeningly arousing. “When the time comes, I’ll make sure you feel good. I’ll make sure you know exactly who you belong to.”

The promise in his words sends a wave of heat crashing through you, and you shudder, unable to contain the small whimper that slips out.

Oscar’s grip on you tightens for just a moment, and he leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin. “I want you to tell me everything you’re feeling,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “No hiding, no holding back. Understand?”

“Yes,” you manage to say, though it’s more of a breathless gasp than a proper response. Your mind is spinning, the heat building steadily inside you, every nerve ending tingling with anticipation.

He studies you for a moment longer, as if assessing your readiness, then slowly rises to his feet, pulling you up with him. The sudden change in position makes your head spin, and you find yourself leaning into him for support, your body seeking out his warmth instinctively.

Oscar wraps an arm around your waist, holding you close as he guides you to the couch on the other side of the cabin. He sits down first, then pulls you onto his lap, positioning you so that you’re straddling his thighs, your bodies pressed together intimately.

The new position brings your core into direct contact with the hard length of him, and the sensation is enough to make you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance. You can feel the heat pooling low in your belly, your body responding to his in ways you’ve never experienced before.

“Tell me what you need,” Oscar demands, his hands settling on your hips, holding you firmly in place. The look in his eyes is dark, intense, and it makes your heart race faster.

You hesitate, your mind foggy with desire, unsure of how to put your needs into words. But the pressure of his hands, the way he’s looking at you, tells you that he’s not going to let you avoid the question.

“I … I need you,” you finally admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Please … it’s so hot, and I can’t … I can’t think straight.”

Oscar’s eyes flash with something predatory, and he shifts beneath you, his grip on your hips tightening. “That’s because your body knows exactly what it needs,” he says, his voice a low, soothing rumble. “It’s instinct, omega. And it’s only going to get stronger.”

He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks, sending shivers down your spine. “I want you to let go,” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. “Don’t fight it. I’ll take care of everything.”

You moan softly, the sound involuntary as his words sink into your mind, the command laced with something deeper, something that resonates with the omega inside you.

Oscar’s hands begin to move, one sliding up your back to cradle the nape of your neck, the other slipping down to cup your ass, holding you firmly against him. The heat between you is palpable, and you can feel yourself growing wetter, your body readying itself for what’s to come.

“Good girl,” Oscar murmurs, his voice filled with approval. The praise makes you whimper, your body arching into his touch, desperate for more.

He chuckles softly, a sound that’s equal parts amusement and satisfaction. “You’re already so responsive,” he notes, his hand sliding up your thigh to the hem of your dress, fingers teasing the sensitive skin there. “It won’t be long now.”

You can feel the truth in his words, the heat inside you building to a fever pitch, your body trembling with need. It’s almost unbearable, the ache, the hunger, and you press yourself against him, seeking out any form of relief.

Oscar’s fingers trail higher, pushing the fabric of your dress up your thighs, exposing more of your skin to the cool air of the cabin. The contrast only heightens your arousal, and you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as your hips start to move instinctively, grinding against him.

“Shh,” Oscar soothes, his hand sliding up your back to cradle your head, guiding you to rest your forehead against his shoulder. “I know, sweetheart. I know it’s hard. But I’m right here. I’m going to take care of you.”

Oscar’s touch is electric, his fingers gliding with a deliberate slowness up the inside of your thigh. The sensation sends shivers through you, your body reacting to every subtle movement. You cling to him, your breath ragged, heart pounding in your chest as the heat deepens, spreading like wildfire.

He’s still cradling you on his lap, his other hand steady at the nape of your neck, holding you close to him. The intimacy of the moment is almost too much to bear, and yet, you crave more. The pressure building inside you is overwhelming, a desperate need that only he can satisfy.

Oscar’s hand inches higher, slipping beneath the thin fabric of your panties. The touch of his fingers against your slick folds draws a gasp from your lips, your hips instinctively bucking against his hand. He hums in approval, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. “Your body’s more than ready, isn’t it?”

You can only manage a breathless nod in response, your mind too clouded with desire to form coherent words. His fingers explore with a deliberate slowness, tracing the contours of your body, heightening your arousal with every teasing stroke. When he finally brushes against your swollen clit, your body jerks, a soft cry escaping your lips.

Oscar’s grip tightens slightly, holding you in place as his fingers begin to move in slow, torturous circles. The pleasure is almost too much, and yet it’s not enough — nowhere near enough to satisfy the gnawing hunger inside you. The need for more, for him, drives you to the brink of madness, and you find yourself whining, pleading with him for release.

“Please, Oscar … more … I need more …” Your voice is a desperate whimper, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck, clinging to him as if he’s the only thing anchoring you to reality.

But Oscar doesn’t relent, doesn’t give you what you’re begging for. Instead, he keeps his movements slow, controlled, as if testing your limits. His touch is maddeningly precise, each brush of his fingers sending waves of pleasure coursing through you, yet never quite enough to push you over the edge.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice soothing but firm. “You’re not ready. Not here.”

His words are both a comfort and a torment. You understand what he’s doing, why he’s holding back, but it doesn’t make the ache inside you any less excruciating. The heat is becoming unbearable, and you grind yourself against his hand, seeking more friction, more anything, to ease the burning need.

Oscar’s fingers dip lower, sliding inside you with agonizing slowness, and you cry out, the sensation almost too much to bear. He stills for a moment, allowing you to adjust, his other hand gently stroking your back as you pant against his neck.

“So tight,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his voice laced with a mix of pride and possessiveness. “You’re going to feel so good around me when the time comes.”

You whimper at his words, the thought of what’s to come sending another rush of heat through you. But just as you start to lose yourself in the pleasure, in the feeling of his fingers moving inside you, the jet gives a sudden lurch, signaling the start of your descent.

Oscar’s touch freezes, and you blink in confusion, your dazed mind struggling to comprehend what’s happening. His hand slips from between your thighs, and you make a small sound of protest, your body trembling with the sudden loss of contact.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says softly, his voice tinged with regret. “But we’re landing. We have to wait.”

“No …” The word slips out before you can stop it, a pitiful, desperate plea. The idea of stopping now, of having to endure this unbearable heat without relief, is almost too much to bear. “Please … don’t stop …”

Oscar sighs, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, gently tilting your head back so that you’re forced to meet his gaze. There’s a softness in his eyes now, a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the heat between you.

“Not here,” he says firmly, though there’s a note of apology in his voice. “When we get to the apartment, I promise I’ll take care of you. But not here.”

You shake your head, tears of frustration and need welling up in your eyes. The logical part of you understands — knows that he’s right — but the omega in you, the part that’s driven by instinct and need, doesn’t care. You need him, now, and the idea of waiting feels impossible.

Oscar’s thumb strokes your cheek, wiping away a stray tear, and he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I know it’s hard,” he murmurs against your skin. “But I want our first time to be special. Not rushed, not in some cramped cabin. You deserve more than that.”

His words, his touch, they soothe you, if only slightly. You nod, though the movement is reluctant, and he smiles softly, pressing another kiss to your temple.

“Good girl,” he praises, his voice filled with warmth. The words send a small thrill through you, even as your body continues to throb with unmet need.

The jet gives another lurch, and Oscar shifts, carefully lifting you off his lap and setting you down beside him. The sudden distance between you makes you whimper, but he’s quick to wrap an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to his side.

“Just a little longer,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair. “Then I’ll make sure you get everything you need.”

You nod again, leaning into his warmth as the jet begins its final descent. The anticipation is almost unbearable, the knowledge that relief is so close yet still out of reach making every passing second feel like an eternity.

When the jet finally lands, Oscar is the first to rise, holding out a hand to help you to your feet. Your legs are shaky, and he wraps an arm around your waist to steady you as you make your way to the door.

The heat is building, every step sending a fresh wave of desire coursing through you. By the time you reach the door, you’re trembling, your body barely able to contain the need that’s threatening to consume you.

Oscar notices, of course. He’s been watching you closely, his sharp eyes missing nothing. As the door opens and the cool night air rushes in, he pauses, turning to you with a look of concern.

“Are you alright to walk?” He asks, his voice gentle, but there’s an underlying tension there, as if he’s barely holding himself back.

You shake your head, your legs too shaky to trust, the heat making it hard to think straight. “I … I don’t think I can …”

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. In one smooth motion, he scoops you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest as he steps out of the jet. The sudden movement makes you gasp, but you quickly wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him as he carries you down the steps.

The car is waiting at the bottom, the driver standing at attention, but Oscar doesn’t spare him a glance. He moves with purpose, his grip on you secure as he carries you to the car and slides into the backseat with you still in his arms.

Once inside, he positions you so that you’re straddling his lap again, your bodies pressed together. The door closes behind you, and the car starts moving, but all you can focus on is the feel of him beneath you, the heat of his body seeping into yours.

“Oscar … please …” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice filled with desperation.

He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing against your lower lip as he studies you, his expression a mix of concern and desire. “I know, sweetheart,” he says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I know how hard this is for you.”

You whimper, your hips instinctively rocking against his lap in search of relief, but Oscar’s hands grip your waist, stilling your movements.

“But not here,” he repeats, his tone firm despite the longing in his eyes. “I won’t take you for the first time in the back of a car. You deserve better than that.”

His words are both a comfort and a torment. You understand what he’s saying, know that he’s trying to do right by you, but the need inside you is growing stronger with every passing second, making it hard to think, hard to focus on anything other than the burning desire to be claimed.

Oscar’s hand slides up to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “I’ll make it worth the wait,” he promises, his voice a low, seductive rumble. “I’ll make sure you feel every second of it.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, and you moan softly, pressing your forehead against his shoulder as you try to steady your breathing. The heat is almost unbearable now, your body trembling with the effort to hold back.

Oscar’s hands continue to roam, one slipping beneath your dress to caress your thigh, the other trailing up your spine in a soothing gesture. He’s trying to comfort you, to ease your suffering, but it’s a losing battle. The need is too strong, too overwhelming.

“Just hold on a little longer,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. “We’re almost there.”

By the time the car pulls up to the sleek, modern apartment building, you’re trembling uncontrollably, your body nearly vibrating with the intensity of the heat that’s been steadily building since you left the jet. Oscar, ever aware of your condition, doesn’t waste a second. He’s out of the car and around to your side before the driver can even think to open the door for you.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” he murmurs as he reaches for you, his tone soothing despite the underlying urgency in his movements. His strong arms wrap around you, effortlessly lifting you from the backseat. As he stands, you feel the dampness between your legs spread, leaving a wet spot on his pant leg.

A flicker of something dark and possessive crosses his face as he notices, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he tightens his grip, holding you closer against his chest as if shielding you from the world. His pace quickens as he heads toward the entrance of the building, your soft whimpers filling the space between you.

“Oscar … please …” Your voice is barely more than a breathy moan, the plea escaping before you can stop it. The need inside you is too overwhelming to contain, and you’re desperate for him to finally take you, to claim you as his.

His jaw clenches, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, but he doesn’t stop. “I know, baby,” he replies, his voice rough with restraint. “Just a little longer. We’re almost there.”

The elevator ride feels like an eternity. You’re wrapped around him, clutching his shoulders, your face buried in the crook of his neck as you try to suppress the sobs of need that threaten to escape. Oscar’s hand rubs soothing circles on your back, his other arm securing you tightly against him. Every touch is a lifeline, but it’s also torture, reminding you of everything you’re not yet getting.

When the elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, Oscar strides out without hesitation, his eyes fixed on the door to his apartment. You whimper, your hands fisting in his shirt as the desperation in your voice grows. “Oscar … please … I can’t …”

“You can,” he insists, his voice low and commanding as he finally reaches his door. “Just a few more seconds, and then I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

He fumbles with the keys, the tension in his body palpable. You can see the struggle in his eyes, the barely controlled restraint that’s holding him back from giving in to your pleas right there in the hallway. Finally, the door swings open, and he carries you over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him.

He drops the luggage carelessly by the entrance, his focus entirely on you. The moment the door clicks shut, something shifts in him. The restraint he’s been clinging to snaps, and he moves with purpose, his steps quick and sure as he heads straight for the bedroom.

You’re practically panting by the time he sets you down on the edge of the bed, your legs weak and trembling beneath you. Oscar’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire as he looks at you, his gaze intense, predatory.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with possession. “You’re so desperate for it, aren’t you? I can smell it on you, how badly you need me.”

You nod frantically, your hands reaching for him, trying to pull him closer. “Please, Oscar … I need you … now …”

He smirks, the sight of your desperation clearly affecting him, but he doesn’t give in right away. Instead, he takes a moment to savor the sight of you, his eyes raking over your trembling form as he steps between your legs.

“I’m going to make sure you never forget this,” he promises, his voice a low growl as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress up over your hips. “You’re mine now, and I’m going to make sure everyone knows it.”

A shudder runs through you at his words, the possessiveness in his tone only fueling the fire inside you. You lean back on your elbows, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you watch him with wide, pleading eyes.

“Oscar, please … I can’t wait any longer …”

His eyes darken further, and he lets out a low, rumbling growl as he finally gives in, his hands moving to strip away the last of your clothing. The cool air hits your heated skin, and you whimper, your body arching toward him, craving his touch.

Oscar wastes no time, his hands everywhere at once, touching, caressing, teasing. His mouth follows, lips and tongue tracing a scorching path along your neck, down to your chest, and lower still. Every touch, every kiss, only heightens your arousal, pushing you closer to the edge.

When his hand finally slips between your legs again, you let out a broken moan, your hips lifting off the bed in search of more contact. He chuckles darkly, his fingers parting your folds and slipping inside with ease, the slickness of your arousal making the movement effortless.

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice laced with satisfaction. “So ready to be claimed.”

You can only moan in response, your body writhing beneath him as his fingers begin to move, slow and deliberate, dragging out your pleasure until you’re on the verge of tears.

“Oscar … please … I need you inside me …”

He growls at your plea, his control slipping further as he pulls his fingers out, making you whimper at the loss. But then he’s undressing, and your eyes widen as you watch him, the anticipation building with every second.

When he finally joins you on the bed, his body hovering over yours, you reach for him, your hands shaking with need. He captures your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head as he settles between your legs, his gaze locking with yours.

“This is going to be intense,” he warns, his voice low and rough with desire. “But I need you to trust me, okay?”

You nod frantically, your body aching for him, needing him more than you’ve ever needed anything in your life. “I trust you,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Please, Oscar … make me yours …”

That’s all the encouragement he needs. With a low growl, he positions himself at your entrance, and with one swift, powerful thrust, he’s inside you, filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, and you cry out, your back arching off the bed as pleasure and pain mix together in a heady, intoxicating blend.

Oscar stills for a moment, letting you adjust, his breath coming in harsh pants as he struggles to hold back. His grip on your wrists tightens, his other hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you in place.

“You’re so tight,” he groans, his voice strained. “Fuck, you feel so good around me …”

You whimper, your body trembling with the effort to hold still, the overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled making it hard to think, hard to breathe. But the pain is already fading, quickly replaced by a deep, aching pleasure that leaves you desperate for more.

“Move,” you plead, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Please, Oscar … I need you to move …”

He lets out a shuddering breath, his control hanging by a thread as he slowly pulls out, only to thrust back in with a force that makes you see stars. The pleasure is immediate, a sharp, intense burst that has you crying out, your body arching into his.

Oscar’s pace is relentless, each thrust deep and powerful, driving you closer and closer to the edge. You’re lost in the sensation, your world narrowed down to the feel of him inside you, the heat of his body against yours, the sound of his growls and your moans filling the room.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice rough and possessive as he pounds into you. “All mine … I’m going to make sure everyone knows it …”

You’re too far gone to respond, your body trembling as the pleasure builds to an unbearable peak. It’s too much, too intense, and yet you can’t get enough. You cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of release.

Oscar’s hand moves to your neck, his thumb brushing over your mating gland, and you cry out at the sudden jolt of pleasure. “Do it,” you plead, your voice breaking. “Please, Oscar … bite me … claim me …”

He lets out a guttural growl, his control finally snapping as he lowers his head to your neck. His teeth graze over your gland, and you shudder, your body tensing in anticipation.

“Mine,” he snarls, and then he bites down, his teeth sinking into your flesh with a sharp, searing pain that quickly turns into the most intense pleasure you’ve ever felt.

The orgasm hits you like a freight train, your body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. You scream his name, your voice raw and broken as you unravel completely beneath him.

Oscar growls against your neck, his hips slamming into you with a renewed intensity as he rides out your orgasm, his own release following close behind. He thrusts deep inside you, filling you with his seed as he marks you as his, the bond between you solidifying with each pulse of pleasure.

When it’s over, you collapse against the bed, your body trembling with aftershocks, your mind dazed and blissfully blank. Oscar’s breath is hot against your neck, his body still pressing you into the mattress as the intensity of your shared cliDylan begins to ebb. You’re both trembling, the aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through your veins as your minds struggle to grasp what just happened. He’s still buried deep inside you, his knot holding you together, and the thought of being this intimately connected with him sends another shiver of pleasure down your spine.

He nuzzles into your neck, his lips brushing over the fresh bite mark he’s left on your mating gland, the sensation making you whimper softly. “You did so well, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky with satisfaction. “So good for me.”

You’re too spent to respond, your body heavy and exhausted from the intense pleasure he’s wrung out of you. Instead, you nuzzle closer to him, your eyes fluttering shut as the heat in your body temporarily dies down, leaving you in a blissful haze.

Oscar shifts slightly, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him so that you’re lying on his chest, still intimately connected. His hands stroke soothingly down your back, and you let out a contented sigh, feeling safe and secure in his arms.

“You should get some sleep while you can,” he murmurs, his voice a soft rumble beneath you. “There’s going to be another wave soon, and you’ll need your strength.”

You know he’s right, but the thought of sleeping while you’re still so tightly bound to him feels almost impossible. You’re too aware of his presence, of the way his knot is still lodged deep inside you, of the steady thrum of his heart beneath your ear. But exhaustion is quickly catching up with you, and before long, your eyes are drifting shut, your body relaxing fully against his.

“Stay with me,” you whisper, your voice drowsy as sleep begins to pull you under.

“Always,” he replies, his voice filled with a quiet promise.

The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is the gentle press of his lips against your temple, the warmth of his body surrounding you, and the comfort of knowing that, for the first time in your life, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

When you wake, the room is dark, and the only sound is the steady rise and fall of Oscar’s breathing. Your body is warm and heavy, still draped over his chest, still connected to him in the most intimate way. But as your mind begins to shake off the lingering remnants of sleep, you become acutely aware of the insistent throbbing between your legs, the undeniable need that’s starting to build once again.

You shift slightly, your movement eliciting a low groan from Oscar as the motion tugs at his knot, still firmly in place inside you. The sensation sends a wave of heat through you, and you let out a soft whine, your body instinctively pressing closer to him.

Oscar stirs beneath you, his hands sliding up to rest on your hips, his grip firm but gentle. “You’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

“Mmhmm,” you reply, your voice breathy as you nuzzle into his chest. “I need you …”

He lets out a low chuckle, his hands beginning to trace soothing patterns on your skin. “You’ve got me, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

But it’s not enough. The need inside you is growing stronger, more insistent, and you can feel the heat beginning to rise again, demanding more. “I need more than that,” you whisper, your voice laced with desperation. “Please, Oscar …”

His hands still on your hips, his body tensing beneath you. “It’s too soon,” he says, his voice rough with restraint. “This is only your first heat with me. We have time, plenty of time for that later.”

You shake your head, a whimper escaping your lips as you press closer, your body aching with need. “No, I need it now. I need you to knot me again … I need you to give me pups …”

Oscar’s breath catches in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as he tries to maintain control. “Sweetheart, listen to me,” he begins, his voice strained. “I want that too, but this is your first time going through heat with me. We should wait-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice firm despite the desperation lacing it. “I can’t wait. I need you now, Oscar. Please … I need to feel you knot me again, to know that I’m yours completely …”

He lets out a low growl, his control slipping further as your words push him closer to the edge. “You are mine,” he snarls, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. “You’re already mine. I’ve marked you, claimed you-”

“Then show me,” you plead, your voice breaking as you grind down against him, desperate for the friction. “Show me that I’m yours … knot me and fill me, Oscar. Give me pups …”

His restraint snaps completely at your words, and with a feral growl, he flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him as he pulls out of you, only to thrust back in with a force that leaves you breathless. The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect blend of pain and pleasure as his knot stretches you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“You want my knot?” He growls, his voice rough and possessive as he pounds into you with an intensity that has you seeing stars. “You want me to fill you with my pups?”

“Yes,” you cry out, your body arching off the bed as you cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Yes, please, Oscar … I need it …”

He’s relentless, his thrusts deep and powerful as he chases his own release, the sound of your cries and pleas only spurring him on. The heat between your legs is almost unbearable, the pleasure building to a fever pitch as his knot swells inside you, locking you together once again.

“I’m going to give you everything,” he growls, his voice low and rough as he drives into you with a single-minded focus. “You’re going to take all of me, every last drop …”

You can’t form coherent words anymore, your mind too lost in the overwhelming pleasure, but you manage a breathless moan, the sound desperate and needy as you beg him for more.

Oscar doesn’t disappoint. With a final, powerful thrust, he knots you, his body going rigid as he spills inside you, filling you with his seed. The sensation is enough to send you over the edge, and you scream his name as you’re thrown into another intense orgasm, your body shaking and trembling beneath him.

He rides out your release, his movements slow and deliberate as he pushes you through the waves of pleasure, his knot pulsing inside you with every throb of his cock. You’re barely aware of anything else, your mind completely consumed by the sensation of being filled so completely, so perfectly by him.

When it’s over, you collapse against the bed, your body trembling with aftershocks, your mind dazed and blissfully blank. Oscar’s weight presses down on you, his breath hot against your neck as he nuzzles into your skin, his knot still lodged firmly inside you.

“Mine,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble as he kisses your neck, the possessiveness in his tone clear. “You’re mine, and now everyone will know it …”

You let out a soft, contented sigh, the sound barely more than a whisper as you relax completely in his arms. “Always,” you reply, your voice drowsy as sleep begins to pull you under once again.

Oscar hums in response, his hands stroking soothingly down your back as he holds you close. “Get some rest, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice soft and tender. “I’ve got you.”

You don’t need to be told twice. The exhaustion from the intensity of your heat is catching up with you, and your eyes are already drifting shut, your body relaxing completely against his.

The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is the gentle press of his lips against your temple, the warmth of his body surrounding you, and the comfort of knowing that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be — safe, loved, and claimed by the alpha who now holds your heart in his hands.

***

The days blend together in a rhythm that becomes both comforting and suffocating. You wake up alone in the large bed, the sheets still warm from where Oscar had been lying beside you, his scent lingering in the air. The apartment is quiet, too quiet, with only the distant hum of the city outside to keep you company. The space around you is luxurious and expansive, but it feels empty without him.

Oscar has people for everything — cooking, cleaning, managing his life outside the realm of racing. You’d been trained to handle those tasks, taught to be the perfect omega who could anticipate and fulfill every need an alpha might have. But here, in Oscar’s world, those skills are unnecessary. The staff handles the meals, tidying up, and even the minutiae of his schedule. It leaves you with little to do, your days stretching out in a seemingly endless wait for him to return from training, meetings, or other obligations.

It’s the nights you live for, the moments when he finally comes home and the two of you can lose yourselves in each other. The way he takes you, the way he makes you feel, it’s overwhelming, all-consuming. In those moments, nothing else matters. The world narrows down to just the two of you, your bodies moving together in perfect synchrony, your cries of pleasure mingling with his growls of satisfaction. You crave those nights, where the boundaries between you blur, and all you can feel is the heat and the raw, primal connection that bonds you together.

But when the night ends, and the morning comes, the cycle starts again. He kisses you softly before slipping out of bed, leaving you to wake alone, his absence a gaping void that you can’t quite fill. You’ve tried to distract yourself, tried to find ways to pass the time, but nothing seems to help. You miss him when he’s gone, the ache of longing settling deep in your chest, gnawing at you throughout the day.

You spend your days wandering through the apartment, aimless and restless, your mind filled with thoughts of Oscar. Sometimes you’ll curl up on the couch, pulling one of his shirts over your knees just to feel closer to him. Other times, you’ll find yourself standing at the window, staring out at the city below, wondering where he is, what he’s doing, and when he’ll come back to you.

The staff is polite and attentive, but they’re not him. They’re not the warm, reassuring presence that you crave, the one who makes you feel safe and wanted. They do their jobs efficiently, always a step ahead, always ensuring that everything is perfect for when Oscar returns. But their presence only serves to remind you of the emptiness that fills your days.

When Oscar finally comes home, it’s like a breath of fresh air, a reprieve from the stifling monotony that your days have become. You run to him, your body instinctively seeking out his warmth, his touch. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his scent filling your senses and grounding you in a way nothing else can.

“Missed you,” you murmur against his chest, your voice soft and full of longing.

“Missed you too, sweetheart,” he replies, his voice a low rumble as he kisses the top of your head. “But I’m here now.”

The nights are everything you could ever want, a heady mix of pleasure and passion that leaves you breathless and sated. Oscar knows exactly how to touch you, how to draw out every moan and whimper, how to make you forget everything except the way he feels inside you. It’s a relief to lose yourself in him, to drown in the intensity of your connection, to feel completely and utterly his.

It’s after one such night that you find yourself lying in his arms, your body still humming with the afterglow of pleasure. The room is dimly lit, the only light coming from the soft glow of the city outside the window. Oscar’s chest rises and falls steadily beneath your cheek, his hand lazily tracing patterns on your back as he holds you close.

“Are you alright?” He murmurs, his voice soft and full of concern.

You nod, but the words you’ve been holding back for days now bubble to the surface. “I … I miss you when you’re away.”

There’s a pause, and you feel Oscar’s body tense slightly beneath you. He shifts, moving so that he can look down at you, his brow furrowed in concern. “Sweetheart, I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

You bite your lip, feeling a little embarrassed by your admission. “It’s just … when you’re gone, I don’t know what to do with myself. The days are so long, and I feel so … lost without you.”

Oscar sighs, his hand cupping your cheek as he strokes his thumb over your skin. “I’m sorry, I never meant for you to feel like that. I thought you might need some time to adjust, to get used to this new life. But if it’s too much, I’ll figure something out. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“It’s not that I’m unhappy,” you say quickly, not wanting him to think you’re ungrateful. “I just miss you. I miss having you close, knowing you’re here with me. It’s hard when you’re gone, and I’m just … waiting.”

Oscar’s expression softens, and he pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I didn’t realize how much you were struggling. I’ve been trying to give you space, but if it’s making you feel like this, then it’s not working.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his. “I don’t need space, Oscar. I need you. I want to be with you, wherever that is. I don’t care if it’s at home or at a race or anywhere else. I just want to be by your side.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes thoughtful as he considers your words. Then, he nods, as if coming to a decision. “Alright, then. If that’s what you want, I won’t leave you behind anymore.”

You blink up at him, surprised by how easily he agrees. “You mean it?”

“I do,” he says, his voice firm. “I’ve been waiting for you to settle in, to see if you’d be comfortable here on your own. But I can see now that this isn’t working. I don’t want you to feel lonely, and I don’t want to be away from you either.”

Your heart swells with emotion, and you lean up to kiss him, pouring all of your gratitude and love into the gesture. “Thank you,” you whisper against his lips. “I don’t want to be apart from you anymore.”

Oscar kisses you back, his hands threading through your hair as he deepens the kiss, his tongue teasing yours in a way that has your toes curling. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are filled with a warmth that makes you feel like the luckiest person in the world.

“From now on, you’ll come with me,” he says, his voice full of promise. “Wherever I go, you’ll be there too. I won’t leave you behind again.”

The relief that washes over you is almost overwhelming, and you can’t help but smile up at him, feeling lighter than you have in days. The thought of traveling with him, of being by his side no matter where he goes, fills you with a sense of purpose and belonging that you’ve been craving.

“Thank you,” you say again, your voice filled with gratitude. “I can’t wait to be with you, wherever that is.”

Oscar smiles, his eyes soft as he looks down at you. “Neither can I, sweetheart. Neither can I.”

As you settle back into his arms, your heart feels full, the ache of loneliness that has plagued you for so long finally beginning to fade. You know that being with Oscar, traveling by his side, won’t always be easy. There will be challenges, new environments to adapt to, and the pressures of his career. But none of that matters as long as you’re together.

You press a soft kiss to his chest, letting your eyes drift shut as you snuggle closer to him. The future feels bright, full of possibilities that you hadn’t dared to hope for. And most importantly, it’s a future where you won’t have to be apart from the one person who means everything to you.

Oscar’s hand continues to stroke your back in soothing circles, his warmth and scent surrounding you, grounding you in the here and now. “Get some sleep, love,” he murmurs, his voice a gentle rumble. “We’ve got a lot to look forward to.”

You smile against his skin, feeling completely at peace for the first time in days. “Goodnight, Oscar,” you whisper, your voice filled with contentment.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he replies, his lips brushing over your temple as he holds you close.

As you drift off to sleep, you know that whatever comes next, you’ll face it together, side by side. And that’s all you could ever want.

***

The roar of engines is deafening, the air thick with the scent of burning rubber and fuel as you stand on the sidelines, watching the blur of cars as they speed around the track. This is your first time at a race, the sheer energy and intensity of the event almost overwhelming. The crowd is a sea of color, cheering and waving flags, the excitement palpable in the air. You feel a thrill of anticipation as you watch Oscar’s car navigate the circuit with practiced ease, your heart swelling with pride.

It’s surreal being here, surrounded by so many people, so much noise, so much movement. You’ve heard stories about the races from Oscar, but nothing could have prepared you for the real thing. The speed, the adrenaline, the stakes — it’s all so much more than you’d imagined. You can barely keep your eyes off the screen that tracks the positions, each lap feeling like a small victory as Oscar maintains his place near the front.

But then, something shifts.

A sudden hush falls over the crowd, a sharp intake of breath as something unexpected happens on the track. You watch in horror as Oscar’s car and Lando’s car make contact, the two vehicles colliding with a screech of metal and rubber. The impact sends Oscar’s car spinning off the track, his position slipping away in an instant.

Your heart drops into your stomach, panic rising as you watch the car come to a stop, half-buried in gravel. For a moment, the world seems to stand still, the only sound the blood rushing in your ears. Then, as if in slow motion, you see Oscar emerge from the car, the safety personnel rushing to his side. Relief floods through you, but it’s short-lived as you see the way he carries himself, the tension in his shoulders, the dark look in his eyes.

Something’s wrong.

You can feel it, a shift in the air, a dark, possessive energy radiating from him even from this distance. The cameras zoom in on his face, and you see it — the barely restrained fury, the cold, calculating look that makes your blood run cold. Oscar is not just angry; he’s on the verge of something far more primal, far more dangerous.

You don’t even realize you’re moving until you find yourself near the garage, your feet carrying you closer to where you know he’ll be headed. The tension in the pit is palpable, everyone on edge as they wait for Oscar to arrive. You can see the way the crew exchanges nervous glances, whispering among themselves, unsure of how to handle the situation.

And then he appears.

Oscar storms into the garage, his presence like a thunderstorm rolling in, dark and ominous. The crew parts for him without a word, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and respect. He doesn’t even acknowledge them, his gaze focused solely on you, as if nothing else exists in the world. The intensity in his eyes is overwhelming, a raw, feral need that takes your breath away.

Before you can say anything, before you can even think, Oscar is in front of you, his hands gripping your arms as he pulls you close. The scent of him is overwhelming, a heady mix of sweat, adrenaline, and something darker, something possessive. You can feel the tension radiating off him, his body coiled tight like a spring ready to snap.

“Oscar,” you breathe, trying to calm him, but your voice is lost in the chaos around you.

He doesn’t say a word, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. There’s something primal in his gaze, something that tells you he’s on the edge, barely holding on to control. Without warning, he dips his head, his nose brushing against your neck as he inhales deeply, taking in your scent as if it’s the only thing grounding him.

You shiver, your body responding instinctively to his touch, to the dominance that radiates from him in waves. He growls low in his throat, a sound that vibrates through you, sending a thrill of both fear and excitement down your spine. It’s a warning, a claim, and you know without a doubt that everyone around you understands what it means.

He’s staking his claim on you, right here in front of everyone.

Oscar’s hands move to your waist, pulling you flush against him as he nuzzles your neck, his breath hot against your skin. The world around you fades, the only thing you can focus on is him, the way his body presses against yours, the way his lips brush over your mating gland, sending sparks of electricity through your veins.

And then, he bites.

It’s not a gentle bite, not like the ones he’s given you in bed. This is possessive, demanding, a show of dominance that leaves no room for doubt. You gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders as your body goes limp in his arms, overwhelmed by the surge of pleasure and pain that courses through you. He growls again, his teeth sinking deeper into your skin as he marks you, his claim on you undeniable.

You can feel the eyes of everyone in the garage on you, can hear the whispers, the shocked gasps, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except for the way Oscar is holding you, the way he’s making sure everyone knows you belong to him and him alone.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are wild, his breathing ragged. There’s a dark, possessive satisfaction in his gaze as he looks down at you, his thumb brushing over the fresh bite mark with a kind of reverence. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to — his actions speak louder than words ever could.

You’re his, and he’s not about to let anyone forget it.

The crew doesn’t dare to interfere, their eyes averted as Oscar pulls you even closer, his arm wrapping around your waist as if to shield you from the world. He’s not done yet, not by a long shot, and you can feel the tension in his body, the barely restrained urge to take you right here, right now.

But somehow, he manages to hold back, his grip on control tenuous at best. He growls again, a low, dangerous sound that sends a shiver of anticipation through you. Without a word, he starts moving, dragging you along with him as he heads towards his driver’s room, his steps quick and determined.

You can barely keep up, your heart pounding in your chest as he pulls you through the garage, his focus entirely on getting you alone. The door to his driver’s room slams shut behind you, and the moment you’re alone, the last shred of Oscar’s control snaps.

He’s on you in an instant, his mouth crashing down on yours in a bruising, possessive kiss that steals the breath from your lungs. His hands are everywhere, tugging at your clothes, pulling you closer, his need for you palpable in every touch, every kiss, every growl that rumbles in his chest.

“Oscar,” you gasp when he pulls back just enough to let you breathe, his hands already working on the buttons of your shirt. “Please …”

“I can’t … I need …” His voice is rough, desperate, his hands trembling as he rips your shirt open, the buttons flying in every direction.

You barely have time to react before his mouth is on your neck, kissing, licking, biting, his hands sliding down to your waist to tug at the waistband of your pants. There’s a wildness to him, a desperation that you’ve never seen before, and it sends a thrill of both excitement and fear through you.

His rut is taking over, his need to claim you, to possess you, overriding everything else. You’re helpless against the onslaught of sensation, your body responding to him instinctively, your mind hazy with desire.

“Oscar,” you whimper, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he pulls your pants down, his hands gripping your thighs as he lifts you up, pressing you against the wall.

“Mine,” he growls, his eyes dark with need as he looks down at you, his hands spreading your legs as he presses his hips against yours.

You can feel him, hard and ready, the evidence of his need pressing against your core, and it drives you wild with desire. Your hands fumble with his belt, your fingers trembling as you try to unbuckle it, desperate to feel him inside you.

“Oscar, please,” you beg, your voice barely more than a whisper as you look up at him, your eyes wide with need.

His control is slipping, his eyes darkening as he watches you struggle to free him from his pants. With a growl, he grabs your hands, pinning them above your head as he uses his other hand to tear his zipper down, his race suit sliding down to his hips.

He’s rough, desperate, his hands gripping your thighs as he lines himself up, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. There’s no more time for words, no more time for hesitation. He’s too far gone, too deep into his rut to hold back any longer.

With a single, powerful thrust, he’s inside you, and the world explodes into a whirlwind of sensation. The pleasure is overwhelming, your body arching against his as he moves, each thrust harder, faster, more desperate than the last.

You can barely think, barely breathe, your mind consumed by the raw, primal need that courses through you. All you can do is hold on, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he takes you, his possessiveness, his dominance, his need to claim you driving him to the edge.

“Oscar … I can’t …” You try to form a coherent thought, but it’s impossible, the pleasure too much, too intense, too all-consuming.

“Mine,” he growls again, his teeth grazing your mating gland, the sharp points teasing at the skin, sending shivers down your spine. He’s buried deep inside you, his pace unrelenting, driving into you with a force that has you gasping, your body pinned between him and the wall. The world outside is nothing more than a distant memory now, lost to the haze of heat and need that pulses between you.

He’s so deep in his rut that he can barely speak, his words slurring together as his instincts take over. “Good omega … my perfect omega …” he mutters, his voice rough and hoarse, every syllable dripping with raw, animalistic possession. “You’ll be … you’ll be the perfect mother … for our pups.”

The words send a fresh wave of heat coursing through your body, the thought of bearing his pups, of being filled by him in every possible way, setting your nerves on fire. He can feel it too, the way your body responds to his words, the way you tighten around him, and it only spurs him on. His hand moves from your waist, sliding down to press against your lower abdomen, right where his knot is beginning to swell, becoming visible through the skin.

“You feel that?” Oscar growls, his hand pressing down on the slight bulge, making you cry out, your body arching against him. “That’s my knot … locking you in place … filling you with my seed … making you mine in every way …”

You can only moan in response, your mind too clouded with pleasure to form any coherent words. His hand stays on your stomach, pressing down just enough to intensify the sensation, to make you acutely aware of how deep he is inside you, how thoroughly he’s claimed you. The pressure is almost too much, a delicious mix of pain and pleasure that has you trembling in his arms, your legs barely able to support you.

“You’re so perfect … so good for me …” Oscar continues, his voice rough with need. His thrusts slow, becoming more deliberate, more focused as his knot swells, locking him inside you. The pressure builds, the sensation of being so completely filled by him overwhelming every other thought, every other feeling.

His hand on your stomach presses down harder, as if he’s trying to push his knot even deeper, and the sensation is almost too much to bear. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every pulse, and it’s driving you to the brink of madness. “Gonna give you everything,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, possessive growl. “Everything you need … everything I have …”

You whimper, the sound muffled by the intensity of the moment, your body shuddering against him as he continues to speak, his voice a rough, desperate whisper in your ear. “You’ll be such a good mother … carrying our pups … taking care of them … just like you take care of me …”

He’s rambling now, his words tumbling out in a rush, driven by the primal need to claim you, to mark you as his in every possible way. His hand on your stomach moves, sliding down to press against your clit, his fingers rubbing in tight, controlled circles that have you crying out, your body tightening around him in response.

“You’re so beautiful like this …” he groans, his hips grinding against you as he pushes deeper, his knot swelling even more, locking him in place. “So perfect … so ready for me … ready to take everything I give you …”

His words are a mix of praise and possession, each one sending a new wave of heat through your body, making you shudder in his arms. He’s relentless, his thrusts slower but no less intense, each one driving his knot deeper, making you feel every inch of him, every pulse of his cock inside you.

“You belong to me,” Oscar growls, his voice low and rough, his teeth grazing your skin again, this time biting down just enough to leave a mark, a fresh claim on top of the one he’s already made. “Only me … forever …”

The possessiveness in his voice is overwhelming, the need in him so raw, so powerful that it feels like it’s consuming you, pulling you under. You can feel his knot pressing against your walls, the sensation so intense that it’s almost painful, but in the best possible way. Your body is trembling, on the edge of something that feels like it might break you, and Oscar is right there with you, pushing you closer and closer to that precipice.

He shifts his weight, pressing down on your stomach again, making you cry out as the pressure on his knot intensifies. “Gonna fill you up … make sure everyone knows you’re mine …” he murmurs, his voice a rough, possessive growl. “No one else … only me …”

His fingers on your clit work faster, harder, driving you towards the edge, and you can’t hold back the moan that escapes your lips, the sound muffled by the way you’re biting your lower lip, trying to hold on to some semblance of control. But it’s slipping away, fast, and you can feel yourself spiraling, your body tightening around him, your muscles tensing as you approach the brink.

“Oscar … please …” you manage to gasp, your voice barely more than a whisper, but he hears you, and it only spurs him on.

“That’s it … let go for me …” he growls, his voice rough with need. “Be a good omega … let me take care of you …”

The words are your undoing. With a cry, you shatter, your body convulsing around him as the orgasm tears through you, waves of pleasure crashing over you in a relentless tide. You can feel the way your walls clamp down on his knot, the pressure driving you higher, making you cry out his name again and again.

Oscar isn’t far behind you, his body tensing as he feels you fall apart around him. His hips jerk, his knot swelling to its full size as he buries himself as deep as possible, his cock pulsing as he comes, his seed filling you in thick, hot waves. He groans, his head dropping to your shoulder as he grinds against you, his hands gripping your waist so tightly that it’s almost painful, but you don’t care. The sensation of being filled by him, claimed by him, is too much, too overwhelming, and it sends you spiraling again, your body shaking with the aftershocks.

Oscar’s breathing is ragged, his body trembling as he holds you close, his knot keeping him locked inside you, making sure you take every last drop of his seed. He’s still murmuring in your ear, his voice soft and rough, a mix of praise and possessiveness that makes your heart race.

“You’re mine … my perfect omega …” he whispers, his lips brushing against your neck, kissing the fresh mark he’s left there. “No one else … no one else will ever have you …”

You shiver, your body still trembling with the aftereffects of the orgasm, and you can only nod, your voice lost to the haze of pleasure that still lingers in the air. Oscar’s hands move to your hips, pulling you closer, holding you tight as he rides out the last waves of his release, his body tense and trembling.

It takes a long time for the intensity to fade, for the world to slowly come back into focus. Oscar’s breathing eventually evens out, his hold on you loosening slightly as the last vestiges of his rut start to dissipate. He’s still inside you, his knot keeping him locked in place, but the urgency, the desperation, has faded, replaced by a quiet, almost tender possessiveness.

“Are you okay?” He asks after a long moment, his voice soft, a little hesitant, as if he’s worried that he might have been too rough, too possessive.

You nod, your head resting against his shoulder as you try to catch your breath, your body still buzzing with the aftershocks. “I’m okay,” you manage to say, your voice a little hoarse from all the crying out you’ve done.

Oscar’s hand moves to your hair, stroking it gently, a stark contrast to the roughness of his earlier actions. “You were perfect,” he murmurs, his voice filled with a quiet, reverent awe. “So perfect for me.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips, and you close your eyes, leaning into his touch, the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, lulling you into a state of contentment. There’s something about being in his arms, being claimed by him so completely, that makes you feel safe, loved, cherished.

After a few more minutes, Oscar shifts slightly, testing the tightness of his knot, but it’s still too swollen to pull out, so he just holds you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “We’ll stay like this for a while,” he says softly, his voice warm and comforting. “I don’t want to hurt you by pulling out too soon.”

You hum in agreement, your body relaxing against him as you let the warmth and security of his embrace wash over you. There’s no rush, no need to move or do anything but bask in the afterglow, in the warmth of each other’s presence.

As the minutes tick by, Oscar continues to murmur soft words of praise and love, his hands gentle as they caress your back, your hair, your skin. “You’re going to be the best mother,” he whispers, his voice filled with a quiet certainty that makes your heart swell. “Our pups are going to be so lucky to have you.”

***

It’s a quiet morning, the sun just beginning to filter through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow across the room. You’re curled up in Oscar’s arms, the warmth of his body enveloping you, his scent surrounding you like a protective blanket. His breath is slow and steady against your skin, his nose pressed against the sensitive spot on your neck where his mating mark sits, a constant reminder of his claim on you. The world outside doesn’t matter here, in this little bubble of comfort and safety you’ve created together.

Oscar shifts slightly, his hand running up and down your back in slow, lazy strokes. You feel his lips brush against your skin, soft and lingering, before he presses his nose more firmly against your mating gland, inhaling deeply. He’s been doing that a lot lately, burying his face in your neck, breathing in your scent like it’s the most precious thing in the world. There’s something almost reverent about the way he does it, like he’s trying to memorize every single part of you.

“Your scent’s different,” Oscar murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, sleepy rumble that vibrates through you. He nuzzles closer, his nose brushing along the line of your neck, taking another deep inhale. “It’s sweeter … richer.”

You blink, the words slow to sink in through the haze of sleep still clouding your mind. “Different?” You ask softly, your voice still thick with sleep.

Oscar nods, his lips curving into a small, satisfied smile against your skin. “Yeah … different,” he repeats, his hand moving to rest on your stomach, his fingers splayed out across your skin. “I think … I think you’re pregnant.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning, and it takes a moment for them to fully register. Pregnant. The thought sends a warm flush through your body, your heart skipping a beat. You shift slightly in his arms, turning to look at him, your eyes wide and searching.

“Pregnant?” You echo, your voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it out loud might break the spell.

Oscar’s smile widens, and he nods again, his hand on your stomach pressing down gently, almost possessively. “Yeah,” he says softly, his voice filled with awe and a deep, overwhelming joy. “You’re carrying our pup.”

The reality of it hits you all at once, and you feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your heart swelling with a mix of emotions — happiness, love, a touch of fear, but most of all, an overwhelming sense of rightness. This is what you’ve always wanted, what you’ve dreamed of since the moment Oscar first claimed you, and now it’s real. You’re going to be a mother. You’re going to have a family with him.

Oscar’s hand moves from your stomach to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that slips free. “Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice full of warmth and tenderness. “Why are you crying, love?”

You shake your head, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you lean into his touch. “I’m just … so happy,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I can’t believe it’s real.”

“It’s real,” Oscar assures you, his thumb continuing to stroke your cheek, his eyes filled with a deep, unwavering love. “You’re going to be the most amazing mother, I know it.”

You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you, the warmth of his touch grounding you, anchoring you to this moment. When you open them again, Oscar is still watching you, his gaze intense, filled with a possessive pride that makes your heart race.

His hand slides back down to your stomach, his fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin, and you can see the way his pupils dilate, his breathing growing a little heavier. “You’re carrying our pup,” he says again, his voice rougher now, laced with an edge of desire. “My pup.”

The way he says it, the raw possessiveness in his voice, sends a shiver down your spine, and you can feel the heat building between you again, the need that’s never far from the surface when you’re with him. Oscar’s hand moves lower, his fingers slipping between your legs, and you gasp at the sudden, overwhelming sensation, your body instinctively arching towards him.

“Oscar …” you breathe, your voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and need.

He doesn’t answer with words, instead, his lips capture yours in a deep, hungry kiss, his hand moving to position you just right, and then he’s slipping inside you, the sensation of him filling you again like coming home. You moan into his mouth, your fingers gripping his shoulders as he moves slowly, deliberately, savoring every moment, every sensation.

Oscar pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze burning with an intensity that takes your breath away. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion, his hands moving to hold your hips, guiding you as he moves. “So proud … and so lucky.”

You can’t find the words to respond, too lost in the feeling of him inside you, the way he’s filling you so completely, so perfectly. He moves with a slow, steady rhythm, his hands holding you close, keeping you grounded in this moment, in the connection between you. Every thrust, every movement is filled with a deep, reverent love, a celebration of the life you’re creating together.

“You’re going to be such a good mother,” Oscar whispers, his voice a low growl in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re perfect … so perfect for me … for our pup.”

His words send a fresh wave of heat coursing through your body, your muscles tightening around him, drawing him deeper. Oscar groans, his grip on your hips tightening, his pace quickening just slightly, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate as the need to claim you again, to mark you as his, takes over.

“Mine,” he growls, his voice rough with possessiveness, his lips brushing against your neck, right over your mating mark. “All mine.”

You can only moan in response, your body moving in sync with his, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you, building towards something that feels like it might consume you whole. Oscar’s hands move to your stomach again, pressing down gently, reminding you of the life growing inside you, and the sensation is enough to push you over the edge.

With a cry, you shatter around him, your body convulsing with the force of the orgasm, your muscles tightening around him, pulling him deeper. Oscar follows moments later, his body tensing as he comes inside you, filling you with his seed, his hands holding you close, keeping you grounded as you both ride out the waves of pleasure together.

The world slowly comes back into focus, the intensity of the moment fading into a warm, comforting afterglow. Oscar’s breathing is heavy, his arms wrapped around you as he holds you close, his body still pressed against yours. You can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear, the warmth of his skin against yours, and it’s enough to make you feel safe, loved, cherished.

After a long moment, Oscar shifts slightly, his arms tightening around you as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of emotion. “So much.”

“I love you too,” you whisper back, your voice still a little shaky from the intensity of it all.

Oscar’s hand moves to rest on your stomach again, his fingers tracing gentle circles over the skin. “Our pup is going to be so lucky,” he says softly, his voice filled with a quiet awe. “They’re going to have the best mother.”

You smile at that, a soft, contented smile as you snuggle closer to him, letting the warmth of his embrace, the steady rhythm of his breathing, lull you into a state of peace. For a while, you just lay there together, wrapped up in each other, the world outside forgotten in the warmth and safety of this moment.

But as the minutes tick by, a thought begins to creep into your mind, a worry that you can’t quite shake. The thought of bringing a child into the world, of raising them, brings with it a flood of emotions — joy, excitement, but also fear. And there’s one fear that lingers more than any other, one that you can’t push aside.

After a long moment, you finally find the courage to speak, your voice barely above a whisper. “Oscar …”

He hums in response, his hand still resting on your stomach, his fingers tracing gentle patterns over your skin.

“If we have an omega pup …” you start, your voice trembling slightly with the weight of the words. “Promise me … promise me they’ll never be taken away to an omega training school. Not like I was.”

Oscar’s hand stills on your stomach, his body tensing slightly beneath you. There’s a long pause, and you can feel his heart start to race beneath your ear, his breath catching in his throat. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, rough with emotion. “I promise,” he says, his voice filled with a quiet, fierce determination. “I’ll never let that happen. I would die before I let anyone take our pup away from us.”

You close your eyes, a wave of relief washing over you at his words. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice filled with gratitude and love.

Oscar’s arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “I’m thankful that the school meant I could find you,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with emotion. “But I’d die before letting any of our pups go through what you did. They’ll never know that kind of life. They’ll have us — always.”

The words settle deep in your chest, soothing an ache you hadn’t even realized was still there. The fear that had been gnawing at you dissipates in the warmth of his embrace, replaced by the quiet certainty that Oscar means every word. He would fight for you, for your future, for your family. He already has.

You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze, and the intensity of the love you see there steals your breath away. He’s watching you with an unwavering focus, his eyes soft but determined, like you’re the most important thing in the world to him. And you are.

You lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, a silent thank you for the promise he’s just made, for the future you know you’ll build together. Oscar responds with a hum of contentment, his hand slipping up to cradle the back of your head, deepening the kiss for a moment before pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“We’re going to be okay,” he whispers, and it’s not just a promise — it’s a vow. “You, me, and our pup. We’re going to be more than okay. We’re going to be happy.”

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips as you let the last of your worries melt away, replaced by the overwhelming sense of rightness that comes with being here, in this moment, with him. You believe him. You believe in the life you’re building together, in the love that will carry you through whatever comes next.

As you settle back down against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you into a peaceful drowsiness, you feel more content than you’ve ever felt in your life. Oscar’s hand continues its gentle caress over your stomach, his touch soothing and protective, and you know without a doubt that he will always be there for you, for your family.

***

10 Years Later

The sun is shining brightly as you walk hand-in-hand with Oscar, your large family trailing behind you like a small parade. The paddock is bustling with activity, but the familiar sights and sounds of race day are a comforting background as you make your way through the crowd. Your hand rests on your rounded belly, a gentle reminder of the life growing inside you. The warmth of Oscar’s grip on your other hand grounds you, a constant source of strength and love.

Your eldest, an alpha, walks beside you, his protective nature evident in the way he keeps an eye on his younger siblings. The twins, an omega boy and girl, chatter excitedly as they try to keep up with their older brother, their energy infectious. The rest of your pups, a mix of alphas, betas, and omegas, follow close behind, their laughter and playful teasing filling the air.

As you near the entrance to the paddock, a reporter spots Oscar and approaches with a microphone, a camera crew in tow. The reporter’s eyes widen slightly as they take in the sight of your large family, but they quickly compose themselves, flashing a polite smile.

“Oscar, a quick word before you head inside?” The reporter asks, holding out the microphone.

Oscar glances at you, a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips, before nodding to the reporter. “Sure, why not?”

The reporter’s gaze shifts between you, Oscar, and your brood of children, clearly trying to figure out how to phrase their question delicately. “It’s not every day we see a Formula 1 driver with such a large family,” they begin, their tone carefully neutral. “If you don’t mind me asking, what made you decide to have so many pups?”

Oscar’s smirk deepens, and he pulls you closer to his side, his arm sliding around your waist possessively. The gesture is as much for your comfort as it is a display of his pride in you and your family. He takes a moment, clearly enjoying the reporter’s slight discomfort, before he leans in just a little, his voice low and confident.

“Well,” Oscar starts, his eyes flicking down to you with a look that’s nothing short of adoring. “If you had a perfect omega like mine, you wouldn’t be able to resist either.”

The words are simple, but the way he says them — his voice dripping with pride, love, and just a hint of that possessive edge — makes the reporter blink, momentarily taken aback. The camera catches the way Oscar’s hand rests protectively on your stomach, the way he holds you close as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. It’s clear to everyone watching that Oscar means every word.

You can’t help but smile at his response, a warmth spreading through your chest at the unabashed way he shows his love for you and your family. The reporter regains their composure quickly, nodding with a polite smile, though there’s a hint of envy in their eyes.

“That’s certainly a lovely sentiment,” the reporter says, recovering quickly. “It’s wonderful to see a family so full of love and happiness.”

Oscar’s smirk softens into a genuine smile, and he nods. “We’re very lucky,” he agrees, his voice full of affection. “Family is everything to us.”

The reporter glances back at your children, who are now gathered around, their attention divided between the camera and each other. The twins are whispering excitedly to one another, their matching wide eyes reflecting the curiosity only children can have. One of the younger alphas is tugging on the sleeve of your oldest, asking if they can watch the race from the best spot on the pit wall.

“How do you manage with so many little ones, especially with such a demanding career?” The reporter asks, genuinely curious now.

Oscar chuckles softly, glancing at you with a knowing smile. “It’s not always easy, but we make it work. We’ve got a good system in place, and it helps that they love being around the track as much as I do. They’ve grown up with it, so it’s like a second home to them.”

You nod in agreement, your free hand absently rubbing your belly as you listen. “And they look out for each other,” you add, smiling at your children. “The older ones help with the younger ones, and we make sure to spend as much time together as we can. It’s a team effort.”

The reporter smiles, clearly charmed by the image of your close-knit family. “It sounds like a wonderful way to raise a family,” they say. “Thank you for sharing that with us.”

Oscar gives a polite nod, then glances down at you, his eyes softening. “We should get inside,” he murmurs, his tone indicating that the interview is over.

You nod, and together, you turn to lead your family toward the entrance to the paddock. The reporter calls out a final thank you as the camera crew packs up, but you’re already focused on the day ahead, your mind shifting to the race and the time you’ll spend together as a family.

As you walk through the paddock, you can feel the curious glances of team members and other drivers as they take in the sight of your large family. But you’re used to it by now — the whispers, the stares. It doesn’t bother you. If anything, it only strengthens your resolve to live your life on your own terms, to build the family you’ve always dreamed of.

Your children, oblivious to the attention, continue their playful banter, their excitement for the race palpable. They’ve grown up in this world, surrounded by the roar of engines and the thrill of competition, and it’s as much a part of them as it is of Oscar. They’ve inherited his passion for racing, but they’ve also inherited something far more important — his love, his strength, and his tireless devotion to family.

As you approach the McLaren garage, you catch sight of Lando, who’s already suited up and chatting with a few engineers. He looks up and grins when he sees your family, waving you over.

“Hey, Piastri clan!” Lando calls out, a playful twinkle in his eye. “You lot taking over the paddock today?”

The kids immediately perk up at the sight of their favorite “Uncle Lando,” and before you know it, they’re rushing over to him, peppering him with questions about the race and begging for stories about his latest adventures on the track.

Oscar chuckles, giving Lando a mock glare. “Don’t spoil them too much. I still need them to behave for the race.”

Lando laughs, ruffling the hair of one of the younger alphas. “No promises, mate. You know I can’t resist these little troublemakers.”

You smile at the easy camaraderie between the two drivers, a bond that’s only grown stronger over the years. It’s clear that Lando cares deeply for your family, and you’re grateful for the role he plays in your children’s lives.

As the kids gather around Lando, hanging on his every word, Oscar pulls you aside, his hand resting on your lower back as he guides you to a quieter corner of the garage. Once you’re out of earshot, he turns to you, his eyes searching your face with a tenderness that never fails to make your heart skip a beat.

“You okay?” He asks softly, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

You nod, leaning into his touch. “I’m fine,” you assure him. “Just … taking it all in.”

Oscar smiles, his gaze drifting down to your belly before meeting your eyes again. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?” He murmurs. “All of this — our family, the race, everything.”

“It is,” you agree, your voice soft. “But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

***

The penthouse suite is filled with the familiar sounds of a family settling in for the evening — a mix of laughter, playful bickering, and the rustle of blankets being shared and tugged over laps. It’s movie night, a ritual that’s become sacred in your household, especially after a long weekend at the track. The air is thick with the scent of popcorn, and the oversized sofa is crowded with a tangle of limbs, all jockeying for the best spot to cuddle up for the night.

You’re nestled comfortably against Oscar’s side, his arm draped around your shoulders, fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. Your oldest, Liam, an alpha who has inherited Oscar’s fierce determination, is sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring intently at the screen, trying to get the movie started. His younger brother, Dylan, a beta, leans over his shoulder, offering unasked-for advice.

“Just press play already,” Adeline, one of the omega twins, groans dramatically from her spot on the couch, her head pillowed on her twin brother Theo’s lap. “We’ve been sitting here for ages.”

“It’s not that easy,” Liam mutters, his brow furrowing in concentration as he navigates through the menus. “These remotes are weird.”

“They’re exactly the same as the ones at home,” Oscar says with a chuckle, but there’s no judgment in his tone, just the easy patience that comes from a decade of fatherhood.

Across the room, Zara and Oliver, another alpha-beta pair, are busy constructing a fortress of pillows and blankets at the end of the sofa, clearly uninterested in the movie and more focused on their own game. They’re whispering conspiratorially, planning some elaborate attack on their siblings that will no doubt result in a mock battle before bedtime.

You smile at the sight of them all — your eight pups, each so different and yet so bonded by the shared experiences of growing up in the whirlwind that is life with an F1 driver and his omega. The love you see in their eyes, the easy way they interact with each other, it’s everything you ever wanted, everything you never dared to dream about when you were younger.

Oscar’s hand slides up to your neck, his thumb brushing over your mating mark. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively lean into his touch. He chuckles softly, dipping his head to press a kiss to the spot, his lips lingering as if savoring the taste of your skin.

“Dad,” Theo groans, lifting his head to glare at Oscar. “Do you have to do that right now?”

“What?” Oscar lifts his head just enough to give Theo an innocent look, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him. “I’m just reminding your mother how much I love her.”

“Gross,” Adeline mutters, her nose wrinkling in exaggerated disgust. “Can’t you wait until after the movie?”

“Yeah, seriously,” Zara pipes up from the fort, peeking out from behind a wall of pillows. “No one wants to see that.”

Oscar just laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that you can feel vibrating through your whole body. He pulls you closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “They’re just jealous.”

“Jealous of what?” You whisper back, though you already know the answer.

“That I have the most perfect omega in the world,” he murmurs, his voice low and possessive in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. “And I’m not afraid to show it.”

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face, the warmth that blooms in your chest at his words. Even after all these years, after all the changes and challenges, the love between you hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it’s grown stronger, more resilient, like a fire that refuses to go out no matter how hard the winds of life try to snuff it out.

“Alright, alright, enough of that,” Liam says, finally getting the movie to start. “Can we just watch this before bedtime?”

Oscar pulls back, giving the kids a mock-salute. “As you wish.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence as the opening credits roll, and you settle back into Oscar’s embrace, your head resting on his chest. His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing, and you squeeze gently, letting him know without words how much you appreciate him — how much you love him.

As the movie plays, the pups gradually grow quieter, their energy from the day’s excitement starting to ebb away. One by one, they begin to drift off, their heads lolling onto each other’s shoulders, or in some cases, onto their parents.

Adeline is the first to go, her breathing evening out as she curls up against Theo, who’s already half-asleep himself. Liam manages to stay awake a little longer, but soon his eyelids grow heavy, and he slumps over, using Dylan as a pillow. Even Zara and Oliver, who had been so animated just moments before, have stopped whispering, their fort abandoned as they snuggle into the cushions.

You glance up at Oscar, who’s watching the scene with a look of pure contentment. He meets your gaze, his eyes softening with a tenderness that makes your heart swell.

“Look at them,” you whisper, your voice filled with awe. “How did we get so lucky?”

Oscar smiles, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I ask myself that every day.”

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart, and he tightens his arm around you in response, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting reminder of his presence.

As the credits begin to roll, Oscar shifts slightly, careful not to wake the pups who are using him as a makeshift bed. “Should we carry them to their rooms?”

You shake your head, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Let them stay. They’re all together, and I don’t want to disturb that.”

Oscar chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You’re too soft on them.”

“Maybe,” you concede, but there’s no real reproach in your tone. “But they’re only little for so long. I want to hold onto this for as long as I can.”

Oscar’s expression softens even further, and he tilts your chin up, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss. “You’re a good mother,” he murmurs against your lips. “The best.”

The kiss deepens, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades away. It’s just the two of you, wrapped up in each other, in the love that has seen you through so much. When you finally pull away, your heart is racing, and you’re left feeling light-headed, like you’re floating on a cloud of pure happiness.

As you both settle back down, Oscar’s hand rests protectively on your growing belly, his thumb tracing slow circles over the spot where your newest pup is nestled. You place your hand over his, feeling the connection between you, Oscar, and the life growing inside you.

The room is quiet now, filled only with the soft sounds of breathing and the occasional rustle of a blanket as one of the pups shifts in their sleep. The city twinkle outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft glow over the room, but inside, it feels like a world of its own — a world where nothing can touch you, where you and your family are safe and happy.

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of Oscar’s embrace and the contentment of the moment wash over you. As you drift off to sleep, surrounded by the people you love most in the world, you can’t help but think that this is what happiness truly is — these simple, quiet moments that make life so incredibly beautiful.

[harrysfolklore]

Imagine max x driver!reader with the whole fia and swearing situation they’d be such a power couple. Manifesting more max fics!! I love all your work esp little bitch and honorary wag💓

okay this is teeeny tiny piece but i just had tooo. max is too iconic

You're sitting beside Max, your boyfriend and teammate, in the press conference room after the qualifying session in Singapore. The air feels thick with humidity and tension, though most of the tension is radiating off Max.

His latest penalty from the FIA—a fine and community service for swearing —has him fuming. He made it very clear on the way in that he wasn’t going to play nice. Today was going to be a day of vague, shady responses, and you were more than happy to back him up.

The moderator starts with the usual question for Max about how he felt securing P2.

“It was fine,” Max replies, voice completely flat. No elaboration, no typical analysis. Just that.

The reporter stares at him, clearly expecting more, but Max leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as if daring anyone to push him further.

To your right, Lando is barely holding it together, his mouth twitching as he watches the whole scene unfold. You catch his eye and he shoots you a look like, Is this real?

The next question is directed at you. Something predictable about how you’re feeling being P3, your thoughts on tomorrow’s race strategy.

“Well,” you start, raising an eyebrow, “I guess the plan is… to go fast and not crash.”

There’s an awkward silence in the room, the journalist blinking at you as if he didn’t hear you correctly. Lando makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a cough, struggling to contain himself as you sit there, completely straight-faced.

“And the tire strategy?” the moderator presses, trying to steer things back into something vaguely professional.

“Use them until they wear out, I suppose.” You lean back in your chair, mimicking Max’s posture, crossing your legs casually as if you’ve just given a perfectly reasonable answer. Max looks at you with a cocky and proud smile, you discretely wink at him.

"Max, can you elaborate on your car's performance today?" another reporter tries.

Max tilts his head, considering for a moment. "It went forward when I pushed the pedal, and stopped when I hit the brakes. Very efficient, really."

You can't help but smirk at his response, and you notice Lando has given up on maintaining composure, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

The moderator, looking increasingly uncomfortable, turns to you again. "YN, how do you feel about potentially challenging your teammate for position tomorrow?"

You lean forward, adopting a serious expression. "Well, I've been told it's important to keep things clean on track. Wouldn't want to use any… inappropriate maneuvers."

"Absolutely. We're all about clean racing now. Very family-friendly." Max adds

The reporters exchange glances, clearly unsure how to handle this united front of sarcasm and vague responses. Lando, meanwhile, has resorted to covering his face with his hands, his shoulders visibly shaking with suppressed laughter.

As the press conference draws to a close, you and Max stand up together, your body language mirroring each other's. Before leaving, you turn to the room with a final statement:

"Just want to thank everyone for their thoughtful questions today. This has been a very enlightening experience. Almost as enlightening as some recent FIA decisions."

As you exit the room, hand in hand with Max, you can hear the burst of chatter from the journalists behind you, no doubt trying to decipher the subtext of your responses. Lando catches up with you in the hallway, finally letting out the laugh he's been holding in.

"You two are unbelievable," he wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes. "I thought I was going to lose it in there!"

Max grins, his earlier tension now replaced with a sense of satisfaction. "Well, we aim to entertain," he says, giving your hand a squeeze.

[littlelamy]

title: birthday sex with your husband

warnings: 18+, smut

notes୧: alexa play 'in da club'

paris still clings to you—on your skin, in your hair, in the way your body feels weightless from champagne and indulgence, like you’ve been sculpted from something finer, softer, made only for pleasure. rafe made sure of that. from the moment you woke up wrapped in silk sheets to the second he dragged you off the private jet, he’s given you everything.

and now, in the sprawling presidential suite, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city, he’s about to give you more.

“birthday girl looks so fucking pretty,” rafe murmurs, voice thick, low, vibrating against your skin as he presses you into the massive bed. the air still smells like roses and sex, like the bottle of wine he ordered before he pulled you onto his lap, lips trailing down your neck while he fed you strawberries, one by one. “been spoiling you all day. hm think i gonna ruin you now.”

his fingers trace your thigh, slow, teasing, leaving goosebumps in their wake as he pushes your legs apart. he doesn’t rush—no, he never rushes, not when he has you like this, spread out for him, waiting, wanting.

“what do you think, birthday girl?” he murmurs, teeth grazing your collarbone, lips soothing the bite with a kiss. “you want me to take my time? or you want it rough?”

you whimper, hips rolling up to meet the teasing stroke of his fingers, already slick, already aching. “rough,” you whisper, breathless.

rafe pulls back just enough to look at you, dark amusement flashing in his eyes. “yeah?” his fingers press deeper, teasing, making you writhe. “not very lady-like, is it?” he taunts, smirking as your breath hitches. “but hey, it’s the birthday girl’s choice.”

his words send a fresh wave of heat flooding through you, and you don’t care how desperate you sound when you nod, whimpering, “please, rafe.”

he chuckles, and fuck, it’s sinful, the way he does it, full of dark promise. “gonna need more than that, sweetheart.” his thumb brushes over your clit, featherlight, teasing, making your breath hitch. “use your words.”

“want you,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, legs falling wider as he slides down, kissing a path between your thighs. “need you—need your mouth—”

���that’s my good girl.” his voice is pure sin, all honey and heat, before his tongue replaces his fingers, slow and languid, savoring every moan, every squirm, every desperate pull of his hair as he ruins you with his mouth.

he worships you, the way he always does, but tonight—tonight it’s different. tonight, almost like you’re his birthday gift, and he’s going to unwrap you slowly, thoroughly, until you’re trembling, begging, coming undone beneath him over and over until your body forgets how to do anything but take him.

when he finally slides inside you, stretching you open, filling you to the hilt, his name is the only thing you know how to say, the only thing you can cling to as he fucks you deep, slow at first—just to make you whine, just to hear you plead for more—before his grip tightens and he gives you exactly what you begged for.

hard. deep. devastating.

“mine,” he breathes against your lips, swallowing your moans, rolling his hips just right, hitting every spot that makes you shake. “all fucking mine.”

paris is beautiful, but nothing compares to the way rafe devours you—like you’re the only thing in the world worth celebrating.

edited: going to take a break from this account for a couple days...the last part of catching him cheating is queued for tomorrow around 12 pm! if you need anything ill be on @littlesoulshine <3 as i approach 4k followers i do want to thank every single one of you because i created this account because i was simply in love with rafe and obx and a lot of you have made this community so fun for me and can't thank you enough. i will create a 4k celebration, and on this break, i will finish my requests! OH and please continue to tag me in everything!!!!

tags (lmk if you want to be removed): @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows

[wileys-russo]

Hi , (Leah , apartment, "You set the kitchen on fire?!Just a little, but it means we can start the remodelling sooner, right?)

part of the milaverse remodel II l.williamson

you didn't think much of it when you were stuck at the red light and a fire engine came flying past, cars all screaming to a halt to let them through, humming along to the radio.

you'd just come from a full day of media commitments, starting at 5am with a morning radio interview and ending around 5pm with a photo shoot you were almost certain would require some serious photoshop for the bags under your eyes.

so 12 hours later, utterly exhausted and almost home, you couldn't wait to just curl up with your wife and your daughter. with nothing to do tomorrow at all you'd promised mila a family day you'd cautiously left to leah to plan, hinting heavily if it involved a sleep in and breakfast in bed you'd make it worth your wifes while.

however, every single thought was emptied from your head and replaced with the screaming of alarm bells as you turned the corner onto your street and saw the fire engine again, only this time parked right out the front of your home.

you cleared the gap in record time grateful there didn't seem to be another car on the road and you barely threw it into park before you leapt out, leaving the engine going and the keys in as you pushed your way past neighbours and onlookers without a word.

you heard a few of them call out your name but it fell on deaf ears, shrugging away the hands that poked at you until you were at the front, a tiny amount of relief flooding you as you spotted the back of your wifes head.

leah almost hit the ground as your body hurtled into hers, scowl set and mouth ready to let whoever had just shoved her have it until she realised it was you, your smaller frame wrapping tightly around hers.

"hey hey hey, stop. breathe." you rambled off a million questions a minute as several firefighters came strolling out the front door also unharmed, leahs hand coming to rest over your mouth.

"mila is fine, she's at my mums house for the night, she wasn't even in the neighbourhood when it went up." leah spoke firmly as your eyebrows shot up and you wrenched her hand off you. "when what went up leah? what the fuck happened!" you shoved at your wifes chest, anger masking the fear that was still set deep in your bones.

"thanks mate." leah smiled politely over your shoulder as one of your neighbours handed her the keys you'd left running in the car, advising he'd turned it off and locked it before ushering his own wife away, two police offers having arrived now to disperse the rest of the crowd.

"god this is going to be all over the news tonight." the blonde shuddered at the thought, quickly brought back to reality as you smacked her arm and she whined. "ow!" the defender rubbed her shoulder as you glared at her.

"what. the fuck. happened, leah?" you growled, interrupted yet again before she could answer as the captain of the fire department tapped your wifes shoulder. "you got very lucky. the blaze was contained quite easily and really its only caused damage to the one room-" you tuned him out at that, ducking away and marching off toward the house.

"thank you so much sir. really. its been a valuable lesson learned! i promise this will never happen again." leah rushed out, shaking the mans hand and standing up on tippy toes to catch the back of your head storming toward the front door.

"that the wife?" the man glanced behind him with a small chuckle as leah nodded frantically. "we'll make sure the rest of these lot clear off, and the police shouldn't need to speak to you, i'm happy to rule it an accident. good luck!" the man smiled, leah shaking his hand once again and racing off after you.

"leah. move." you warned sternly as your wife appeared in front of you right as you'd stepped through the door. "babe. now, before you take another step-" the blonde started as you scoffed, shoving past her as she winced and hurried after you.

"look love its not that-" but your jaw dropped, mouth wide open in a state of stunned shock, not a single word of leahs registered as you froze in the doorway, eyes scanning what you were sure used to be your kitchen.

"you-you-this-our-" you stammered out, hands flailing around wildly as leah rubbed the back of her neck with a grimace. "yeahh..." your wife whistled, able to take in all the damage properly herself now, though the chief hadn't been lying when he said she was lucky it was only the one room, the living room mainly untouched.

"you set the kitchen on fire!?" you rounded on her sharply, leah quickly backing up as you advanced until she backed into the fridge with a stumble. "a little?" your wife laughed nervously, your right eye twitching and leahs own gaze darted out to where the knives were, contemplating for a moment if she should move them out of your reach.

"but hey you hated that splash back! and with the insurance money it means we can start remodelling sooner, right?" she perked up hopefully as your mouth opened and closed, not even sure how to respond to that.

"how leah. how did this happen?" you spun back around away from her, eyes scanning the scorned and blackened walls in front of you as leah exhaled a small sigh of relief, subtly side stepping and pushing the knife block back out of sight.

"well. i knew you'd had a full on day and you'd be exhausted, so i organised with mum to take trouble for the night and i thought i'd make dinner-" you scoffed at that, the blonde shooting you a look.

"which i did!" she shooed you out of the way and pulled the fridge, which was mostly unscatched given it was on the other side of the room from the blaze, showing an oven dish of some sort covered over with foil.

"but then i tried making crème brûlée because i know thats your favorite, and i borrowed a blow torch-" leah started as your jaw dropped again and you shook your head in disbelief.

"you borrowed a blow torch!?" you spat out with wide eyes. "a cooking one!" leah tried to defend as you gave her a look. "i was just trying to see if it worked because i was going to finish them off once we'd had dinner and well..." the blonde guiltily gestured around as you exhaled shakily.

"i just-" you could only shake your head, staring at the damage as suddenly a million and one scenarios of how this could have ended very very differently came hurtling to the surface of your mind.

your wife grunted as suddenly you turned and rammed into her, face pressing into her neck and hugging her tightly as leah tensed up in surprised before quickly embracing you.

"i was so scared leah. i just saw the fire engine and-" you trailed off, body trembling in the blondes hold who gently shushed you. "i know love. i know. but i'm safe, mila is safe, you're safe, we're all okay." leah whispered softly, hand rubbing up and down your back as the two of you stood there hugging in silence, your wife not daring to even move until you did.

eventually your death grip on the blonde lessened a little, a few kisses pressed against your lips as your wife repeatedly assured everything was going to be okay but she knew it would take more than words and some time before you believed her.

"i'll call mum, we can stay at her place tonight with mila." leah spoke, reading your mind completely as your body sagged into hers with a small nod, adrenaline all wearing off now as the exhaustion returned and the defender tenderly kissed your forehead as you sighed.

"you are never allowed in the kitchen unsupervised ever ever again."

[passingnotions]

Out of Office | Yeseo (ft. Mashiro)

smut, 2.9k words

“Who brought all that cake?” You walk up to the cubicle, mouth full and still taking another bite.

“Hm?” She continues typing a seemingly endless email.

“The one in the break room.”

“Oh, the intern.” She’s focused on the second monitor now, lost in some spreadsheet.

“You’re the intern.”

“The new intern.”

You shift your stance; raise a brow in anticipation.

“They’re in an onboarding meeting right now.” She tilts her head towards the conference rooms.

Through the blinds, though far, you can spot figures bathed in blue projector light. “Huh. alright.”

“Also, I got hired last month—come on.”

“Sure but you’re still under me—” You try, stumble through it. “You were, under me, last week.”

“That joke’s not landing.”

“Yeah, it isn’t.”

The room in the distance lights up. There’s movement, a handshake? They’re standing around and chatting.

“She’s your type.” She stops typing; looks up at you.

And you stop chewing. “Shiro, what am I supposed to make of that?”

“Just saying.” Her eyelashes bat a faux pout. “Hope I don’t get replaced?” 

“Catching feelings, are we?”

“Oh.” Tone breathy, thespian, and with a hand at her chest. “From our very first night.” 

A door opens at the end of the office space. You straighten up, finish what’s left of your pastry, and shoot a look towards Mashiro while heading over to your desk.

From where you sit, there’s not much to see. You listen to the shuffle of steps somewhere on the floor, to the casual chatter. There’s corporate laughter—measured, mechanical—and a lilt to a voice you hadn’t heard before. The sounds come and go. Close, then far, then close again: she’s getting introduced to everyone. 

Eventually: “oh, think we missed someone over on this corner?” Pretty platform heels clatter around to where you sit until finally revealing themselves. She’s a cheating five feet tall. Dark and elegant hair frames this darling, sweet look. Prettiest fucking cheeks on the planet. “Hello! I’m Kang Yeseo.” She extends a small hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” you manage, standing up and returning the gesture.

“Oh, I see you found the pastry tray I brought.” She looks at the small plate by your keyboard. Her smile is beaming. “Hope everything was to your liking!”

“Yeah—yeah.” Your best is a nonplussed nod. “It really is.”

You hear your boss call out over the divider wall. Says she’s the new intern. Starts tomorrow. Ah, I see, you reply. Your head tilts when you realize. The calendar marks Friday. “Working over the weekend?” 

“They said it’d be easier to learn because of the slower pace. Can’t say no to that!” She laughs. “I’ll be shadowing someone.” 

You work tomorrow.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you in the morning, then.”

“Oh, great! We’ll get to know each other fast!” She’s all verve—begins to walk away from view before finishing her own sentence. “Nice to meet you again. Gotta head back to the tour!” 

You collapse on your chair, processing. “Nice to meet you, too.”

~~

There’s a narrative step you miss, trip over. You’ll have to pick up the pieces sometime. They’re probably tangled in the locks of her hair, the glint in her eyes, or that flashing, disarming smile—

Okay, alright. It’s not romance, not by a longshot, but you do see her twirling the ends of her locks every once in a while, like she’s the one in love and, hey, sure. 

Because you fuck the girl so well that she’s consumed by the idea of you.

Mashiro strokes your ego over the week and Yeseo your cock, over the weekends. That’s your onboarding procedure, if anyone were to ask. 

Shiro says you’ll make Yeseo fall for you, that maybe you already have, that there’s no way those university boys give her anything worthwhile when it comes to attention. Salaryman, Mashiro says, has the money, the apartment, the free time, and god that cock.

You stop Mashiro—recommend she go into acting. Say it suits her. She asks, at some point, which angles you think the camera would best capture. Her face is on the mattress, ass at a complete diagonal opposite.

“This, right here.” You’re making a frame right behind her with your fingers, then catch her gaze in the full length mirror over to your right. “This is the one.”

“Mm,” she hums. “I bet.” Mashiro reaches her arms back, face still on the duvet. Her palms land flat on her ass, and with a gripping pull, she spreads open. 

Your arms fall to your sides—they settle, defeated—and you think it’s amusing that the bed frame sits so low to the ground. It makes you kneel, though Mashiro already makes you kneel without having to ask, regardless of whatever piece of furniture she’s propped up on. It’s less skill, more innate talent—like she was made for you, built, sculpted—but, yes, Mashiro has the skill, too. She’s well practiced on what makes you practically melt. You’ve run your hands over that piece of art a million times and it still has you sighing your deepest sighs when your knees finally hit the ground. 

With your palms replacing hers—ass and cunt kept spread open and waiting—Mashiro speaks through the reflection. “You look mesmerized.” 

“I am.” You can hear the smile in her voice and smile back. Your hands get busy, kneading.

Like a pup that’s excited to be played with, Mashiro wags it a little, to mess with you, because it throws your brain for a loop every single time. “Tongue, baby.” She pushes her whole body back a bit, tone sultry. “Come on.”

“When’s the last time I made you cum?” You ask.

“Every time,” she giggles out.

You give Mashiro a long, slow lick. Admire the luster. “No, as in—” she’s so close that you’re breathing her in—“when did you stay over last?” 

Before she gets a chance to inhale a response, you get to work. Sheets scrunch in her fists. “Ah,” Mashiro lets out gently. “It’s been more than a week.”

Your hands don’t let go. You’re pulling her onto your face and your tongue laps, laps, laps—lips locked. It’s, immediately, a mess. Spit, wetness. The taste is divine.

You take a second to breathe. “I missed you.” It comes out so, so low, like gravel, like the need to eat this woman out reverts you to only the most instinctual and primal. 

Your fingers are leaving impressions on her pale skin, you realize. You’re not even grabbing on that hard.

“I know you did.” She laughs. 

You go back in; she moans. It’s a whole thing. Your tongue runs flat from clit to rim and you’re unsure which one of you throbs the hardest. 

But Mashiro turns, eventually, flips herself over, and pulls a pillow under her head for support. She wants to look at you, in the reflection, face to face—loves to look at you when she cums. And you’ll make her, every time.

“Could come over more often,” she says, kittenish, and you know exactly where it’s headed. “But you’re always so busy.”

You tease a finger right over her folds. “Uh huh.” Slip it in.

Her breath hitches when you curl it at the right spot. You love messing with each other like that.

“You have a spare key, Shiro. Can come over any time.” Your lips are curled into a wicked smile, and you dive back in, lick her a couple more times, kiss her thighs, have her throw her head back in delicate bliss. 

“And walk in on you two?” She pulls your head up—stares. “I’d be devastated."

“Heartbroken, I’m sure.” You’re holding her gaze and putting another finger in; her hips buck. Fuck—you enjoy this as much as she does. 

She bites her lip and her eyes go narrow when you hit that spot again, letting your face go. It’s permission: make me, until my legs quiver, until I can’t fucking take it anymore, please.

You slide in another, because you’re allowed, and frankly, because you enjoy the obscenity of it. She’s stretched out and you simply stare. In, out, a bit of a curl again, as much as three digits permit. You’ve heard Mashiro say worse, to be fair, curse out heaven and hell. Knowing that you could take her much further feeds your ego. 

“Bet you couldn’t bear it,” you’re saying, straightening up, fingers still in her cunt. You stare at her pretty legs, folded and spread open, giving you all the damn room in the world. “Watching me fill her up with a load that you’d want for yourself.”

The little whimper when you slip your fingers out is as cute as it is profane. You’d do anything for her, for less than that. To watch her unravel every time is enough of a reward.

“Is that what you do?” Mashiro catches her breath, finally. “Pump the little thing full until she leaks?”

You settle your knees on the mattress, aligning your stiff cock, and nodding. Guilty as charged. You decide it’s best to have her cumming with your length inside her messy-wet folds. “You get so slutty when you’re jealous.”

Your cock starts back on the path that your fingers just explored as she quips, “bet you don’t even wash the bedding before it’s my turn.” Mashiro’s nodding along at your slow thrust. She’s all play, still, but your cock’s splitting her open bit by bit. Attention’s divided, to say the least. “You’re such a whore.”

“Baby,” you coo, proud because her gaze falters. You’re halfway and she’s already slipping a hand down to play with her clit—though it’s not until you sink to the base with a firm push that you take her breath away. She does this eyes-shut exhale. 

And no, it’s not romance here, either.

“Only you get the bed.” 

~~

It’s been a couple of Fridays since you last worked weekends, and any excuse is a good excuse for Yeseo. Company outing after work? Take her home. New to this part of town? Poor girl, you’ll show her around (and take her home). Ah, too tired to walk to hers tonight, and yours is only one train stop away? The pair of jeans she has on today, by the way—christ—bless casual Fridays. You do, in fact, take those home, too. 

How impossibly fortunate. A straight flush. You have the girl cockdrunk for a whole fucking month. Not to say that she doesn’t have you similarly obsessed. That much goes without saying.

And, again, there’s some fill-in-the-blanks section that has to go unfinished or we’ll never really get to—

You both wake up at midnight—yes, midnight, because you had crashed on your sectional only six hours prior. There was actual work to be done this week, on top of the fact that Mashiro went home with you three out of those five, exhausting days. She gives you weekends off; calls it the babysitting gig. You tell her to not do that.

Now, Yeseo’s in the shower. The scene is cut-to, a tad jarring and sudden. Interior apartment, Saturday, zero hundred hours. You have the noise floor where it’s all ambient sound out in the living room, your kitchen appliances buzz, the aircon kicks in. Nice and quiet, until the figurative camera sends it down the hall and past your bedroom door. Wet white noise fades in. Rhythmic… clapping? 

There aren’t that many useful euphemisms from here on out. Everyone has read this script before.

The intern’s against glass. It’s a heavenly slope, really, the way her upper torso is flat on the shower door. With hands braced at either side of her tits, her lower back arches out—legs tensed, tiptoed—and her ass angles out just so. It’s plush, it’s deadly. Your hands are settled on that striking indent where her hips and waist meet while your own hips push, thrust, and press against her round, easy cheeks. 

Fuck—

Yeseo pushes back in kind. The tempo is practiced and well known to the both of you, though there’s a key difference. The camera wouldn’t pick up on it, not from the angle it would find itself at. And you yourself can’t figure out if this right here is where you’ll end it—where the scene cuts.

A little longer, you’re telling yourself. 

See: contraceptives—left the whole pack back at the office. It’s the whole reason why you decided to fall asleep in the first place. Yeseo said something about buying some right as you both stepped through the front door but your mouths sufficed for the subsequent half hour. Some dinner, that was.

And because there’s no self-control, she didn’t have to do much to persuade you into taking a shower before heading to the closest pharmacy, or gas station, or anywhere that happened to be open at this ungodly hour and—

Again, no polite terminology here. 

You’ve been fucking her raw for the past ten minutes. Her fertile arousal gathers at the base of your cock every time you piston in, in, in—so messy, smeared, depraved—and your thumbs leave flush-red marks whenever they press onto her smooth, luxury skin.

So you cum, naturally. Flood her womb. It’s filthy, because Yeseo is at that point, too—the girl put a finger over her clit a minute ago and ran it in circles until her eyes went hazy, went dumb. Until her thus-far dulcet moans turned into half breaths and broken whimpers. There’s a ‘yes’ in there somewhere, a flash in the pan, brief and hissed, as the tension in her chest breaks into more cries of pleasure with your name intertwined.

You groan, then, slipping out only a moment after and holding your cock like it’s fucking expired. The feeling is an overstimulated frenzy—electric, and still jolting. Out of all things, however, what fucks with you is not what you did, but how it looks: her figure shivers as she plants her heels back on shower tiles; hot and sticky white lands next to her feet. 

It reeks of debauchery—hasty, impatient. Yeseo’s cunt leaks and all you think about is dipping back in for seconds.

But the scene cuts. Shower steam continues to rise and, with it, your thoughts fade into the next.

~~

She’s reading something that you’re sure is not right. Perhaps it’s not wholly accurate. It’s also noon now, for what it’s worth. the sleep’s polyphasic—a total blur—as it always tends to be over the Saturdays and the Sundays. 

“Seventy-two hours,” Yeseo says. She’s sitting on your kitchen counter, eating grapes. Girl hasn’t had a single piece of clothing on since the day before.

“You’re kidding.” 

“Says it can be effective even five days after.” Her mouth’s full. “Damn.”

You close the fridge and walk over to her. “Are you reading an AI summary?” 

“Well, it’s summarizing the links below that, so.” She turns her phone towards you. 

Levono-whatever-the-fuck’s the active ingredient—Plan B. The morning-after pill.

“Uh huh,” you say, incredulous. You’re also sweating, almost.

“We’ll get it Monday morning,” Yeseo ensures. “Grape?”

“Can’t we head out right now?”

She feeds you the one, hovers another in front of your lips. “I’m doing a round of laundry.” 

The bunch that you bought this week happens to be seed-in. 

“And that stops you—” You swallow. “How?”

“The condoms are in my duffle bag, the one that has the rest of my clothes?”

“Ah,” you discern. “The one you left at the office.”

“The one I told you,” she asserts, “to get for me before heading out.”

Open your mouth. You’re gullible by choice, you tell yourself—Yeseo feeds you the second. 

She has one set of clothes, one, and it won’t be ready for another thirty minutes. It crosses your mind that you forgot the color of her underwear, at this point. Never properly memorized it. You figure it foreshadows what’s left of the weekend; settle on that fate.

“Wanna put on the movie I mentioned the other day?” She hops off the laminate and walks towards the couch. The edge of the counter is imprinted on her upper thighs and it’s safe to say you’ll be having to replay the film some other day, at a time where there’s at least one layer of fabric to dissuade you from the inevitable. Not like that ever does anything.

You hum. “Not a bad idea.”

Yeseo stands so casually in your living room, working the remote, nothing on. The curtains are pulled back and a noontide shine contours her shape as if the heavens were on a campaign to meddle with you at every possible turn. Your eyes are glued to each and every divot on her skin, to the curves and the lines that lead to them. Her hip cocks off to the right and it has your head tilting to the left—could get you dizzy just like that.

You try to determine where to start again, though walking over to her, it’s not much of a conscious decision. Your palm lands and unabashedly grabs the heft of her ass. No hesitation. It spills through your fingers—has you hard in an instant.

“Should be fun,” she says, absentminded. With the way the selection box goes over and around and anywhere but any of the streaming apps, you know she’s not quite paying attention to the TV, either.

You, regardless, still ask: “what’s it about, again?”

The answer to the next is no.

“Does it matter?”

Superfluous, and somewhat of a spoiler, but this does snowball until the aforementioned Monday morning. Sunday will have you running the same scenes. The blocking will maybe be a bit different, though the outcomes are all the same: you suck at pulling out. 

And you’ll tell yourself it’s by choice.

[blues-stories]

I haven’t really worked up to smut but I’d do have an interesting head cannon for the boys when they’re doing the ✨Devils Tango✨.

Imaging The LADS men loosing control of their Evol during sex:

Xavier:

Picture this- the room is starting to heat up as you and Xavier are frankly going at it like bunnies. You’re Exhausted, Over Stimulated, and quite frankly SORE from the positions he’s manage to bend you into. (Who knew you were so flexible? You sure didn’t) And right as he’s pistoning into you for the umpteenth time, you start to notice a….Subtle difference…At first.

One second he’s panting and sweating as he hovers over you, your back flush to his chest, and the next he’s become a Mother fuckin glow stick.

It only gets brighter as he keeps going, chasing his high until eventually- once he does cum- You’re literally getting flash-banged from the bright flash of light that emits from him. Alarm clock? Needs to be reset. Lights? Three bulbs busted from the surge of power. Xavier? He’s finally dimmed down as he collapses onto of you, mumbling about replacing everything tomorrow.

Rafayel:

Once again the scene is nothing new. This time you’re on top of him as he sits on one of the blush sofa like chairs in his studio, Hands digging into your hips as he guides your movements. What started as you taking control quickly turned into him guiding your body like a puppet on strings….Not that you particularly cared though.

He’s got you bouncing and grinding faster- HARDER even as he tries to pull you and himself over to that metaphorical finish line- and my god would you both be finishing. His face is getting flush- his skin scalding hot to the touch, so much so that you’re starting to get more and worried..

Poor Rafayel is so lost in the moment that he doesn’t notice the fireplace starting to roar to life, nor does he notice the steam rising from his body…It’s mere moments until he locks you on top of him as you both reach your high, his finger tips feeling as if they’ve scaled you in the process….Unfortunately the burned cloth of your Hunters uniform and the very mild Hand prints on your hips do nothing to help his case.

He makes whispered promises to you to buy a new uniform and soothe the marks on your hips with some aloe… (I imagine them as sunburn marks instead of actual burns)

Zayne:

Ironically his and Caleb’s are the one that started this rant.

THIS time you’re not at home like the others- you’re actually at his office (Very original I know) And the scene is shocking to anyone that knows Zayne.

You’re laid back against the desk as Zayne stands between your legs, a hand on each thigh as he keeps you nice and spread so you can really take all of him…Now zaynes Evol acting up isn’t exactly a new thing, but what you’re starting to see now is DEFINITELY different.

Soft grunts can be heard from him with each thrust he gives you, his once warm hands have now gone cold- bone chilling so as that feeling seems to spread throughout his body…Up his arms and onto his chest, down his stomach and- oh god it’s like you’re being fucked by a icicle…To make matters even more complicated, Ice and frost start to spread toward the ground- coating the floors and crawling up the walls with how intense things are getting…

And the moment- the second he does finish deep inside you? The door to his office has frozen shut, and a big fat glob of snow seems to come raining down onto you…Zayne tries his best to hold it together as you sit up with snow flakes on your lashes, a slightly red and runny nose, and a big dollop of snow on your head…

He assures you it was an accident as he oh so kindly starts to dust the flakes from your hair, already planning your care plan for when you inevitably catch a cold from him…Of course that can wait till AFTER he’s done with you though…Now that the door is frozen shut, why waist this opportunity of alone time?..

Sylus:

Sylus has you under him with his hands pinning yours over your head, his fingers intertwining with yours as he ruts and grinds into you. That luxury mattress and bed frame he brags about? Absolutely rocking with each thrust of his hips, the post probably putting dents- if not HOLES- into the wall.

Now Sylus’s Evol is unpredictable- more so in the sense that it possibly can do just about ANYTHING- so if he were to ever loose control, who knows what’ll happen…But you know who’s about to know? You. At first it’s minor really- that familiar red and black mist oozing off of him as it slowly surrounds both you and Him- spreading like vines across the bed in a slow and meticulous manner…

Too lost in the sauce- Sylus keeps thrusting and thrusting with his eyes pinched tight and his teeth bared, a low growl leaving him as he buried himself to the hilt inside you and blows his load…You soon follow after… However instead of the usual blissed glow on you face, he finds your brows knit and mouth forming a thin line on your face. The reason? In the midst of his high, all those stuffed animals that had littered your shared bed had gotten wrapped up into the mist, squeezed so tight until they simply burst into energy…

His mumbled apologies do little to sooth your anger- Especially as he mumbles about replacing your limited edition stuffy you oh so proudly had displayed…Sure you had won the war against being single, but my god had it come at a cost…

Caleb:

This fucker right here-

Unsurprisingly, you were sprawled out on the soft sheets of your bed, hands fisting the pillow you lay on as Caleb’s head is tucked happily between your thighs..He’s been at it for hours- and despite your pleas and protests, he hasn’t stopped yet.

Caleb’s favorite place is between your thighs, making you squirm and fall aprat all from his tongue alone…He loves it so much actually- that he’s lost count of the amount of times he’s gotten off just from watching you writher in pain and pleasure…Just like now as he feasts on you, ignoring your words along with the rest of his surroundings while he feeds…

Unfortunately, despite that coil in both your bellies growing tighter and tighter, you can’t help but watch as the stuff on your bedside starts to shake…It’s small at first, a few pens on your night stand, then your dresser- then all the furniture in the room starts moving as if there’s a earthquake….But Caleb’s eyes are on you as he eagerly and hungrily awaits you to reach your peak…

Just as you do, the bed as well with the rest of the furniture are lifting off the ground, the entire room looking like something out of the exorcist movie…Your climax crashes over both of you with a wave as you arch your back- Caleb spilling his own release on to the bed in the process…And just as quickly as it happened, everything in the air seemingly drops back to the floor with a loud thud, your own body sitting up from the sudden falling sensation, and the sound of something very fragile shattering…

Not even Caleb’s cooking will be enough to calm the rage that comes with shattering your entire collection of little baby figures you’d worked on these past few years…But hey- at least you both came right?…

[ghstyles]

Ethics | His Angel

· · ─────────────────────── · ·

Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

WC: 5k

Summery: You interview Harry for your business ethics class. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Hope you know how to sugarcoat

His Angel Masterlist

· · ─────────────────────── · ·

The phone's vibration pulls Harry from a light sleep.

He never sleeps deeply, years of survival instinct ensuring he remains aware of his surroundings even in rest. His hand moves automatically to the gun beneath his pillow before his brain registers the custom ringtone.

Y/N.

A spike of adrenaline hits his system as he answers immediately, mind cycling through worst-case scenarios.

"What's wrong?" he demands, already sitting up, calculating how quickly he can get to you.

Your voice comes through, not panicked or frightened, but rushed and slightly frantic in a different way.

"Yes, I'm calling at three am. Don't ask why I'm still awake," you begin without preamble. "Anyways, I checked my assignment last minute thinking I can do it in an hour. It turns out I have to interview someone in business. It's due tomorrow. Please save me."

Harry blinks once in the darkness of his bedroom, processing. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, but irritation quickly replaces concern.

"Let me understand this," he says slowly, voice rough with interrupted sleep. "You called me at three in the morning because you need...a business interview."

He runs a hand through his hair, glancing at the clock on his nightstand. The red digits confirm the ungodly hour.

"Christ, Y/N. I thought you were hurt," he mutters, but there's more relief than anger in his tone.

You make a pleading sound on the other end of the line.

"I'm sorry! I know it's late, but I'm desperate. The assignment is worth like 30% of my grade and I completely forgot about the interview part until now and—"

"Breathe," he interrupts, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "What exactly do you need from me?"

Your sigh of relief is audible.

"Just answers to some basic questions about running a business. Challenges, opportunities, that kind of thing. I can make it quick, I promise."

Harry glances at his watch, calculating.

"I'll be at your place in twenty minutes," he decides. "Have coffee ready."

"Wait, really? You're coming over?" Your surprise is evident.

"Did you want to do this over the phone?" he asks dryly.

"No! No, coming over is perfect. Thank you! I'll make coffee."

Harry ends the call and stands, stretching briefly before reaching for clothes. As he dresses, he shakes his head slightly, wondering when exactly he became the type of man who would leave his bed at three in the morning to help with homework.

Only for you, he thinks.

Fifteen minutes later, his car pulls up outside your apartment building. The streets are empty, the city quiet in these early morning hours. His security team follows at a discreet distance, used to their boss's unpredictable schedule when it comes to you.

As he walks toward your building, he's already mentally editing his business history into something that won't implicate him in multiple felonies. Some truths can be told while some must remain buried.

Either way, he's certain this will be the most interesting business interview your professor has ever received.

The soft knock at your door comes sooner than expected. When you swing it open, Harry stands in the hallway looking surprisingly put-together for 3:20 AM with dark jeans and a black sweater that clings to his shoulders, hair slightly tousled but intentionally so. The only sign of the hour is the faint shadow along his jaw where stubble is beginning to form.

Before he can speak, you launch yourself at him, arms wrapping around his neck.

"Hey you! My wonderful, spectacular, brilliant, handsome boyfriend," you gush with exaggerated enthusiasm, the words tumbling out in a caffeinated rush.

Harry catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other hand moves to steady himself against the doorframe. His expression shifts from mild annoyance to reluctant amusement.

"Laying it on a bit thick, aren't we?" he murmurs, but his arm tightens around you nonetheless. "How much coffee have you had already?"

He steps inside, guiding you backward and closing the door behind him with his foot. His eyes scan your apartment automatically, a security check that's become a habit, before settling back on you.

You're wearing pajama shorts and an oversized university sweatshirt, your hair piled messily on top of your head. Textbooks and papers are scattered across your small dining table, your laptop open and surrounded by empty energy drink cans.

"Three cups and two Red Bulls," you admit sheepishly, releasing him to gesture toward the kitchen. "But I made you the good coffee. The expensive one you brought over last time."

Harry takes in your frazzled appearance. The dark circles under your eyes, the slightly manic energy in your movements. His expression softens fractionally.

"When's the last time you slept?" he asks, following you to the kitchen where a fresh mug of coffee waits.

You wave dismissively at the question.

"Sleep is for people who don't have a business ethics paper due at noon. I can sleep after I turn it in."

Harry accepts the coffee, taking a sip as he leans against your counter. He watches you over the rim of the mug, something like fond exasperation in his gaze.

"So," he says after a moment, "what exactly am I being interviewed about at this hour?"

You grab your notebook and pen, suddenly all business despite your disheveled appearance.

"Business ethics, leadership challenges, how you handle competition, your five-year growth strategy," you list off rapidly. "Oh, and don't worry, I'm using a pseudonym for you in the paper. Professor Johnson will never know I interviewed the most feared man in the city's underground."

You deliver this last part with a wink, as if it's a joke, but Harry's expression doesn't change.

"Thoughtful of you," he responds dryly. "Shall we begin before the sun rises?"

You settle on your small couch, notebook ready, while Harry takes the armchair across from you. The coffee mug looks almost comically delicate in his large hands.

"Okay, so for the paper, I'll be interviewing..." you pause dramatically, flipping to a fresh page in your notebook, "Mr. Bartholomew Whiskerton, CEO of Cuddly Kitten Enterprises."

Harry's expression freezes mid-sip of his coffee. He slowly lowers the mug, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Absolutely not," he says flatly.

You bite back a grin, enjoying his reaction.

"What? It's a great cover! No one will ever connect it to you."

"Because it's ridiculous," he counters, setting the mug down with deliberate control. "I'm not being quoted in your academic paper as 'Bartholomew Whiskerton.'"

You tap your pen against your notebook thoughtfully.

"Fine. How about... Duncan Powers? That sounds businessy."

Harry's expression remains unimpressed.

"That sounds like a porn star."

You laugh, the sound bright in the early morning quiet of your apartment.

"You would know," you tease, earning a dangerous look that only widens your smile. "Okay, okay. Sebastian Reynolds?"

Harry considers this for a moment, then shakes his head.

"Too pretentious. Even for me."

You huff dramatically, flopping back against the couch cushions.

"You're so picky! It's just a name for a paper no one except my professor will read."

"A paper about business ethics," Harry reminds you pointedly. "Starting with a completely fabricated identity seems...counterintuitive."

Your eyes roll skyward.

"Says the man who probably has seven different passports."

Harry doesn't confirm or deny this accusation, which is answer enough.

"James," he says after a moment. "James Harrington. Simple, forgettable, professional."

You consider the suggestion, head tilted.

"James Harrington," you repeat, testing it out. "Fine, but he needs a middle name. James H. Harrington sounds more official."

Harry sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

"It's three-thirty in the morning, and we're debating fictional middle initials."

You lean forward eagerly.

"I'm thinking 'H' for Hector. Or maybe Horatio?"

The look Harry gives you could freeze fire.

"H for Harry," he says with finality. "James Harry Harrington. Now can we please start the actual interview before I reconsider my life choices?"

You grin triumphantly, scribbling the name at the top of your page.

"See? That wasn't so hard. Mr. J.H. Harrington it is.And considering all that you do, this, shouldn’t be what makes you reconsider life choices. Just last week you…” You take a breath, “you know what? None of my business. Let’s start”

Harry's eyes narrow at your comment, the humor in his expression fading slightly. There's a moment of silence as he studies you across the small space between your seats.

Harry sets his coffee mug down slowly, that calculating look in his eyes.

"No, please," he says, voice deceptively soft. "Continue that thought. Last week I what, exactly?"

You clear your throat, suddenly very interested in organizing your interview notes.

"Nothing. First question! What would you say are the biggest ethical challenges facing business leaders today?"

Harry doesn't take the bait, his gaze unwavering.

"Last week I had three men taken to the warehouse for questioning about missing product," he supplies calmly, as if discussing the weather. "Is that what you were referring to? Or perhaps the negotiation with the Italians about the new territory lines?"

His tone remains conversational, but there's an edge to it. Not anger, but a reminder of exactly who and what he is.

"I'm reconsidering my life choices because I'm sitting in a college apartment at half past three, helping with homework, when I should be sleeping before my meeting with the harbor commissioner at seven."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, closing some of the distance between you.

"Yet…you came" you say softly in a way that sounded like a question. 

 "Because you called."

There's something unexpectedly vulnerable in that simple statement. An admission that carries more weight than any declaration.

Your expression softens, the teasing fading into something more genuine.

"Thank you," you say quietly. "I really do appreciate it, Harry."

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, then leans back, picking up his coffee again.

"Now," he says, voice returning to its usual controlled tone, "I believe Mr. J.H. Harrington has an interview to complete before sunrise, or his very sleep-deprived girlfriend will fail her business ethics class."

You smile gratefully at the shift back to safer territory, picking up your pen.

"Right. First question for the distinguished Mr. Harrington: What would you say is the biggest ethical challenge facing business leaders today?"

Harry's lips quirk slightly as he considers the question, slipping effortlessly into the role of legitimate businessman.

"Balancing profit motives with social responsibility," he answers smoothly, as if he's given this response at actual business conferences. "The pressure to deliver quarterly results often conflicts with long-term sustainable practices."

You blink, surprised by how convincingly normal his answer sounds.

"Wow, that was actually good," you comment, scribbling it down. "Have you been practicing legitimate business speak?"

Harry's expression remains perfectly serious, but there's a glint in his eye.

"I attend chamber of commerce meetings every third Thursday, angel. Bring donuts and everything."

The deadpan delivery makes you snort with laughter, the earlier tension completely dissolved as you continue the interview, Harry crafting increasingly plausible answers for your paper while carefully omitting any details that might raise eyebrows—or federal investigations.

Looking at the next question, you snort, “this one might be hard to sugarcoat. How do you handle managing difficult employees or conflicts within your team?“

Harry takes another sip of his coffee, a dangerous amusement flickering in his eyes at your question. He sets the mug down deliberately, considering his answer.

"How do I handle difficult employees," he repeats slowly, as if testing the words.

You bite your lip to suppress a laugh, knowing exactly what's going through his mind. The images of concrete rooms, of Marco and his particular set of persuasion skills, of the rumors you've heard whispered about what happens to those who cross Harry Styles.

"Yes, Mr. Harrington," you prompt innocently. "Your conflict resolution strategies. For the paper."

Harry leans back in the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. The early morning light filtering through your blinds casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his features.

"I believe in clear communication of expectations," he begins, his voice taking on that smooth, professional cadence that would be perfectly at home in any boardroom. "When someone joins my...organization, they understand precisely what's required of them."

He pauses, choosing his next words carefully.

"Conflicts typically arise from misunderstandings or competing priorities. I address these directly, one-on-one, rather than allowing tensions to fester."

You raise an eyebrow, scribbling notes.

"And if direct conversations don't resolve the issue?" you press, unable to help yourself.

A cold smile touches Harry's lips.

"Then more decisive action becomes necessary," he replies smoothly. "Sometimes people need to be...reassigned to positions better suited to their capabilities."

You snort softly. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

Harry's expression doesn't change, but his eyes hold a warning.

"For your paper? Yes, that's exactly what we're calling it," he says pointedly. "I find that most workplace conflicts can be resolved through clear consequences for underperformance."

You're still writing, struggling to translate mob boss tactics into corporate language.

"In extreme cases," Harry continues unprompted, "separation from the company becomes the only viable solution. I don't believe in maintaining relationships that no longer serve mutual interests."

You look up from your notebook, meeting his gaze.

"That's actually...not terrible business advice," you admit. "Though I'm guessing your definition of 'separation from the company' is a bit more permanent than a severance package."

Harry's expression remains impassive, but there's a hint of appreciation in his eyes for your quick mind, for the way you don't flinch from what he is.

"Write that I prioritize team cohesion over individual egos," he suggests, redirecting slightly. "And that I reward loyalty and results equally."

You nod, adding his suggestions to your notes.

"So basically, do your job well, don't cause problems, and stay loyal, or you'll be 'reassigned' to a position six feet underground," you summarize quietly, a ghost of a smile playing at your lips. "Very ethical, Mr. Harrington."

"It's a competitive industry," Harry replies with perfect deadpan delivery. "Only the most dedicated professionals survive."

“Speaking of competitive industry” you roll the eraser on your chin, trying to pick a question that can be sugar coated, “What strategies do you use to stay ahead of your competitors and how do you differentiate your business from others in the same industry?”

Harry shifts slightly in his seat, a predatory gleam entering his eyes at the mention of competition. This is a topic that clearly interests him and perhaps too much for your academic paper.

"What strategies do I use to stay ahead of competitors," he repeats thoughtfully, running a finger along the rim of his coffee mug.

You watch him carefully, aware that you're treading into territory where his actual business practices might be difficult to translate into acceptable corporate strategy.

"Market research," he begins after a moment, his voice taking on that smooth, professional tone again. "Understanding what others are offering and identifying gaps they've overlooked."

You scribble this down, nodding encouragingly.

"I maintain a comprehensive intelligence network," he continues, choosing each word with precision. "Information is power in any industry. Knowing your competitors' moves before they make them gives you an undeniable advantage."

You look up from your notebook, raising an eyebrow.

"Intelligence network? Is that what we're calling Marco and his guys who hang out in bars listening for gossip?"

Harry's expression doesn't change, but there's a warning in his eyes.

"For your paper, yes," he says pointedly. "Industry analysis and strategic information gathering."

You press your lips together to suppress a smile and continue writing.

"As for differentiation," Harry continues without prompting, "exclusivity and reputation are key. My business provides services that others simply cannot, or will not, offer. Our clients understand that working with us means a certain level of...commitment and discretion they won't find elsewhere."

You pause in your writing, pen hovering over the page.

"So...unique value proposition and customer loyalty," you translate, looking to him for confirmation.

Harry inclines his head slightly, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.

"Precisely. We also maintain strong relationships with key stakeholders across various sectors, ensuring smoother operations."

"Stakeholders," you repeat dryly. "Like Judge Reynolds who mysteriously dismissed those charges last month?"

Harry's expression remains perfectly neutral.

"Strategic partnerships," he corrects smoothly. "Write that I emphasize the importance of a robust network across complementary industries."

You add this to your notes, shaking your head slightly.

"Anything else about your competitive strategy, Mr. Harrington? Perhaps your approach to mergers and acquisitions?" you ask, unable to resist the double meaning.

Something dangerous flashes in Harry's eyes, but it's gone so quickly you might have imagined it.

"I prefer organic growth to hostile takeovers," he says, his voice dropping slightly lower. "Though when presented with a particularly valuable opportunity, I'm not opposed to aggressive expansion."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

"The most important differentiator, however, is reputation," he adds, his tone suddenly serious. "In business, your word must be unbreakable. When I make a promise to clients, to partners, to employees, it's kept. That reliability is rare in any industry."

You look up from your writing, struck by the sincerity in his voice. This, at least, isn't a translation but rather a genuine principle he lives by, criminal enterprise or not.

"That's actually...really good," you admit, finishing your notes. "Professor Johnson is going to think I made you up."

Harry shrugs smugly

You flip to the next page of your notebook, stifling a yawn despite the caffeine coursing through your system. Harry watches you, noting the fatigue beginning to show in your movements.

"I think that's it but I'll ask a few more just in case I don't meet the word count," you explain, scanning your list of questions.

You look up at him, mentally bracing yourself.

"So, uh... how would you define ethical leadership?"

Harry's carefully constructed business persona seems to slip slightly. He leans back in the chair, something cynical flickering across his expression.

"Ethical leadership," he repeats, a hint of dark amusement in his voice. "In my world? It means not killing someone unless they deserve it."

Your pen freezes mid-air.

"Harry..."

He shrugs unapologetically.

"You wanted honesty. Ethics are relative, angel. I have my own code. I don't hurt innocents. I don't deal with children. I keep my word. More than most 'legitimate' businessmen can say."

He takes a sip of his coffee, now gone cold.

"Politicians take bribes to let corporations poison water supplies. Banks foreclose on families while paying their CEOs millions. At least I'm honest about what I am."

You sigh, trying to formulate a way to translate this into something you can actually include in your paper.

"Okay, let's try this. What's the hardest leadership decision you've had to make?"

Harry's expression darkens, his eyes growing distant.

"Killing Michael Hayes," he answers without hesitation. "He was like a brother to me. Taught me everything when I was just a kid on the streets. But he was skimming money, selling information to the Russians."

He says this so matter-of-factly that a chill runs down your spine despite your familiarity with his world.

"I did it myself. Owed him that much. Quick, clean. More mercy than he deserved for the betrayal, but..." he trails off, then refocuses on you. "That's leadership. Doing the necessary thing, even when it breaks something in you."

You stare at him, pen completely forgotten. These glimpses into his past and into the events that shaped him are rare and always unsettling.

"Where do you see your business in five years?" you ask quietly, trying to move to safer ground.

Harry's laugh is short and without humor.

"Alive," he says simply. "In my line of work, five-year plans are a luxury. I see myself either expanding to the east side, or dead. There's not much middle ground."

He notices your expression and something in his face softens slightly.

"But if you're asking what I want..." he continues, surprising you, "I want enough security that I don't have to look over my shoulder every minute. Enough power that no one would dare come after what's mine."

His eyes meet yours, and there's something unexpectedly vulnerable in them.

"Maybe a place on the coast. Somewhere quiet. With you." The admission seems to surprise even him. "That's assuming I don't get shot or arrested first."

The casual way he references his potential violent death or imprisonment hangs in the air between you, a stark reminder of the reality of his existence and by extension, yours as his partner.

"Write whatever sanitized version of that you need for your paper," he adds, his walls coming back up. "I don't imagine Professor Johnson wants the unvarnished truth."

The sudden shift catches Harry off-guard. 

One moment answering questions, the next with an armful of you. His body tenses briefly in surprise before relaxing, arms wrapping around your waist automatically.

You climb into his lap and bury your face against his neck, saying nothing but holding onto him fiercely. The warm, familiar scent of his cologne envelops you. Expensive and subtle, mixed with something that's just him.

For a moment, Harry remains still, processing your reaction. Then one hand moves to the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair while the other arm tightens around you, securing you against him.

"What's this for?" he asks quietly, his voice a low rumble you can feel against your cheek.

You don't answer, just hold him tighter, overwhelmed by the casual way he spoke about his own mortality about a future that might include you, or might end abruptly in violence.

Harry seems to understand your silence. His hand continues its gentle movement through your hair, a soothing rhythm that contrasts with the dangerous life he described moments ago.

"Hey," he murmurs against your temple, his voice softer than it ever is with anyone else. "I'm still here."

The simple statement acknowledges everything unsaid between you. The danger, the uncertainty, the reality of loving someone who lives with death as a constant companion.

For several minutes, you stay like this, the early morning silence of your apartment broken only by the sound of your breathing and the occasional distant car passing outside. Harry holds you patiently, his usual restless energy contained, giving you whatever time you need.

One of his hands moves to trace gentle patterns along your spine, and you feel him press a kiss to your hair. A rare tenderness he shows to no one but you.

"I shouldn't have said that," he finally offers, his voice low. "About being dead or arrested. It was...unnecessary."

You can count on one hand the number of times Harry Styles has come close to an apology. This is as near as he gets to an acknowledgment that his words affected you in a way he didn't intend.

His fingers find your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes search yours, more open than they've been all night.

"That place on the coast," he says quietly. "I meant that part."

"What if I hate the ocean?" you mumble against his chest, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

His eyebrow arches slightly, calling your bluff. He studies your face for a moment, catching the telltale twitch at the corners of your mouth. His expression remains serious, but something playful enters his eyes

"Bullshit," he says simply, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. "You've got that painting of the coast in your bedroom. You wear that shell necklace your grandmother gave you. You fall asleep to those ridiculous ocean sound recordings."

The fact that he's noticed these details, small things about you that most people would overlook, makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

"Besides," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "I've seen your face when you talk about the beach house your family rented that summer. Your eyes light up."

His hand slides to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.

"But if you've suddenly developed a hatred for ocean views and sea air," he adds with mock seriousness, "I suppose I could consider a mountain cabin. Somewhere remote. Defensible position. Good sightlines."

You roll your eyes at his tactical assessment of romantic getaway locations.

"Of course you'd evaluate a vacation home based on its defensive capabilities," you tease, some of the earlier tension dissolving.

Harry's lips quirk in that rare, genuine smile.

"Old habits," he admits, then adds more softly, "But I'd make sure it had a good kitchen. Those windows you like. Space for your books."

The casual way he includes these details about your preferences and things that matter to you, reveals more than any grand declaration could. Harry Styles notices everything, catalogs it away, uses the information to protect what's his. But sometimes, like now, he uses it simply to make you happy.

"I'd still need to come back to the city for business," he adds, his tone shifting back to something more practical. "But a place just for us...somewhere no one could find us unless we wanted them to..."

His eyes grow distant for a moment, as if he's actually visualizing this future. A safe haven away from the violence and chaos of his world.

Then his gaze refocuses on you, something possessive and tender mingling in his expression.

"Don't pretend you hate the ocean, angel," he murmurs, leaning closer. "You're a terrible liar."

"It's rude to call your girlfriend a liar," you mumble indignantly, settling more comfortably against him. "Were you absent that week from boyfriend school?"

Harry's chest rumbles with a low chuckle, the sound vibrating against your cheek as you rest your head on him. His fingers continue their gentle path through your hair, occasionally massaging your scalp in a way that makes you want to purr like a cat

His arm tightens around you, adjusting your position slightly so you fit more perfectly against him. The expensive fabric of his sweater is soft against your cheek.

"Boyfriend school," he repeats dryly. "Must have missed that lesson between 'How to Intimidate Rival Organizations' and 'Advanced Weapons Handling.'"

You make a small sound of amusement against his chest.

"I never attended boyfriend school," he continues, his voice a low rumble beneath your ear. "Had to figure it out as I went. No instruction manual for dating a college student when you're..." he pauses, searching for the right words, "...in my line of work."

His hand shifts to trace lazy patterns along your spine, the gentle touch at odds with the dangerous man delivering it.

"Though I'm fairly certain rule number one is 'don't wake your boyfriend at three in the morning for homework help,'" he adds, but there's no real reproof in his tone.

You tilt your head to look up at him, finding his expression softer than usual in the dim light of your apartment.

"And yet here you are," you point out quietly. "Helping with homework at three in the morning."

Something passes across his face. A flicker of surprise, as if he's just realized the same thing. Harry Styles, feared mob boss, holding his girlfriend in the early hours, discussing ethical leadership for a college paper.

"Here I am," he agrees, a note of wonder barely detectable in his voice.

His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, the gesture unexpectedly tender.

"Maybe I need to reevaluate what makes me dangerous," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "Agreeing to be interviewed as Bartholomew Whiskerton seems like a significant weakness."

You can't help the laugh that escapes you, the sound bright in the quiet apartment.

"It was James Harry Harrington, and you know it," you correct, poking his chest accusingly. "Don't pretend you forgot."

His lips quirk upward, that rare, genuine smile making another appearance.

"How could I forget the distinguished Mr. Harrington?" he asks, his voice taking on that smooth, professional tone he used during the interview. "CEO of...what was it again? Legitimate Business Ventures, Inc.?"

You giggle, the sound slightly slurred with fatigue now that the adrenaline of your academic panic is wearing off.

"You're ridiculous," you tell him, stifling a yawn.

Harry's expression shifts to something more assessing as he notices your fatigue.

"And you're exhausted," he observes, his hand resuming its gentle stroking of your hair. "Did you get any of that paper written before you called me?"

Harry watches as you fight to keep your eyes open, your words slurring with exhaustion. Your head grows heavier against his chest as you lose the battle with consciousness.

"Gonna...do that...now," you mumble through a yawn, even as your eyes drift closed.

He feels your body relaxing against him, your breathing beginning to slow and deepen. A ghost of a smile touches his lips. Something no one else would ever see.

"Of course you are," he murmurs, his voice soft with an affection he shows to no one but you.

For a few minutes, he simply holds you, one hand continuing its gentle path through your hair while the other secures you against him. The first pale light of dawn has begun to filter through your blinds, casting long shadows across the floor.

Harry glances at your laptop, still open on the table surrounded by textbooks and empty energy drink cans. The business ethics paper that was so urgent at 3 AM now seems to have taken a backseat to sleep.

With a quiet sigh that's more resigned than annoyed, he carefully shifts, gathering you more securely in his arms as he stands. You murmur something unintelligible but don't wake, instinctively curling closer to his warmth.

He carries you to your bedroom, laying you gently on the unmade bed. You immediately roll to your side, face pressing into the pillow with a contented sigh.

Harry pulls the blanket over you, then stands for a moment, watching the rise and fall of your breathing. The dangerous mob boss, the feared enforcer, the ruthless businessman—all those versions of him fade slightly in this quiet moment.

Then he turns and walks back to the living room, rolling up his sleeves as he sits down at your laptop. The screen illuminates his face as he begins to type, occasionally referring to the notes you've taken.

By the time you wake up, groggy and disoriented hours later, you'll find a completed draft of your paper saved on your desktop, a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen, and a note on your table written in his precise handwriting:

"Mr. J.H. Harrington sends his regards. Paper needs your final review before submission. I have meetings until 3. Call if you need anything. - H"

And beneath that, a postscript that would surprise anyone who knows his reputation:

"P.S. The ocean house remains on the table. Sleep well, angel."

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